Padraig Harrington suggested it, others agreed. Rory McIlroy might have a better chance of passing Jack Nicklaus' record of 18 major championship victories. Rory McIlroy, winner of one major. Rory McIlroy has the better chance and not Tiger Woods, winner of 14 majors.
There are a hundred reasons someone might believe it, although relatively few that make much sense. McIlroy's effort was awe-inspiring, because of the results and the ease with which he dominated. The winning score of -16 would catch your eye if it happened in an August tournament that no one cares about, one that doesn't even end on CBS because it drags on past the 7 p.m. hour and 60 Minutes must start on time. To do it in the U.S. Open is mind-boggling. Yet that score might not even be the most impressive aspect of McIlroy's performance. The when is just as important as the what. He did it two months after collapsing in the final round of the Masters, when he trudged around the course looking like a kid who'd been beaten up on the way to school.
How many sports equivalents can you think of that compare to McIlroy's rebound? It'd be like Buckner hitting three homers in Game 7 of the 1986 World Series, or Nick Anderson burying 15 straight free throws in the fourth quarter of Game 2 of the 1995 NBA Finals. Athletes who collapse don't bounce back like this, at least not immediately. They can rebound in a year, maybe two, but rarely will it happen in the next big event and often it never happens at all. There's likely never been anyone who's ever dominated like McIlroy did just one major following his disastrous final round. I struggle to think of comparisons. In tennis, Jana Novotna blew the 1993 women's final at Wimbledon and cried on center court. She eventually won her Wimbledon title - five years later.
No, McIlroy stands alone, in more ways than one. But as people praise the kid from Northern Ireland and pronounce him to be the main threat to Jack's record, it's worth stepping back and looking at the guy who's still the dominant figure in golf - even if he's no longer it's dominant player.
With his physical injuries and mental maladies, Tiger Woods has never seemed so diminished, as McIlroy's youthful dominance reminds people of what Tiger once was while making them wonder if he'll ever be close to that again. But this isn't football, baseball or basketball, where athletes peak in their 20s or early 30s. This is golf - the sport where a 60-year-old could be within a par on the 72nd hole of winning a major.
The leg injuries make Tiger seem older than he is and they might ultimately end his career prematurely, along with his chase of Nicklaus. But the calendar says he is still 35, even if his body and our eyes say different.
He's 35. And he's won 14 majors. It seems like he hasn't won one in forever and it seems like he never will again. Think of the columns that run after every one of his major failures. He might not catch Nicklaus. He's losing time. He's blowing too many opportunities. Nicklaus is out of reach. The articles have been written since his dramatic U.S. Open victory in 2008.
But then think about this: If Tiger wins one of his next 11 majors - just one out of the next 11 - he'll be ahead of Nicklaus' career pace. Jack didn't win his 15th major until the 1978 British Open, when he was 38 years old. He didn't win 16 and 17 until he was 40. The last two and a half years Tiger's gone winless in the majors and to hear commentators - who dissect his swing with the intensity of Oliver Stone looking at the Zapruder film - you'd think he had the ugliest game outside of Charles Barkley. Terrible swing, he's lost it with the putter, no confidence. Yet since 2009, these are his finishes in the majors:
2009: T6, T6, Missed cut, 2.
2010: T4, T4, T23, T28.
2011: T4.
And that's with a bad swing and no game. What if he gets more comfortable with his swing and with his new life? Is it that difficult to picture him again reeling off victory after victory?
This drought is also nothing new for Tiger, even if the circumstances - crashes! women! sex! Perkins waitresses! rehab! golf clubs to the head! - are unlike anything else. He's played in nine majors without a victory. After his 1997 Masters triumph, he went 10 majors without a victory, before winning the 1999 PGA. Then, after steamrolling golf in 2000-2002, he went 10 more majors without a victory, before winning the 2005 Masters. During those dry spells, the same columns were written - he's lost his confidence, he's lost his swing, what's he doing, who's the next Tiger? But both times he figured it out. And when Tiger begins to win, when he does figure out the new swing that everyone thinks looks worse than the old one, the victories come in bunches - three majors in a year, four in two years. We've seen these struggles before, but we've also seen the turnaround. He's gone nine majors now without a victory. Maybe it will again be 10. But then?
The injuries, of course, provide a driver-sized asterisk to all of this. If he can hurt his knee while swinging under a tree at the Masters, what's going to happen the next time he takes one of his vicious cuts from a vicious lie? Health is the great unknown, as it is for any athlete. But we should know what will happen if he does stay upright.
And one more note on McIlroy's victory and how it compares to Tiger's 2000 romp at Pebble Beach. Was it more dominant? More impressive? It was certainly a lower score. Rory won by eight, a nearly unfathomable number. Yet Tiger nearly doubled that margin of victory, winning by 15. And this year, 38 players finished the U.S. Open at +2 or better. In 2000? One player - just one - did that.
Does it mean Tiger Woods will ever be that good again? Of course not. But chances are - whether it's this year or next, two majors from now or five - he'll again be great.
Showing posts with label Sports. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sports. Show all posts
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The boys of spring are cold out there
The temperature will reach a high of about 45 degrees on Tuesday in Janesville, with a low of 35. It will rain and it will be windy. Wednesday's an even better day for the tourism bureau - high of 44, chance of snow.
And somewhere in Minnesota on those days, at around 4 in the afternoon, at about the time the temperature heads toward what will eventually be its low mark of the day, a pair of high school baseball teams will meet on a near-frozen diamond in front of a handful of bitter parents and fellow students, all of whom will wonder what in the hell they're doing sitting there watching a baseball game in the middle of, well, winter.
I loved playing high school baseball. I especially loved it when we had blue skies and 75-degree weather, which means I especially loved it about twice a season. Spring high school sports operate in an odd environment in Minnesota. For the most part, schools, coaches, students and parents do not seem to take them as seriously as they do fall and winter sports. The intensity falls, along with the stakes. Our baseball season always seemed to last about as long as the first two rounds of the NBA playoffs. Start the games in April, finish them by mid-May. By the time you get settled in, the season's over. When it's your senior year, your high school athletic career is over and you've barely even noticed.
In cold weather states baseball actually begins in the school gym, the exact date determined by when the basketball teams' seasons end. When people complain about indoor baseball it's usually when talking about MLB and domes. Before it came down, the Metrodome often came up in those discussions. People bemoaned the roof, the turf, the fans in the stands and the (alleged) ones that helped the Twins hit homers or kept foes from hitting them. But that indoor baseball is paradise compared to practicing in a gym. Groundballs off the basketball floor. Hitting inside a giant net. Pop-up drills where fielders run in a straight line as the coach lobs a ball over their head. Then it's time for some more grounders, perhaps a "mini-clinic" on how to come off the bag while turning a double-play. Now we're practicing how to take a lead off of first base. Our coach tries to "hold" us on, an action that's helpful and useful until it becomes ludicrous when he pretends to be a left-handed pitcher, holding his right leg up in an absurd Andy Pettitte impression before fake-firing to an imaginary plate, a motion that would cause anyone watching to say he throws like a girl, and an unathletic one at that.
And somewhere in Minnesota on those days, at around 4 in the afternoon, at about the time the temperature heads toward what will eventually be its low mark of the day, a pair of high school baseball teams will meet on a near-frozen diamond in front of a handful of bitter parents and fellow students, all of whom will wonder what in the hell they're doing sitting there watching a baseball game in the middle of, well, winter.
I loved playing high school baseball. I especially loved it when we had blue skies and 75-degree weather, which means I especially loved it about twice a season. Spring high school sports operate in an odd environment in Minnesota. For the most part, schools, coaches, students and parents do not seem to take them as seriously as they do fall and winter sports. The intensity falls, along with the stakes. Our baseball season always seemed to last about as long as the first two rounds of the NBA playoffs. Start the games in April, finish them by mid-May. By the time you get settled in, the season's over. When it's your senior year, your high school athletic career is over and you've barely even noticed.
In cold weather states baseball actually begins in the school gym, the exact date determined by when the basketball teams' seasons end. When people complain about indoor baseball it's usually when talking about MLB and domes. Before it came down, the Metrodome often came up in those discussions. People bemoaned the roof, the turf, the fans in the stands and the (alleged) ones that helped the Twins hit homers or kept foes from hitting them. But that indoor baseball is paradise compared to practicing in a gym. Groundballs off the basketball floor. Hitting inside a giant net. Pop-up drills where fielders run in a straight line as the coach lobs a ball over their head. Then it's time for some more grounders, perhaps a "mini-clinic" on how to come off the bag while turning a double-play. Now we're practicing how to take a lead off of first base. Our coach tries to "hold" us on, an action that's helpful and useful until it becomes ludicrous when he pretends to be a left-handed pitcher, holding his right leg up in an absurd Andy Pettitte impression before fake-firing to an imaginary plate, a motion that would cause anyone watching to say he throws like a girl, and an unathletic one at that.
But the only thing worse than practicing indoors during those early weeks is actually playing outdoors, when the temperature struggled to reach 50 and you could actually discuss wind chill in addition to the opposing pitcher's stuff. Being in the field was the worst, of course. When hitting, we could at least huddle in the dugout together. Standing in the infield you're exposed, helpless, forced to shuffle side to side in an attempt to keep warm, if not feign complete interest in the proceedings. Fortunately our pitchers always possessed decent control, apparently subscribing to the Twins' method of focusing first on throwing strikes (the flaw in that method, as our pitchers often discovered, is that you need a quality defense supporting you). There's no more helpless feeling than watching opposing hitters take four balls and then trot on down to first while their teammate jogs to second. You can plead with your struggling pitcher and disguise it as old-time baseball chatter - "Come on One-Six, throw strikes, big guy, come on now!" - but the parade will continue until the coach mercifully calls in a freezing replacement, who's probably been standing stiff in right field the first three innings. The walks continue.
You gotta throw strikes in cold weather. Make 'em swing, because hitting always seems ten times harder in cold temperatures. The bat feels heavier, your muscles weaker. And if you do make contact the sting sort of makes you wish you'd just had the decency to strike out. There's no sweet spot with an aluminum bat in the cold, only a sore spot. And if you manage to survive the pain and stroke a base hit you now have to run the bases, instead of retreating to the pseudo shelter offered by the aging dugout.
High school games are seven innings but in a Minnesota spring it feels like seventeen. Even better? Double-headers.
Baseball's a great game. Just don't try and tell that to Minnesota high school players today and tomorrow.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Internet commenters deliver best medical advice
I get several headaches a month, sometimes several a week. Who knows what causes them. McDonald's Nuggets, not getting caffeine before noon, not eating by 1, not having red meat by 6, not drinking enough water, drinking too much alcohol, staying up too late on Thursdays, waking up at all on Sundays. But they are not debilitating. They aren't even as severe as the ones my dad and sister suffer from on a near-daily basis. And most importantly, they're not migraines.
