Back in elementary school, I developed much of my reading skills through books about baseball. I’d pick up stories about old ballplayers, read them cover to cover, and in the meantime find myself becoming more and more literate. When I was home sick for a few months during second grade, I had to select an independent-reading book for home instruction. I chose the autobiography of Orlando Cepeda. Good read, if I recall correctly. That summer, I picked up Ron Guidry’s book. After that, my parents bought me a subscription to The Sporting News.
This was 1979, a time just before cable television was to enter our homes. If you loved baseball like I did, you could watch the Yankees and Mets on local TV, but then you had the chance to see the rest of the league on just three occasions each week: “Monday Night Baseball” on ABC, the Saturday afternoon “Game of the Week” on NBC, and the delicious weekly show “This Week in Baseball.” These three treats gave me a chance to see how George Brett or Jack Morris or Steve Carlton was doing. But if I wanted anything beyond these programs, I had to pick up a book, magazine or newspaper, and read.
I was thinking about this as I reflected on the recent, tragic death of Mark Fidrych. During his explosive rookie season in 1976, there were times when the Detroit Tiger pitcher could be seen on national TV. But not many. If you lived outside the greater Detroit area and wanted to learn about Fidrych, you had to read about him. And for Fidrych, as with so many great ballplayers before him, the newspaper reporters were more than happy to use their descriptive-writing skills to paint a picture for us. But they wouldn’t stop with the imagery; they’d also add a dazzling sobriquet – in Fidrych’s case, it was “The Bird” in honor of his physical likeness to Big Bird of “Sesame Street.”
Indeed, the nicknames that filled the first century of professional baseball were among the most fascinating feats in American sports journalism. For those of us who wanted to feel closer to a player, the nickname made that much more possible.
And so we had Mordecai “Three Finger” Brown. Charles “Old Hoss” Radbourn. James Thomas “Cool Papa” Bell. Walter “Big Train” Johnson. Jay “Dizzy” Dean. Lou “Iron Horse” Gehrig. Joe “Ducky” Medwick. And yes, even Orlando “Baby Bull” Cepeda.
That is not even scratching the surface. That’s not even getting to Gabby “Old Tomato Face” Hartnett, or the brothers Waner – Paul “Big Poison” and Lloyd “Little Poison.”
There is always a tradeoff when you exchange a literary medium for a visual one. I can tell you much more about Albert Pujols’ swing now because I can see it every day on “Baseball Tonight.” But as I see him more, I – and the journalists who cover him – feel more inclined to go with an easy moniker like “Prince Albert” and then let the video tell the rest of the story. For a while, when Chris Berman was hosting ESPN’s “SportsCenter” every night during the 1980s, he honored the rich history of baseball nicknames by adding new ones every night. He’s moved on to football now, but every once in awhile, they’ll let Berman loose on the diamond and he’ll toss in some more new creations of his own – such as Albert “Winnie the” Pujols.
But for the most part, baseball fans now focus on watching the long home runs, and checking their fantasy baseball stats. We don’t read descriptions of these guys so much anymore. We don’t need those wonderful images that Red Smith and company used to feed us decades ago. And we’re poorer for it.
When Mark Fidrych stood on the mound 33 years ago, he wasn’t the only guy out there with a great nickname. Al “The Mad Hungarian” Hrabosky was out there, too. So was Mike “The Human Rain Delay” Hargrove. You might sit down for a game and watch Bill “Space Man” Lee pitch against Jim “Catfish” Hunter. Over in southern Ohio, Pete “Charlie Hustle” Rose was legging out a triple.
