Twenty-two years ago this week, I found the nerve to ask a cute red-head if she’d go out on a date with me. She said yes, and after more than two decades she still hasn’t said no. In a generation in which high school sweethearts are no longer common, Amy and I have managed to stay together from proms to college diplomas to career changes to parenthood. We’ve gone from singing Debbie Gibson songs to each other to crooning Bruno Mars to each other.
We’ve called four different states home, lived together at five different addresses, owned two dogs and begun raising two children. With all that under our belts already, you’d figure we’re a sure thing for one of those golden-anniversary celebrations someday.
You might think so. But you’d be wrong. In the same week that we celebrated our anniversary of being together, Amy made a swift and decisive choice. She’d had enough. My wife has left me – for an iPhone.
She waited impatiently for February to arrive, when Verizon finally began carrying the smartphone of her choice. When the e-mail arrived in her inbox announcing that orders could be taken, she pounced on it like a tiger, and in a few days’ time she held a sleek, black computer in her hands. Amy began making phone calls with it, texting her friends, taking photos, surfing the Internet and downloading applications. She sat up in bed each night this week, transferring her contacts and figuring out how to use this expensive and tantalizing device.
I was in the house during much of this time, but I wasn’t noticed. The card I had bought for her lay on her night table, and the white daisies (her favorite) that I’d bought stood all alone in a vase. But Amy didn’t see these things. She was busy getting the Weather Channel app on her phone, and choosing separate rings for her calls and texts.
In school, my seniors are currently reading Frankenstein, and we’re talking about the ways in which human creations can become “monsters” that end up hurting us in ways we never anticipated. During this past month, we’ve seen computers used to propel revolutions for democracy in the Middle East. We’ve also seen a computer beat the best human contestants on Jeopardy! And we’ve seen computers used to keep baseball fans updated every hour on the St. Louis Cardinals’ contract talks with Albert Pujols. In class, we’ve talked about the ways in which computers and smartphones have been used not only to help, but also to stifle society, creating problems such as texting while driving, cyber-bullying and a dearth of face-to-face communication. At home, I’ve begun reading M.T. Anderson’s gripping novel Feed, a futuristic tale in which computers are inserted inside the heads of human beings. Our technological revolution knows no bounds, and so it’s worth wondering just how Mary Shelley’s novel of nearly 200 years ago intersects with Anderson’s modern-day, cautionary tale.
In my pocket, I carry a simple flip phone, and it allows me to call people when I need to reach them. I’ve started texting a bit, so I wouldn’t mind a little pull-out keyboard. But that’s all. If I need to write someone an e-mail, it can wait until I get home or arrive at work. I think the computer’s got me hooked more than enough as it is.
But as for Amy, she has chosen to embrace the monster. Her phone/camera/radio/video-game player is in a nice yellow case, and she’s showing it to anyone who asks. Her doctor’s visit the other day was extended by several minutes as her doctor and nurse asked her to show them the phone and its features. She has given our girls a chance to play some games on it, and she’s ready to get some music on her new toy this weekend.
She and I remain in the same home, and there are times when she says a brief hello. But for now, my Sharona has found herself a new beau. I asked her if she’d given it a name yet, and she said no. I guess they’re still getting to know each other.
I’ll keep the hope alive, and wait for a quick glance up from the Pac Man app or the photo library. I even used my own technology to make her a little playlist for our anniversary. Instead of a 1989 mix tape with Gibson’s “Lost in Your Eyes” on it, this was a 2011 MP3 file anchored by Mars’s “Just the Way You Are.” But amidst the sweet love songs, I snuck in a subtle warning. It was another Mars song, the pop hit “Grenade.” In the tune, Mars sings vividly about all the things he’d do for his love – from catching the aforementioned grenade to taking a bullet to jumping in front of a train. The catch, however, is that the narrator’s lover “won’t do the same.”
Bruno doesn’t tell us exactly why his lover won’t return his passion. But after this week, I think I know the answer: She had Verizon, too. And during this winter of Bruno’s discontent, his girl also found a 3G, 16-gigabyte other man. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been with her for 22 days or 22 years – that iPhone is luring her away with ease.
You can buy her daisies, sure. But in a moment’s time, she can call up a crisp photo of a daisy bouquet and use it as her phone’s wallpaper. Here in the confines of Appledom, the petals never die and fall all over your table; they’re always pristine. And she can play Debbie Gibson songs whenever she wants. If she’s bored enough, she might even call up a photo of you. Until, of course, another text arrives.
Showing posts with label Albert Pujols. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Albert Pujols. Show all posts
Friday, February 18, 2011
Monday, August 30, 2010
Cy Three (One Sixty-Two: Day 130)
Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day One Hundred Thirty: Adam Wainwright, Chris Carpenter & Jaime Garcia, St. Louis Cardinals
Every summer, our local library holds contests for kids each week in different parts of the building. There’s the “Find Buddy the Worm” contest, in which children have to find the laminated cut-out of a cartoon worm somewhere in the children’s section. There’s the “Fun Facts” contest, in which kids are asked a science question, often one about animals. There’s also the “Guess How Much Candy” math question, in which the youngsters try and determine how many Tootsie Rolls or lollipops are inside a clear jar. For all of these contests, the kids write down their answers, place their paper into a large jar, and hope that their correct answer will be the one randomly chosen that week.
So this morning, the phone rings, and it’s the library. Chelsea, I’m told, has won the “Find Buddy” contest, and her prize is waiting at the front desk. I tell her this, and her eyes light up. Her immediate instinct is to go and tell her sister … who is not so happy.
“What about me?” Katie asks. Oh, dear. Here we go.
The phone rings again. It’s the library once more. Katie has won the “Fun Facts” contest this week. Her prize is waiting, too.
Crisis averted. Cheers of joy in the house. It must be my day.
You can’t win everything. It’s just not possible. Even Michael Jordan finished more NBA seasons without a championship than with one. We learn, early on, to enjoy the journey and the many triumphs along the way in life, rather than expecting a prize for everything we do. Somehow, though, that hasn’t stopped me from announcing all the chores I do each day; my wife has explained that no medal is forthcoming, nor will it ever be. But that’s a different blog post for a different day.
The girls pulled off the rare sibling sweep of summer library prizes this week. But that kind of stuff doesn’t usually happen. Over on the baseball field, a trio of pitchers by the names of Adam Wainwright, Chris Carpenter and Jaime Garcia would all love to win the National League’s Cy Young Award this season. And all have put together years quite worthy of this honor. In fact, it is staggering to see just how much these three starting pitchers have carried the St. Louis Cardinals this year. Going into tonight’s action, the Cardinals were 69-59 on the year, good enough to keep them in second place and five games behind the Cincinnati Reds in the National League Central.