Vikings receiver Percy Harvin is the latest in a long line of famous athletes who have endured those devastating attacks. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar famously suffered from them. Scottie Pippen experienced one at the worst possible time: the day the Bulls played the Pistons in Game 7 of the 1990 Eastern Conference Finals. The Bulls lost, and some people lost a bit of respect for Pippen, wondering if somehow the migraine meant he had cracked under the pressure of a Game 7.
Harvin collapsed at practice Thursday, a frightening scene no matter what, perhaps made worse by the fact he plays for the Vikings, a franchise still haunted by the death of Korey Stringer nine years ago. Harvin returned to Vikings practice Friday. He visited his teammates and pronounced himself fine. But who knows what his future holds. Harvin has seen doctors for a decade, trying to find a solution. He's been to the best, including physicians at Mayo.
But apparently Harvin just hasn't been looking in the right places. The answers to his migraines won't be found in hospitals or clinics and the solutions won't be delivered by doctors or researchers. Instead, he needs to hit the Internet. And it's not about going on WebMD to make a self-diagnosis. No need for that, not when Internet M.D.'s around the country - many of whom graduated with their degrees from Vikings University - can offer their own solutions.
"The treatment I suggested would not require extensive time off. He could see relief with the first treatment or two. He will need a few days to rest, because after he sleeps better than he has in years the first night, the next day he will feel like he has a ton of bricks on his shoulders. This is because of the correction that has been made to his upper cervical area. This subsides in a day or so. Then, if needed, an additional treatment or two in the first week, then a maintenance plan is set up, if needed. In reality, he will be raring to go after he sees how well he feels afterwards."
That's "Mel Allen" on the Vikings fan website dailynorseman.com. Mel also recommends "google three words - 'migraine atlas orthogonality' Percy, if you read this, you owe it to yourself to do so. To be blunt, doctors will not recommend this. Take care."
And, "He has suffered from them for more than half his life. They started for a reason. An injury, a trauma, who knows? How many more conventional doctors can he see? Drugs will only mask symptoms, not address the cause!!! I know it sounds simple, too good to be true, etc., etc. A simple battery of Xrays, which cost me about $75, can determine if his atlas is misaligned and if he has verterbral subluxation." Throughout the threads, Mel gets increasingly agitated when people question his beliefs and medical proclamations.
So who do you listen to? Mayo or Mel? If you can't believe the medical opinions of anonymous Internet posters who are named after Hall of Fame broadcasters famous for T.W.I.B. Notes and the phrase "How about that," then who can you trust?
Doctors make mistakes. They misdiagnose people. Occasionally alternative therapies work. But in the history of medicine, has there ever been a celebrity - whether it's an athlete, a movie star or a reality TV slug - who's been reading online and come across a post that makes them think, "Wait a minute, that guy's on to something?" Has there ever been a doctor who retired for the evening after a 12-hour shift, started reading his favorite football message board and came across a medical opinion that made him think, "Jesus Christ. That's it. Why didn't my team at Columbia think of this?"
Mel Allen isn't alone in pleading for an athlete to listen to his interesting ideas on health and wellness. During the NBA season I spend an unfortunate amount of time on Lakers message boards. Whenever a player suffers an injury - whether it's a sprained ankle or a bruised shoulder - an online doctor appears with advice. And these people are never actually doctors. That'd at least be a bit more plausible, if someone with a medical degree would offer up opinions on an injury or give insight into the normal recovery time for an affliction. That can be valuable. No, these are accountants and college students and copy editors and garbage men offering cutting-edge advice to millionaire athletes with decent health insurance plans who have access to the best medical minds in the country, if not the world.
But these posters beg the players to READ THIS MESSAGE or pray that the athlete's agent or mistress will stumble upon the post and alert the guy. These posts fall into two main categories:
* The guy who suffered the same injury offers advice. Kobe Bryant injured his finger - again - early last season. Debate raged about whether he should get surgery and sit out a few months or simply play with pain. Inevitably, a weekend baller who routinely kicks ass at the Y on Thursday nights contributed a post about how he broke his finger two years ago. He didn't get surgery and regretted it ever since. And if Kobe doesn't get the surgery, he'll regret it, too. Or maybe he did get the surgery but something didn't go right and Kobe should never get surgery, since you can never be sure whether you're getting the surgeon who graduated at the bottom of the class. Either way, this person knows what's best for Kobe and how it will affect his jumper, because "since I broke my finger, my jump shot has been flat and inconsistent. Please, Kobe. Listen to me!"
* The guy whose brother/son/brother-in-law suffered the same injury and offers advice. Andrew Bynum injured his knee - again - last season. A relative sprained his knee four years ago and went through surgery that didn't really work. A year later, the same relative traveled to Texas for a surgery and regained his 23-inch vertical leap. "Andrew, if your (sic) reading this, send me a message so I can tell you about this Texas doctor. Please!"
This happens everywhere, in every league, to every team. A running back suffers a pulled hamstring that lingers for four weeks and the team becomes inundated with letters offering therapy ideas. It happens for small injuries and, as Vikings fans prove, for potentially life-altering afflictions. Certainly the intended audience for these online missives never actually read - or follow - the advice offered by Internet physicians. Whatever happens with Percy Harvin, it won't have anything to do with the ideas thrown around by the Internet's finest medical minds.
What's the psychology involved here? What makes fans think a stranger they'll never meet will read about their medical malady online and realize the solution they've been searching for is out there, if only they'll listen to an Internet poster, the same one who thinks Joe Mauer should be benched, Phil Jackson is overrated, proper spelling is unnecessary, man never actually landed on the moon and the Earth is 2,000 years old? Yes, these are the people who can cut through the fog and properly diagnose a torn ligament or a severe brain injury.
What's the psychology? Let me break out the DSM IV and I'll offer up an online diagnosis of the mental illness these fans are suffering. Please listen to me! I know what I'm talking about! I can help!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
From Trivial Pursuit to Sporcle
Fans of trivia were saddened to hear about the death of 59-year-old Chris Haney, a former journalist who co-created Trivial Pursuit.
On most trips back to Minnesota, I'll dig through my parents' basement to find the old Genus edition of the game. All of the colored pieces remain in the plastic bag, just waiting to fill the token. I'll then battle my mom, a longtime Trivial Pursuit foe. My dad almost never plays, but he does contribute from the living room, shouting random answers, sometimes when he's asked, often when he's not.
Trivial Pursuit remains my favorite board game, ahead of Scrabble, Monopoly, Life, Payday, everything. The Genus edition landed at my parents' after my grandpa's death. It joined numerous other versions of the game that take up space in the basement, from a junior edition to an '80s edition to a sports one. But the Genus remains the favorite. And probably the most difficult. Geography always gave me problems, as did the science category. I obviously dominated Orange, Sports & Leisure. Except when the questions veered toward Leisure. Honestly, how much do I know about backgammon or cribbage?
My uncle Jerry remains the best Trivial Pursuit player I've ever faced or seen, which is a compliment in this case but could be perceived differently. After all, is it completely healthy for one person to be so knowledgeable about 18th century Russian rulers and obscure British bands from the 1960s? I don't think I ever beat him, which is probably why I eventually quit playing him. I do usually defeat my mom. Growing up I occasionally wondered if she threw the games because that's what a mom might do. Was she pulling a Chicago Black Sox? Dad never let me beat him in sports, but I could see mom messing up an answer in order to boost my self-confidence about mundane historical events. Specifically, I remember her answer to the question, who was shot on December 8, 1980? She said Reagan. It was John Lennon. She was a huge Beatles fan and that question was for the game. I rallied to win. I remain skeptical that it was simply a wrong guess on her part.
Today I get my trivia fix through Sporcle. Trivial Pursuit, of course, had a finite number of questions. The more ethically challenged players searched through the cards before games, and eventually a player could memorize many of the questions and answers. Sporcle seems to have an infinite number of games.
In preparation for the Finals, here are some focused on the NBA.
Celtics retired numbers. Only diehards and those raised in households heavy in Celtics propaganda will get all of these, considering the franchise insists on retiring the number of anyone who scored 5,000 points or plays more than 100 minutes on a title-winning team. Based on his 13-point outburst in Game 6 of the ECF, I fully expect Nate Robinson's jersey to be lifted to the rafters in 10 years. I got all but six of them.
Lakers retired numbers. Much easier, considering the Lakers have only retired seven numbers and an inanimate object. There's something to be said for only honoring the best of the best. You have to be a true legend to get a number - or microphone - retired as a Laker. And, yes, I knew all of them.
Multiple NBA MVPs. Most NBA fans should be able to get all of these, especially since it gives the team. I finished in 50 seconds, not bad, not great. Average. The type of performance that gets your number retired in Boston.
Top 25 players in multiple categories. This is impossible. If there's one person that gets all of these, please email me. I want to congratulate you, and also alert the proper authorities. Institutionalization might be the best bet for help. No one - not even the Schwab, or my uncle - should know the 21st best free throw shooter in NBA history.
NBA 50 Greatest. A fun one. This was the list the NBA released in 1996, the 50th anniversary of the league. Meaning there's no Kobe, Duncan or LeBron. I got 41 of them. Should have definitely named at least two more. The pressure of that ticking clock got to me.
NBA Finals MVPs. This one goes back to 1969, the first year of the award. I got all of them in 1:52. It's easier than it should be, because it automatically fills in the slots if a player won more than one. So Jordan takes up six slots, Magic three, etc. The 1976 Celtics one took me the longest to get.
NBA Scoring Leaders by Letter. Quick, who's the all-time NBA scoring leader whose name began with a Q? I didn't know either. I also want to meet the person who nails all of these.
And, finally, it's not related to the NBA Finals or to sports, but in honor of the Leisure category in Trivial Pursuit...
Name the categories in Yahtzee.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Beer and danger: Life in slow-pitch softball
Eric Byrnes was hitting .094 for the Seattle Mariners this season when the team mercifully released him. He's been around for 11 seasons and pops up on TV because with his unkempt hair and quick wit he can play the "wacky" broadcaster - following in the footsteps of Steve Lyons. His newest gig will be a slight step down in competition, though he'll still be receiving $11 million from a contract he signed a few years ago with Arizona. Byrnes will play for a slow-pitch softball team that's sponsored by a bar called Dutch Goose.
I always wondered how dominant Major League Baseball Players would be in softball. How hard would they hit the ball? Would they kill anyone with their line shots? Just how much beer could they consume, and would they be able to play six games in one day while nursing a hangover? The answers to those questions would probably be Very, Probably, Gallons, Yes.