It’s enough to make you pine for “Monday Night Baseball,” and a Sporting News profile of this rookie pitcher who talked to the baseball and threw it past everyone. Who’s this guy they call “The Bird”? Let me read all about it.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Angels Too Early
I can remember the sudden horror I felt when I learned that Bob was dead. We had lived on the same dorm floor during our first two years of college, and had both traveled hundreds of miles to attend school in North Carolina. Some days, we’d run into each other in the fifth-floor lounge of Hinton James Dorm, especially if there was a ballgame on the TV. We’d talk about our places on opposite sides of the rivalry – he was a Red Sox fan from Massachusetts, while I was a Yankees fan from New York. Other days, we might see each other while cramming for a final, and share a quick conversation to distract us from the task at hand. I can recall him stopping by my room with some other friends to sing happy birthday to me during my freshman year, before we all walked across the street to watch North Carolina play Duke in a men’s basketball game.
Bob was truly a terrific guy. He was a scholar, an athlete, a friend, and a caring individual. And then, one Saturday afternoon in September, a drunken driver crossed over the yellow line on Highway 54, slammed into Bob’s Honda Accord, and ended his life. At the age of 20.
I remember the beautiful church ceremony in Chapel Hill a few days after Bob’s death. They played Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young,” and we thought about the incredibly vibrancy that Bob had carried with him. We thought about the promise his life had held, and how it had all disappeared in a second. A van had swerved into his path, and that was it. I wrote a column for the school newspaper, sharing my own memories of Bob with the larger school community.
Bob was on my mind Thursday, when I learned that Los Angeles Angels pitcher Nick Adenhart and two others had been killed in a car accident, allegedly by a drunken driver. Police have arrested a 22-year-old and charged him with three counts of murder, stating that he had nearly triple the legal blood-alcohol level. Adenhart was 22 years old, and his death has stunned his family and friends, the Angels organization, and the world of baseball. The young man was tossing shutout baseball on a major-league diamond Thursday evening, only to see his life end in a flash just a few hours later. It is nearly impossible to believe. And yet, it happens dozens of times every day.
According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, an estimated 12,998 people were killed in alcohol-impaired driving crashes during 2007. This adds up to 36 people per day. Some, like Adenhart, are famous. Others, like Bob, are not. All of them are loved, and none can be replaced.
My wife and I have been car-shopping lately, and we’ve been debating the merits of the cars we’ve test-driven. She’d like a minivan; I’d prefer something more fuel-efficient. Whatever. We’ll eventually agree, then we’ll buy something and drive it off the lot. As we do, we can only hope that Bob, Nick, and the thousands of other drunk-driving victims are looking out for all of us.
The Angels and Red Sox have played against each other this Easter weekend. If there’s a fifth-floor lounge in heaven with a TV running, maybe Bob and Nick have had the chance to catch a game together. I’ll bet they had a lot in common, and plenty to talk about.
Bob was truly a terrific guy. He was a scholar, an athlete, a friend, and a caring individual. And then, one Saturday afternoon in September, a drunken driver crossed over the yellow line on Highway 54, slammed into Bob’s Honda Accord, and ended his life. At the age of 20.
I remember the beautiful church ceremony in Chapel Hill a few days after Bob’s death. They played Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young,” and we thought about the incredibly vibrancy that Bob had carried with him. We thought about the promise his life had held, and how it had all disappeared in a second. A van had swerved into his path, and that was it. I wrote a column for the school newspaper, sharing my own memories of Bob with the larger school community.
Bob was on my mind Thursday, when I learned that Los Angeles Angels pitcher Nick Adenhart and two others had been killed in a car accident, allegedly by a drunken driver. Police have arrested a 22-year-old and charged him with three counts of murder, stating that he had nearly triple the legal blood-alcohol level. Adenhart was 22 years old, and his death has stunned his family and friends, the Angels organization, and the world of baseball. The young man was tossing shutout baseball on a major-league diamond Thursday evening, only to see his life end in a flash just a few hours later. It is nearly impossible to believe. And yet, it happens dozens of times every day.
According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, an estimated 12,998 people were killed in alcohol-impaired driving crashes during 2007. This adds up to 36 people per day. Some, like Adenhart, are famous. Others, like Bob, are not. All of them are loved, and none can be replaced.
