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 Fifty-Eight: Logan Morrison, Florida Marlins
My mother would call us in for dinner from the back window, and we’d hear her as the sweat dripped down our brows. “Just one more minute!” we’d call from the patio, panting the words. My brother and I were locked in combat, and there was no dish of spaghetti or tacos or London broil that could pull us away from this moment.
We were inevitably tied at 20 in a game of one-on-one basketball, and our rules required the victor to score at least 21 points (one point for each basket made), while winning by at least two. As my mom granted us that one more minute and closed the window, Eric would dribble back to the foul line, give me a head fake and swish a jumper. Game point for him. I’d follow by picking up the pace on defense, putting a hand in his face on the next shot, and grabbing a monster rebound.
I’d dribble back to the foul line quickly, then bulldoze my way to the rim, where he’d get a hand on the ball but I’d hold on and somehow drop a layup into the rim. My ball again: This time I’d miss a short jumper, but hustle for the offensive rebound and bank in a put-back to pull ahead by one.
My ball; game point. Finally, for the first time in months, I was about to beat my brother. The kid was three years younger than me, but he’d been growing like a weed and was developing long, sinewy muscles that could do most anything he asked of them in the sports arena. As he grew into his teens, the kid started defeating me regularly in hoops, in stickball and in tennis. Almost every time we played, I’d hold a late lead, only to watch him snatch victory away from me in the waning moments.
This time, though, it was going to be different.
I dribbled slowly toward the hoop, keeping the ball away from Eric’s lanky arms. I backed him to the rim, setting myself up for a head fake and a short jumper. He leaned in, but I had him where I wanted him. And then, for some reason, my inner desire to become the next Kareem Abdul-Jabbar overtook any semblance of sanity. I leapt, swung my right arm in an arc from below my hip to above my head, and let loose a pretty, yet dreadfully misguided, hook shot.
Eric grabbed the rebound. He took off for the foul line, then returned with a pretty layup. Game tied. Ball back to Eric. He brought the ball behind the 3-point-line, took a quick look at me, and released a perfect jump shot. In our games, shots taken from behind this line counted as two points. As Eric’s ball landed perfectly through the net, my mother called us in again. I was bent over and wheezing now, in need of an inhaler. My brother slapped me five and retrieved the ball. “Good game,” he said.
Yeah, sure. Good game. It was always a good game with my brother. The problem was that it always ended the same way. I was Charlie Brown going all-out to kick the football, and he was Lucy pulling it away from me at the last moment. Just when I thought I finally had him licked, he stepped behind that 3-point-line and finished me off.
This past week, somewhere in the virtual world of ESPN Fantasy Sports, two make-believe baseball teams played a head-to-head matchup in a league semifinal. One of these teams was managed by my brother, and the other by me. My team had far and away the best record in the regular season, while Eric’s had just barely made the playoffs. I had superstars ranging from Alex Rodriguez to Carl Crawford to Roy Halladay on my team. Eric had a few great players, but he also had to scuffle just to fill his roster with some players he could rely on regularly.
But when he found himself matched up against his dear brother, Eric knew his season was about to turn around. And it did, of course. While my superstars struggled just to get base hits last week, Eric turned to unsung players such as Marlins rookie Logan Morrison, whose superb week helped lead Eric’s team swiftly past my group of All-Stars and into the finals.
I have a pretty good history of recovering rather quickly from fantasy-baseball losses. There are, of course, several million more important things in our lives than virtual sports. But at the same time, well, it happened – he beat me again. I was so close to victory, and I could taste it as if it were Mom’s spaghetti steaming on the kitchen table. And then my laptop took a queue from the gathering dusk of a backyard patio on Staten Island, and that kid found a way to hit another final shot.
Charlie Brown, you can pick yourself up now. The game is over. You battled hard, you fought ‘til the end, and your brother still loves you. Dinner’s ready.