I haven't played in a softball league or a tournament in 10 years. It was always fun, if occasionally dangerous. I usually played third, shortstop or second. With the first teams I played on, the competition wasn't the greatest and there's not much difference between any of those positions. But as the competition gets better, the dangers rise. Many people consider slow-pitch to be a joke, something played by God-fearing church groups on outings to the local park or overweight boozers who pick up the glove and throw on the ketchup-stained jersey every Wednesday night.
That's certainly a part of it. But there's another world, the one I'd find myself in while standing at third base, staring at a 6-foot-4, 250-pound, steroid-ridden (probably) monster with a lethal weapon in his powerful arms. We often played Class A teams, which was the top level in the state. Muscular guys with power to all fields filled these lineups. Every time one of them strolled to the plate, a third baseman was one swing away from a trip to the emergency room. These guys could hit the ball pretty much wherever they wanted. And often they wanted to send the pitch screaming down the line. As someone who didn't believe in using a cup, this was especially dangerous for me and my chances of having future Fury children. I trusted my glove would save me.
Against those teams I was always happier to play short or second. Even at shortstop, you have a bit more time to react. And at second, there aren't a lot of left-handed hitters so there aren't as many line shots. Righties can hit it to the opposite field, but even though it will be hit hard, it's easier to handle. Third base was all about reacting in a split second. One guy hit a ball so hard it took my glove off after I thought I had caught it. The ball dropped out of the glove and he was safe. My teammates were upset the guy got on base; I was thankful I still had the use of two hands.
Lots of softball memories over the years.
* Speaking of injuries, my dad broke his leg playing first base in a game. I was maybe 10. Janesville always hosted tournaments out "at the lake." One Saturday, mom left while I stayed to watch him play. He went for a catch at first. A runner hammered him. Broken leg. I stayed behind while they transported him to the Mankato hospital. Mom returned a few hours later to hear me saying dad was in the hospital. I'm surprised there wasn't a forced retirement.
* I once struck out in slow-pitch softball. Swinging. There's not much in sports that is more humiliating. Scoring a basket for the wrong team might be one. But even that can be brushed off as a temporary mental meltdown. To strike out swinging in slow-pitch means you knew what you were doing, but you just weren't capable of doing something that even the worst athlete can do from the time they're 8 years old. And it wasn't one of those pitches that's a mile in the air and tough to hit. It was a regular little lob. My teammates didn't even heckle me. There was just silence, perhaps a "wow."
* Even at the highest level, it is a skill to play after a night of drinking. It was amazing watching a guy who was vomiting and begging for death at 1 in the morning crawling out of bed and to the field for a 10 a.m. game. It usually takes until about the fourth inning for them to wake up. After a few games they're fully functional. It's especially difficult if the team has to work its way through the losers bracket. That could mean five or six games in a single day, in stifling temperatures.
* One year the Fury family cobbled together a team to play in the Hay Daze tournament. Over the years, the Hay Daze tournament has gone from having great competition to terrible competition to great and back again. That year was a good tournament, a lot of strong teams. I was 9 and it was a great time. My dad, his two brothers, a couple of cousins, a couple of cousin's kids and then a couple of non-Fury family folks completed the roster. One of the non family members was the pitcher, Charlie. Charlie's a great guy, a Janesville favorite. He pitched forever. Charlie's a big guy, but even he can't take a softball fired at his chest from a short distance. During one of the games, my uncle fired home. Unfortunately, the ball never got there, as a surprised Charlie took the throw right in the middle of his chest. He went down to one knee while everyone gasped. His teammates ran to him to make sure he was all right. And, maybe more importantly, they still needed a pitcher. Charlie was fine, though branded by the ball.
The team won a couple of games, but lost a heartbreaker. It was against a team loaded with many of the best players from Janesville, a team that had a couple of guys who played with Class A teams. The Fury family battled throughout. They led late. In one of the innings, the opposition flagged one of the outfielder's gloves. They said it was illegal. Sure enough, it was. They'd suspected all along, but waited for just the right moment - the same way Billy Martin knew George Brett's bat was probably illegal before the pine tar incident but waited for a crucial time to tell the umps. It was a ridiculous rule, nitpicking. The momentum changed. They hit a couple of homers and won the game. Jerks.
* Speaking of humiliation at the plate, one year in a major tournament, the team I played for got no-hit. It had to have been one of the few times in slow-pitch history a team didn't get a single hit. And it wasn't a bad team. In fact, one of the players was one of the key instigators on the team that beat team Fury a decade earlier. He was a Class A player, a bit past his prime but still monstrous at the plate. Even he couldn't get a hit that day. Part of the problem was that there was a no-homer rule. Any home run was an out. So our guys did technically hit some long balls, but they were recorded as normal outs. The good news was that while I didn't get a hit, I also didn't strike out.
* Slow-pitch lends itself to loudmouths and jerks. Sometimes they're fueled by alcohol, often it's just their real personality. Verbal exchanges are frequent. One game in particular, the fool on the other team kept screaming, for seven innings, "STATION TO STATION SOFTBALL, BABY!" Christ. It called for a brushback pitch, fired underneath his chin or at the small of the back. Unfortunately, all we could do was bark back. The guy wasn't even any good, just loud. Is there anything worse than an average athlete who talks all the time and can't back it up? That, of course, describes the current version of Kevin Garnett. But at least Garnett could back it up for most of his career. This guy on the diamond in his tight pants wasn't even a has-been. He was a never-was.
* A friend of mine in Madison played on a team last year with Heisman Trophy winner Ron Dayne. You'd think Dayne would be one of those guys who frightens third basemen and makes them weep at the thought of fielding a liner off of his bat. But he actually wasn't that great. He ass, apparently, a nice guy, a good chemistry guy on the team.
* For two summers, I played with my dad's company team, a ragtag collection that was doomed to lose, and lose often. They were the Bad News Bears, but not as cuddly. There were a lot of good guys and a handful of good players, but many of the players looked like they brought a glove for the wrong hand. Still, we had a good time. In the very first game I played with them, we managed to beat a superior team, one of the better squads in the league. It was like Villanova knocking off Georgetown, only more improbable. The season went downhill from there, with the occasional victory mixed in with lots of frustration. But we had that one victory. We celebrated with beer, while hanging out in the parking lot. It was a real sports victory. But it was still slow-pitch softball.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Don't be the retiring type
Sometime within the next two months Brett Favre will choose to either retire from the NFL or return to the Vikings in 2010. A few months after that he'll change his mind, before making his final decision in late July. Each of those decisions will spawn dozens of columns and online stories. Some will applaud the decision, others will deride the change of heart. The rest will advise old No. 4 to finally retire.
That final category is one I really hope to avoid reading.
There's nothing worse than writers or fans who demand an athlete retire. Strike that. There's nothing worse than writers or fans who demand an athlete retire at the top of their game, so they can leave the sport while our memories of their abilities remain as pure and poignant as our memories of a first kiss.
I want the opposite. If an athlete retires, fine. But if they want to cling to a career with every last bit of savvy and dwindling ability in their arsenal, even better. Athletes should only quit when it's their call or when no team wants them. If that means their skills decline 75 percent, so be it. If that means they have to switch franchises three times in their late 30s and can only be used as a DH or a pinch-hitter, great. Keep playing as long possible. The guy's a former All-star guard but is now a 12th man on an NBA team that finishes six games under .500? Great. Keep getting beat on defense and airballing those three-pointers.
And don't worry about ruining a legacy.
Protecting their legacy. That's the phrase often used when talking about legendary athletes who hang on too long or retire at a young age. Magic Johnson hurt his legacy by coming back in 1996 as a beefy power forward who clashed with younger teammates. Michael Jordan damaged his legacy by returning with the Wizards in 2001 as an overweight shooting guard with a bum knee and an oversize ego.
The most famous example of an athlete damaging his legacy is probably Willie Mays. The phrase "stumbling around like Willie Mays with the Mets" has become as heinous a sports cliche as "we're just going to take things one game at a time." If the sports world insists on dragging an athlete's failing skills out for comparison every time a player is encouraged to hang up the cleats, this phrase should at least be updated with the times. Maybe, "it's more painful than watching Emmitt Smith stumble around with the Arizona Cardinals." Emmitt. There's another one who supposedly damaged his legacy by refusing to leave the sport when it was deemed appropriate by the masses.
But are the legacies really damaged, except in the minds of 40-year-olds who apparently have the reasoning skills and emotional maturity of 4-year-olds? Take Magic and Jordan, two players who have a permanent spot on every list made when ranking the top 5 players in NBA history. Magic didn't lose his slot to Isiah Thomas or Doc Rivers simply because his final season in the NBA ended with him being suspended for bumping a ref, followed by the Lakers flaming out in the playoffs against Houston. When people reflect on Magic's career, that season is now part of the discussion. So is The Magic Hour. And? Does that one season erase everything that happened between 1980 and 1991? Certainly not. In his career biography, it's simply another chapter, albeit one filled with slow trots up the court and off-the-mark jumpers instead of fastbreaks and on-the-mark passes. But why would that concern anyone? Same thing with Jordan. Michael Leahy's book When Nothing Else Matters superbly dissects Jordan's disastrous two-year stint in Washington, where the player who could once do no wrong suffered more failures than a one-term president. Those two years are now part of his permanent record, neatly filed away in a manila folder somewhere. But do those two years damage what he accomplished between 1985 and 1998? Certainly not.
I'm glad both players returned for those respective stints, no matter how different they were to the rest of their careers. I want to watch great athletes play as long as possible and it doesn't really matter to me whether they're as powerful as ever or as weak as a YMCA Sunday night gym warrior.
And while athletes are criticized for sticking around past their expiration date, they're often applauded if they supposedly have a good sense of timing when it comes to retirement. Jim Brown, Barry Sanders. Two guys who went out while still the best at what they did. Jordan accomplished this the first time he retired from the Bulls in 1993. And he did it again the second time he retired after the 1998 season. Such a perfect ending, sealing his legacy and a sixth title with that push-off and jumper against the Jazz in Game 6 of the Finals. It was the type of ending poets could have written about for another century. Then he had to go and ruin it by signing with the Wizards. For guys like Sanders and Brown, retiring when they did was right for them. That doesn't mean it's right for any other athlete and it certainly doesn't mean their way should be the standard for every other professional.
Sometimes retirement concerns focus on health, specifically in boxing and football. No one wants to see damaged or injured players become more damaged by refusing to retire. One more punch or one more sack and concussion apparently weigh heavy on the minds of those who chronicle the games. But even with these I'm a bit reluctant to ever say someone should stop. In the end, what knowledge do I have about a situation that the player and his doctors and team don't have? Does my ability to Google the effects of concussions provide an insight that's otherwise missing? Former Senator Bill Frist once took some much-deserved criticism for diagnosing Terri Schiavo by watching a video. He was actually at least a doctor, if an overly ambitious and politicized one. It was ridiculous for him to offer up a medical opinion on someone he'd never checked and never knew. So I'd also feel slightly foolish demanding that an athlete retire, simply because my medical opinion is it'd be his best option for maintaining his good health.
