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 Forty-One: Martin Prado, Atlanta Braves
My mind knows I’m off from work today for Rosh Hashanah, and that it’s OK to sleep later. But my body, which has readjusted to the school-year schedule, was ready to go at six.
September.
A pristine 70-degree day is concluded with a pink sunset, then followed by a cool breeze. We sit and savor the wind’s whisper while talking about our plans for the days to come. As dusk turns to darkness, we feel the buzz of mosquitoes on the prowl.
September.
The morning newspaper that awaits us on our driveway has a few acorns atop it. We open to the sports section and read about last night’s U.S. Open tennis matches and this weekend’s college and pro football games. There’s not much time to dawdle over the paper, though, as there is much work to be done.
September.
We have turned that corner, watching the hand of summer slip out of our grasp and feeling the crunch of fall beneath our feet. It’s a time for school years to click into gear, for mercury to drop on thermometers, and for calendars to congest with things to do. In sports, it’s a thrilling time in which football begins, America’s premier tennis tournament concludes, and the baseball pennant race hits its homestretch.
Football in September is all about promise, while tennis in September is a fleeting thrill. But baseball in September is all about turning points and falling action, which is the prime rib of any plot. After five months and 140 games, teams are fighting for their lives, and seasons hang in the balance every night. In the National League East, for instance, it’s entirely possible that only one team will make the playoffs. That means every night is critical for the Philadelphia Phillies and Atlanta Braves, who are currently separated by only one game.
Some of the players on these two teams, such as Jimmy Rollins of the Phillies and Billy Wagner of the Braves, are accomplished veterans who know what it takes to fight through the grind of September. Others, however, are new to this playoff hunting season. So that raises the question of how they will handle the pressure. Take Martin Prado, for instance. The 26-year-old Braves infielder is having a breakout season in this, his second year as a full-time player. He’s hitting .314 with 15 home runs, 63 runs batted in and 93 runs scored. But mid-September is different from any other time in this long season. Prado is surely feeling the fatigue, yet the games mean even more right now. Can he maintain his focus, composure and nerves, all the while lifting his game to a higher level? Will he relish the opportunity to play for a pennant, leading his team out of September’s breeze and into October’s chill?
It’s a time for changes: pencils, briefcases, sweatshirts, harvests. And, best of all, pennant races. Kick aside the acorns, and swat those mosquitoes out of the way. There’s a game to watch, and it’s gonna be a good one.
Showing posts with label Jimmy Rollins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jimmy Rollins. Show all posts
Friday, September 10, 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.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Philadelphia Firefly (One Sixty-Two: Day 61)
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-One: Jimmy Rollins, Philadelphia Phillies
It always seems like it’s been too long since we last saw the fireflies. When they dance onstage midway through June each year, their neon lights herald the beginning of summer. It’s a glorious display of illumination, nature’s own Times Square – and in our own backyards. When school ends for the Hynes family later this week, we’ll have our annual Firefly Night, in which the girls get to stay up late one evening to watch the little guys light up our block.
Of course, these lightning bugs always leave us too soon, in the same way that summer does. By the time July nears its end, there are just a few stray fireflies left, each of them flickering like a lost hiker with a broken-down flashlight. At times like this, we’re reminded of just how fleeting life’s beauty often is.
For two out of the past three years, Jimmy Rollins has been baseball’s version of the firefly. The Phillies shortstop has had some untimely injuries, and they’ve kept him away from the game for portions of the 2008 and 2010 seasons – thus making his own dynamic appearances more fleeting than Phillies fans would have liked. In 2008, however, Rollins returned from his injuries in time to help lead his team to a championship. And this year, having played in just 12 games due to calf injuries, Rollins finally returned to the Phillies lineup tonight.
He didn’t get any hits. But with that confident swagger, that power, that speed, and that slick glovework, Rollins is an electric summer force. The Phillies have their firefly back in the lineup again, just as the summer light shows have begun outside our own houses. To the National League, beware. To the fans in Philadelphia, enjoy the show.