Showing posts with label Carl Crawford. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Carl Crawford. Show all posts
Monday, September 27, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Going for Three (One Sixty-Two: Day 67)
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 Sixty-Seven: Ichiro Suzuki, Seattle Mariners
I think I’ve finally broken through. At long last, I have come to appreciate soccer. And baseball has shown me the way.
I’ve tried, every four years, to lose myself to soccer. I’ve watched those graceful, gritty Brazilians, Argentinians, Germans, Dutch and Italians, as they’ve glided up and down the pitch in search of the goal that will bring their country untold glory and honor. I’ve watched these men’s World Cup matches, and, to be honest, I’ve struggled. Struggled to find enjoyment in 90 minutes without a single score. Struggled to understand just what these soccer fans out there are seeing. Wondered if they were seeing something that I just couldn’t see.
As I’ve watched pieces of this year’s 2010 World Cup, I haven’t had an epiphany, where I now see every facet of beauty in the game. High-definition is good, but not that good. Yet, I have figured some things out, and I’ve done it by viewing soccer through the prism of my own passion of cowhide and red stitches.
The one thing I’ve always known about soccer is that there are very few moments in sport as thrilling as the scoring of a goal. The electricity of the goal is on par with the boxing knockdown, the horseracing photo finish, the basketball fast break, the hockey breakaway, and the football “Hail Mary” pass. In baseball, the most exciting play I’ve ever seen is the triple. And it is here that I see my way into soccer.
When you’re at a ballgame, there is nothing like it – a line drive is hit in the gap, it splits two outfielders, and the ball rolls all the way to the wall. As the runner nears second base, he makes a quick, aggressive decision and kicks his legs into another gear. The fans pop to their feet and shout, “He’s going for three!” The outfielder grabs the ball and throws to his cutoff man, who then fires a line drive to third. The runner dives head-first, the umpire keeps his eyes glued to the white base, and a cloud of dust kicks up on the left side of the diamond. We look to the man in black, who makes the call.
So imagine, if you will, a baseball game in which teams can only score a run if they hit a triple. Think about that for a second – no home runs, no stolen bases, no ground-rule doubles, no singles. Just triples, or else you’re out. And teams would still be required to play their nine men in the traditional defensive positions, or else they’d be called offside. It would be a much, much lower-scoring affair, but teams would have to strategize on how to hit the ball in ways that make a three-bagger more possible. They’d also set their defense in order to defend better against the triple.
So there would be no home-run heroes, with bulging triceps and slow trots around the bases. There’d be no stolen-base thieves, who turn singles into doubles. Instead, the sport’s heroes would be men who could manipulate the bat to shoot the baseball into those gaps, or along the foul lines. These heroes also would have speed on the basepaths and in the field, and perhaps even a strong arm to throw out those runners on their way to third.
In a game like this, a man like Ichiro Suzuki of the Seattle Mariners would be a dominant player in his sport. With his 70 career triples, his ability to maneuver the bat like a magician (2,132 hits in 9½ years), and his rocket arm (nine Gold Glove awards in nine years), Ichiro has all the tools needed to produce and stop triples. He would join the likes of Carl Crawford of Tampa Bay, Shane Victorino and Jimmy Rollins of Philadelphia, and Jose Reyes of the Mets as baseball’s most important players.
It would be a lower-scoring sport, all right, but what a roar you’d hear when those triples appeared. Instead of the “Goal!” calls we hear now, it would be a “Three!” Some fans would complain that the sport is too slow. But others would call it pure, gorgeous, and brilliant. Ichiro, who is arguably the world’s most famous baseball player already, would be even more popular across the globe.
So that’s my in – I’ve selected the most beautiful part of the sport I love, and connected it to soccer. I’m still not sure what a yellow card means, nor do I get the whole offside thing. But it takes a lot of strategy, skill and speed to score those gorgeous goals. I can see that, at least. I’m getting there. My appreciation of soccer hasn’t completed its circuit yet, but I’m standing on third base. And I like the view.