This phenomenon seems unique to sports. Is anyone upset that Spielberg didn't retire after Schindler's List, when he was at the top of his game? Shouldn't Sully have grounded himself after landing in the Hudson, instead of returning to the air a few months later? He has as much chance of topping that performance as Jordan did of besting his shot against the Jazz. Yet obviously no one cares. J.D. Salinger died Wednesday. He hadn't published anything since 1965 and The Catcher in The Rye came out in 1951. Was the world better off because he sealed his literary legacy by refusing to publish second-rate material the past 45 years? Certainly his detachment from public life added layers of intrigue to his life, but millions would have been content to watch him damage his reputation as a writer, if that would have meant being able to read a few more novels or short stories from a legendary author.
At the same time, there are some occupations where people should quit before their skills suffer. Like, say, brain surgeons.
But sports are what fascinate. Fans and writers feel a connection that's unique to athletes. We demand that players love their sport and the competition, but express surprise when they're unwilling and unable to give up the only thing they've known for 20 years. We act disappointed that they linger on the bench and on our screens, as if anyone should be expected to say goodbye to millions of dollars and millions of cheers simply because it'd be convenient for our own psyches. Hang on until someone says it's time to go.
An athlete should retire when they believe it's time to be done, and not a moment sooner. No one has the right to tell them when to quit. It's always their choice, no matter how many great memories they've provided in the past and no matter how few memories they provide in their twilight years.
That final category is one I really hope to avoid reading.
There's nothing worse than writers or fans who demand an athlete retire. Strike that. There's nothing worse than writers or fans who demand an athlete retire at the top of their game, so they can leave the sport while our memories of their abilities remain as pure and poignant as our memories of a first kiss.
I want the opposite. If an athlete retires, fine. But if they want to cling to a career with every last bit of savvy and dwindling ability in their arsenal, even better. Athletes should only quit when it's their call or when no team wants them. If that means their skills decline 75 percent, so be it. If that means they have to switch franchises three times in their late 30s and can only be used as a DH or a pinch-hitter, great. Keep playing as long possible. The guy's a former All-star guard but is now a 12th man on an NBA team that finishes six games under .500? Great. Keep getting beat on defense and airballing those three-pointers.
And don't worry about ruining a legacy.
Protecting their legacy. That's the phrase often used when talking about legendary athletes who hang on too long or retire at a young age. Magic Johnson hurt his legacy by coming back in 1996 as a beefy power forward who clashed with younger teammates. Michael Jordan damaged his legacy by returning with the Wizards in 2001 as an overweight shooting guard with a bum knee and an oversize ego.
The most famous example of an athlete damaging his legacy is probably Willie Mays. The phrase "stumbling around like Willie Mays with the Mets" has become as heinous a sports cliche as "we're just going to take things one game at a time." If the sports world insists on dragging an athlete's failing skills out for comparison every time a player is encouraged to hang up the cleats, this phrase should at least be updated with the times. Maybe, "it's more painful than watching Emmitt Smith stumble around with the Arizona Cardinals." Emmitt. There's another one who supposedly damaged his legacy by refusing to leave the sport when it was deemed appropriate by the masses.
But are the legacies really damaged, except in the minds of 40-year-olds who apparently have the reasoning skills and emotional maturity of 4-year-olds? Take Magic and Jordan, two players who have a permanent spot on every list made when ranking the top 5 players in NBA history. Magic didn't lose his slot to Isiah Thomas or Doc Rivers simply because his final season in the NBA ended with him being suspended for bumping a ref, followed by the Lakers flaming out in the playoffs against Houston. When people reflect on Magic's career, that season is now part of the discussion. So is The Magic Hour. And? Does that one season erase everything that happened between 1980 and 1991? Certainly not. In his career biography, it's simply another chapter, albeit one filled with slow trots up the court and off-the-mark jumpers instead of fastbreaks and on-the-mark passes. But why would that concern anyone? Same thing with Jordan. Michael Leahy's book When Nothing Else Matters superbly dissects Jordan's disastrous two-year stint in Washington, where the player who could once do no wrong suffered more failures than a one-term president. Those two years are now part of his permanent record, neatly filed away in a manila folder somewhere. But do those two years damage what he accomplished between 1985 and 1998? Certainly not.
I'm glad both players returned for those respective stints, no matter how different they were to the rest of their careers. I want to watch great athletes play as long as possible and it doesn't really matter to me whether they're as powerful as ever or as weak as a YMCA Sunday night gym warrior.
And while athletes are criticized for sticking around past their expiration date, they're often applauded if they supposedly have a good sense of timing when it comes to retirement. Jim Brown, Barry Sanders. Two guys who went out while still the best at what they did. Jordan accomplished this the first time he retired from the Bulls in 1993. And he did it again the second time he retired after the 1998 season. Such a perfect ending, sealing his legacy and a sixth title with that push-off and jumper against the Jazz in Game 6 of the Finals. It was the type of ending poets could have written about for another century. Then he had to go and ruin it by signing with the Wizards. For guys like Sanders and Brown, retiring when they did was right for them. That doesn't mean it's right for any other athlete and it certainly doesn't mean their way should be the standard for every other professional.
Sometimes retirement concerns focus on health, specifically in boxing and football. No one wants to see damaged or injured players become more damaged by refusing to retire. One more punch or one more sack and concussion apparently weigh heavy on the minds of those who chronicle the games. But even with these I'm a bit reluctant to ever say someone should stop. In the end, what knowledge do I have about a situation that the player and his doctors and team don't have? Does my ability to Google the effects of concussions provide an insight that's otherwise missing? Former Senator Bill Frist once took some much-deserved criticism for diagnosing Terri Schiavo by watching a video. He was actually at least a doctor, if an overly ambitious and politicized one. It was ridiculous for him to offer up a medical opinion on someone he'd never checked and never knew. So I'd also feel slightly foolish demanding that an athlete retire, simply because my medical opinion is it'd be his best option for maintaining his good health.
This phenomenon seems unique to sports. Is anyone upset that Spielberg didn't retire after Schindler's List, when he was at the top of his game? Shouldn't Sully have grounded himself after landing in the Hudson, instead of returning to the air a few months later? He has as much chance of topping that performance as Jordan did of besting his shot against the Jazz. Yet obviously no one cares. J.D. Salinger died Wednesday. He hadn't published anything since 1965 and The Catcher in The Rye came out in 1951. Was the world better off because he sealed his literary legacy by refusing to publish second-rate material the past 45 years? Certainly his detachment from public life added layers of intrigue to his life, but millions would have been content to watch him damage his reputation as a writer, if that would have meant being able to read a few more novels or short stories from a legendary author.
At the same time, there are some occupations where people should quit before their skills suffer. Like, say, brain surgeons.
But sports are what fascinate. Fans and writers feel a connection that's unique to athletes. We demand that players love their sport and the competition, but express surprise when they're unwilling and unable to give up the only thing they've known for 20 years. We act disappointed that they linger on the bench and on our screens, as if anyone should be expected to say goodbye to millions of dollars and millions of cheers simply because it'd be convenient for our own psyches. Hang on until someone says it's time to go.
An athlete should retire when they believe it's time to be done, and not a moment sooner. No one has the right to tell them when to quit. It's always their choice, no matter how many great memories they've provided in the past and no matter how few memories they provide in their twilight years.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Being a fan from afar
During last night's Cavs-Lakers game, I spent the fourth quarter stationed in front of my computer, instead of the TV. After taking an early 11-point lead, the Lakers squandered the advantage and entered the final period trailing by two. That meant it was time to follow along on CBS Sports's website. This cowardly retreat happens often, much more than it should. I tape every Lakers game and usually watch them live.
But the main reason I tape - and, yes, it still is videotape, EP mode, not DVR - is that I can stop watching live whenever LA's errors, missed shots, blown defensive assignments and turnovers get to be too much. The live gamecast online, which gives play-by-play and instant stats, keeps me informed. On CBS, they also have "glogs," - game logs where I get to read the only writing in the world that makes the comments found on youtube and newspaper websites look like Michael Chabon. It's much easier reading text about a loss than it is watching it happen. This way I also avoid hearing the announcers brag about players I don't like and denigrate ones I do. While I might agree with the assessments, it still feels like insults. Only I'm allowed to question Lamar Odom's commitment to the game and Pau Gasol's performance in the clutch.
And if the Lakers do still manage to win, I can simply go back and watch the tape. If they lose? Tape over that game, erasing it from history and my mind.
And if the Lakers do still manage to win, I can simply go back and watch the tape. If they lose? Tape over that game, erasing it from history and my mind.
This isn't done out of any superstition. Many fans think they somehow control the action. If they watch the game while wearing a lucky shirt that hasn't been washed since freshman year in college, they think the team plays better. Or maybe the team plays better when they don't watch so the fan always records the game. Or maybe the team played better until they started watching so they turn it off, on the off-chance that alters the momentum. The players on the court apparently will sense that George finally turned the damned TV off and that sparks a 10-point rally.
So goes the theory. Ridiculous, certainly. No, I don't avoid watching out of superstition, just frustration. Maybe that's even more pathetic than the superstitious. They do what they do because they believe it works. I do what I do because I don't believe in the team's chances.
But for the next two weeks, I'll be following the Lakers and all sports from a faraway land, without the benefit of television or a convenient time zone. For two weeks I'll be in Cape Town, seven hours ahead of New York City. On TV I'll watch cricket and perhaps rugby and soccer with the in-laws, but no NBA. I'll do the best I can, again following online, this time out of necessity. During our stay three years ago, there were nights when I logged in at 5:30 in the morning for a 10:30 p.m. start for the Lakers. This year, the Lakers will be on a lengthy East Coast road trip, beginning their games at 2 or three in the morning in Cape Town. Even for someone raised on tales of Elgin and Jerry and Magic, staying awake for all of those games would require a level of dedication and an amount of sleep deprivation I can no longer handle.
Instead, for most of the trip I'll go to bed each night not knowing the result, waiting until the morning to discover their fate. In some ways it will be like the 1980s, when I had to wait for the morning paper to see the scores. And about 60 times a year, it took two days for those scores to show up in the sports section's scoreboard, as I was forever tormented by the (late) that appeared next to the Lakers results.
And while it's just regular season basketball I'll miss, the NFL playoffs will also conclude with me nearly 10,000 miles away from the States. As the Jets battle the Colts and the Vikings search for their fifth Super Bowl appearance, I'll have been in Cape Town for a few hours and will be hunting for the nearest bed after a day-long journey. And on Super Bowl Sunday I'll be on a plane, heading home. I'll read or watch some movies, oblivious to any and all games. Time stops on a plane for the passengers, even if the world doesn't. When we land at JFK at 8 in the morning the Monday following the biggest game of them all, I'll search for a paper and the score.