My wife and I have been car-shopping lately, and we’ve been debating the merits of the cars we’ve test-driven. She’d like a minivan; I’d prefer something more fuel-efficient. Whatever. We’ll eventually agree, then we’ll buy something and drive it off the lot. As we do, we can only hope that Bob, Nick, and the thousands of other drunk-driving victims are looking out for all of us.
The Angels and Red Sox have played against each other this Easter weekend. If there’s a fifth-floor lounge in heaven with a TV running, maybe Bob and Nick have had the chance to catch a game together. I’ll bet they had a lot in common, and plenty to talk about.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Rooting for the Wrong Ending
It’s OK to root for my school, I’m telling myself. It’s not un-American.
Seven and a half years ago, I was rooting passionately for the Yankees to defeat the Arizona Diamondbacks in the World Series. I’d have done that anyway, but the events of September 11th placed the World Series storyline in a whole different light. The Bombers weren’t just playing for themselves, it seemed – they were playing for an entire city, one in need of all the inspiration it could get.
When Luis Gonzalez’ bloop single won the Series for Arizona in the last inning of the deciding game, it seemed as though someone had sabotaged the script and ended everything all wrong. Who really needed to see people hootin’ and hollerin’ in Phoenix at that time? Why was New York facing a sports-related heartbreak after all it had endured that fall? It was like leaving Dorothy in Oz with no good witch to save her, just Toto and a bunch of Munchkins.
Of course, the beauty of sports is that there is no set script (1919 World Series notwithstanding) and the thrill of the unexpected brings its share of joys and sorrows to the die-hard fan. We can write all we want about what a certain victory would mean to a town, a city, or a region, yet the facts remain that there’s a game to be played and symbolism doesn’t suit up to play; he just watches in press row.
So that takes us to tonight, in Detroit, when the North Carolina Tar Heels take on the Michigan State Spartans for the NCAA Division I men’s basketball championship. It is true, there has been incredible suffering among auto workers in Michigan and among those residents of Detroit itself. Only the heartless would lack sympathy for the thousands of unemployed in this area, or for the auto workers who are about to sacrifice portions of their precious pensions just to keep their jobs, or for the residents of Detroit who walk past empty storefronts and long for a new day. No matter how we feel toward the auto companies themselves, it has been a long, hard road for the people of Detroit, and they could use a pick-me-up as much as anyone this side of New Orleans.
It is most serendipitous that Detroit was able to host the Final Four this year, at a time when its economy could use a real jolt. Even more exciting for Michigan, though, is the fact that the Spartans are playing in the title game. As they suit up tonight, Tom Izzo’s players will try to win for themselves, for their school and for their region.
It sounds like a great, great story. The only problem here is that I went to the other school, the one that Michigan State is playing. I’d really like to see North Carolina win. And I have nothing against Detroit, auto workers or anyone in the Midwest. I just really like Carolina basketball. I feel somehow ashamed of that today, as I know the preferred plot favors the local guys winning one for Motown.
So if indeed the championship trophy is bathed in Carolina Blue tonight, I might just do one thing: I might forgive Luis Gonzalez. He didn’t mean to bruise my heart when he touched up Mariano Rivera with that well-placed single in November of ‘01. Neither did the Arizona fans. It’s just a game, and you don’t get to pick the ending. You just root for your guys, then get back to the literary devices of your own life.
Seven and a half years ago, I was rooting passionately for the Yankees to defeat the Arizona Diamondbacks in the World Series. I’d have done that anyway, but the events of September 11th placed the World Series storyline in a whole different light. The Bombers weren’t just playing for themselves, it seemed – they were playing for an entire city, one in need of all the inspiration it could get.
When Luis Gonzalez’ bloop single won the Series for Arizona in the last inning of the deciding game, it seemed as though someone had sabotaged the script and ended everything all wrong. Who really needed to see people hootin’ and hollerin’ in Phoenix at that time? Why was New York facing a sports-related heartbreak after all it had endured that fall? It was like leaving Dorothy in Oz with no good witch to save her, just Toto and a bunch of Munchkins.