Day Sixty-One: Jimmy Rollins, Philadelphia Phillies
It always seems like it’s been too long since we last saw the fireflies. When they dance onstage midway through June each year, their neon lights herald the beginning of summer. It’s a glorious display of illumination, nature’s own Times Square – and in our own backyards. When school ends for the Hynes family later this week, we’ll have our annual Firefly Night, in which the girls get to stay up late one evening to watch the little guys light up our block.
Of course, these lightning bugs always leave us too soon, in the same way that summer does. By the time July nears its end, there are just a few stray fireflies left, each of them flickering like a lost hiker with a broken-down flashlight. At times like this, we’re reminded of just how fleeting life’s beauty often is.
For two out of the past three years, Jimmy Rollins has been baseball’s version of the firefly. The Phillies shortstop has had some untimely injuries, and they’ve kept him away from the game for portions of the 2008 and 2010 seasons – thus making his own dynamic appearances more fleeting than Phillies fans would have liked. In 2008, however, Rollins returned from his injuries in time to help lead his team to a championship. And this year, having played in just 12 games due to calf injuries, Rollins finally returned to the Phillies lineup tonight.
He didn’t get any hits. But with that confident swagger, that power, that speed, and that slick glovework, Rollins is an electric summer force. The Phillies have their firefly back in the lineup again, just as the summer light shows have begun outside our own houses. To the National League, beware. To the fans in Philadelphia, enjoy the show.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
The Other Phillies (One Sixty-Two: Day 30)
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 Thirty: Jamie Moyer, Philadelphia Phillies
Anywhere you go in eastern Philadelphia, southern New Jersey or Delaware, you’ll see men, women and children wearing red Philadelphia Phillies jerseys. When a team claims just five league pennants and one world championship in its first 125 years, then suddenly wins two pennants and one title in a two-year span, that team’s long-suffering fans are bound to flock to the nearest sporting-goods store. Phillie fanatics want to show off their club’s sudden success, and really, who can blame them?
These Phillies are built to last, as the franchise has developed a number of outstanding players from within the organization and acquired several other elite talents from other teams. So if you’re one of those Phillies fans looking for a new jersey, the big question you’re asking yourself is, simply, which player’s name and number do I want to wear?
For hitters, you’ve got No. 6 for the mighty first baseman, Ryan Howard; No. 26 for the multi-talented second baseman, Chase Utley; No. 11 for the clutch-hitting shortstop, Jimmy Rollins; and Nos. 8, 28 and 29 for the three outfielders, Shane Victorino, Jayson Werth and Raul Ibanez. Over on the pitching mound, you might buy a brand-new No. 34 jersey for the recently acquired Roy Halladay, already off to a superb start. Or you might be wearing No. 35 for 2008 World Series MVP Cole Hamels, or No. 54 for the team’s best pitcher in ’08, closer Brad Lidge.
That’s a lot of jerseys from which to choose, and we’re not even talking about the now-outdated, clearance-marked No. 34 Cliff Lee jerseys printed last summer when the Phillies acquired the ace left-hander from Cleveland. After Lee led Philadelphia to the Series, he was traded to the Seattle Mariners for a slew of prospects during the winter. You can still buy that jersey in some stores, but it might not be as fun to wear.
When you go to those sporting-goods stores, it’s very doubtful that you’ll see any No. 50 jerseys. Soft-tossing starting pitchers with 4.30 earned-run averages don’t usually make their way onto many jerseys. But if you did find a No. 50 somewhere, and you bought it, you’d be wearing the jersey of baseball’s oldest active player, as well as its active leader in wins, innings pitched and strikeouts.
Oh, and you’d also be wearing the jersey of the only native Pennsylvanian on the Phillies’ roster. That would be 47-year-old Jamie Moyer, who was born in Sellersville, Pa., attended high school in Souderton, Pa., and went to college at St. Joseph’s University in Philadelphia.