But without Wainwright, Carpenter and Garcia, the Cardinals’ season would be long gone. Out of the 69 team wins, the three aces have combined to win 43 of those games. Out of the 59 losses, they’ve claimed only 19 of them. All three men have earned-run averages below 3.00, with Wainwright and Garcia actually both below 2.40. In the way of strikeouts, the three pitchers have combined to punch out 440 batters, versus only 160 combined walks.
To put all of this in perspective, no other Cardinals starter has more than four wins on the year. The next-highest win total on the team comes from closer Ryan Franklin, who has won six games. The Cardinals have baseball’s best player at first base in Albert Pujols. But this season, Pujols has not been the only one handling the heavy lifting.
If any of these three men is to win the Cy Young Award, it will likely be Wainwright, who has more wins (17) and strikeouts (178) than the other two. But Wainwright could easily fall short of the honor himself, to premier pitchers such as Ubaldo Jimenez of the Rockies, Roy Halladay of the Phillies or Tim Hudson of the Braves. For now, though, one thing is very clear: The Cardinals are still in the pennant race because of the pitching of three incredibly capable men. These guys don’t need their library to call and tell them they’re winners: They’ve got a dugout full of teammates telling them that every day.
Day One Hundred Thirty: Adam Wainwright, Chris Carpenter & Jaime Garcia, St. Louis Cardinals
Every summer, our local library holds contests for kids each week in different parts of the building. There’s the “Find Buddy the Worm” contest, in which children have to find the laminated cut-out of a cartoon worm somewhere in the children’s section. There’s the “Fun Facts” contest, in which kids are asked a science question, often one about animals. There’s also the “Guess How Much Candy” math question, in which the youngsters try and determine how many Tootsie Rolls or lollipops are inside a clear jar. For all of these contests, the kids write down their answers, place their paper into a large jar, and hope that their correct answer will be the one randomly chosen that week.
So this morning, the phone rings, and it’s the library. Chelsea, I’m told, has won the “Find Buddy” contest, and her prize is waiting at the front desk. I tell her this, and her eyes light up. Her immediate instinct is to go and tell her sister … who is not so happy.
“What about me?” Katie asks. Oh, dear. Here we go.
The phone rings again. It’s the library once more. Katie has won the “Fun Facts” contest this week. Her prize is waiting, too.
Crisis averted. Cheers of joy in the house. It must be my day.
You can’t win everything. It’s just not possible. Even Michael Jordan finished more NBA seasons without a championship than with one. We learn, early on, to enjoy the journey and the many triumphs along the way in life, rather than expecting a prize for everything we do. Somehow, though, that hasn’t stopped me from announcing all the chores I do each day; my wife has explained that no medal is forthcoming, nor will it ever be. But that’s a different blog post for a different day.
The girls pulled off the rare sibling sweep of summer library prizes this week. But that kind of stuff doesn’t usually happen. Over on the baseball field, a trio of pitchers by the names of Adam Wainwright, Chris Carpenter and Jaime Garcia would all love to win the National League’s Cy Young Award this season. And all have put together years quite worthy of this honor. In fact, it is staggering to see just how much these three starting pitchers have carried the St. Louis Cardinals this year. Going into tonight’s action, the Cardinals were 69-59 on the year, good enough to keep them in second place and five games behind the Cincinnati Reds in the National League Central.
But without Wainwright, Carpenter and Garcia, the Cardinals’ season would be long gone. Out of the 69 team wins, the three aces have combined to win 43 of those games. Out of the 59 losses, they’ve claimed only 19 of them. All three men have earned-run averages below 3.00, with Wainwright and Garcia actually both below 2.40. In the way of strikeouts, the three pitchers have combined to punch out 440 batters, versus only 160 combined walks.
To put all of this in perspective, no other Cardinals starter has more than four wins on the year. The next-highest win total on the team comes from closer Ryan Franklin, who has won six games. The Cardinals have baseball’s best player at first base in Albert Pujols. But this season, Pujols has not been the only one handling the heavy lifting.
If any of these three men is to win the Cy Young Award, it will likely be Wainwright, who has more wins (17) and strikeouts (178) than the other two. But Wainwright could easily fall short of the honor himself, to premier pitchers such as Ubaldo Jimenez of the Rockies, Roy Halladay of the Phillies or Tim Hudson of the Braves. For now, though, one thing is very clear: The Cardinals are still in the pennant race because of the pitching of three incredibly capable men. These guys don’t need their library to call and tell them they’re winners: They’ve got a dugout full of teammates telling them that every day.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
No Doggin' It (One Sixty-Two: Day 117)
Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day One Hundred Seventeen: Carlos Gonzalez, Colorado Rockies
I paid my fine today. Five dollars to the library, for a lost magazine.
Only it wasn’t lost. This copy of The Writer was, in fact, eaten – partially, at least. A bite-size chunk of pages 1-10 was taken out of the periodical by an 8-month-old dog who happens to live in our house. Whenever Daisy finds herself full of energy yet devoid of others’ attention, she looks around for some mischief to munch on. Typically, she searches for tissues or pieces of paper. At my parents’ house, this habit hit a new high (or low) when she devoured my mom’s $200 mouthpiece. When you catch her in the act, Daisy lowers her head and ducks beneath the nearest piece of furniture. She may not have complete self-control yet, but she does have an idea of what guilt feels like.
These are the dog days of summer. And while some of us have actual dogs searching for ways to spice up these days, even those without a frisky canine share an understanding of what this time of year means. The Romans created this title in reference to the proximity of Sirius, also known as the Dog Star, to the sun during these warm summer days. They figured this shift in the constellation was the reason for all the hot weather and unpredictable behavior July and August would bring. In today’s world, we tend to connect this seasonal nickname with metaphors: It is in August, for instance, when we’re most likely to “dog it,” and move about at a slower, more lethargic pace. In a particularly warm summer such as this one, this is often true.
In baseball, the dog days bring with them summer’s fiercest grind. As the season begins its final 45 games, players find themselves handling yet another 90-degree day, another nine-inning game, and another nine-pitch at-bat. It can be difficult to keep the focus and momentum going. Yet, when you’re trying to stay in a pennant race, that focus is essential.