Of course, the beauty of sports is that there is no set script (1919 World Series notwithstanding) and the thrill of the unexpected brings its share of joys and sorrows to the die-hard fan. We can write all we want about what a certain victory would mean to a town, a city, or a region, yet the facts remain that there’s a game to be played and symbolism doesn’t suit up to play; he just watches in press row.
So that takes us to tonight, in Detroit, when the North Carolina Tar Heels take on the Michigan State Spartans for the NCAA Division I men’s basketball championship. It is true, there has been incredible suffering among auto workers in Michigan and among those residents of Detroit itself. Only the heartless would lack sympathy for the thousands of unemployed in this area, or for the auto workers who are about to sacrifice portions of their precious pensions just to keep their jobs, or for the residents of Detroit who walk past empty storefronts and long for a new day. No matter how we feel toward the auto companies themselves, it has been a long, hard road for the people of Detroit, and they could use a pick-me-up as much as anyone this side of New Orleans.
It is most serendipitous that Detroit was able to host the Final Four this year, at a time when its economy could use a real jolt. Even more exciting for Michigan, though, is the fact that the Spartans are playing in the title game. As they suit up tonight, Tom Izzo’s players will try to win for themselves, for their school and for their region.
It sounds like a great, great story. The only problem here is that I went to the other school, the one that Michigan State is playing. I’d really like to see North Carolina win. And I have nothing against Detroit, auto workers or anyone in the Midwest. I just really like Carolina basketball. I feel somehow ashamed of that today, as I know the preferred plot favors the local guys winning one for Motown.
So if indeed the championship trophy is bathed in Carolina Blue tonight, I might just do one thing: I might forgive Luis Gonzalez. He didn’t mean to bruise my heart when he touched up Mariano Rivera with that well-placed single in November of ‘01. Neither did the Arizona fans. It’s just a game, and you don’t get to pick the ending. You just root for your guys, then get back to the literary devices of your own life.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Let's Play Some Ball
They asked me to write a baseball preview for the school newspaper back in my sophomore year of college. I had earned that job because, in a writers’ poll the year before, I had chosen the Cincinnati Reds to win the 1990 World Series. I was a big Lou Piniella fan, and he had taken over as Reds manager. In October of ‘90, my colleagues at the paper weren’t the only ones surprised that I had gotten this pick right – the entire baseball world watched in amazement as the Reds swept an Oakland A’s team that seemed nearly flawless.
So in 1991, as I penned my baseball preview, I felt it my responsibility to make another surprise pick. I liked the young talent on the Chicago White Sox, so I chose them to defeat the also young and talented Montreal Expos in the World Series.
That didn’t happen.
However … it did start a trend in my April baseball picks – I began falling in love with teams that were filled with young talent. And, inevitably, I was a year or two early in predicting these teams’ postseason success. It wasn’t 1991 that the White Sox made it back to the playoffs, but 1993. It wasn’t ’91 that Montreal made its big move, but 1994, a season that never saw the playoffs due to the absence of a labor agreement.
I gushed over the Milwaukee Brewers in 2005, ’06 and ’07, only to see them make the playoffs in ’08. I liked the Oakland A’s in ’05, but they made the American League Championship Series in 2006. I chose the Cleveland Indians to make the World Series in ’06, yet it was the following year that saw them come within a game of the Fall Classic. I picked the Phillies to make the World Series in ’07, only to see them win it in ’08. I picked the Mets to win it all last year, so that’s good news for the guys in Queens.
And so, as baseball’s regular season begins tonight, I present you with my picks for this year. As you read, I’d suggest you pencil these teams in for 2010.
