this ain't no love letter

I grew up with sports. I loved sports. To me, sports were magic. The crush of a baseball as it hits a bat, the whoosh of a soccer ball as it skims the net, and the nearly silent whistle of a perfect spiral were sounds that I looked forward to with heightened anticipation.

But I've fallen out of love. It wasn't a sudden and unexpected breakup that left me weeping in a pint of ice cream, but rather a slow and unknowing growing apart. One day sports and I were laughing while having picnics in the park, and the next I couldn't look at the screen without feeling a tinge of betrayal. How could I love something so violent and blind?

Football players crash into each other running at their fastest speeds with every muscle in their body aimed at crushing another human being. Baseballs fly off the ends of bats towards the faces of awestruck pitchers. Brains jostle inside fragile skulls. The perceived danger once intrigued me but now I see it isn't just an illusion, the danger is real. Real lives are affected with every hard hit, every knee twist, every helmet-to-helmet collision. 15 yard penalties don't equate to 15 years of lost life. The violence scares me. The violence that captivates a nation.

The curtain was pulled back this year as headlines shone with stories of domestic violence and child abuse. I stopped reading the stories about young men coming from nothing to achieve everything. I read about coverups by league officials and cover up on the faces of wives. I saw pictures of bruises on young bodies and scared gazes plastered on nephews and sisters. I heard expletive laced racial slurs aimed at strangers and cringe worthy bullying aimed at teammates. The tallest, strongest and most powerful individuals in our country were shown to have grown the least. As the world around them grew, sports remained stunted.

I still watch sports. I'll watch the draft, a meaningless Wednesday night baseball game, a friendly international soccer match, but the glamor, that once shined so brightly, is gone.  Wins don't mean as much and losses don't hurt the same.

Stats and stories will still stick in my mind. It's a habit I will never kick. I'll always remember the first time I fell in love with each game, like my own personal highlight reel running through my mind.  I will remember the old highlights with fondness that can't be recreated. A tape playing on a VCR, the quality fading with every rewind.

My life will never be free of sports, it's grip is too tight, its a first love I will never be able to shake. But something happened. Maybe as I grew, sports and I grew apart. Maybe our busy lives are just to hard to sync together. Maybe the real world hardened me to show me nothing is really magic.

I could fall back in love with sports, like a long lost friend who you suddenly see in a new light. But they need to change. Sports: its not me, its you. 

february

By February New Years Resolutions have been broken, Christmas debts have been paid off and the overdose of family time has finally remissed.  And as some are just recovering from the holiday hangover I am rejoicing at what has yet to come.

February is the steps leading up to the white house, the appetizer before the main dish, it’s the opening act before the headliner. February is the hopes and the dreams and the anticipation before the big game. February is to March and April what stuffed mushrooms are to a steak dinner or what Hunter Hayes is to Reba McEntire.

February’s real purpose is two-fold: a) to show us that spelling and pronunciation have no correlation to eachother and b) to tease our athletic appetite until the main coarses arrive: the draft, opening day, and the madness that is March.

February gives us the combine. And with the combine comes the draft. And the draft day predictions, and Mel’s big board, and failed wonderlic tests. The NFL Draft is like one big game of dodgeball minus the dodging, ducking, diving, dipping, and dodging and only having the drafting. Its 3^rd grade picking teams taken to the next level.

It’s suits and ties and hopes and dreams all knotted into one night. It’s friends and family and girlfriends and fake girlfriends all in one spot. It’s photo ops and ill-fitting flat brim hats. It’s first round duds and sixth round studs. Its undrafted free agents and fans who think they know better. It’s everything you can hope for in an event that has no score.

And before you can overestimate potential and underestimate willpower you get the combine. 200-400 lb men in womens sized spandex running 40s and shuffling throught cones, catching passes and throwing bombs. And it all adds up to the number you see on your future wikipedia page. So we have the combine, where seconds equal millions of dollars in endorsements and practice throws can turn into Madden covers, and it all starts here, in February.

Next comes spring training. My favorite child baseball is almost in the forefront of ESPN’s homepage. America’s past time is waiting in the wing to wrap us up again with the smell of fresh cut grass and the taste of $8 beers. The Rockies have taken their talents to Arizona and with each twitter update or webpage reload I reinvest myself in the Colorado Rockies.

The past year was filled with too many untimely strikeouts and unphotogenic DUIs. So with the season upon us it is time to open our heart to the chance that this year could be more. Perfectly timed hits and seamlessly fielded groundballs. Big smiles and bigger wins. Perfectly breaking breaking balls and deliciously curvy curve balls. It all lies ahead of us, and it started here, in February.