Carlos Gonzalez has had a long season as the Colorado Rockies’ versatile starting outfielder. His team is struggling to remain in the National League West divisional hunt, but Gonzalez is fighting against the drain of mid-August. Instead of slumping through the dog days, Gonzalez has taken his own bite out of the magazine, grabbing fans’ attention with an MVP-caliber season. So far, Gonzalez has belted 25 home runs, driven in nearly 80 runs, stolen almost 20 and hit for an average above .320. He leads the National League in hits, and is second in total bases. Gonzalez, along with fellow National Leaguers Joey Votto of the Reds and Albert Pujols of the Cardinals, is making a serious run at winning the first Triple Crown in 43 years (that’s leading the league in homers, RBI and batting average).
Three years ago, as the dog days turned toward September, the Rockies put together an astounding string of victories that led them all the way to the World Series. It’s not too late for that to happen again in 2010. But if history is to repeat itself, Carlos Gonzalez may have to lead the way. If he does, he’ll clearly be Denver’s top dog, and its biggest star. That’s Sirius stuff. Enough to push a player through the grind.
Day One Hundred Seventeen: Carlos Gonzalez, Colorado Rockies
I paid my fine today. Five dollars to the library, for a lost magazine.
Only it wasn’t lost. This copy of The Writer was, in fact, eaten – partially, at least. A bite-size chunk of pages 1-10 was taken out of the periodical by an 8-month-old dog who happens to live in our house. Whenever Daisy finds herself full of energy yet devoid of others’ attention, she looks around for some mischief to munch on. Typically, she searches for tissues or pieces of paper. At my parents’ house, this habit hit a new high (or low) when she devoured my mom’s $200 mouthpiece. When you catch her in the act, Daisy lowers her head and ducks beneath the nearest piece of furniture. She may not have complete self-control yet, but she does have an idea of what guilt feels like.
These are the dog days of summer. And while some of us have actual dogs searching for ways to spice up these days, even those without a frisky canine share an understanding of what this time of year means. The Romans created this title in reference to the proximity of Sirius, also known as the Dog Star, to the sun during these warm summer days. They figured this shift in the constellation was the reason for all the hot weather and unpredictable behavior July and August would bring. In today’s world, we tend to connect this seasonal nickname with metaphors: It is in August, for instance, when we’re most likely to “dog it,” and move about at a slower, more lethargic pace. In a particularly warm summer such as this one, this is often true.
In baseball, the dog days bring with them summer’s fiercest grind. As the season begins its final 45 games, players find themselves handling yet another 90-degree day, another nine-inning game, and another nine-pitch at-bat. It can be difficult to keep the focus and momentum going. Yet, when you’re trying to stay in a pennant race, that focus is essential.
Carlos Gonzalez has had a long season as the Colorado Rockies’ versatile starting outfielder. His team is struggling to remain in the National League West divisional hunt, but Gonzalez is fighting against the drain of mid-August. Instead of slumping through the dog days, Gonzalez has taken his own bite out of the magazine, grabbing fans’ attention with an MVP-caliber season. So far, Gonzalez has belted 25 home runs, driven in nearly 80 runs, stolen almost 20 and hit for an average above .320. He leads the National League in hits, and is second in total bases. Gonzalez, along with fellow National Leaguers Joey Votto of the Reds and Albert Pujols of the Cardinals, is making a serious run at winning the first Triple Crown in 43 years (that’s leading the league in homers, RBI and batting average).
Three years ago, as the dog days turned toward September, the Rockies put together an astounding string of victories that led them all the way to the World Series. It’s not too late for that to happen again in 2010. But if history is to repeat itself, Carlos Gonzalez may have to lead the way. If he does, he’ll clearly be Denver’s top dog, and its biggest star. That’s Sirius stuff. Enough to push a player through the grind.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The Cardinal Rule (One Sixty-Two: Day 48)
Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day Forty-Eight: Skip Schumaker, St. Louis Cardinals
Tomorrow, we’ll watch from our seats as our grown-up girl walks down the aisle, accepts her diploma and moves on to a brand-new stage of school and life.
Chelsea is graduating from preschool.
She has met all the prerequisites – she knows her alphabet, counts to 100, colors in the lines, uses her scissors, and goes to the potty all by herself. It is time for Chelsea to take those skills and add about a thousand more in kindergarten next year.
Perhaps most important of all, though, Chelsea has learned how to share. She knows that she can’t have everything to herself, so she’s willing to give up that purple crayon or that picture book when someone else wants a turn. What’s more, she knows that sharing also brings with it a greater chance of playing with someone else. And playing with others leads to friendships. I’ll take that life lesson over anything else Chelsea has learned so far. I think she gets its value, too.
Skip Schumaker is the starting second baseman for Tony LaRussa’s first-place St. Louis Cardinals. But if you play for LaRussa, and your last name is not Pujols or Holliday, then you’ve learned by now that you’re going to have to share your position a bit. LaRussa likes to mix it up, keeping everyone on their toes by trying new looks in the Cardinals’ lineup.
So yes, Schumaker has played in 54 games at second and batted more than 200 times this year. But he’s also taken a seat on the bench at times while other St. Louis players got a shot at second: Felipe Lopez (who himself shares shortstop with Brendan Ryan), as well as Tyler Greene and Aaron Miles. They’ve got a true second-base “center” over in Busch Stadium, and Skip has done a very nice job of playing nicely with Felipe, Tyler and Aaron. Mr. Tony has even given them extra recess time as a reward.
Chelsea has a whole summer ahead of her, and I can only hope she’ll play as well with her sister as she’s done with her preschool classmates. (Dream on, Dad.) Tomorrow, after her “graduation,” we’ll take a trip over to Rainforest Café for dinner. Inevitably, there will come a point in the meal when I’ll reach over to Chelsea’s plate and ask if I can have a couple of her French fries.
Remember the Cardinal rule, Chelsea: Don’t forget to share, even when Daddy is raiding your own meal. (It’s OK – you’ll get him back. More times than he can imagine.)
Day Forty-Eight: Skip Schumaker, St. Louis Cardinals
Tomorrow, we’ll watch from our seats as our grown-up girl walks down the aisle, accepts her diploma and moves on to a brand-new stage of school and life.
Chelsea is graduating from preschool.
She has met all the prerequisites – she knows her alphabet, counts to 100, colors in the lines, uses her scissors, and goes to the potty all by herself. It is time for Chelsea to take those skills and add about a thousand more in kindergarten next year.
Perhaps most important of all, though, Chelsea has learned how to share. She knows that she can’t have everything to herself, so she’s willing to give up that purple crayon or that picture book when someone else wants a turn. What’s more, she knows that sharing also brings with it a greater chance of playing with someone else. And playing with others leads to friendships. I’ll take that life lesson over anything else Chelsea has learned so far. I think she gets its value, too.