American League: It seems that the New York Yankees will do whatever is needed to win the American League East this year, even if that means paying Sandy Koufax to find a fountain of youth and return to the mound. I’ll pick the Yanks for the division, with the Tampa Bay Rays and their scintillating young talent edging out the Boston Red Sox for the wild card. In the AL Central, I think the Detroit Tigers are the most professional ballclub in an evenly matched division, with the Indians right behind them and the Kansas City Royals paving the way for a return to postseason play in 2010. In the West, I am concerned about injuries to the Los Angeles Angels’ pitching rotation, but in a weak division I imagine they’ll trade for pitching if they need to do so. It is possible, however, that the Texas Rangers will be a much stronger team than most are predicting they will be. I like the Yankees defeating the Tigers in the Division Series, and the Angels outpitching the Rays. In the ALCS, I see the Yankees exorcising some demons by finally defeating the Angels.
National League: The Mets and Phillies both have tremendous ballclubs this year, and therefore they will both make the playoffs. I see the gritty, confident Phillies edging out New York for the division crown, but with both teams being well aware by mid-September that they’re playoff-bound. In the NL Central, the Chicago Cubs have tremendous pitching coupled with weaknesses in their lineup, but it will be enough to hold off the Brewers or whoever lands in second place. In the NL West, the Los Angeles Dodgers and Arizona Diamondbacks will duel it out in a very tight race, with the Rockies making some noise back in third place. But the Dodgers are just too talented a team, and if pitching is a problem, they’ll make the necessary moves as the season ensues. I like the Dodgers over the Mets in a classic Division Series matchup, and the Cubs edging out the Phillies in another close contest. The Dodgers will be far too much for the Cubs to handle in a seven-game championship series, putting Joe Torre’s group in the Series.
What a matchup: Yankees versus Dodgers; Torre versus the club he managed to four titles. The two historic franchises will meet in the World Series for the first time in 28 years, and they will be so evenly matched that the series can’t help but go seven. The Dodgers’ young players will find intestinal fortitude they never knew they had, and Torre will keep them calm amidst the nerve-wracking intensity of the Fall Classic. Matt Kemp will provide the big blow for Los Angeles in Game Seven, and the City of Angels will place a permanent halo over Torre’s head, as he leads the Dodgers to their first title in 21 years.
So there you have it – one man’s humble predictions in the newness of spring. As the season begins, it is indeed true that every team is tied for first place right now. But if you notice my picks, you’ll see that the Rays and Tigers are the only teams from mid-sized markets that I chose for this year’s playoffs. More than getting my World Series picks right, I’d love to see close races, involving teams with a variety of salary scales. That would be some real baseball.
So in 1991, as I penned my baseball preview, I felt it my responsibility to make another surprise pick. I liked the young talent on the Chicago White Sox, so I chose them to defeat the also young and talented Montreal Expos in the World Series.
That didn’t happen.
However … it did start a trend in my April baseball picks – I began falling in love with teams that were filled with young talent. And, inevitably, I was a year or two early in predicting these teams’ postseason success. It wasn’t 1991 that the White Sox made it back to the playoffs, but 1993. It wasn’t ’91 that Montreal made its big move, but 1994, a season that never saw the playoffs due to the absence of a labor agreement.
I gushed over the Milwaukee Brewers in 2005, ’06 and ’07, only to see them make the playoffs in ’08. I liked the Oakland A’s in ’05, but they made the American League Championship Series in 2006. I chose the Cleveland Indians to make the World Series in ’06, yet it was the following year that saw them come within a game of the Fall Classic. I picked the Phillies to make the World Series in ’07, only to see them win it in ’08. I picked the Mets to win it all last year, so that’s good news for the guys in Queens.
And so, as baseball’s regular season begins tonight, I present you with my picks for this year. As you read, I’d suggest you pencil these teams in for 2010.
American League: It seems that the New York Yankees will do whatever is needed to win the American League East this year, even if that means paying Sandy Koufax to find a fountain of youth and return to the mound. I’ll pick the Yanks for the division, with the Tampa Bay Rays and their scintillating young talent edging out the Boston Red Sox for the wild card. In the AL Central, I think the Detroit Tigers are the most professional ballclub in an evenly matched division, with the Indians right behind them and the Kansas City Royals paving the way for a return to postseason play in 2010. In the West, I am concerned about injuries to the Los Angeles Angels’ pitching rotation, but in a weak division I imagine they’ll trade for pitching if they need to do so. It is possible, however, that the Texas Rangers will be a much stronger team than most are predicting they will be. I like the Yankees defeating the Tigers in the Division Series, and the Angels outpitching the Rays. In the ALCS, I see the Yankees exorcising some demons by finally defeating the Angels.
