Full Court Press

I know a lot about sports. But there is only so much information my 3 pound 7 ounce brain can retain (the average brain weighs three pounds…no big deal or anything). So what does this mean? Some sports get left in the wayside, forgotten, neglected like ¾ of the clothes in my closet. Basketball, you are one of those sweaters that just does not fit right.

Yes, I know the basics. I get the difference between a two-pointer and three-pointer (really complex subject right there folks). And I know what a rebound, a block, a free-throw, and a field goal (that doesn’t go between the uprights) is. I can tell you where the key is, what’s happening when someone is driving in the lane, what’s a charge, what’s a foul and what’s a pick. I’ve seen dunks, and blocks, and people throwing it down. I even enjoy the occasional precipitation when someone decides to make it rain. But basketball… just not my thing. To me: Kobe is a scumbag, Lebron is a traitor, Lamar is that guy married to the Kardashian, BirdMan is basketballs Josh Hamilton, Dwight Howard has huge hands and a little head, and that right there is about the point is which my knowledge stops. Basketball will always be the jeans that fit a little too loose around the waist, the t-shirt that cuts at that awkward spot, or the shoes that just don’t match anything.

So now that you know my knowledge base when it comes to that ball and basket sport, take what I am about to say with a grain of salt, or a whole salt shaker for all I care, you know what, take it with the whole carton (you know the one with the little girl in the rain gear with the umbrella). Shoot, anyway… I like the full court press. I like it a lot. Every time I see it my heart flutters a little faster. After this blog gets me a successful sports writing career, and then I start getting coaching offers because they are just amazed by my insight (this happens all the time…doesn’t it?). I know nothing of strategy or game plans, or plays or anything that a good coach would need, but that doesn’t matter. My team (let’s be honest, if I ever coach a basketball team they will be younger than 8 or older than 58) will be fit. Why? Because I love the full court press. I don’t even know why teams full court press, but whenever I see it, I like it. It shows me they want to win, they have the heart, the passion, and the stamina.

Picture this: my youths/elderly people on the ice, I mean court, after a hard-fought tie, and me, older and wiser, with the whistle… they’re running suicides, “again”, “again”, “again”…the lights go out, “Hey Herb, I mean Wynne, it’s getting late” , my assistant coach says (I’m thinking Coach K) …”again”, “again”. Why? Because the legs feed the wolf. And after a few nights of suicides, we will full court press the crap out of everyone we see. I love the full court press.

Take it or leave it, and just hope I am never your coach, church leagues and YMCA’s across America better be on their toes.

There is a lesson an 11-time All-Star can learn from a mutant dog...

I had a puppy once. Her name was Oliver. Those of you who know Oliver may also know that she was not just any golden retriever she was actually part mutant. The mutant portion of Oliver caused her to expand horizontally to at least three times the normal width of a dog. But Oliver embodied one of those traits that dogs are known for, she was loyal. Boy, was she loyal. Having a bad day? Oliver, the mutant dog, would sense this and jump on your lap effectively crushing all the bones in your legs, but that is not what mattered, the fact that she was always there for you is what was important. Moral of the story: Oliver was loyal.

You don’t see loyalty in sports that often. Money is what runs the game. We saw King James turn his back on the city that built him. Joe Montana spent his last two years in Kansas City red and gold. Michael Jordan join the Washington Wizards, and so many more. So when are these sports stars going to learn that breaking hearts in the cities you leave behind isn’t the way to go, the way to go is jumping on their lap no matter what. Because these teams built you, they trusted you, they embodied you, and sometimes, the irrational sports fans that you’ve never met, those fans loved you.

Thank you Rockies and Troy Tulowitzki for signing a ten-year deal. And I know this deal has its flaws, but the loyalty warms my heart (that happens to be freezing because of this Colorado weather). And the fact that I get to clap to the Tulo beat for another ten years…score. I am glad to see that Tulo will be wearing purple and black until he is the ripe old age of 36. Speaking of 36 year olds, Derek Jeter, the face of the Yankees has a chance to retire in his pinstripes as a Yankee hero… or he can break the hearts of a city of fans (angry fans, mean fans, passionate fans, fans who probably have access to illegal weapons. Just kidding, sorta). Let’s see where his loyalties lie. Do they lie in his wallet (that’s just a metaphor guys, there is no wallet that would fit twenty million dollars) or in the pinstripes that built him? Will DJ leave the house that Ruth built and leave behind a team he has devoted 16 years to, and won 5 world championships with? We will just have to wait and see. I pose this as a challenge to Derek: stay loyal my dear friend.