Day Sixty-Seven: Ichiro Suzuki, Seattle Mariners
I think I’ve finally broken through. At long last, I have come to appreciate soccer. And baseball has shown me the way.
I’ve tried, every four years, to lose myself to soccer. I’ve watched those graceful, gritty Brazilians, Argentinians, Germans, Dutch and Italians, as they’ve glided up and down the pitch in search of the goal that will bring their country untold glory and honor. I’ve watched these men’s World Cup matches, and, to be honest, I’ve struggled. Struggled to find enjoyment in 90 minutes without a single score. Struggled to understand just what these soccer fans out there are seeing. Wondered if they were seeing something that I just couldn’t see.
As I’ve watched pieces of this year’s 2010 World Cup, I haven’t had an epiphany, where I now see every facet of beauty in the game. High-definition is good, but not that good. Yet, I have figured some things out, and I’ve done it by viewing soccer through the prism of my own passion of cowhide and red stitches.
The one thing I’ve always known about soccer is that there are very few moments in sport as thrilling as the scoring of a goal. The electricity of the goal is on par with the boxing knockdown, the horseracing photo finish, the basketball fast break, the hockey breakaway, and the football “Hail Mary” pass. In baseball, the most exciting play I’ve ever seen is the triple. And it is here that I see my way into soccer.
When you’re at a ballgame, there is nothing like it – a line drive is hit in the gap, it splits two outfielders, and the ball rolls all the way to the wall. As the runner nears second base, he makes a quick, aggressive decision and kicks his legs into another gear. The fans pop to their feet and shout, “He’s going for three!” The outfielder grabs the ball and throws to his cutoff man, who then fires a line drive to third. The runner dives head-first, the umpire keeps his eyes glued to the white base, and a cloud of dust kicks up on the left side of the diamond. We look to the man in black, who makes the call.
So imagine, if you will, a baseball game in which teams can only score a run if they hit a triple. Think about that for a second – no home runs, no stolen bases, no ground-rule doubles, no singles. Just triples, or else you’re out. And teams would still be required to play their nine men in the traditional defensive positions, or else they’d be called offside. It would be a much, much lower-scoring affair, but teams would have to strategize on how to hit the ball in ways that make a three-bagger more possible. They’d also set their defense in order to defend better against the triple.
So there would be no home-run heroes, with bulging triceps and slow trots around the bases. There’d be no stolen-base thieves, who turn singles into doubles. Instead, the sport’s heroes would be men who could manipulate the bat to shoot the baseball into those gaps, or along the foul lines. These heroes also would have speed on the basepaths and in the field, and perhaps even a strong arm to throw out those runners on their way to third.
In a game like this, a man like Ichiro Suzuki of the Seattle Mariners would be a dominant player in his sport. With his 70 career triples, his ability to maneuver the bat like a magician (2,132 hits in 9½ years), and his rocket arm (nine Gold Glove awards in nine years), Ichiro has all the tools needed to produce and stop triples. He would join the likes of Carl Crawford of Tampa Bay, Shane Victorino and Jimmy Rollins of Philadelphia, and Jose Reyes of the Mets as baseball’s most important players.
It would be a lower-scoring sport, all right, but what a roar you’d hear when those triples appeared. Instead of the “Goal!” calls we hear now, it would be a “Three!” Some fans would complain that the sport is too slow. But others would call it pure, gorgeous, and brilliant. Ichiro, who is arguably the world’s most famous baseball player already, would be even more popular across the globe.
So that’s my in – I’ve selected the most beautiful part of the sport I love, and connected it to soccer. I’m still not sure what a yellow card means, nor do I get the whole offside thing. But it takes a lot of strategy, skill and speed to score those gorgeous goals. I can see that, at least. I’m getting there. My appreciation of soccer hasn’t completed its circuit yet, but I’m standing on third base. And I like the view.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Throw Away the Book (One Sixty-Two: Day 55)
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 Fifty-Five: John Jaso, Tampa Bay Rays
I was leaving a local library yesterday when I passed a display of old books for sale. The last thing our house needs is another book. But of course I stopped.