National League: The Mets and Phillies both have tremendous ballclubs this year, and therefore they will both make the playoffs. I see the gritty, confident Phillies edging out New York for the division crown, but with both teams being well aware by mid-September that they’re playoff-bound. In the NL Central, the Chicago Cubs have tremendous pitching coupled with weaknesses in their lineup, but it will be enough to hold off the Brewers or whoever lands in second place. In the NL West, the Los Angeles Dodgers and Arizona Diamondbacks will duel it out in a very tight race, with the Rockies making some noise back in third place. But the Dodgers are just too talented a team, and if pitching is a problem, they’ll make the necessary moves as the season ensues. I like the Dodgers over the Mets in a classic Division Series matchup, and the Cubs edging out the Phillies in another close contest. The Dodgers will be far too much for the Cubs to handle in a seven-game championship series, putting Joe Torre’s group in the Series.
What a matchup: Yankees versus Dodgers; Torre versus the club he managed to four titles. The two historic franchises will meet in the World Series for the first time in 28 years, and they will be so evenly matched that the series can’t help but go seven. The Dodgers’ young players will find intestinal fortitude they never knew they had, and Torre will keep them calm amidst the nerve-wracking intensity of the Fall Classic. Matt Kemp will provide the big blow for Los Angeles in Game Seven, and the City of Angels will place a permanent halo over Torre’s head, as he leads the Dodgers to their first title in 21 years.
So there you have it – one man’s humble predictions in the newness of spring. As the season begins, it is indeed true that every team is tied for first place right now. But if you notice my picks, you’ll see that the Rays and Tigers are the only teams from mid-sized markets that I chose for this year’s playoffs. More than getting my World Series picks right, I’d love to see close races, involving teams with a variety of salary scales. That would be some real baseball.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thirty Years
I was wearing a navy blue Yankees jacket, I remember that. And denim overalls, too. They were brand-new, and I’d never wear them again. Not after the doctors had finished cutting through them to get to my broken body.
It was a Saturday night – March 31, 1979, and I was going out to dinner with my parents. I was 8 years old, and my brother, Eric, was 5. My dad had just dropped us off on Forest Avenue, across the street from the restaurant, while he went to park. My mom held Eric’s hand and mine, and we were waiting for a clearing so we could cross the street. I have no idea why I did this, but as we stood on the street, just inside the curb, I let go of her hand. And started out into the street.
I got halfway across the street. But then there was that car, traveling toward me in the far lane at a pretty good speed. I started to run diagonally, but wasn’t able to get out of the way fast enough. I went flying into the air, landing on my head in the gutter. My mother screamed. People all around the restaurant sprinted toward my body as fast as they could – my dad, who’d seen it as well, the first among them …
I’ve been feeling a bit depressed lately. About career stuff. I’m 38 years old, and it’s nearly 10 years since I made the non-traditional move of switching from full-time journalist to full-time teacher. I wanted more one-on-one interaction with young people, to inspire and encourage them the way so many teachers and pastors had done for me when I was young. I’ve found teaching to be fulfilling, as I had hoped it would be, and I’m proud of myself for working so hard at it and making a difference in the lives of others.
But, as with most teachers, I don’t make a lot of money. And so when I look around sometimes, I get envious at what others have. I think about the car we can’t afford, the vacation we can’t take, the towns we can’t even think about moving to. I look at our TV, our camera, our sofa – all functioning, but weathered with age. I want to upgrade my life.