Skip Schumaker is the starting second baseman for Tony LaRussa’s first-place St. Louis Cardinals. But if you play for LaRussa, and your last name is not Pujols or Holliday, then you’ve learned by now that you’re going to have to share your position a bit. LaRussa likes to mix it up, keeping everyone on their toes by trying new looks in the Cardinals’ lineup.
So yes, Schumaker has played in 54 games at second and batted more than 200 times this year. But he’s also taken a seat on the bench at times while other St. Louis players got a shot at second: Felipe Lopez (who himself shares shortstop with Brendan Ryan), as well as Tyler Greene and Aaron Miles. They’ve got a true second-base “center” over in Busch Stadium, and Skip has done a very nice job of playing nicely with Felipe, Tyler and Aaron. Mr. Tony has even given them extra recess time as a reward.
Chelsea has a whole summer ahead of her, and I can only hope she’ll play as well with her sister as she’s done with her preschool classmates. (Dream on, Dad.) Tomorrow, after her “graduation,” we’ll take a trip over to Rainforest Café for dinner. Inevitably, there will come a point in the meal when I’ll reach over to Chelsea’s plate and ask if I can have a couple of her French fries.
Remember the Cardinal rule, Chelsea: Don’t forget to share, even when Daddy is raiding your own meal. (It’s OK – you’ll get him back. More times than he can imagine.)
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Hemingway's Kind of Hero (One Sixty-Two: Day 41)
Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day Forty-One: Albert Pujols, St. Louis Cardinals
Do you believe the great DiMaggio would stay with a fish as long as I will stay with this one? he thought. I am sure he would and more since he is young and strong. Also his father was a fisherman. But would the bone spur hurt him too much?
I have begun reading Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea with my freshmen. While they haven’t yet reached the quote above, they are engaged in Santiago’s humble, dedicated life as a fisherman, and they are well aware of the protagonist’s devotion to the great Joe DiMaggio.
When I asked the freshmen if they knew who DiMaggio was, almost all said they’d heard the name, and that he had something to do with baseball. A few knew he was a Yankee. But that was about all. So I gave them a primer on one of the 20th century’s most famous Americans, from his humble beginnings as the son of an immigrant fisherman to his 56-game hitting streak to his life as the royal prince of New York and, eventually, of baseball. I explained that the level of popularity DiMaggio experienced during the 1940s surpasses the fame of any American athlete today, since baseball was simply the sport at that time in our history. We watched a video of DiMaggio, and the kids asked some good questions.
But afterward, as I flipped through the book preparing for tomorrow’s lessons, I wondered who Santiago would call his hero if he were out on his skiff in the Caribbean today. Which ballplayer would give him strength as that mighty marlin tugged on the line for days?
Would it be the great Mariano Rivera, relief pitcher for the New York Yankees, who maintains a regal grace and cool under pressure as he saves games for his team? Would it be Mike Lowell of the Boston Red Sox, who has been discarded like an old fisherman and tossed aside on the Boston bench, and who must wait patiently for his opportunity to ply his trade again for another team? Or would it be Kendry Morales of the Angels, the most famous of the current players born in Santiago’s country of Cuba?
All would be wise choices. But I think that if Hemingway were writing this novel today, he’d do just what he did 60 years ago, and shoot for the top. If you’re facing the greatest challenge of your working life, then why not take your inspiration from the mightiest baseball hero of all? Santiago’s choice would be easy: He’d be cheering for Albert Pujols, the St. Louis Cardinals’ larger-than-life first baseman.
It is the mighty Pujols, after all, who hits all pitchers, who has played with pain in his elbow, and who stops at nothing to excel in all facets of his game. Pujols has averaged 40 home runs and 123 runs batted in per year in his first nine seasons. He has won three Most Valuable Player awards and one world championship. At age 30, Pujols is already a sure-fire Hall of Famer. And he may still be improving. By the end of the year, this Dominican-born slugger will likely have more than 400 career home runs. Were he to play into his 40s, there may be no record he does not own.
So yes, Pujols would surely be Santiago’s man today. But although it’s easy to pick DiMaggio’s equal in 2010, it is much more difficult to visualize Pujols the hero in quite the same way that Santiago saw DiMaggio in Hemingway’s story. Santiago was a poor man, who might have had access to some radio, but whose main source for baseball news was the newspapers that he read, then used as a sheet to cover the springs that stuck up from his bed. Today, however, the fisherman would surely have access to countless Pujols images on TV and the Internet.
While this makes it easier to know just what the big guy looks like hitting his awesome homers, it also takes something away from the myth-makers inside of us. When you’ve got to create your own images from the agate type you read in the box scores, those home runs take on a whole new life. They become personal snapshots and videos that you can own and fine-tune all day long, as you hold fast to that great fish inside your skiff on the sea.
Day Forty-One: Albert Pujols, St. Louis Cardinals
Do you believe the great DiMaggio would stay with a fish as long as I will stay with this one? he thought. I am sure he would and more since he is young and strong. Also his father was a fisherman. But would the bone spur hurt him too much?
I have begun reading Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea with my freshmen. While they haven’t yet reached the quote above, they are engaged in Santiago’s humble, dedicated life as a fisherman, and they are well aware of the protagonist’s devotion to the great Joe DiMaggio.
When I asked the freshmen if they knew who DiMaggio was, almost all said they’d heard the name, and that he had something to do with baseball. A few knew he was a Yankee. But that was about all. So I gave them a primer on one of the 20th century’s most famous Americans, from his humble beginnings as the son of an immigrant fisherman to his 56-game hitting streak to his life as the royal prince of New York and, eventually, of baseball. I explained that the level of popularity DiMaggio experienced during the 1940s surpasses the fame of any American athlete today, since baseball was simply the sport at that time in our history. We watched a video of DiMaggio, and the kids asked some good questions.
But afterward, as I flipped through the book preparing for tomorrow’s lessons, I wondered who Santiago would call his hero if he were out on his skiff in the Caribbean today. Which ballplayer would give him strength as that mighty marlin tugged on the line for days?
Would it be the great Mariano Rivera, relief pitcher for the New York Yankees, who maintains a regal grace and cool under pressure as he saves games for his team? Would it be Mike Lowell of the Boston Red Sox, who has been discarded like an old fisherman and tossed aside on the Boston bench, and who must wait patiently for his opportunity to ply his trade again for another team? Or would it be Kendry Morales of the Angels, the most famous of the current players born in Santiago’s country of Cuba?