I can't wait for the trip. Even without access to the Lakers and college basketball and the NFL playoffs, I don't think I'll miss the televised games much at all. Less stress, knowing I don't have to watch small failures that upset me to a disproportionate degree. Visits with family and trips to the beach will fill the time. It will be a Lakers detox.
Except on January 31. Lakers at Celtics. The Celtics. The hated Celtics.
That's one game I wouldn't miss for the world, no matter where in the world I'm watching.
I can't wait for the trip. Even without access to the Lakers and college basketball and the NFL playoffs, I don't think I'll miss the televised games much at all. Less stress, knowing I don't have to watch small failures that upset me to a disproportionate degree. Visits with family and trips to the beach will fill the time. It will be a Lakers detox.
Except on January 31. Lakers at Celtics. The Celtics. The hated Celtics.
That's one game I wouldn't miss for the world, no matter where in the world I'm watching.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Norman Dale's antics would not be allowed in the NBA
Everyone remembers Norman Dale's Hickory High debut. Hoping to instill the type of military discipline that made him a success wherever he went, Dale insisted on four passes before a shot. The directive led to a stagnant first-half offense, upsetting the locals and his players. In the second half, an annoyed Rade ignores his coach, firing away right after crossing midcourt. The tactic slices into the lead, but enrages Dale. Having learned that punching a player is not the best way to deal with insubordination, Dale benches Rade. Near the end of the game, with Hickory out of it, a Hickory player fouls out. Rade starts to enter the game. Dale tells him to sit down. He tells him again. Then Dale says perhaps the most famous line from the best sports movie ever:
His team was on the floor. It stunned the crowd, delighted a visibly intoxicated Dennis Hopper (and his character, Shooter), and even embarrassed the opposing team - note the guy on the free-throw box who shakes his head in pity after the decision. Hey, pal, worry about your own team. Columnists and bloggers surely ripped Dale the next day, perhaps calling for his head or at least a thorough examination of it.
Friday night during the Golden State-Milwaukee game, we saw more proof that Dale coached in the right era. His form of discipline and motivation would not have a home in today's game. Golden State started the game with just eight players, due to numerous injuries. One player got hurt during the game. Then three more fouled out, the last being Stephen Curry with just four seconds left in the game. At this point Don Nelson could have quoted Norman Dale and earned the love and respect of hoops fans and movie aficionados everywhere. Instead the NBA rulebook ruined the moment. NBA Rule 3 (Section 1) states that a team must have five players on the court. "If a player in the game receives his sixth personal foul and all substitutes have already been disqualified, said player shall remain in the game and shall be charged with a personal and team foul. A technical foul also shall be assessed against his team. All subsequent personal fouls, including offensive fouls, shall be treated similarly."
NBA ref Joey Crawford - who's been around so long he might have ejected Norman Dale at some point in his career - said he'd never seen the rule come into play prior to Friday night. It didn't affect the outcome, as the Bucks won 113-104. And Golden State would have only played with four guys for four seconds. But it still would have been entertaining.
One year, Minnesota high school basketball actually implemented a rule where a player who fouled out could remain in the game, but the team received a technical for every subsequent foul. I think the rule only lasted a year. Jeff Van Gundy has often advocated eliminating the disqualification of a player with six fouls. The argument is that no other sport punishes player infractions by forcing them to leave the game. Who wants to watch the best players sit? One idea has been to have penalties beginning after five fouls. Not that the idea will ever come to your local NBA arena.
Having said all this, there is a slight chance that perhaps, just maybe, Dale's radical stubbornness might be allowed in the NBA. The rule addresses what happens when a player fouls out. But I didn't see anything online talking about what would happen if a coach simply wanted to send a message. What if Phil Jackson had tired of Kobe launching threes in a comeback attempt against the Cavs? After five players foul out, Kobe jogs to the check-in, only to be told by Phil to sit down. What happens? In other words, does Rule 3 (Section 1A) force a coach to put five guys out there, even if he only wants to play four? I don't know. Probably not. The league wouldn't want some beleaguered coach in full meltdown mode running two players out onto the court in an attempt to embarrass the league and his team (Kurt Rambis might be very close to such an on-court breakdown).
No, we'll never see a Norman Dale in the NBA. That's good in some ways, as his unimaginative offense would make the Knicks of the 1990s look like Paul Westhead's Loyola Marymount teams. Ol' Norman belonged in high school or college. Those were his teams, no matter how many guys were on the floor.
His team was on the floor. It stunned the crowd, delighted a visibly intoxicated Dennis Hopper (and his character, Shooter), and even embarrassed the opposing team - note the guy on the free-throw box who shakes his head in pity after the decision. Hey, pal, worry about your own team. Columnists and bloggers surely ripped Dale the next day, perhaps calling for his head or at least a thorough examination of it.
Friday night during the Golden State-Milwaukee game, we saw more proof that Dale coached in the right era. His form of discipline and motivation would not have a home in today's game. Golden State started the game with just eight players, due to numerous injuries. One player got hurt during the game. Then three more fouled out, the last being Stephen Curry with just four seconds left in the game. At this point Don Nelson could have quoted Norman Dale and earned the love and respect of hoops fans and movie aficionados everywhere. Instead the NBA rulebook ruined the moment. NBA Rule 3 (Section 1) states that a team must have five players on the court. "If a player in the game receives his sixth personal foul and all substitutes have already been disqualified, said player shall remain in the game and shall be charged with a personal and team foul. A technical foul also shall be assessed against his team. All subsequent personal fouls, including offensive fouls, shall be treated similarly."
NBA ref Joey Crawford - who's been around so long he might have ejected Norman Dale at some point in his career - said he'd never seen the rule come into play prior to Friday night. It didn't affect the outcome, as the Bucks won 113-104. And Golden State would have only played with four guys for four seconds. But it still would have been entertaining.
One year, Minnesota high school basketball actually implemented a rule where a player who fouled out could remain in the game, but the team received a technical for every subsequent foul. I think the rule only lasted a year. Jeff Van Gundy has often advocated eliminating the disqualification of a player with six fouls. The argument is that no other sport punishes player infractions by forcing them to leave the game. Who wants to watch the best players sit? One idea has been to have penalties beginning after five fouls. Not that the idea will ever come to your local NBA arena.
Having said all this, there is a slight chance that perhaps, just maybe, Dale's radical stubbornness might be allowed in the NBA. The rule addresses what happens when a player fouls out. But I didn't see anything online talking about what would happen if a coach simply wanted to send a message. What if Phil Jackson had tired of Kobe launching threes in a comeback attempt against the Cavs? After five players foul out, Kobe jogs to the check-in, only to be told by Phil to sit down. What happens? In other words, does Rule 3 (Section 1A) force a coach to put five guys out there, even if he only wants to play four? I don't know. Probably not. The league wouldn't want some beleaguered coach in full meltdown mode running two players out onto the court in an attempt to embarrass the league and his team (Kurt Rambis might be very close to such an on-court breakdown).
No, we'll never see a Norman Dale in the NBA. That's good in some ways, as his unimaginative offense would make the Knicks of the 1990s look like Paul Westhead's Loyola Marymount teams. Ol' Norman belonged in high school or college. Those were his teams, no matter how many guys were on the floor.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Look, Mom, it's Tommy! He's running onto the field at the Yankees game!
One of the great things about YouTube is that it offers a glimpse at a world unknown to regular television viewers. For years now, stations instantly cut away from the on-field action if some attention-seeking idiot sprints onto the field and runs around in circles until security finally tackles him. They do this because showing it would apparently encourage others to do the same thing and they don't want to give attention to someone for committing a crime. Fortunately, the majority of these people are harmless. The only damage they do is to their family's sense of pride.
As security drags the drunken man or woman off in cuffs, the announcers will either ignore it completely, aside from a somber announcement that "security is escorting a gentleman off the field," or they'll ridicule the person, explaining, "Some moron has decided to show off for his friends and will now spend the night in jail. Good."
I have no problem with TV refusing to show these people. Attention-starved people with below-average intelligence already litter our televisions on reality shows; we don't need them polluting sporting events.
Still, there's something exhilarating about watching a fool run onto a baseball field or football field in an attempt to...what? Impress a girlfriend? Win a dare he made with his frat buddies? Prove his parents wrong when they told him he'd never amount to anything in his life? For a few seconds, these people must feel like Barry Sanders breaking free into the open field. They now know what it feels like to be cheered by 30,000 people. Sometimes they'll dodge overweight security guards, who must get some secret thrill out of the chase as well. Most of the time those workers simply watch the stands for drunken brawls.
Here's a chance to beat up a real-life hippie!
Baseball attracts most of these people. Rarely does it happen in basketball, despite the fact it'd seem to be an easier accomplishment. Perhaps baseball fans - who these days sit through games that last anywhere from three and a half hours to six hours - simply have a longer time frame in which to get drunk. I'd like to see a study that analyzes when people run onto a field. My guess is it'd be in the later innings of a game, or in the second half of a football game.
What's the thought process? Does the idea first spark in the fifth inning? Does the guy think about doing it, but fears telling his friend? Then, sometime in the bottom of the seventh, as he's chugged his seventh beer, he finally broaches the subject:
"Hey, wouldn't it be cool if I ran onto the field?"
"No."
"No, it would be. You remember, I was a pretty good running back in high school. Ran for 875 yards senior year. Made all-conference."
"That was 11 years ago. And 85 pounds ago."
"Dude, I'm just saying. I could do it and probably last a minute out there before they'd catch me. Look at those security guys."
The guy's friend forgets the conversation. He passes it off as one of those ideas drunk guys always come up with; it's the same thing he does when his friend openly dreams about opening a bar, a real "kick-ass joint, we can even have live music."
Then, in the bottom of the eighth, it happens. The guy jumps over the short wall down the right field line. As his friend breaks out the camera phone so he can document the carnage for the buddies back home, the guy's off to the races.
You know the drunk guy you hate sitting next to at a professional sporting event? The one who doesn't shut up or sit down and screams at every player? That's the type of guy who runs onto the field. The only good thing is he's no longer bothering you.
Here, then, are some of the finest examples of just how stupid humans can be.
Dodger Stadium. Who says LA fans don't get excited? Here, the crowd acts like Kirk Gibson just took Dennis Eckersley deep again, as they wildly cheer a man getting hammered on the field by security staff, presumably after he got hammered in his seat. Boy, do fans love when someone runs onto the field. It wakes them from their slumber. "Look, dad, someone's zig-zagging across the outfield while four people in jackets chase him! Who-whooooo!" It's the same type of reaction that happens when a beach ball gets tossed into a crowd. Inexplicably, it becomes the highlight of the game for many people as they bounce it to and fro. On the beach, the sight of a beach ball would elicit yawns. But in the stands at Camden Yards? Chaos! Excitement!