And yet …
Thirty years ago tomorrow, I was struck by that car on a dark street in Staten Island. The car’s impact sent me up, rather than down, which saved my life. I don’t remember much about that first week, but I did eventually learn that I had broken my right femur and hip bone. I was in traction at Staten Island Hospital for six weeks as the bones healed. Eventually, I developed a slight seizure disorder, possibly spurred by the accident. My parents were the ones more permanently scarred by this event, though, to the point where even today they still look after me sometimes as though I’m 8 years old (I am sure I'd do the same). My brother, too, can still recall the image of his only sibling tossed in the air like a rag doll. Our family, in an instant, was nearly shattered.
I was driving home tonight, heading west on I-78 through the Watchung Reservation. I spotted something on the side of the road – a deer, perhaps. I slowed the car down a few miles per hour and found myself wondering for a moment what would happen if that deer had darted into the highway and caused a fatal collision for both of us. If I had just a few moments left to live, what would be the final thoughts in my mind? Would I die wishing that I’d earned a few thousand more, or bought the girls a new TV on my final day?
Or would I think about how much I’d want to see their faces again, or hear my wife’s voice, or eat a meal with my parents, or spend some time talking baseball with my brother? Would I think about the achievements unaccomplished, or would I think about the unbelievable, underappreciated joy of moments spent with the people I love?
I have every right to think about my career, and to care about it deeply. But if there’s one thing that March 31, 1979 taught me, it’s that perspective and gratitude are everything in life. It can all end so quickly. And if it doesn’t – if you do get another shot, as this 8-year-old in the Yankee jacket was given that night – then you might want to lean more toward the joy than the jealousy, and more toward the things you have than the things you don’t.
There’s a little scar on my right shin, left over from that cast I wore for a month and a half. The skin has a different texture there, on that inch-wide scar. It’s smoother. Softer. More delicate. Kind of like the hand of an 8-year-old. Or life itself.
It was a Saturday night – March 31, 1979, and I was going out to dinner with my parents. I was 8 years old, and my brother, Eric, was 5. My dad had just dropped us off on Forest Avenue, across the street from the restaurant, while he went to park. My mom held Eric’s hand and mine, and we were waiting for a clearing so we could cross the street. I have no idea why I did this, but as we stood on the street, just inside the curb, I let go of her hand. And started out into the street.
I got halfway across the street. But then there was that car, traveling toward me in the far lane at a pretty good speed. I started to run diagonally, but wasn’t able to get out of the way fast enough. I went flying into the air, landing on my head in the gutter. My mother screamed. People all around the restaurant sprinted toward my body as fast as they could – my dad, who’d seen it as well, the first among them …
I’ve been feeling a bit depressed lately. About career stuff. I’m 38 years old, and it’s nearly 10 years since I made the non-traditional move of switching from full-time journalist to full-time teacher. I wanted more one-on-one interaction with young people, to inspire and encourage them the way so many teachers and pastors had done for me when I was young. I’ve found teaching to be fulfilling, as I had hoped it would be, and I’m proud of myself for working so hard at it and making a difference in the lives of others.
But, as with most teachers, I don’t make a lot of money. And so when I look around sometimes, I get envious at what others have. I think about the car we can’t afford, the vacation we can’t take, the towns we can’t even think about moving to. I look at our TV, our camera, our sofa – all functioning, but weathered with age. I want to upgrade my life.
And yet …
Thirty years ago tomorrow, I was struck by that car on a dark street in Staten Island. The car’s impact sent me up, rather than down, which saved my life. I don’t remember much about that first week, but I did eventually learn that I had broken my right femur and hip bone. I was in traction at Staten Island Hospital for six weeks as the bones healed. Eventually, I developed a slight seizure disorder, possibly spurred by the accident. My parents were the ones more permanently scarred by this event, though, to the point where even today they still look after me sometimes as though I’m 8 years old (I am sure I'd do the same). My brother, too, can still recall the image of his only sibling tossed in the air like a rag doll. Our family, in an instant, was nearly shattered.