And I almost walked away. But then an old hardcover caught my eye: How to Steal a Pennant, by Maury Wills with Don Freeman. I knew that Wills was an infielder and base-stealing master with the Los Angeles Dodgers back in the 1960s and ‘70s. I also had a faint recollection of Wills managing the Seattle Mariners for a while in the early ‘80s. But as I looked at the book, I realized that it consisted of Wills’ philosophy on managing – before he ever had the chance to do so. Published in 1976, How to Steal a Pennant featured a retired ballplayer’s ideas on how to manage baseball better than the men he’d been watching in the dugouts while working as a TV analyst.
Wills’ No. 1 advice for managers was simple: Throw away “the book” that tells you how you’re supposed to manage a game. Instead, Wills advised, think outside the box – er, book. If you’re losing a game by four runs, Wills wrote, don’t wait for the grand slam. Chip away – bunt a runner over, scrape for runs here and there, and claw your way back into the game. Don’t hesitate to steal bases, don’t hesitate to let a lefty reliever throw to a righty hitter, and don’t hesitate to throw a strike on an 0-2 count.
I’m sure that when he watches ballgames today, Maury Wills admires the work of Joe Maddon, manager of the Tampa Bay Rays. There is no “book” in the Maddon managerial code. This is a man who starts a catcher in the leadoff spot, even though that catcher – rookie John Jaso – has just one stolen base. So why does Jaso lead off? The reason is simple: Because he gets on base 40 percent of the time. To Maddon, getting on first is more important than one’s ability to steal second.
But that doesn’t mean Maddon hesitates to let his runners steal bases. Not at all. Outfielders Carl Crawford and B.J. Upton both have more than 20 steals already this year, and slugging third baseman Evan Longoria has swiped 10 bases. The Rays lead their league in stolen bases by far this year.
And thinking different doesn’t stop there for the Rays – while Maddon has a bona fide closer this year, he hasn’t hesitated in the past to use a closer-by-committee approach to finishing games. Rather than put the game in one man’s hands, Maddon has let the best matchup determine who finishes the game. Just go with what works.
This time of year, we hear a lot of graduation speeches encouraging young people to take the road not taken. Maury Wills was encouraging that nearly a quarter-century ago. I found his book, and heard his advice to throw away “the book.” Joe Maddon hears this advice, too. And he follows it. Maybe that’s why no team in baseball has a better record this year than the Rays.
Day Fifty-Five: John Jaso, Tampa Bay Rays
I was leaving a local library yesterday when I passed a display of old books for sale. The last thing our house needs is another book. But of course I stopped.
And I almost walked away. But then an old hardcover caught my eye: How to Steal a Pennant, by Maury Wills with Don Freeman. I knew that Wills was an infielder and base-stealing master with the Los Angeles Dodgers back in the 1960s and ‘70s. I also had a faint recollection of Wills managing the Seattle Mariners for a while in the early ‘80s. But as I looked at the book, I realized that it consisted of Wills’ philosophy on managing – before he ever had the chance to do so. Published in 1976, How to Steal a Pennant featured a retired ballplayer’s ideas on how to manage baseball better than the men he’d been watching in the dugouts while working as a TV analyst.
Wills’ No. 1 advice for managers was simple: Throw away “the book” that tells you how you’re supposed to manage a game. Instead, Wills advised, think outside the box – er, book. If you’re losing a game by four runs, Wills wrote, don’t wait for the grand slam. Chip away – bunt a runner over, scrape for runs here and there, and claw your way back into the game. Don’t hesitate to steal bases, don’t hesitate to let a lefty reliever throw to a righty hitter, and don’t hesitate to throw a strike on an 0-2 count.