The college basketball regular season is coming to an end and that means one thing: things are about to get mad. (Think mad hatter mad). Men will count wins and losses, and RPIs and SOSs and pick their teams: their 64 (ish) teams that represent the best in the country. And then comes the bracket: A simple piece of paper filled with names and lines. A simple piece of paper that causes nightmares and arguments. A simple piece of paper that makes you feel like a king or a pauper. The bracket. Teams play their final games of the season and their conference championships to end up on this nationally printed piece of paper. You can choose teams by names or the small numbers in front of their names or mascots or syllables, but no matter what that simple piece of paper will haunt your March, and it all starts here, in February.

So here’s a toast to the month that gave us Abe, and the Bus, and Wynne Brantlinger. There are only good things to come. 

Just a game?

People who say, “it’s just a game” are no friends of mine. Just a game? Just a game. No. It’s more, so much more. 

Less than 120 minutes ago I watched my Denver Broncos lose a playoff game, and it wasn’t “just a game.” It was two overtimes and missed opportunities and mental lapses. It was kickoff return touchdowns and thrown interceptions and blown coverages. It was more. 

If someone were to tell me “it’s just a game” I would place both palms on the ground in front of me and donkey kick that individual (probably in the face, my increased level of rage would equate to an increased donkey-kick height). Their physical pain would parallel my emotional pain. And, hopefully, they would understand, it’s not just a game. 

When Justin Tucker’s 47-yard field goal sailed throught the uprights to symbolize the end of the game, the end of the season, and the end of my 2012 Broncos relationship I wanted to cry. And not a single tear falling down the curve of my cheek… a real cry. A fetal position, weird noises, trouble breathing, screaming names cry. “Why Peyton? Why Rahim “the dream”? Why John Fox? Why Mike McCoy? Why Demaryius? Why?” Luckily for those around me this cry was a mental cry. But it still hurt. And “just games” don’t feel that way. 

I logged onto Netflix and fired up Ally McBeal. I grabbed a pint of ice cream and smothered it with chocolate syrup. Then came the whipped cream. The first serving went straight into my mouth, the other four servings went on top, icing on the proverbial cake. So this is what a breakup feels like. A hole in my heart that can only be filled with ice cream and crappy 90s tv dramedys. The Broncos broke my heart. So don’t tell me it’s simply a game. 

And it wasn’t just this one. It’s midseason games, and late season throwaway games, and first games of the season. They all matter. They all matter to me.  It’s the moments, the little ones and the big ones. 

Its draft day “busts” becoming everyday backs. It’s coming back from insurmountable odds. Its rookie quarterbacks scrambling and veterans showing them how. Its blocked punts and blown calls. It’s playing the game for the love of the game. 

Its people coming together to cheer, and ohh, and ahh. It’s hating people before you meet them because of the jersey they sport. It’s wearing the same socks every Sunday because you know it makes a difference. It’s no judgment day drinking and chicken wings for lunch. It’s watching because you know it’s more. 

So, no, its not just a game.

I Wanna Dance with Somebody

(editors note: part one: I would like to apologize to the millions of readers I have left hanging (aka, sorry mom))

(editors note: part two: I didn’t even realize I hadn’t updated this baby since March until my mother pointed it out. Stalk much?)

(editors note: part three: I wrote this at the beginning of the month and since it was written earlier some of the facts are no longer facts… you’ll see what I mean)

We have missed a lot in the past 10 months: the entire 2011 Major League Baseball season, 12 weeks of the National Football League (see editors note: part three), and 0 2011-2012 NBA games (again, this was written prior to December 25th, and at the time that had a nice ring to it, and since I’m the boss here: I’m leaving it).

A lot has happened in the past ten months: scandals and tragedies, wins and loses, heartbreaks and hangovers. But that’s what we get everyday with sports, every week, every season. Sports bring you down and bring you right back up.

I am going to write about Tim Tebow because I get so upset that everytime I turn on ESPN there is nothing about Tim Tebow. I want to talk about Tebow Time, and how he is the comeback master, and how he has overcame the odds. Tim Tebow is so under-appreciated in the NFL.

Did you guys see that? A whole paragraph of sarcasm… you’ve missed me right?

Anyway, I’m not writing about Tim, but I am writing about something that just as many people have talked about… and guess what? I don’t care, because I have been thinking a lot about something, a lot about something that is flawed, and a tad upsetting.