And would anyone blame the security staff or police officers if they took a few extra shots at these cretins? Especially when five or six of them gather around the sprinter. It'd be easy to toss in a few jabs to the ribs. Guy's drunk, he's not going to remember anything.
Wrigley Field. This one is labeled Drunk Cubs Fan Gets Tackled on Mother's Day. Again, pure joy from the crowd. Are they cheering the man or the security people who took him down? And would they be anymore excited if the Cubs finally made the World Series? I say no.
Here's one of New York's finest citizens, running around the old Yankee Stadium. The same grass Mickey Mantle used to patrol! The highlight is toward the end, when one of the fans can be heard saying, "He gets to go into the dugout too!" as if police are taking him there so he can give Joe Girardi some advice about whether to bring Rivera in during the 8th inning or save him for the 9th.
Here's the same guy...from a different angle. One known photo exists of Abraham Lincoln during the Gettysburg Address, and it came seconds after he completed the speech. Yet, at least two videos exist of this guy shedding his shirt and tacklers as he makes his way around the basepaths at baseball's most hallowed cathedral.
The one below is an old-school version. From 1989, at a Steelers game. Shirtless, pantsless, shoeless. Thankfully, the guy's wearing boxers, not briefs. He falls on the old, tough artificial turf at Three Rivers Stadium, the type of turf that's all but disappeared today because it was so brutal on players, and, most likely, fans.
Speaking of the Steelers, here's Pittsburgh linebacker James Harrison taking justice into his own hands with a fool from Cleveland. This might also be why more people run onto the field at baseball games. Who's more likely to take out a runaway fan? A right-fielder, or a middle linebacker?
It's not like this is just a problem on the coasts. Not even Minnesota - with its presumably nice security guards and nice fans - is immune. In this one a pair of fans, egged on by their testosterone and low IQs, venture out together. One even makes it to home plate - he's safe - before a Red Sox bat boy flattens him, finally ending the fiasco.
Every year Sports Illustrated publishes a Where are They Now issue. It's always one of the more fascinating issues, as the magazine tracks down athletes and coaches from the past who have fallen off the radar. For the next issue, I hope they track down some of these people, or their brethren. Did any of them go on to become a CEO? Did any of them get promoted to head of sales? Did their hometowns throw them a parade, or present a key to the city? Most importantly, did any of them father any children? And if so, are their children as dumb as their parents?
As security drags the drunken man or woman off in cuffs, the announcers will either ignore it completely, aside from a somber announcement that "security is escorting a gentleman off the field," or they'll ridicule the person, explaining, "Some moron has decided to show off for his friends and will now spend the night in jail. Good."
I have no problem with TV refusing to show these people. Attention-starved people with below-average intelligence already litter our televisions on reality shows; we don't need them polluting sporting events.
Still, there's something exhilarating about watching a fool run onto a baseball field or football field in an attempt to...what? Impress a girlfriend? Win a dare he made with his frat buddies? Prove his parents wrong when they told him he'd never amount to anything in his life? For a few seconds, these people must feel like Barry Sanders breaking free into the open field. They now know what it feels like to be cheered by 30,000 people. Sometimes they'll dodge overweight security guards, who must get some secret thrill out of the chase as well. Most of the time those workers simply watch the stands for drunken brawls.
Here's a chance to beat up a real-life hippie!
Baseball attracts most of these people. Rarely does it happen in basketball, despite the fact it'd seem to be an easier accomplishment. Perhaps baseball fans - who these days sit through games that last anywhere from three and a half hours to six hours - simply have a longer time frame in which to get drunk. I'd like to see a study that analyzes when people run onto a field. My guess is it'd be in the later innings of a game, or in the second half of a football game.
What's the thought process? Does the idea first spark in the fifth inning? Does the guy think about doing it, but fears telling his friend? Then, sometime in the bottom of the seventh, as he's chugged his seventh beer, he finally broaches the subject:
"Hey, wouldn't it be cool if I ran onto the field?"
"No."
"No, it would be. You remember, I was a pretty good running back in high school. Ran for 875 yards senior year. Made all-conference."
"That was 11 years ago. And 85 pounds ago."
"Dude, I'm just saying. I could do it and probably last a minute out there before they'd catch me. Look at those security guys."
The guy's friend forgets the conversation. He passes it off as one of those ideas drunk guys always come up with; it's the same thing he does when his friend openly dreams about opening a bar, a real "kick-ass joint, we can even have live music."
Then, in the bottom of the eighth, it happens. The guy jumps over the short wall down the right field line. As his friend breaks out the camera phone so he can document the carnage for the buddies back home, the guy's off to the races.
You know the drunk guy you hate sitting next to at a professional sporting event? The one who doesn't shut up or sit down and screams at every player? That's the type of guy who runs onto the field. The only good thing is he's no longer bothering you.
Here, then, are some of the finest examples of just how stupid humans can be.
Dodger Stadium. Who says LA fans don't get excited? Here, the crowd acts like Kirk Gibson just took Dennis Eckersley deep again, as they wildly cheer a man getting hammered on the field by security staff, presumably after he got hammered in his seat. Boy, do fans love when someone runs onto the field. It wakes them from their slumber. "Look, dad, someone's zig-zagging across the outfield while four people in jackets chase him! Who-whooooo!" It's the same type of reaction that happens when a beach ball gets tossed into a crowd. Inexplicably, it becomes the highlight of the game for many people as they bounce it to and fro. On the beach, the sight of a beach ball would elicit yawns. But in the stands at Camden Yards? Chaos! Excitement!
And would anyone blame the security staff or police officers if they took a few extra shots at these cretins? Especially when five or six of them gather around the sprinter. It'd be easy to toss in a few jabs to the ribs. Guy's drunk, he's not going to remember anything.
Wrigley Field. This one is labeled Drunk Cubs Fan Gets Tackled on Mother's Day. Again, pure joy from the crowd. Are they cheering the man or the security people who took him down? And would they be anymore excited if the Cubs finally made the World Series? I say no.
Here's one of New York's finest citizens, running around the old Yankee Stadium. The same grass Mickey Mantle used to patrol! The highlight is toward the end, when one of the fans can be heard saying, "He gets to go into the dugout too!" as if police are taking him there so he can give Joe Girardi some advice about whether to bring Rivera in during the 8th inning or save him for the 9th.
Here's the same guy...from a different angle. One known photo exists of Abraham Lincoln during the Gettysburg Address, and it came seconds after he completed the speech. Yet, at least two videos exist of this guy shedding his shirt and tacklers as he makes his way around the basepaths at baseball's most hallowed cathedral.
The one below is an old-school version. From 1989, at a Steelers game. Shirtless, pantsless, shoeless. Thankfully, the guy's wearing boxers, not briefs. He falls on the old, tough artificial turf at Three Rivers Stadium, the type of turf that's all but disappeared today because it was so brutal on players, and, most likely, fans.
Speaking of the Steelers, here's Pittsburgh linebacker James Harrison taking justice into his own hands with a fool from Cleveland. This might also be why more people run onto the field at baseball games. Who's more likely to take out a runaway fan? A right-fielder, or a middle linebacker?
It's not like this is just a problem on the coasts. Not even Minnesota - with its presumably nice security guards and nice fans - is immune. In this one a pair of fans, egged on by their testosterone and low IQs, venture out together. One even makes it to home plate - he's safe - before a Red Sox bat boy flattens him, finally ending the fiasco.
Every year Sports Illustrated publishes a Where are They Now issue. It's always one of the more fascinating issues, as the magazine tracks down athletes and coaches from the past who have fallen off the radar. For the next issue, I hope they track down some of these people, or their brethren. Did any of them go on to become a CEO? Did any of them get promoted to head of sales? Did their hometowns throw them a parade, or present a key to the city? Most importantly, did any of them father any children? And if so, are their children as dumb as their parents?
Friday, December 25, 2009
Well, maybe Jon Koncak was worth more than Michael Jordan
I've read about 100 pages of a new book I got for Christmas, When the Game was Ours, by Larry Bird and Magic Johnson, though sportswriter Jackie MacMullan handled the actual writing of the book. I read several chapters today while avoiding my dad's taunting phone calls during the Lakers debacle against Cleveland.
Remarkably, the book's managed to reveal new details about the players, details I didn't even know, though I thought I'd read pretty much every story and anecdote about each Hall of Famer. My favorite quote so far comes from Bird. Apparently, Bird's Indiana State teammates and Magic's Michigan State teammates expressed some jealousy about the attention each player received while in college, even though each player was nearly single-handedly responsible for turning the programs into national powers. When asked about the jealousy of his teammates, Bird said, "Somebody asked me once how I felt about all that. I told them, 'Hell, I'm jealous of them too. I'm jealous because I never got to play with a Larry Bird."
It's an amazingly arrogant quote, something that would be the subject of a special 2-hour episode of Outside the Lines on ESPN if Kobe Bryant said something similar about his teammates today. And it's also a perfect quote, the type of reply only one of the 10 best players in NBA history could get away with.
Later, in his early years with the Lakers, some of Magic's teammates also became jealous of the attention heaped on the young star. Much of it stemmed from the 25-year, $25 million contract he signed early in his career, a pact that was remarkable not for the money, but for the length. Although at the time, the money too - a million a year - was also fairly staggering.
Today of course someone making a million dollars a year in the NBA is probably a guy who plays about 5 minutes a game and is kept on the roster simply because he's a good chemistry guy and practices hard.
Who makes the most money in today's NBA? Kobe? Duncan? Shaq? LeBron? No, no, no, and no.
Tracy McGrady. $23,329,561.
This is the last year of his deal, meaning McGrady's days of seeing that type of money will be long gone when he signs his next deal in the Summer of LeBron.
It's obviously preposterous that McGrady is the highest-paid player in the league, but then again, Jermaine O'Neal is the third-highest paid player, so it's not the only deal that doesn't make much sense. But then, it's always been like that in the NBA.
Browsing through Basketball Reference is an eye-opening experience when searching out salary history.
Take the 1988 Chicago Bulls. The Bulls finished 50-32 that season as Michael Jordan averaged 35 points and five assists a game. That year he solidified his spot as a basketball legend, and a sporting icon off the court. Those results were good enough to land him the second-highest-paid contract on the team, as he made $845,000. The highest-paid Bull? Artis Gilmore, whose professional career had peaked a decade earlier in the ABA. Big Artis pulled in $863,00 that season.
