Baseball season is in full swing. And apparently so is the season for bad puns as leads. One of my nightly rituals is sitting alone in my dorm's lobby and watching all the highlights from that day's MLB action (that sounded a lot less pathetic in my head). I've seen many patterns develop over the summer. While things haven't gotten to the point where I can predict the show or the events on it, there are moments where I just lean back and wonder how many times I've seen the exact same thing.
Like in the nightly Top Ten plays on ESPN, I can always count on at least two highlights of an impressive (yet rarely jaw-dropping) fielding play from a third baseman who makes a strong throw to first to get the batter out just in time. Another staple of the Top Ten is a pity reference to the WNBA. That's usually a poorly-seeded average play that is just an example of one player's exciting night, consisting of a game-high 11 points and 5 rebounds. Wow.
But my favorite part of the show is whenever they replay a walk-off win. It could be a single, double, or even a balk-off win. But the storybook classic, of course, is the game-ending home run.
I've seen a fair amount of these walk-offs this season, and after the first dozen or so they all started to seem the same. Until I began looking at it from a different perspective.
Most people watch the batter as he smoothly finishes his swing and drops his bat on the ground before slowly trotting towards first base. Some watch the outfield stands as most fans go crazy while the lucky ones go after the winning ball.
Me? I watch the catcher.
Think about it. How terrible must it feel to have a pitch stolen from your glove and ripped into deep center field. And all you can do is sit there. A background to a picture of history.
And what about the fielder whose head the ball is soaring over? What can he do but jog towards the wall and look up? Completely helpless.
I'm not sure which would be worse, knowing there's absolutely nothing you can do to save your team, or knowing that no matter what you do, it won't be enough? Both have to be nauseating feelings of despair. Feelings that can only be overcome by playing another game the next day; getting a chance of redemption.
You know what? Even worse than both of those feelings combined has to be pitcher who gave up that walk-off homer. Because he knows it was his fault, and he has to live with that feeling until he gets his next chance. That is, if that chance ever comes.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
My Choice
There is so much I could be writing about right now. There is so much I should be writing about right now. The NFL lockout is all but over. The most chaotic 72 hours of free agency is about to begin. The Reds are starting to look like a competitor again (for now). Oh yeah, and Brett Favre (an evergreen topic if I've ever seen one).
But I don't feel like doing any of that.
What can you do when you just don't feel like writing? Especially when writing is your job? For so long, writing was the main thing in my life that mattered. That was back in the homeschooling days of 24/7 sports. Back when I could rattle off the names of every quarterback on every NFL roster. Back when I was doing radio interviews because of my insane amount of NFL Draft preparation. Back when I had my own mathematical system to help calculate my weekly power rankings.
That was so long ago, and so much has changed in my life since then. Especially my priorities. Back then I would have dropped everything to be on top of a story like this historic lockout. But right now my mind is elsewhere. It's not that I don't have that same passion for sports and journalism that I always have, but I'm realizing that there are things in life that are much more important than my career.
For a long time, I thought that I wouldn't be happy unless I ended up as a nationally-renowned sports writer, and that is partially true. But there are other things I want to have; other things I want to be that need to take precedence over that dream. I'll still try to be the hardest worker and best writer no matter where I'm at. But I won't let my laptop consume me any longer.
Who knows? Maybe this means settling for a job that isn't as glamorous as what I hope for. Maybe this field requires me to be a shameless workaholic. And I've already proven I'm willing to sacrifice for my goal. I've written for free. I've worked myself sleepless. I've taken stepping stool jobs. I've done some dirty work. I'm paying my dues. However, I'm not willing to give up what matters most just for a bigger byline.
But I don't feel like doing any of that.
What can you do when you just don't feel like writing? Especially when writing is your job? For so long, writing was the main thing in my life that mattered. That was back in the homeschooling days of 24/7 sports. Back when I could rattle off the names of every quarterback on every NFL roster. Back when I was doing radio interviews because of my insane amount of NFL Draft preparation. Back when I had my own mathematical system to help calculate my weekly power rankings.
That was so long ago, and so much has changed in my life since then. Especially my priorities. Back then I would have dropped everything to be on top of a story like this historic lockout. But right now my mind is elsewhere. It's not that I don't have that same passion for sports and journalism that I always have, but I'm realizing that there are things in life that are much more important than my career.
For a long time, I thought that I wouldn't be happy unless I ended up as a nationally-renowned sports writer, and that is partially true. But there are other things I want to have; other things I want to be that need to take precedence over that dream. I'll still try to be the hardest worker and best writer no matter where I'm at. But I won't let my laptop consume me any longer.
Who knows? Maybe this means settling for a job that isn't as glamorous as what I hope for. Maybe this field requires me to be a shameless workaholic. And I've already proven I'm willing to sacrifice for my goal. I've written for free. I've worked myself sleepless. I've taken stepping stool jobs. I've done some dirty work. I'm paying my dues. However, I'm not willing to give up what matters most just for a bigger byline.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Maybe Next Year
Every year Cincinnati sports fans say maybe this year.
Maybe this team.
Maybe this time.
Every year we think the ball will bounce our way.
The clock will keep ticking.
The innings will keep coming.
Every year we think there's no way the worst can happen.
No way we'll miss the extra point.
No way we'll get no-hit.
But every year, we end up saying maybe next year.
Forgive me for showing the pessimism that comes as a side with being a Cincinnati sports fan. But as we sit at the All Star break, even with the Reds sitting at 45-47, just four games out of first place in a very competitive NL Central, I have very little faith that there will be a second straight postseason appearance for the Redlegs. They show too many signs of being a typical Queen City quack.
They beat themselves.
They make silly mistakes.
They can't close out games.
Management makes questionable decisions.