I’m sure that when he watches ballgames today, Maury Wills admires the work of Joe Maddon, manager of the Tampa Bay Rays. There is no “book” in the Maddon managerial code. This is a man who starts a catcher in the leadoff spot, even though that catcher – rookie John Jaso – has just one stolen base. So why does Jaso lead off? The reason is simple: Because he gets on base 40 percent of the time. To Maddon, getting on first is more important than one’s ability to steal second.
But that doesn’t mean Maddon hesitates to let his runners steal bases. Not at all. Outfielders Carl Crawford and B.J. Upton both have more than 20 steals already this year, and slugging third baseman Evan Longoria has swiped 10 bases. The Rays lead their league in stolen bases by far this year.
And thinking different doesn’t stop there for the Rays – while Maddon has a bona fide closer this year, he hasn’t hesitated in the past to use a closer-by-committee approach to finishing games. Rather than put the game in one man’s hands, Maddon has let the best matchup determine who finishes the game. Just go with what works.
This time of year, we hear a lot of graduation speeches encouraging young people to take the road not taken. Maury Wills was encouraging that nearly a quarter-century ago. I found his book, and heard his advice to throw away “the book.” Joe Maddon hears this advice, too. And he follows it. Maybe that’s why no team in baseball has a better record this year than the Rays.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Kings James & Carl (One Sixty-Two: Day 40)
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: Carl Crawford, Tampa Bay Rays
The Lakers are playing the Celtics again in the NBA Finals this year, but this matchup of legendary franchises is not the top story in the NBA right now. Since 28 other teams are done for the year, and the most talented basketball player on Earth is a free agent, the biggest story is this: Where will LeBron James be playing next year? Will he re-sign with his hometown Cleveland Cavaliers? Or will he go for the big-city life and choose the New York Knicks, New Jersey Nets, Chicago Bulls or Los Angeles Clippers?
The team that James chooses will immediately become a playoff contender, if it’s not one already. His presence on the court will carry his team to dozens of wins that it wouldn’t have claimed without him. A championship requires more than one great player, but one LeBron James can serve as a ticket to the NBA’s postseason.
Baseball is much different, in that one player cannot single-handedly lead his team into the playoffs. Ken Griffey Jr. couldn’t do it for the Reds, Alex Rodriguez couldn’t do it for the Rangers, and Carlos Lee hasn’t done it for the Astros. In baseball, the best free-agent signings are the ones that provide the one missing piece a team needed in order to rise from good to great. The Boston Red Sox’s 2003 signing of David Ortiz, the slugging lefty, is one such example. When Ortiz entered the Boston lineup, he prevented teams from pitching around Manny Ramirez. One year later, the Red Sox were champions.
So in baseball this winter, there will be no talk of LeBron James. The big question, instead, will be this: Where will Carl Crawford play next year? The Tampa Bay Rays’ left fielder is one of baseball’s elite talents: He plays the best left field in baseball, he steals bases at will, he hits for average, he pops just enough home runs to keep outfielders from playing him shallow, and he serves as a vocal leader in the clubhouse. In short, there’s very little the man can’t do. Add him to an already-strong team, and you might just have yourself a championship club.
Losing Crawford would deal a devastating blow to Tampa’s civic pride, in the same way that Cleveland would suffer without James. Fans of the Rays hope that a great 2010 from the team (the Rays currently hold the best record in baseball) will keep Crawford in town beyond this year. As for the rest of baseball, there are an awful lot of owners with their checkbooks ready.
By the time we reach October, Crawford’s free agency might just overshadow the on-field drama of the World Series. By then, an enormously wealthy LeBron James will be starting his season – somewhere, with a team still to be determined. Stay tuned.