Aside from being a local boy and the last active major-leaguer born while John F. Kennedy was still president, Jamie Moyer remains an extremely effective pro pitcher. This year, he’s already earned five wins in eight starts, and he has struck out three times as many batters as he’s walked. Thanks to Moyer’s quality pitching, the injury-riddled Phillies are once again where they’ve been for each of the past three years – in first place.
So please, Phillies fans, go ahead and buy yourself a Howard jersey, or an Utley, or the new Halladay. Enjoy. Just remember, though, that as bright as those superstars shine, the Phillies win nothing without the guys like Jamie Moyer – players who show up, do their job, and humbly walk off the field. They wear those red jerseys with pride.
Day Thirty: Jamie Moyer, Philadelphia Phillies
Anywhere you go in eastern Philadelphia, southern New Jersey or Delaware, you’ll see men, women and children wearing red Philadelphia Phillies jerseys. When a team claims just five league pennants and one world championship in its first 125 years, then suddenly wins two pennants and one title in a two-year span, that team’s long-suffering fans are bound to flock to the nearest sporting-goods store. Phillie fanatics want to show off their club’s sudden success, and really, who can blame them?
These Phillies are built to last, as the franchise has developed a number of outstanding players from within the organization and acquired several other elite talents from other teams. So if you’re one of those Phillies fans looking for a new jersey, the big question you’re asking yourself is, simply, which player’s name and number do I want to wear?
For hitters, you’ve got No. 6 for the mighty first baseman, Ryan Howard; No. 26 for the multi-talented second baseman, Chase Utley; No. 11 for the clutch-hitting shortstop, Jimmy Rollins; and Nos. 8, 28 and 29 for the three outfielders, Shane Victorino, Jayson Werth and Raul Ibanez. Over on the pitching mound, you might buy a brand-new No. 34 jersey for the recently acquired Roy Halladay, already off to a superb start. Or you might be wearing No. 35 for 2008 World Series MVP Cole Hamels, or No. 54 for the team’s best pitcher in ’08, closer Brad Lidge.
That’s a lot of jerseys from which to choose, and we’re not even talking about the now-outdated, clearance-marked No. 34 Cliff Lee jerseys printed last summer when the Phillies acquired the ace left-hander from Cleveland. After Lee led Philadelphia to the Series, he was traded to the Seattle Mariners for a slew of prospects during the winter. You can still buy that jersey in some stores, but it might not be as fun to wear.
When you go to those sporting-goods stores, it’s very doubtful that you’ll see any No. 50 jerseys. Soft-tossing starting pitchers with 4.30 earned-run averages don’t usually make their way onto many jerseys. But if you did find a No. 50 somewhere, and you bought it, you’d be wearing the jersey of baseball’s oldest active player, as well as its active leader in wins, innings pitched and strikeouts.
Oh, and you’d also be wearing the jersey of the only native Pennsylvanian on the Phillies’ roster. That would be 47-year-old Jamie Moyer, who was born in Sellersville, Pa., attended high school in Souderton, Pa., and went to college at St. Joseph’s University in Philadelphia.
Aside from being a local boy and the last active major-leaguer born while John F. Kennedy was still president, Jamie Moyer remains an extremely effective pro pitcher. This year, he’s already earned five wins in eight starts, and he has struck out three times as many batters as he’s walked. Thanks to Moyer’s quality pitching, the injury-riddled Phillies are once again where they’ve been for each of the past three years – in first place.
So please, Phillies fans, go ahead and buy yourself a Howard jersey, or an Utley, or the new Halladay. Enjoy. Just remember, though, that as bright as those superstars shine, the Phillies win nothing without the guys like Jamie Moyer – players who show up, do their job, and humbly walk off the field. They wear those red jerseys with pride.
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.
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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