I was driving home tonight, heading west on I-78 through the Watchung Reservation. I spotted something on the side of the road – a deer, perhaps. I slowed the car down a few miles per hour and found myself wondering for a moment what would happen if that deer had darted into the highway and caused a fatal collision for both of us. If I had just a few moments left to live, what would be the final thoughts in my mind? Would I die wishing that I’d earned a few thousand more, or bought the girls a new TV on my final day?
Or would I think about how much I’d want to see their faces again, or hear my wife’s voice, or eat a meal with my parents, or spend some time talking baseball with my brother? Would I think about the achievements unaccomplished, or would I think about the unbelievable, underappreciated joy of moments spent with the people I love?
I have every right to think about my career, and to care about it deeply. But if there’s one thing that March 31, 1979 taught me, it’s that perspective and gratitude are everything in life. It can all end so quickly. And if it doesn’t – if you do get another shot, as this 8-year-old in the Yankee jacket was given that night – then you might want to lean more toward the joy than the jealousy, and more toward the things you have than the things you don’t.
There’s a little scar on my right shin, left over from that cast I wore for a month and a half. The skin has a different texture there, on that inch-wide scar. It’s smoother. Softer. More delicate. Kind of like the hand of an 8-year-old. Or life itself.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Perspective
I recently finished reading What is the What with some of my 12th-grade English students. The book, written by Dave Eggers, tells the tortuous life story of a Sudanese refugee. The man, named Valentino Achak Deng, survived unspeakable horrors during the second Sudanese civil war. Valentino fled to Ethiopia by foot, then on foot again to Kenya, before making his way to America after more than a decade in refugee camps. After experiencing so much suffering and pain, Deng still found the strength to tell his story to Eggers, who turned it into a work of both witness and of art.
The courage, perseverance and dignity of Valentino is astounding to any reader, but particularly so to suburban American teen-agers. His is so unlike most of the stories they read or view in today’s news outlets. There are no tabloid romances in here. No tales of steroid use among ballplayers. No billion-dollar bailouts. Valentino’s story also takes us about as far away from our distracting, multi-media world as we can get. There aren’t any iPhones, PlayStations, Blu-ray movies or text messages in this book. It’s a lot simpler, a lot starker, and a lot more sobering.
Time and time again, many of my students talked about how distant this story felt from the lives they have led so far. Yet, they also spoke of the perspective and deeper insight they had gained from reading it. Having read the book twice myself, I can certainly echo my students’ wise words.
Sudan has experienced a nearly unfathomable degree of suffering and injustice in recent decades. My students are aware of Darfur, and they’ve connected the suffering there to that found in the Holocaust literature they’ve read. But they also know that there is plenty of suffering much closer to home, from families who lost their homes in New Orleans, to individuals suffering from loss of jobs, to those who don’t have enough money for food and shelter. As they reflect upon this book, and as they prepare to enter the world beyond high school, I can only hope that my students remember Valentino’s experience when the opportunity to serve others presents itself.
The courage, perseverance and dignity of Valentino is astounding to any reader, but particularly so to suburban American teen-agers. His is so unlike most of the stories they read or view in today’s news outlets. There are no tabloid romances in here. No tales of steroid use among ballplayers. No billion-dollar bailouts. Valentino’s story also takes us about as far away from our distracting, multi-media world as we can get. There aren’t any iPhones, PlayStations, Blu-ray movies or text messages in this book. It’s a lot simpler, a lot starker, and a lot more sobering.
Time and time again, many of my students talked about how distant this story felt from the lives they have led so far. Yet, they also spoke of the perspective and deeper insight they had gained from reading it. Having read the book twice myself, I can certainly echo my students’ wise words.
Sudan has experienced a nearly unfathomable degree of suffering and injustice in recent decades. My students are aware of Darfur, and they’ve connected the suffering there to that found in the Holocaust literature they’ve read. But they also know that there is plenty of suffering much closer to home, from families who lost their homes in New Orleans, to individuals suffering from loss of jobs, to those who don’t have enough money for food and shelter. As they reflect upon this book, and as they prepare to enter the world beyond high school, I can only hope that my students remember Valentino’s experience when the opportunity to serve others presents itself.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