Day Forty: Carl Crawford, Tampa Bay Rays
The Lakers are playing the Celtics again in the NBA Finals this year, but this matchup of legendary franchises is not the top story in the NBA right now. Since 28 other teams are done for the year, and the most talented basketball player on Earth is a free agent, the biggest story is this: Where will LeBron James be playing next year? Will he re-sign with his hometown Cleveland Cavaliers? Or will he go for the big-city life and choose the New York Knicks, New Jersey Nets, Chicago Bulls or Los Angeles Clippers?
The team that James chooses will immediately become a playoff contender, if it’s not one already. His presence on the court will carry his team to dozens of wins that it wouldn’t have claimed without him. A championship requires more than one great player, but one LeBron James can serve as a ticket to the NBA’s postseason.
Baseball is much different, in that one player cannot single-handedly lead his team into the playoffs. Ken Griffey Jr. couldn’t do it for the Reds, Alex Rodriguez couldn’t do it for the Rangers, and Carlos Lee hasn’t done it for the Astros. In baseball, the best free-agent signings are the ones that provide the one missing piece a team needed in order to rise from good to great. The Boston Red Sox’s 2003 signing of David Ortiz, the slugging lefty, is one such example. When Ortiz entered the Boston lineup, he prevented teams from pitching around Manny Ramirez. One year later, the Red Sox were champions.
So in baseball this winter, there will be no talk of LeBron James. The big question, instead, will be this: Where will Carl Crawford play next year? The Tampa Bay Rays’ left fielder is one of baseball’s elite talents: He plays the best left field in baseball, he steals bases at will, he hits for average, he pops just enough home runs to keep outfielders from playing him shallow, and he serves as a vocal leader in the clubhouse. In short, there’s very little the man can’t do. Add him to an already-strong team, and you might just have yourself a championship club.
Losing Crawford would deal a devastating blow to Tampa’s civic pride, in the same way that Cleveland would suffer without James. Fans of the Rays hope that a great 2010 from the team (the Rays currently hold the best record in baseball) will keep Crawford in town beyond this year. As for the rest of baseball, there are an awful lot of owners with their checkbooks ready.
By the time we reach October, Crawford’s free agency might just overshadow the on-field drama of the World Series. By then, an enormously wealthy LeBron James will be starting his season – somewhere, with a team still to be determined. Stay tuned.
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.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
A Good-Luck Feel to It
A few years ago, Amy and I were strolling along the beach in lovely Nahant, Mass., listening to the waves as they rolled in from the ocean. As we walked, I noticed a few intriguing rocks in the sand. I picked them up and inspected them. Three were round and thin like silver dollars, yet charcoal gray in color; the other one was pearl-white and more trapezoidal. All four, however, were smooth as a new marble countertop.
I rubbed them in my hands, and marveled at their texture. How many years had these rocks been tossed about in the Atlantic Ocean before finally landing in this little plot of sand? I cleaned them off and placed them inside the pocket of my leather jacket. It seemed a privilege to have found such beautiful stones; I couldn’t let them go.
It’s seven or eight years later, and I still have those rocks in the left pocket of my J. Crew jacket. I hold onto the stones as a collective good-luck charm, and I roll them around in my hands once in awhile as a stress reliever. I have never even considered taking them out; to do so would be to jinx myself for no good reason.
I was reaching into my jacket pocket for my gloves yesterday, and I felt the rocks briefly, as I always do. A little while later, I was reading about the Yankees. The story was explaining how New York still remains without a starting left fielder. The team has decided, it seems, that it can do without Johnny Damon next year. He remains unsigned. As I read this story, I saw no mention of rocks from Nahant. But I felt a connection here as strong as an August undertow.
Johnny Damon is getting older; he’s 36 now. He throws a baseball as weakly as any major-league outfielder in the game. He often looks overmatched against left-handed pitchers. You get the sense sometimes that he’s one pulled hamstring away from a long stint on the disabled list. And yet, when you try to find a team that has been worse because they had Johnny Damon in their lineup, you come up empty.