All would be wise choices. But I think that if Hemingway were writing this novel today, he’d do just what he did 60 years ago, and shoot for the top. If you’re facing the greatest challenge of your working life, then why not take your inspiration from the mightiest baseball hero of all? Santiago’s choice would be easy: He’d be cheering for Albert Pujols, the St. Louis Cardinals’ larger-than-life first baseman.
It is the mighty Pujols, after all, who hits all pitchers, who has played with pain in his elbow, and who stops at nothing to excel in all facets of his game. Pujols has averaged 40 home runs and 123 runs batted in per year in his first nine seasons. He has won three Most Valuable Player awards and one world championship. At age 30, Pujols is already a sure-fire Hall of Famer. And he may still be improving. By the end of the year, this Dominican-born slugger will likely have more than 400 career home runs. Were he to play into his 40s, there may be no record he does not own.
So yes, Pujols would surely be Santiago’s man today. But although it’s easy to pick DiMaggio’s equal in 2010, it is much more difficult to visualize Pujols the hero in quite the same way that Santiago saw DiMaggio in Hemingway’s story. Santiago was a poor man, who might have had access to some radio, but whose main source for baseball news was the newspapers that he read, then used as a sheet to cover the springs that stuck up from his bed. Today, however, the fisherman would surely have access to countless Pujols images on TV and the Internet.
While this makes it easier to know just what the big guy looks like hitting his awesome homers, it also takes something away from the myth-makers inside of us. When you’ve got to create your own images from the agate type you read in the box scores, those home runs take on a whole new life. They become personal snapshots and videos that you can own and fine-tune all day long, as you hold fast to that great fish inside your skiff on the sea.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Curlers Unite
Curling is a game of skill and of tradition. A shot well executed is a delight to see and it is also a fine thing to observe the time-honoured traditions of curling being applied in the true spirit of the game. Curlers play to win, but never to humble their opponents. A true curler never attempts to distract opponents, nor to prevent them from playing their best, and would prefer to lose rather than to win unfairly. – World Curling Federation rules of curling
Every so often, during a respectful conversation among adults, someone will tell me how much they dislike baseball. “It’s so boring,” they’ll say. “All the players do is stand around, take pitches, spit and wait for the ball.”
I smile, then politely share my opinion that when you get yourself deeply involved in this sport, all of the drama, grace, power and poetry are inescapable. My conversation partner sometimes asks for an example, and I talk about the way in which 162 games over six months can get whittled down to one final day in early October, with first and third and the score tied in the bottom of the ninth. There’s no touchdown pass, no overtime goal, no slam-dunk that builds to this type of crescendo, I say.
Baseball is boring. You’ve heard it, and maybe you’ve even said it. Passionate fans such as myself long ago accepted the reality that the intricacies of this sport are not for everyone. I can marvel at the way in which Joe Mauer or Derek Jeter use every ounce of their ability to hit a tough pitch the other way, or make a defensive stop that saves the game. But I know that there are countless others who’ll take your worst NFL game over a World Series matchup.
In the past two weeks, however, I have come to recognize a prevalent trend in American sports-watching. And it has me begging for a fresh debate with those baseball haters. My bone of contention is based on the number of individuals who have tuned into USA, CNBC and MSNBC in recent days to watch the hottest Winter Olympic sport on the planet.
The world loves curling. Shuffleboard on ice. Two and a half hours of men and women pushing 40-pound stones along a slippery surface, furiously sweeping brooms in front of said stones, all in the hopes of landing that stone inside a bull’s-eye-like target known as the “house.” Strategy-making curlers known as “skips” shout words like “Hurry hard!” and “Whoa!” to their broom-sweepers as the circular piece of granite glides, or “curls,” toward the house.
Curling is immensely popular in Canada, where winter activities are a must in order to survive the onslaught of winter. But here in the U.S., curling has hidden far under the radar for years. That is, until TV coverage of the sport during the 2006 Winter Olympics caught more than a few people’s eyes. This year, the sport is a ratings bonanza for NBC Universal. Yesterday, The New York Times even reported that CNBC’s curling coverage has become quite popular on Wall Street.
I’ve watched some curling during these Olympics. It’s got some nice dramatic buildup and a ton of history to it. I appreciate that in a sport. When I tune into a curling game, I also see a lot of players standing around, with one of them kneeling on one knee like a putter on the green. They plot strategy, stare at their target, and finally give the big stone a slide, complete with the obligatory broom-sweeping. Curling requires patience, strategy, attention to detail and endurance. I can enjoy a sport like that. Baseball’s got nine innings; curling has ten ends. No bad blood between me and the curlers.
What I do resent is the fact that a sports fan can sit for nearly three hours with the curlers, yet can’t stand to watch any baseball. Are you honestly telling me that it’s far more interesting to watch Kevin “The Bear” Martin toss a stone down the “sheet” than it is to watch Albert Pujols crush a baseball 400 feet? Is it truly more interesting to watch one stone kick another off the house than it is to watch Jimmy Rollins leg out a triple?
Maybe I’m missing something, but I just can’t comprehend how curling can experience this explosion in popularity, while baseball takes its annual punches to the gut. Maybe some fans don’t really dislike baseball as much as they resent the ubiquity of the sport. Come spring and summer, there’s no escaping pitchers and catchers. Curling, on the other hand, is nearly invisible in this country. Have you played any pickup curling games lately? (You can, actually, this Sunday when the Plainfield Curling Club holds an open house in South Plainfield, N.J.) Curling is your textbook definition of a novelty sport, and Americans love few things as much as novelty.
Last night, when the curlers had long finished their sliding and sweeping, I had my own sports-hating epiphany. For years, I have loathed figure skating. I’ve shouted at my TV during countless Winter Olympics, enraged that four years of intense preparation by underfed teen-agers can come crashing down just because a kid is unable to finish off a third twist in mid-air while wearing ice skates. I can’t even stand on ice skates, and this kid is supposed to feel like she messed up because she couldn’t pull off the near-impossible? I’d listen to Dick Button’s criticisms of the skaters and feel as though the sport was set up to make people fail.
And then there was last night. As I got ready for bed, I watched South Korea’s Kim Yu-na take to the ice for her long program. A gold medal awaited should Kim skate a strong program. I figured I’d watch, as I’d heard the hype about how good Kim was. As this 19-year-old hit the ice with a burst of speed, spins and spunk, I saw a kind of grace and athleticism that I’ve never witnessed before. It was a like watching a combination of Kristy Yamaguchi and Nadia Comaneci, with a touch of Madonna tossed in. Kim’s performance gave figure skating a new meaning for me. It was four of the most extraordinary minutes I’ve ever seen in sports, and I didn’t find myself worrying about whether or not she would fall. I was captivated.