I'm talking about that Bull Crap System that everyone knows is screwed up yet no one is willing to change. That Bull Crap System, or BCS, that lets computers, people who don’t play the game, and worse: people who personally, and financially benefit from the game (like coaches), pick who gets to play in the National Championship (and all those other brand name bowls).

On January 9th, 2012 LSU will play Alabama for the National Championship (I don’t know why, but I have the weirdest feeling about this game, maybe de ja vue?).

Are these the two best teams in the country? Probably.

Can either team win? Yes.

But guess what? So could Oklahoma State or Stanford or Boise State. Maybe Wisconsin or Baylor? Or how about a handful of other teams? And we’re not even going to give them a chance.

I know, this sounds like a broken record player. Playing a song over and over again, but this is a good song so listen closely (I mean, really good, like Whitney Houston- I Wanna Dance with Somebody, good, or maybe TLC- No Scrubs, good). But maybe we should listen to this broken record player, listen to the hoards of sports writers and the collection of college coaches who see the flawed system and want something done about it.

So, at this point you can call me a waaaambulance and order me a burger and some cries, to go with all my whining and complaining… But wait, I have an idea. A revolutionary idea…

College football needs a playoff system. This is the first you’ve heard of that right? Oh wait… no it’s not, NCAA basketball does it, the NFL does it, Major League Baseball? Yeah…they do it too. What about international soccer? Oh yeah, that World Cup thing. So this playoff thing seems to be a pretty good idea.

Take out a few non-conference games (yeah, Michigan that Appalachian State game you love… that’s out), and add a playoff at the end.

Personally, I like an eight-team playoff, but ten doesn’t bother me either. Let these 8-10 teams battle to play in the national championship.

Give everyone a shot. Don’t let men in plushy chairs and home offices decide where these athletes play. (Note: I tried to put a sweet bracket graphic of what this years 8-team, single elimination, bracket would look like in my world…but clip art, or word art, or whatever that crap is…isn’t my forte, someone else would have to be in charge of making that image in the BCS future).

How can you oppose this? Do you hate fairness? Does legitimate competition scare you? Does watching more college football make you want to punch yourself in the face? That’s what I thought.

Would the result be the same? Maybe. But after the last whistle is blown, when the season is done, the teams that deserve to be in the national championship will be. And the teams that thought they could be in the national championship… they got their shot too. Everyone got a chance to go to the big dance.

So when that clock strikes upon the hour and the sun begins to fade… there is still enough time to figure out how to chase my blues away1

1Please refer to the above hyperlink if you do not understand this last reference. And then thank me for changing your life.

March MADness

I’m mad. Very mad. Madder than someone going ten under in the left lane. More angry than shrinking your favorite shirt in the dryer. More irate than switching the channel during Iron Chef: America, and forgetting to turn back to find out the victor. Mad.

I’ve said it once, and I will say it again: I’m no basketball expert. However, I do know, that my Colorado Buffaloes were one of the best 68 teams in the country. They deserved a shot. Tad Boyle and the boys beat K State...3 times. They beat Texas and Missouri. The stats are there…the RPIs, the wins, the losses. But they deserved it. Gahhh, they desrved it.

I’ve been throwing myself a pity party for the past 24 hours. Poor me, a fan robbed of the cheering, and t-shirt wearing, and the overly-hopeful-bracket-filling-out that encompasses March MADness (emphasis on the mad).

But what about the team? What about Cory Higgins who gave 4 years to CU Basketball. Higgins has gone through coaching changes and fan doubts. He has turned CU into more than just a football school. His sweat and hard work line the floorboards of the Coors Event Center. What about Alec Burks? A player who could go to any school in the nation, but chose CU. Chose to help CU win, help CU put it’s name on the map (or in this case, the NCAA bracket), chose to believe in CU. What about Marcus Relphorde, and Andre Roberson? What about Levi Knutson? What about the players?

The thought of ten men sitting in cushioned chairs around a deep mahogany table deciding the fate of the players who have given everything disgusts me. These old, wrinkly men probably couldn’t hit a free throw, let alone beat K State 3 times. They might be able to tell you what an RPI is… but I doubt they can hit a clutch 3-pointer with 15 seconds remaining. Why do they get to decide?

I don’t know how to end this. There is no witty saying, no famous quote, no song lyric that can express how I feel. And there is definitely nothing that can show what Tad Boyle and the boys have gone through this season, and what a shame it is they can’t show the nation this. Roll Tad.

Love & Other Drugs

Today is the four-month anniversary of the 2010 World Series. In this time of reflection I have discovered something.