Amy and I moved back from Massachusetts in the summer of 2004, just in time to miss out on Damon and his Red Sox shocking the Yankees en route to their long-awaited World Series title. We were here in New Jersey when the Yanks shocked Boston by signing Damon before the 2006 season. We watched as Damon played terrific ball for all four of his seasons in New York. We listened as he became a willing spokesperson for the team, often doing the interview that somebody had to do, sparing his teammates the extra work. We watched in awe as he hit and ran his way into Yankees lore during the ’09 World Series, capped by his steal of two bases on one throw during Game 4.
The victory parade is long over, and the Yankees have already remade their team through some savvy trades and a risky free-agent signing. They’ve offered Johnny Damon a contract, and he’s asked for a bit more. There’s been an impasse for some time now. Reporters seem to be predicting that he’ll sign elsewhere.
If he does, the Yankees will go another route, most likely waiting a year and offering a nine-figure contract to Carl Crawford of the Tampa Bay Rays. Crawford is younger, stronger, faster and more electric than Damon is, no doubt. But there’s one major question mark I see with Carl Crawford: I don’t know if the Yankees can tuck him into their pockets like a rock from Nahant. I do know that they can do this with Johnny Damon.
Sometimes, you’ve just got to go with your gut, and hold onto your good-luck charms. They don’t wash up every day.
I rubbed them in my hands, and marveled at their texture. How many years had these rocks been tossed about in the Atlantic Ocean before finally landing in this little plot of sand? I cleaned them off and placed them inside the pocket of my leather jacket. It seemed a privilege to have found such beautiful stones; I couldn’t let them go.
It’s seven or eight years later, and I still have those rocks in the left pocket of my J. Crew jacket. I hold onto the stones as a collective good-luck charm, and I roll them around in my hands once in awhile as a stress reliever. I have never even considered taking them out; to do so would be to jinx myself for no good reason.
I was reaching into my jacket pocket for my gloves yesterday, and I felt the rocks briefly, as I always do. A little while later, I was reading about the Yankees. The story was explaining how New York still remains without a starting left fielder. The team has decided, it seems, that it can do without Johnny Damon next year. He remains unsigned. As I read this story, I saw no mention of rocks from Nahant. But I felt a connection here as strong as an August undertow.
Johnny Damon is getting older; he’s 36 now. He throws a baseball as weakly as any major-league outfielder in the game. He often looks overmatched against left-handed pitchers. You get the sense sometimes that he’s one pulled hamstring away from a long stint on the disabled list. And yet, when you try to find a team that has been worse because they had Johnny Damon in their lineup, you come up empty.
Amy and I moved back from Massachusetts in the summer of 2004, just in time to miss out on Damon and his Red Sox shocking the Yankees en route to their long-awaited World Series title. We were here in New Jersey when the Yanks shocked Boston by signing Damon before the 2006 season. We watched as Damon played terrific ball for all four of his seasons in New York. We listened as he became a willing spokesperson for the team, often doing the interview that somebody had to do, sparing his teammates the extra work. We watched in awe as he hit and ran his way into Yankees lore during the ’09 World Series, capped by his steal of two bases on one throw during Game 4.
The victory parade is long over, and the Yankees have already remade their team through some savvy trades and a risky free-agent signing. They’ve offered Johnny Damon a contract, and he’s asked for a bit more. There’s been an impasse for some time now. Reporters seem to be predicting that he’ll sign elsewhere.
If he does, the Yankees will go another route, most likely waiting a year and offering a nine-figure contract to Carl Crawford of the Tampa Bay Rays. Crawford is younger, stronger, faster and more electric than Damon is, no doubt. But there’s one major question mark I see with Carl Crawford: I don’t know if the Yankees can tuck him into their pockets like a rock from Nahant. I do know that they can do this with Johnny Damon.
Sometimes, you’ve just got to go with your gut, and hold onto your good-luck charms. They don’t wash up every day.
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