So maybe we all discover the beauty of a sport in time. The figure skating fans who have no time for baseball may one day catch a glimpse of Tim Lincecum’s fastball or Carl Crawford’s baserunning and see the light. When they do, I’d be happy to swap stories with them. We can go curling together. No matter the sport, a shot well-executed is a delight to see.
Every so often, during a respectful conversation among adults, someone will tell me how much they dislike baseball. “It’s so boring,” they’ll say. “All the players do is stand around, take pitches, spit and wait for the ball.”
I smile, then politely share my opinion that when you get yourself deeply involved in this sport, all of the drama, grace, power and poetry are inescapable. My conversation partner sometimes asks for an example, and I talk about the way in which 162 games over six months can get whittled down to one final day in early October, with first and third and the score tied in the bottom of the ninth. There’s no touchdown pass, no overtime goal, no slam-dunk that builds to this type of crescendo, I say.
Baseball is boring. You’ve heard it, and maybe you’ve even said it. Passionate fans such as myself long ago accepted the reality that the intricacies of this sport are not for everyone. I can marvel at the way in which Joe Mauer or Derek Jeter use every ounce of their ability to hit a tough pitch the other way, or make a defensive stop that saves the game. But I know that there are countless others who’ll take your worst NFL game over a World Series matchup.
In the past two weeks, however, I have come to recognize a prevalent trend in American sports-watching. And it has me begging for a fresh debate with those baseball haters. My bone of contention is based on the number of individuals who have tuned into USA, CNBC and MSNBC in recent days to watch the hottest Winter Olympic sport on the planet.
The world loves curling. Shuffleboard on ice. Two and a half hours of men and women pushing 40-pound stones along a slippery surface, furiously sweeping brooms in front of said stones, all in the hopes of landing that stone inside a bull’s-eye-like target known as the “house.” Strategy-making curlers known as “skips” shout words like “Hurry hard!” and “Whoa!” to their broom-sweepers as the circular piece of granite glides, or “curls,” toward the house.
Curling is immensely popular in Canada, where winter activities are a must in order to survive the onslaught of winter. But here in the U.S., curling has hidden far under the radar for years. That is, until TV coverage of the sport during the 2006 Winter Olympics caught more than a few people’s eyes. This year, the sport is a ratings bonanza for NBC Universal. Yesterday, The New York Times even reported that CNBC’s curling coverage has become quite popular on Wall Street.
I’ve watched some curling during these Olympics. It’s got some nice dramatic buildup and a ton of history to it. I appreciate that in a sport. When I tune into a curling game, I also see a lot of players standing around, with one of them kneeling on one knee like a putter on the green. They plot strategy, stare at their target, and finally give the big stone a slide, complete with the obligatory broom-sweeping. Curling requires patience, strategy, attention to detail and endurance. I can enjoy a sport like that. Baseball’s got nine innings; curling has ten ends. No bad blood between me and the curlers.
What I do resent is the fact that a sports fan can sit for nearly three hours with the curlers, yet can’t stand to watch any baseball. Are you honestly telling me that it’s far more interesting to watch Kevin “The Bear” Martin toss a stone down the “sheet” than it is to watch Albert Pujols crush a baseball 400 feet? Is it truly more interesting to watch one stone kick another off the house than it is to watch Jimmy Rollins leg out a triple?
Maybe I’m missing something, but I just can’t comprehend how curling can experience this explosion in popularity, while baseball takes its annual punches to the gut. Maybe some fans don’t really dislike baseball as much as they resent the ubiquity of the sport. Come spring and summer, there’s no escaping pitchers and catchers. Curling, on the other hand, is nearly invisible in this country. Have you played any pickup curling games lately? (You can, actually, this Sunday when the Plainfield Curling Club holds an open house in South Plainfield, N.J.) Curling is your textbook definition of a novelty sport, and Americans love few things as much as novelty.
Last night, when the curlers had long finished their sliding and sweeping, I had my own sports-hating epiphany. For years, I have loathed figure skating. I’ve shouted at my TV during countless Winter Olympics, enraged that four years of intense preparation by underfed teen-agers can come crashing down just because a kid is unable to finish off a third twist in mid-air while wearing ice skates. I can’t even stand on ice skates, and this kid is supposed to feel like she messed up because she couldn’t pull off the near-impossible? I’d listen to Dick Button’s criticisms of the skaters and feel as though the sport was set up to make people fail.
And then there was last night. As I got ready for bed, I watched South Korea’s Kim Yu-na take to the ice for her long program. A gold medal awaited should Kim skate a strong program. I figured I’d watch, as I’d heard the hype about how good Kim was. As this 19-year-old hit the ice with a burst of speed, spins and spunk, I saw a kind of grace and athleticism that I’ve never witnessed before. It was a like watching a combination of Kristy Yamaguchi and Nadia Comaneci, with a touch of Madonna tossed in. Kim’s performance gave figure skating a new meaning for me. It was four of the most extraordinary minutes I’ve ever seen in sports, and I didn’t find myself worrying about whether or not she would fall. I was captivated.
So maybe we all discover the beauty of a sport in time. The figure skating fans who have no time for baseball may one day catch a glimpse of Tim Lincecum’s fastball or Carl Crawford’s baserunning and see the light. When they do, I’d be happy to swap stories with them. We can go curling together. No matter the sport, a shot well-executed is a delight to see.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Sure Things
The baseball news was predictable this week, as the two most dominant players of 2009 were awarded Most Valuable Player honors for their respective leagues. Albert Pujols and Joe Mauer are quite likely two of the best players many of us will ever see on the baseball field, and both were more consistently brilliant this year than in any other. There are few sure things in baseball, but Pujols and Mauer are two of them.
Sure things. We take comfort in those two words – the idea that there are things we can rely on, day in and day out, never wavering in their constancy. For Chelsea, our 4-year-old, there have been several sure things in her life – the parents, big sister and grandparents who care for her, the white house she calls home, and the little preschool she attends every weekday.
Oh, and one other thing – there has been Blankie.
Every day since she was first able to hold something in her hand, Chelsea has carried around the white blanket that she was wrapped in on the day she was born. It’s a standard maternity ward blanket, white with yellow ducks, pink and blue chicks, and little green hearts. For three years, Chelsea’s blanket remained in rather good shape. We’d wash it every so often, and while it began to look weathered, it remained intact.
Three years, apparently, was all that this cotton material could take. For nearly two years now, we’ve watched Blankie literally fall apart in Chelsea’s hands. It went from a full-size blanket to a brownish, cotton thing the size of a hand towel, to an even browner piece the size of a handkerchief, to the small, fabric-sample-size remnant she carries around today. She tucks it together with a red ponytail holder. It is so brown that I’ve taken to calling it “Raggie” and declaring it a health-code violation. Chelsea just smiles, takes another sniff of her sure thing, and holds it tight.