Just stand by me.

"It ain't intramurals, brother"

I imagine you all thought I would have some pretty strong opinions (and witty comments) about the recent firing of Dan Hawkins. Or the event that preceded this firing (aka the straw that broke the buffaloes back, and that is a lot more straw than you need to break a camel’s back, for those of you who don’t know your animal-deadlift stats). The final straw? The fact that the awful Kansas Jayhawks scored 35, yes 35 unanswered points on my Colorado Buffaloes in under 14 minutes, yes under 14 minutes. I’m not talking about a basketball game, because as my March Madness bracket from last year will tell you, I believe Kansas has a good basketball team (thanks for nothing Jayhawks, I had you going to the final).

Anyway, this was their football team. Yes, the football team with a brand new coach who lost 6-3 in their opener to North Dakota State (sometimes, I forget North Dakota is even a state. Bravo, Kansas, bravo). And just a reminder after seeing that score, first, as previously stated, I’m not talking basketball, and now I will let you know I am not talking soccer, or baseball either, still talking football: 6-3 final score.

Did you know, that before beating my Buffs 52-45 they had scored a total of 40 points in the 4 games preceding it? The opposing teams…. had scored 187 points. So when I use the word “awful” to describe the Jayhawks, I don’t mean to offend them or you, if you're one of the 7.2 Jayhawk football fans. I’m just here to state the facts. If nothing has been obvious to you through this blog I hope you see that I am a neutral party when it comes to all sports. (Yes, that was complete BS). But, my oh my, if the Jayhawks are awful, what does that make the Buffs? I don’t think a thesaurus will help me with that; there isn’t a word that has been created in the English language to describe what they have become. If I were creative enough to make a witty word that combines horrendous, awful, embarrassing, painful, piss-poor, and craptastic…that’s what the Buffs would be. So there is my non-opinion on that.

But like I said earlier, I am practically numb to the pain they cause me when they lose. For a regular fan, or perhaps someone who isn’t a complete sports cynic, this was probably a sucker punch loss, yes the kind that feels like a donkey, possibly a bucking bronco has rammed its hoof into your chest and you have no arms to protect yourself (because you are so excited that you are about to win that your arms are raised above your head because you are 28 points ahead in the 4th quarter and there is no possible way that you can lose, oh wait…). Anyway, piss off Buffaloes, you suck and anger me but cause me no pain. Dan Hawkins, I have no opinion on this, I saw this coming, I’m just surprised it took so long. The Hawk seems like a good coach he just couldn’t handle the wild west (since there are Buffaloes in the wild west?). Anywho, there you go, my opinion-less opinions on the Hawk and the Buffaloes.

So Dan, I will leave you with a great intramural team name for the flag football team you’ll be coaching next year: the Stepfathers you hate us because we beat you. Because ask Cody or the rest of the Big 12, the real father ain't doing no beating.

Then, the clouds opened up and God said, "I hate you Alfalfa"

The last time I wrote, I spoke of love, the kind of love that can happen between a small-town girl and a big league team. I’m going to pull a 180 and go in a different direction. There are some things that I hate. I used to say that you can’t hate something unless at one point you cared about it. I was naïve, I was young, I was wrong. I hate the San Francisco Giants. I hate that they pretend they are a team of mis-fits. Last time I checked “mis-fits” don’t make millions of dollars a year. Last I checked a team of “mis-fits” doesn’t have a rookie of the year candidate, and a 2-year Cy Young Award winner. In case you forgot, the Giants won their division, they won MY division, no group of rejects has ever done that in my recollection. And “mis-fits” don’t win the World Series.

I hate bandwagon fans. Being a sports fan means dealing with the pain and the losses, and never losing faith. This past weekend the Buffs, the Broncos, and the Steelers lost. So what do I do come Monday? I become a fan of the Oregon Ducks, the New England Patriots, and the Baltimore Ravens. Oh, and also, those San Francisco Giants are sure looking good these days. WRONG. My emotional well-being is connected to my teams. Is this ridiculous? Of course it is. But like any boyfriend, I will not dump them for the newer model simply because they were a loser that weekend (at least I think that is how those bf/gf relationships work). If you jump on the bandwagon you sure as heck better hold on, because once you’re on, there should be no letting go. If you decide to be a Giants fan tomorrow, you better be one for the rest of your life. When they win 80 games next year and don’t get over .500, you better be wearing that black and orange, because that is what fans do. They hold on, they tighten their grip, and they buckle their seatbelt when they open the door of the bandwagon. Let this be a warning to all of those considering catching the bandwagon.