In the past I have described baseball as the love of my life, my favorite child, and my red letter day. It has taken another identity. Baseball is my Zoloft, my Ritalin, and my Viagra. That is, to say, baseball uplifts me, it calms me, and boy does it excite me.

Baseball uplifts me. When Sportscenter shows me clips from the Cactus League or the Grapefruit League my eyes light up, I get a skip in my step. It's the first time baseball has called in nearly 4 months...do I answer? My heart is beating fast and when I finally decide to pick up, it's too late. Baseball goes straight to voicemail. Baseball always leaves a message, never leaves me hanging. The date has been set: April 1st. Baseball will take me out, and so it begins. The wear and tear of everyday life is supplemented by the faint sound of swinging strikes and crushing homers, by the ringing of my phone as baseball calls, the ding of the message, the uplifting call I've been waiting for for a long time.

Baseball calms me, it gives me a schedule. You can always depend on baseball, baseball is always there for you. Baseball doesn’t forget to call. Baseball is there when he tells you he will be. If he promises to take you out for a ballpark frank and the national anthem at 2 pm on Wednesday, he’ll be there. He’ll be there with peanuts and cracker jacks. Every game he asks: “hey hey baby, Oooo ahhh, I wanna know-o-o-o if you’ll be my girl” and the answer is always the same: Yes. While his incessant wooing might annoy some, it calms me. It’s expected. It’s comfortable. Baseball promises me 162 dates a year, and he delievers. Raining? We’ll reschedule. Plane delayed? Let’s find another time that works. If the first 162 dates go well, we’ll have some more. If they continue to go well… let’s throw a parade. Baseball calms me, it structures my days, my weeks, my years.

Baseball excites me. Seeing outfielders dive for pop flys and first basemen stretch for the out. While you can always count on baseball to be there for you, you never know what he will bring. One day he might grace you with the perfect date, letting the pitcher see 27 men walk to the plate, and 27 walk away. Maybe he’ll bring you a bouquet of roses, caught just above the outfield wall. How about some chocolates, diving into home headfirst? Maybe he’ll write you a poem, peppered with obsenities screamed by managers. Baseball is always exciting, he’s never boring. And he always brings gifts...

Baseball is my all-in-one pill.

Bad to the Bone

While cat-lovers, cilantro-fans, and SF Giant supporters may already be a tad apprehensive about me and my sports/life ideals, today’s words may prescribe me a lot more doubters. But you know what, those dissenters can make their own blog (and Lose with Wynne does not have the same ring to it).

In sports, as in life, there isn’t supposed to be perfection. Hitting .300 (that’s 3/10 folks, 30%...missing 70%) is good in baseball. No basketball star hits 100% of their free throws (uncontested, set distance shots). Qbs do not throw “perfect” passes and receivers don’t make perfect catches. Because perfect doesn’t exist. Now I could use this time to tell you what a joke the person who wrote “practice makes perfect” is, but I will save that for a rainy day.

I am here to shun perfection. Shun Tom Brady and his unanimous All-Pro Team selection. Laugh at his façade of a perfect, model wife, and an equally perfect child. Cool Tom, real cool-but give me some drama (and I don’t count haircuts as drama). T.Brady is one of those golden boys who everyone is genetically predisposed to liking (women want me, men want to be me, and animals want to learn to talk so they can joke with me).

So guess what Tommy-you, my friend, can join the likes of cat lovers, cilantro, and bandwagon fans in a place I call Hateville, USA. Population-not me. I hear the weather is nice there.

And in my desperate quest to shun perfection I enter a stage of life every girl goes through: bad boys. (Don’t worry mom and dad it’s just a sports metaphor). No, I do not believe Tiger Wood’s indiscretions are becoming, or Big Ben’s allegations are acceptable, or that Michael Vick’s actions are warranted. But yes, I like these guys. Unlike Tom, they have struggled through media barrages, fan hate mail, and management questioning. Focusing on just the game is not an option.

Did they do this to themselves? Yes. Their off-course, off-court, off-field transgressions have led them to the place they are today. Led to doubts and dissenters. Led to trade talks and PTI arguments. But I have seen these bad boys grow. Grow and learn. Tom is the same man that wore the maize and blue in 1999. Twelve years later he is still with the same team who drafted him, he has not changed. More facial hair, more wins, and superbowl rings. But he is the same.

The bad boys have changed. I want these bad boys to win: to win games, to win support and to eventually, win respect. Before they win I want them to understand. Understand respect, understand humility, understand the chance they have been given, and even more, understand the second chance they have been given.

I hope the bad boys are going to make it.

Bad boys, bad boys whatcha gonna do?