Until Sunday, that is. Sometime between the time we got home from church and the time we went to bed, Blankie became misplaced. And, unlike the countless other times when we’ve searched for and found the little cloth, this time Chelsea’s friend was hiding for real. Chelsea said she knew we’d find him, and she agreed to sleep with a backup blanket she has dubbed “Cheesie.” She held this replacement friend in her hands, with its own pattern of yellow ducks, stars and hearts. But it wasn’t the same.
Monday came and went. No Blankie. Tuesday arrived, and still nothing. Meanwhile, Mauer and Pujols were picking up their sure-thing trophies, comforting the fans in Minnesota and Missouri.
But there is only one MVP in Chelsea’s life, and considering how much it’s meant to her she was surprisingly calm about it all. On Tuesday, when she decided to color, she pulled out her bin of crayons. And there, nestled among the Crayola rainbow, she saw her friend. She lifted Blankie up, smelled him, and smiled. “He smells like crayons,” she said to me. Usually one to avoid sniffing that dirty thing, I found myself taking a quick sniff. Crayons, indeed.
As we gather with our families and friends this Thanksgiving, here’s a toast to the sure things. Here’s to the people, the pets, the places, and, yes, even the blankies that are there for us. We’re not always as lovable as we could be every day, and sometimes we’re worried, or afraid, or sad. It’s at those times when a little comfort is all we need. A hug. A kind word. A sunset. A sniff of old cotton.
A reassurance. Even if it’s weathered and worn and smelling of crayons.
Sure things. We take comfort in those two words – the idea that there are things we can rely on, day in and day out, never wavering in their constancy. For Chelsea, our 4-year-old, there have been several sure things in her life – the parents, big sister and grandparents who care for her, the white house she calls home, and the little preschool she attends every weekday.
Oh, and one other thing – there has been Blankie.
Every day since she was first able to hold something in her hand, Chelsea has carried around the white blanket that she was wrapped in on the day she was born. It’s a standard maternity ward blanket, white with yellow ducks, pink and blue chicks, and little green hearts. For three years, Chelsea’s blanket remained in rather good shape. We’d wash it every so often, and while it began to look weathered, it remained intact.
Three years, apparently, was all that this cotton material could take. For nearly two years now, we’ve watched Blankie literally fall apart in Chelsea’s hands. It went from a full-size blanket to a brownish, cotton thing the size of a hand towel, to an even browner piece the size of a handkerchief, to the small, fabric-sample-size remnant she carries around today. She tucks it together with a red ponytail holder. It is so brown that I’ve taken to calling it “Raggie” and declaring it a health-code violation. Chelsea just smiles, takes another sniff of her sure thing, and holds it tight.
Until Sunday, that is. Sometime between the time we got home from church and the time we went to bed, Blankie became misplaced. And, unlike the countless other times when we’ve searched for and found the little cloth, this time Chelsea’s friend was hiding for real. Chelsea said she knew we’d find him, and she agreed to sleep with a backup blanket she has dubbed “Cheesie.” She held this replacement friend in her hands, with its own pattern of yellow ducks, stars and hearts. But it wasn’t the same.
Monday came and went. No Blankie. Tuesday arrived, and still nothing. Meanwhile, Mauer and Pujols were picking up their sure-thing trophies, comforting the fans in Minnesota and Missouri.
But there is only one MVP in Chelsea’s life, and considering how much it’s meant to her she was surprisingly calm about it all. On Tuesday, when she decided to color, she pulled out her bin of crayons. And there, nestled among the Crayola rainbow, she saw her friend. She lifted Blankie up, smelled him, and smiled. “He smells like crayons,” she said to me. Usually one to avoid sniffing that dirty thing, I found myself taking a quick sniff. Crayons, indeed.
As we gather with our families and friends this Thanksgiving, here’s a toast to the sure things. Here’s to the people, the pets, the places, and, yes, even the blankies that are there for us. We’re not always as lovable as we could be every day, and sometimes we’re worried, or afraid, or sad. It’s at those times when a little comfort is all we need. A hug. A kind word. A sunset. A sniff of old cotton.
A reassurance. Even if it’s weathered and worn and smelling of crayons.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Madness & Fantasy of March
So it’s that time of year when millions of men and women put aside those stories about economic depressions and international crises and health-care reform, only to take out the sports section, study the experts’ predictions, and make their own picks.
It is, of course, the time of year we call “March Madness.” But in 2009, that term doesn’t apply solely to the NCAA basketball tournaments. No, this third month of the year has come to be known for much more in the world of sports. As fantasy sports continue to grow exponentially, March has also become the season for fantasy baseball drafts. For some, this means selecting players on a computer for two hours on a Saturday morning. For others, it means sitting in a living room for an entire day drafting players in a league auction.
Many people call either of these options a grand waste of time, and they are most certainly entitled to that opinion. But the fantasy craze is not going anywhere, and it has quickly developed into one of our national pastimes. I have found that when it’s given a small compartment in my life, fantasy baseball can be a blast – a wonderful way to unwind for 30 minutes. When given a larger place in my life – say, the master suite – it becomes a complete hindrance between me and the life I’d genuinely like to live.
I’ll give it a try this year, for the fifth time in my adult life. But as I think about which players to draft, I’ll do so with an eye glued to that other March competition – the one involving real athletes in lose-and-go-home contests. The NCAA Tournaments – men’s and women’s – are a true sports fantasy, as they feature more drama and intensity than anything this side of the Olympics. I can’t wait.
As I’m watching those first-round games next week, I’ll likely have my Sporting News fantasy-baseball guidebook on my lap to read during commercials. If I’m getting tired, I might find myself drifting off into some sort of March Mixture. Such as …
The Sweet 16 of Sluggers. Best hitter on the planet, folks, and just 16 players left in the regional semifinals. The matchups:
Top seed Alex Rodriguez vs. 16th-seed Lance Berkman.
Albert Pujols (2) vs. Mark Teixeira (15).
Hanley Ramirez (3) vs. Carlos Beltran (14).
David Wright (4) vs. Manny Ramirez (13).
Matt Holliday (5) vs. Chase Utley (12).
Grady Sizemore (6) vs. Miguel Cabrera (11).
Josh Hamilton (7) vs. Ryan Braun (10).
And Jose Reyes (8) vs. Ryan Howard (9).