Sticking with the late 1980s, the 1987 Lakers were one of the best teams in NBA history, winning 67 regular season games and the title thanks to a devastating fastbreak and Magic's first MVP season. Magic won the MVP, Kareem was still effective, and another Hall of Famer, James Worthy, averaged 19 points per game. So, of course, the highest-paid player was Michael Cooper. Granted, Coop was the Defensive Player of the Year. And he was a vital role player. But he should not have been pulling in $3,565,500 when Magic took in $2,500,000. I'm sure no one was jealous of Magic's contract that season.
Sometimes bad contracts literally destroy franchises, which is basically what happened with Seattle in the 1990s. The Sonics took the legendary Bulls team to six games in the NBA Finals in 1996. In several of those games, Shawn Kemp was the best player on the floor, despite the fact Jordan, Gary Payton and Scottie Pippen were sharing it with him. Seattle appeared set to contend for the next decade.
Then they signed a 7-foot stiff disguised as a center, who went by the name of Jim McIlvaine. Looking for a center in the Jon Koncak/Uwe Blab/Bill Wennington/Will Perdue/Joe Klein mold - tall, personable, pale-skinned, and bad at basketball - the Sonics inked McIlvaine to a seven-year deal worth $33.6 million. The previous season, Big Mac averaged 2.3 points and yanked down 2.9 boards per game. The move infuriated many of the Sonics, most notably Kemp. The star forward did make more than McIlvaine that year - $3.3 million compared to $3 million for McIlvaine - but he'd also been asking for an increase, which the organization refused to give him. At the end of the year Seattle dealt Kemp to Cleveland, assuring his career would become most notable for his epic weight gain and the number of children he sired. Seattle, meanwhile, faded from power. McIlvaine? Oh, McIlvaine was fine, finishing his career in 2001 with the Nets, a season that saw him make $5.4 million. That year he averaged 1.6 more points per game than I did for the Nets, appearing in 18 games.
Speaking of Jon Koncak, long before McIlvaine gave below-average centers a bad name with his outrageous contract, Koncak signed a famous six-year deal worth $13 million with the Atlanta Hawks. At the time, it meant Koncak made more money than Jordan, Bird and Magic, the only time his name was ever mentioned with those three. Koncak averaged 4.5 points per game in his career. The 1992 Hawks were a fascinating team. Not on the court, where they finished 38-44, but off it. Dominique Wilkins rightfully made the most money on the team, pulling in $3.1 million. Koncak was next with two million. Third? Blair Rasmussen, with $1.5 million. Blair Rasmussen, the seventh-leading scorer on the team, a guy who scored 9 points a game.
But then again, Blair was white. And seven-feet tall. In the NBA, those two qualifications often seem to be more important than a decent jump shot or rebounding skills.
So maybe McGrady's 2010 contract isn't so outrageous. We should just be thankful Joel Przybilla isn't the highest-paid player in the league.
Monday, December 14, 2009
A great way to make national news? Lose 65-0 in basketball
About once a year, a high school sporting event makes national news for the lopsided nature of the final score, whether it's a blowout in football or an embarrassing rout on the basketball court. Pundits pontificate and outsiders mock the losing team, when they're not castigating the winning side. I'm also a junkie for these types of games, though I have little interest in assigning blame or shame.
Early in the prep basketball season, a game between two small schools in northern Minnesota broke through the noise to earn some recognition. Last week Moose Lake-Willow River defeated Wrenshall 65-0 in girls basketball. It's the type of score a local sportscaster will introduce with a chuckle and the line, "Folks, this is not a typo."
Countless teams have lost by more than 65 points, but when a shutout's involved, the result's going to bounce from the weekly paper, to public radio, to national blogs and newspapers. It was 40-0 at half. Moose Lake-Willow River played reserves the second half, and Wrenshall had, according to the coach of the winning team, about 11 layups that failed to go in, which would have sliced the deficit to a more manageable 63 points.
One message board I saw devolved into a debate about whether the two teams should even be playing against each other. The person was unaware of the geography of Minnesota and the fact the two teams are of similar size. They play in the same conference. This wasn't a big school from the Twin Cities beating up on a small school in rural Minnesota. A few years ago Wrenshall made the state tournament. If they have some decent younger players in the program, they could be beating Moose Lake-Willow River by 30 in a few years. These types of ups and downs are common in all programs, but especially in small towns, which rely on the luck of the gene pool and the reproduction rate of the townsfolk. Some years a team will be blessed with four or five outstanding players, other times the talent pool is bare for three or four grades. It's accepted that the winning and losing is usually cyclical, though there are also traditionally strong programs that churn out winners every season.
But for everyone else, the bad comes with the good, or, more accurately, after the good.
Unlike similar results in the recent past, there haven't been any premature calls for the head of the winning coach. No one's been accused of bad sportsmanship. If the opponent's missing layups, what's the responsibility of the winning team, especially if the reserves are in the game? Aside from scoring in the wrong basket to get a 2 on the other side of the scoreboard. The reserves have the right to play as hard as possible. If they too are much better than the losing team, routs happen. And, occasionally, but thankfully not often, historic shutouts happen.
Once the sportsmanship questions are dealt with, people then turn to how it affects the players, specifically the losing players. What kind of damage will it do? Will they be on their therapist's couch in 25 years, blaming Moose Lake-Willow River for their three failed marriages, when they're not blaming their overbearing mother and distant father? Will the kids drop out and start drinking and drugging, trying to wash away the shame of being shut out in a basketball game?
What about the children? It's the type of cry we hear often, whether it's involving athletics or Janet Jackson's exposed breasts.
The players will be fine. Whatever embarrassment the kids or coaches or townspeople might feel now - and it is just a basketball game, so they really shouldn't feel bad at all - will dissipate as the season goes on, even as they'll likely continue to rack up eye-opening defeats (they've lost 78-8 and 102-20, as well). In six months it will be a footnote to their school year. In 10 years it will be an anecdote at a class reunion.
Ever since I've been a reporter, I've usually been more interested in the losing team and players. When Trinity Bible lost 105-0 on the football field six years ago, I wondered what the players felt and how they kept moving forward.
The players and coaches were embarrassed, hurt, but hardly permanently damaged. Certainly most of the people involved with that game remember it to this day. But that might have less to do with the score and more to do with the fact someone wrote a book about it with the subhead calling them the worst college football team in the nation.
Many of the players and coaches involved with that game were still at Trinity a year later when I covered the team for my book. That year, in the Lions's first home game of the season, they lost 12-7 in heartbreaking fashion. On the final play of the game, with Trinity a yard away from a victory against Principia, the Lions's running back plunged into the end zone for the winning touchdown. At least that's what it looked like live, and on the videotape. The officials, however, saw things differently. After a few seconds of discussion, they ruled the back down just inches from the goal line. That play - and that game - hurt 105 times more than the 105-0 defeat. That game hurt more because one play meant the difference between a win and a loss. The deciding play in the 105-0 game was the opening kickoff.
The 105-0 game was the reason I was at Trinity a year later. The game put Trinity on the map, even if as just a dot. It helped convince a publisher to back a book about the program. The players remember being beat up that day on the field, they remember the injuries that decimated the team, and they remember the long bus ride home.
But it didn't do any lasting harm, at least not emotionally. The details from the 105-0 game have probably been mostly forgotten. But I bet most of the players remember nearly every play from the final minute of that 12-7 loss.
The losses that hurt, the ones that linger and sometimes even damage, aren't the 50-point defeats, but the final-second losses. If you're a former player, think about the games you remember most from your playing days. If you're a fan, think about the games that stick out most, no matter the level, whether professional or high school. I can still remember the details of the close losses suffered on the high school basketball court and in college. I still wonder how the outcomes would have been different if one shot would have gone in, or we would have grabbed one more rebound. Those are the games we remember, not the ones that were over by halftime.
The Wrenshall girls will be fine. Unless they lose one at the buzzer.
Routs can be quickly forgotten. And if anything, they just make players stronger. It's the heartbreaking losses that torment them.
Early in the prep basketball season, a game between two small schools in northern Minnesota broke through the noise to earn some recognition. Last week Moose Lake-Willow River defeated Wrenshall 65-0 in girls basketball. It's the type of score a local sportscaster will introduce with a chuckle and the line, "Folks, this is not a typo."
Countless teams have lost by more than 65 points, but when a shutout's involved, the result's going to bounce from the weekly paper, to public radio, to national blogs and newspapers. It was 40-0 at half. Moose Lake-Willow River played reserves the second half, and Wrenshall had, according to the coach of the winning team, about 11 layups that failed to go in, which would have sliced the deficit to a more manageable 63 points.
One message board I saw devolved into a debate about whether the two teams should even be playing against each other. The person was unaware of the geography of Minnesota and the fact the two teams are of similar size. They play in the same conference. This wasn't a big school from the Twin Cities beating up on a small school in rural Minnesota. A few years ago Wrenshall made the state tournament. If they have some decent younger players in the program, they could be beating Moose Lake-Willow River by 30 in a few years. These types of ups and downs are common in all programs, but especially in small towns, which rely on the luck of the gene pool and the reproduction rate of the townsfolk. Some years a team will be blessed with four or five outstanding players, other times the talent pool is bare for three or four grades. It's accepted that the winning and losing is usually cyclical, though there are also traditionally strong programs that churn out winners every season.
But for everyone else, the bad comes with the good, or, more accurately, after the good.
Unlike similar results in the recent past, there haven't been any premature calls for the head of the winning coach. No one's been accused of bad sportsmanship. If the opponent's missing layups, what's the responsibility of the winning team, especially if the reserves are in the game? Aside from scoring in the wrong basket to get a 2 on the other side of the scoreboard. The reserves have the right to play as hard as possible. If they too are much better than the losing team, routs happen. And, occasionally, but thankfully not often, historic shutouts happen.
Once the sportsmanship questions are dealt with, people then turn to how it affects the players, specifically the losing players. What kind of damage will it do? Will they be on their therapist's couch in 25 years, blaming Moose Lake-Willow River for their three failed marriages, when they're not blaming their overbearing mother and distant father? Will the kids drop out and start drinking and drugging, trying to wash away the shame of being shut out in a basketball game?
What about the children? It's the type of cry we hear often, whether it's involving athletics or Janet Jackson's exposed breasts.
The players will be fine. Whatever embarrassment the kids or coaches or townspeople might feel now - and it is just a basketball game, so they really shouldn't feel bad at all - will dissipate as the season goes on, even as they'll likely continue to rack up eye-opening defeats (they've lost 78-8 and 102-20, as well). In six months it will be a footnote to their school year. In 10 years it will be an anecdote at a class reunion.
Ever since I've been a reporter, I've usually been more interested in the losing team and players. When Trinity Bible lost 105-0 on the football field six years ago, I wondered what the players felt and how they kept moving forward.