Does this sound like another Cincinnati franchise to you? Maybe it's best that we don't have a basketball team in this town. Because it would just end up with the same scenario as the Bengals in November and the Reds in August:
Fans saying maybe next year.
Maybe this team.
Maybe this time.
Every year we think the ball will bounce our way.
The clock will keep ticking.
The innings will keep coming.
Every year we think there's no way the worst can happen.
No way we'll miss the extra point.
No way we'll get no-hit.
But every year, we end up saying maybe next year.
Forgive me for showing the pessimism that comes as a side with being a Cincinnati sports fan. But as we sit at the All Star break, even with the Reds sitting at 45-47, just four games out of first place in a very competitive NL Central, I have very little faith that there will be a second straight postseason appearance for the Redlegs. They show too many signs of being a typical Queen City quack.
They beat themselves.
They make silly mistakes.
They can't close out games.
Management makes questionable decisions.
Does this sound like another Cincinnati franchise to you? Maybe it's best that we don't have a basketball team in this town. Because it would just end up with the same scenario as the Bengals in November and the Reds in August:
Fans saying maybe next year.
Friday, July 1, 2011
More than a folder
It was any other high school day. I walked into my first class of the morning. The first bell rang at 7:24. Not 7:25. 7:24 in the morning. On this particular day, my Sociology teacher, Mr Chapman called me to his paper-covered desk. I was one of "those kids" in high school. So maybe my whole life flashed before my eyes. But as I stepped to the desk, Chappy handed me a folder. It was my red Indiana Wesleyan University folder from his class. I left it under my desk the day before.
Months later, Mr. Chapman was talking to me after one of the last classes of the year. One of my very last high school classes. Mr. Chapman asked where I would be going to school the the next fall. I proudly told him IWU.
"So it was more than a folder," Chappy said like only he could.
I laughed. Because that's all I could do. I had no idea what the next 12 months had in store for me, and just how attached to IWU I would become. I live here now. I'm not just an IWU student. I'm don't just work here. This is my home. But it's so much more than my home. So much more than a folder.
Months later, Mr. Chapman was talking to me after one of the last classes of the year. One of my very last high school classes. Mr. Chapman asked where I would be going to school the the next fall. I proudly told him IWU.
"So it was more than a folder," Chappy said like only he could.
I laughed. Because that's all I could do. I had no idea what the next 12 months had in store for me, and just how attached to IWU I would become. I live here now. I'm not just an IWU student. I'm don't just work here. This is my home. But it's so much more than my home. So much more than a folder.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
...and the agony of defeat
It was 11 o'clock at night and I had nothing else to do. So I flipped on ESPN. To my delight, game two of the College World Series Finals was on, and drawing to a finish. College baseball. Only slightly more intriguing to me than the WNBA, but seeing that college baseball's champion was potentially just six outs away from being crowned, I decided to stick around.
I've always loved watching the ending of major sports championships. Actually, it doesn't even have to be a major sport. Just as long as it's the final game of sport's postseason, you can find me glued to the TV. Just the other day, I watched the XFL's Super Bowl, titled the Million Dollar Game, from its first and only season back in 2001.
Of course, it's no surprise that I would love watching these types of games. They're what every athlete in his or her respective sport plays for. What might be surprising though is my favorite part of those games. To me, the most interesting part about championships isn't the dogpile that ensues after the final out, point, or when the clock hits triple zeroes. It's not the passing out of t-shirts and caps, and the spraying of champagne in the locker room. It's not even the cliche one-word headlines with oversized photos in the next day's newspaper (although I really do love those).
My favorite part is the loser.
Sadistic much? Maybe a little. There's just something about watching the team that finished second. The blank stares. The towels over heads. The tears. Nobody remembers second place, so those tears are the last we will ever see of you. My first memory of this was Kevin Dyson kneeling on the one yard line in Super Bowl XXXIV. One yard short. Ever since then I have always been willing to trade the images of celebratory mobs on the pitcher's mound or the fifty yard line for those of a heartbroken veteran who watches that final play on the jumbotron, hoping for a different ending.
Nobody remembers second place. Except of course, for the ones who were unfortunate enough to finish there. For them, it's a gut-wrenching experience that is impossible to forget. For me, it's the images of their downfall; the look of sheer defeat on their faces, that I can't- and don't want to-block from my memory.
I've always loved watching the ending of major sports championships. Actually, it doesn't even have to be a major sport. Just as long as it's the final game of sport's postseason, you can find me glued to the TV. Just the other day, I watched the XFL's Super Bowl, titled the Million Dollar Game, from its first and only season back in 2001.
Of course, it's no surprise that I would love watching these types of games. They're what every athlete in his or her respective sport plays for. What might be surprising though is my favorite part of those games. To me, the most interesting part about championships isn't the dogpile that ensues after the final out, point, or when the clock hits triple zeroes. It's not the passing out of t-shirts and caps, and the spraying of champagne in the locker room. It's not even the cliche one-word headlines with oversized photos in the next day's newspaper (although I really do love those).
My favorite part is the loser.
Sadistic much? Maybe a little. There's just something about watching the team that finished second. The blank stares. The towels over heads. The tears. Nobody remembers second place, so those tears are the last we will ever see of you. My first memory of this was Kevin Dyson kneeling on the one yard line in Super Bowl XXXIV. One yard short. Ever since then I have always been willing to trade the images of celebratory mobs on the pitcher's mound or the fifty yard line for those of a heartbroken veteran who watches that final play on the jumbotron, hoping for a different ending.
Nobody remembers second place. Except of course, for the ones who were unfortunate enough to finish there. For them, it's a gut-wrenching experience that is impossible to forget. For me, it's the images of their downfall; the look of sheer defeat on their faces, that I can't- and don't want to-block from my memory.
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