Who makes it to the Elite Eight in your pool? I’m going with A-Rod, Pujols, Hanley, Manny, Holliday, Cabrera, Hamilton and Howard. That brings us to quite a final eight. A-Rod versus Howard? I’ll take Rodriguez. Pujols against Hamilton? Sticking with Albert. Hanley against Cabrera? Sorry, kid, but I’ll take Miguel. Manny against Holliday? Manny in a romp.
Your Final Four – A-Rod against Manny. Pujols against Cabrera.
I’ll leave that selection up to you. Just in case you were wondering, though, my champion plays in a West Coast offense.
It is, of course, the time of year we call “March Madness.” But in 2009, that term doesn’t apply solely to the NCAA basketball tournaments. No, this third month of the year has come to be known for much more in the world of sports. As fantasy sports continue to grow exponentially, March has also become the season for fantasy baseball drafts. For some, this means selecting players on a computer for two hours on a Saturday morning. For others, it means sitting in a living room for an entire day drafting players in a league auction.
Many people call either of these options a grand waste of time, and they are most certainly entitled to that opinion. But the fantasy craze is not going anywhere, and it has quickly developed into one of our national pastimes. I have found that when it’s given a small compartment in my life, fantasy baseball can be a blast – a wonderful way to unwind for 30 minutes. When given a larger place in my life – say, the master suite – it becomes a complete hindrance between me and the life I’d genuinely like to live.
I’ll give it a try this year, for the fifth time in my adult life. But as I think about which players to draft, I’ll do so with an eye glued to that other March competition – the one involving real athletes in lose-and-go-home contests. The NCAA Tournaments – men’s and women’s – are a true sports fantasy, as they feature more drama and intensity than anything this side of the Olympics. I can’t wait.
As I’m watching those first-round games next week, I’ll likely have my Sporting News fantasy-baseball guidebook on my lap to read during commercials. If I’m getting tired, I might find myself drifting off into some sort of March Mixture. Such as …
The Sweet 16 of Sluggers. Best hitter on the planet, folks, and just 16 players left in the regional semifinals. The matchups:
Top seed Alex Rodriguez vs. 16th-seed Lance Berkman.
Albert Pujols (2) vs. Mark Teixeira (15).
Hanley Ramirez (3) vs. Carlos Beltran (14).
David Wright (4) vs. Manny Ramirez (13).
Matt Holliday (5) vs. Chase Utley (12).
Grady Sizemore (6) vs. Miguel Cabrera (11).
Josh Hamilton (7) vs. Ryan Braun (10).
And Jose Reyes (8) vs. Ryan Howard (9).
Who makes it to the Elite Eight in your pool? I’m going with A-Rod, Pujols, Hanley, Manny, Holliday, Cabrera, Hamilton and Howard. That brings us to quite a final eight. A-Rod versus Howard? I’ll take Rodriguez. Pujols against Hamilton? Sticking with Albert. Hanley against Cabrera? Sorry, kid, but I’ll take Miguel. Manny against Holliday? Manny in a romp.
Your Final Four – A-Rod against Manny. Pujols against Cabrera.
I’ll leave that selection up to you. Just in case you were wondering, though, my champion plays in a West Coast offense.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Handing Out Stars
I’ve been reading Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope lately. I’ve been watching some of his speeches as well. As a voter, I’m looking for a leader who strives for unity – between individuals, between cultures, and between groups of every kind. I like what I see from the senator, and I’ve found the audacity to hope he might actually win.
When I watch and read about pro sports, I don’t see nearly as much unity as I’d like to see from a profession that has so often prided itself on teamwork. I keep seeing fights between teams and even between players on the same team. I keep reading about athletes who are unhappy with eight-figure salaries. I read of relationships between Hall of Fame players and their teams disintegrating over nonsense.
It’s with this in mind that I’ve been thinking about the 1979 Pirates lately. Before they were a team that refused to keep their good players, the Pirates were a powerhouse. Nearly a decade after the death of Roberto Clemente, Willie Stargell led Pittsburgh to a ’79 World Series matchup with Earl Weaver’s mighty Baltimore Orioles. The Pirates had taken America by storm that year, as first baseman Stargell awarded stars to his teammates when they made a good play or had a good game, and the players placed these stars on their caps as if the stars were Cub Scout badges. The team also proclaimed Sister Sledge’s hit song “We Are Family” to be their anthem. This ballclub’s unity paid off well in the end, as the Pirates were able to keep their composure and rebound from a 3 games to 1 World Series deficit to win the World Series. Stargell and company were smiling the whole time, and they helped buoy a country galvanized by recession, terrorism and an energy crisis.
As the America of 2008 faces such similar challenges today, I look for signs of hope and unity. I hear Barack Obama, and I listen closely. I feel inspired. When I look over to the baseball field, I crave the sight of more selfless dedication to team on the diamond. I wait for someone to step forward, turn on some late-‘70s disco music and start handing out stars. Mr. Jeter, Mr. Varitek, Mr. Rollins, Mr. Pujols – what do you think? It’s worth a try. It’s a change I can believe in.
When I watch and read about pro sports, I don’t see nearly as much unity as I’d like to see from a profession that has so often prided itself on teamwork. I keep seeing fights between teams and even between players on the same team. I keep reading about athletes who are unhappy with eight-figure salaries. I read of relationships between Hall of Fame players and their teams disintegrating over nonsense.
It’s with this in mind that I’ve been thinking about the 1979 Pirates lately. Before they were a team that refused to keep their good players, the Pirates were a powerhouse. Nearly a decade after the death of Roberto Clemente, Willie Stargell led Pittsburgh to a ’79 World Series matchup with Earl Weaver’s mighty Baltimore Orioles. The Pirates had taken America by storm that year, as first baseman Stargell awarded stars to his teammates when they made a good play or had a good game, and the players placed these stars on their caps as if the stars were Cub Scout badges. The team also proclaimed Sister Sledge’s hit song “We Are Family” to be their anthem. This ballclub’s unity paid off well in the end, as the Pirates were able to keep their composure and rebound from a 3 games to 1 World Series deficit to win the World Series. Stargell and company were smiling the whole time, and they helped buoy a country galvanized by recession, terrorism and an energy crisis.
As the America of 2008 faces such similar challenges today, I look for signs of hope and unity. I hear Barack Obama, and I listen closely. I feel inspired. When I look over to the baseball field, I crave the sight of more selfless dedication to team on the diamond. I wait for someone to step forward, turn on some late-‘70s disco music and start handing out stars. Mr. Jeter, Mr. Varitek, Mr. Rollins, Mr. Pujols – what do you think? It’s worth a try. It’s a change I can believe in.
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