The players and coaches were embarrassed, hurt, but hardly permanently damaged. Certainly most of the people involved with that game remember it to this day. But that might have less to do with the score and more to do with the fact someone wrote a book about it with the subhead calling them the worst college football team in the nation.
Many of the players and coaches involved with that game were still at Trinity a year later when I covered the team for my book. That year, in the Lions's first home game of the season, they lost 12-7 in heartbreaking fashion. On the final play of the game, with Trinity a yard away from a victory against Principia, the Lions's running back plunged into the end zone for the winning touchdown. At least that's what it looked like live, and on the videotape. The officials, however, saw things differently. After a few seconds of discussion, they ruled the back down just inches from the goal line. That play - and that game - hurt 105 times more than the 105-0 defeat. That game hurt more because one play meant the difference between a win and a loss. The deciding play in the 105-0 game was the opening kickoff.
The 105-0 game was the reason I was at Trinity a year later. The game put Trinity on the map, even if as just a dot. It helped convince a publisher to back a book about the program. The players remember being beat up that day on the field, they remember the injuries that decimated the team, and they remember the long bus ride home.
But it didn't do any lasting harm, at least not emotionally. The details from the 105-0 game have probably been mostly forgotten. But I bet most of the players remember nearly every play from the final minute of that 12-7 loss.
The losses that hurt, the ones that linger and sometimes even damage, aren't the 50-point defeats, but the final-second losses. If you're a former player, think about the games you remember most from your playing days. If you're a fan, think about the games that stick out most, no matter the level, whether professional or high school. I can still remember the details of the close losses suffered on the high school basketball court and in college. I still wonder how the outcomes would have been different if one shot would have gone in, or we would have grabbed one more rebound. Those are the games we remember, not the ones that were over by halftime.
The Wrenshall girls will be fine. Unless they lose one at the buzzer.
Routs can be quickly forgotten. And if anything, they just make players stronger. It's the heartbreaking losses that torment them.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Why I'm suddeny a rugby - and cricket - fan
The movie I'm most looking forward to seeing this month opens up Friday. It's getting Oscar buzz, primarily because of the participants and the theme. Hopefully, the actual product lives up to the hype.
Invictus stars Morgan Freeman as Nelson Mandela, while Matt Damon portrays a rugby superstar. Clint Eastwood directed the film. The movie tells the story of South Africa's victory in the 1995 rugby World Cup (um, spoiler alert).
I've previously heard stories of that particular championship from Louise's family, especially her brothers and stepfather, avid sportsmen. Even Louise remembers the event, a remarkable achievement for a woman who rarely participates in any sport and never watches them on television. She does enjoy attending an occasional Yankees game, but that's primarily because of the Cracker Jacks. And she had a good time at a Knicks game we attended, although that was because she had a pair of binoculars and two hours free for celebrity watching. Even South Africa's favorite sports such as cricket, soccer and rugby hold little interest to her. But she remembers that 1995 World Cup.
The unexpected title brought the country together just after apartheid had ended and Mandela became president. It's sort of like if the 1980 Miracle on Ice team had won gold around the time of the Civil War.
I'm looking forward to it even though I still only have a vague understanding of the rules of rugby. I've watched it in this country and in South Africa. My brother-in-law was a star player himself. My old editor played in college and continued to roll around on the - pitch? - well into his adult years. I know rugby players like to drink. I know they take a hell of a beating, and that I never could have made it as a player, even in my younger days. But understanding strategy and rules and nuances and history and what the players in short-shorts are doing in the odd-looking groupings? No.
When we travel to Cape Town in January, I'd love to watch the movie with a South African audience, an experience that would probably be similar - though a hundred times more uplifting - to the time we watched Blood Diamond in Cape Town in 2007. South Africans are not afraid to express their happiness in a public setting. When our plane landed - successfully - on our previous trip, the passengers erupted in applause. If they knew something I didn't about the airline, I wanted to know before the return trip to America.
"Are they surprised we made it alive?" I asked Louise.
"No, they're just so happy to be back in their homeland and they cheer when they're happy."
So I can imagine the applause in the theater when the South Africans win the World Cup.
Pretty much all of South Africa's favorite sports are...foreign to me, as I fulfill my role as the American who hasn't yet learned enough about another culture. But I have tried. Jesus, I've tried.
During our six-week stay in Cape Town three years ago, I must have watched a dozen hours of televised cricket, which many people might think is about as interesting as listening to crickets for 12 hours. With the help of Louise's family, I started picking up some of the basics of the game and actually got caught up in some of the more exciting moments, even if I occasionally had to be told when an exciting moment was taking place. Once I started to understand a little bit about the game, I found myself actively rooting for the home team. I almost instinctively began disliking the squads from India, Pakistan and England, though I'd previously had little reason to feel anything about those countries' sporting teams.
Louise went to school with one of South Africa's star players, providing a celebrity gossip angle to the proceedings, something I require with my sports, like other American fans (see Woods, Tiger).
Thanks to one of Louise's brothers, I even attended a match, complete with an alcohol-and-food-laden suite. Unfortunately, my stomach's continuing struggle with adapting to the country's food meant I spent half the day wondering if I'd make it back to my in-laws' home alive, and the other half wishing for death. But even in that physical condition, I appreciated the athleticism of the players and the intensity of the event, the types of things fans of any sport understand, no matter the country.
By the end of our time in Cape Town I'd become a cricket fan, although not a knowledgeable one. I look forward to watching more of it, on television and in person, this January.
And I'm looking forward to Invictus this Friday. I'm certainly not the world's biggest rugby fan, but I am a fan of the story the history, and, most importantly, the country.
Now, all I need is for someone to tell me what is going on in this video.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Not all Yankee fans are overbearing or evil
Actually, not many of them are either of those things. I live among Yankees fans, watching, analyzing, a fan of a small market team witnessing how the other half lives, and how baseball royalty's minions cheer them. And I work with many Yankee supporters, all of whom are passionate, yes, but also extremely knowledgeable fans. Okay, so some of them don't realize there actually was Major League Baseball between 1979 and 1995, but still.
They love the Yankees, but love baseball even more. When the team's losing, they're the most brutal analysts this side of the back pages of the Post and Daily News.
They understand that the Steinbrenner family's money gives the franchise certain advantages. However, they also appreciate the fact there's never any doubt that the organization is devoted solely to winning a title, something that can't be said for every team in the majors.
And, as I've said before, when the Twins are ousted - even when it's the Yankees doing the ousting, with a little help from the men in blue - I do cheer for the Pinstripes.
So it was cool to watch the final out of the World Series tonight and hear people below us and next door erupt in cheers. Some cars driving by in the moments after honked their horns on Broadway. I'm guessing it was happiness over title number 27, although there's always the chance it was pure road rage or anger at a double-parked livery cab.
Next May when the Yankees sweep the Twins again in a three-game set and I hear taunts of "Wait until Mauer signs with New York," I'll grumble about buying a championship and arrogance and a salary cap and the unfairness of the whole damn system. But tonight it's fun to be a Yankee fan, or at least a fly-by fan.
While I waited for the subway home tonight, two lost teens stumbled around the platform, obviously confused about which train to take. They analyzed the subway map like Patton looking at battle plans. One looked to be about 14, the other maybe 10. They wore matching Yankee hats, and each sported Yankee jerseys - Damon for the older one, Jeter for the younger. At one point they gave up and walked up the steps, before turning around as the older boy said, "No, it's gotta be one of these trains."
Finally I asked them if they were looking for the Stadium (perceptive). They said yes and I told them where to take the A train and then to switch to the D. They thanked me, smiled, and then the older kid said, "Can you tell we're from New Jersey?"
Hopefully they eventually found their way to baseball's newest cathedral, which is starting life looking a lot like its predecessor. I don't know how the kids afforded tickets or if their parents even knew they were gone. They looked a bit apprehensive. Maybe it wasn't just because of their unfamiliarity with New York City public transportation, perhaps they were waiting for mom or dad to find them.
If they did get to see the game, it's certainly a night they'll remember forever. They probably don't even recall the last title their team won, back in 2000. It had been nine years without a championship, which for Yankee fans must feel like 90. Yeah, Yankee fans are a little spoiled. And they're probably a little naive about how the rest of the baseball world lives.
But they deserve to celebrate and honor a team that showed from the first pitch of the season that they were probably going to be the last team standing after the final pitch.
They're the best team money can buy, but the only thing that really counts is that they are the best for 2009.
So how long until the 2010 season begins?
They love the Yankees, but love baseball even more. When the team's losing, they're the most brutal analysts this side of the back pages of the Post and Daily News.
They understand that the Steinbrenner family's money gives the franchise certain advantages. However, they also appreciate the fact there's never any doubt that the organization is devoted solely to winning a title, something that can't be said for every team in the majors.
And, as I've said before, when the Twins are ousted - even when it's the Yankees doing the ousting, with a little help from the men in blue - I do cheer for the Pinstripes.
So it was cool to watch the final out of the World Series tonight and hear people below us and next door erupt in cheers. Some cars driving by in the moments after honked their horns on Broadway. I'm guessing it was happiness over title number 27, although there's always the chance it was pure road rage or anger at a double-parked livery cab.
Next May when the Yankees sweep the Twins again in a three-game set and I hear taunts of "Wait until Mauer signs with New York," I'll grumble about buying a championship and arrogance and a salary cap and the unfairness of the whole damn system. But tonight it's fun to be a Yankee fan, or at least a fly-by fan.
While I waited for the subway home tonight, two lost teens stumbled around the platform, obviously confused about which train to take. They analyzed the subway map like Patton looking at battle plans. One looked to be about 14, the other maybe 10. They wore matching Yankee hats, and each sported Yankee jerseys - Damon for the older one, Jeter for the younger. At one point they gave up and walked up the steps, before turning around as the older boy said, "No, it's gotta be one of these trains."
Finally I asked them if they were looking for the Stadium (perceptive). They said yes and I told them where to take the A train and then to switch to the D. They thanked me, smiled, and then the older kid said, "Can you tell we're from New Jersey?"
Hopefully they eventually found their way to baseball's newest cathedral, which is starting life looking a lot like its predecessor. I don't know how the kids afforded tickets or if their parents even knew they were gone. They looked a bit apprehensive. Maybe it wasn't just because of their unfamiliarity with New York City public transportation, perhaps they were waiting for mom or dad to find them.
If they did get to see the game, it's certainly a night they'll remember forever. They probably don't even recall the last title their team won, back in 2000. It had been nine years without a championship, which for Yankee fans must feel like 90. Yeah, Yankee fans are a little spoiled. And they're probably a little naive about how the rest of the baseball world lives.
But they deserve to celebrate and honor a team that showed from the first pitch of the season that they were probably going to be the last team standing after the final pitch.
They're the best team money can buy, but the only thing that really counts is that they are the best for 2009.
So how long until the 2010 season begins?
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