I hate losing. Oh boy do I hate losing. It’s like they don’t even care how I feel. My teams, my loves, my boys: they just keep losing. I will not dump them, I will not let go, but I hate losing. There are many types of losses. Recently, my teams have been, how do I put this nicely, been getting completely and utterly dominated. The sucker-punch phase is over, its just a pure beating now. (A sucker-punch loss is the one where you have a chance, there is an opportunity to win, so you raise your hands above your head in jubilation….and bam, a punch right to the stomach, you bend over in pain, it hurts, you are pretty sure you can’t breathe. That’s what a sucker-punch loss feels like.) It’s to that point where my body is so calloused from the beatings that they almost stop hurting, I’ve lost all emotional affect. But I still hate losing and I hope I never see the day when the losses completely stop causing pain (ask any Cubs fan how that feels). So there you go, I hate the Giants, I hate bandwagon fans, and I hate losing. I also hate cilantro, and I hate cats, but I'll save that rant for another day.

Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me.

Your Love Is My Drug

I have never been in a “real” serious relationship, nor do I feel I ever need to be in one. Because I know love. And while some may say I tell myself this to rationalize my un-date-ability I think it adds to my charm. And we all know I am freaking charming. But let me lay it out, nice and simple, for you: Sports are the love of my life. And I have felt their love for a long time. Men make you laugh and cry, give you moments of intense euphoria and supreme disappointment. And guess what? So do sports, but there is always another game looming in the distance to help remedy the heartache the previous one has dealt you. Some might say…There is always another fish in the sea.

Call me a cynic, but I think that loving someone means being able to love them more than they can ever make you hate them. And it’s just at the moment when I begin hating sports that they sweep me off my feet again. The moment when you enter the bottom of 9th inning down 9-3, disappointed and upset, when suddenly the Colorado Rockies spurn a comeback, raking in 9 runs in a single inning, and I fall in love all over again. It’s September and you’re in the hunt, but they lose. And again, they lose, and maybe even again, and why not throw a fourth loss in for good measure. It’s this moment when I want so bad to break-up with the Rockies, break up with sports. Tell them not to call me, tell them I can’t believe they would do this to me. Its not you its me. But I hold on. Because that’s what love is all about, holding on when you want to let go forever.

Sports deal you hard blows and make you check your ego at the door (for example, hypothetically, of course, how much can one really cheer for a team that’s third, or is it fourth (?) string quarterback, Charlie Batch, will be playing because qb2 and qb3 decided to get hurt, while qb1 is serving a 4 game suspension for some disgustingly unlawful behavior). But you cheer anyway, because you’re in love. The flaws are masked behind the little quirks you find, like how they wear their socks (Dexter Fowler), or how right when you try and let go, they sweep you off your feet. Because its just that, sports will always be there when you need them.

All you need is love.

how boring

So I did some blog reading today (very hipster of me, I know), and to my surprise I discovered something, like a slap to the face, or what I imagine a line drive to the nuts feels like. My blog is boring. I can’t believe one of the four people who read this darn thing haven’t told me. Who am I to be giving life advice and framing it in mildly-witty metaphors about sports? I don’t even know what I am doing with my life. Maybe someone should’ve stopped me somewhere and told me this. But there is something else I know, and the four of you may also know, I’m stubborn. So, I’m going to keep writing, and keep sharing my mind-altering parallels between the sports world and the real world. Take it or leave it, this is what I’m doing. And I bet Alanna Rizzo’s blog would suck fifty times worse than mine does. (Another note about me: I have a personal vendetta against FSN reporter Alanna Rizzo: she is boring, her hair always looks like crap, and she is annoying, oh, and her hair always looks like crap.)

Armando Galarraga: The Perfect Man

I’m not writing a romcom (for those of you who don’t normally speak in abbrevs this means romantic comedy). Nor am I browsing match.com, I’m doing what I normally do…watching sports. And in a moment of human imperfection came real humility, and real perfection. Its June 2nd, 2010, and unless you live under a rock you know that Jim Joyce blew a call on the final out of the Indians-Tigers game. The Detroit Tigers still went on to win the game 3-0. But this wasn’t just any out…it was the 27th out of a perfect game. Armando Galarraga had seen 26 batters come to the plate, and 26 walk away. Galarraga touched first base, ball in hand long before the runner ran over the plate, but Joyce called him safe, and the perfect game was gone. Dissipated into thin air as well as Galarraga’s place in history. But Galarraga and Joyce created history anyway.

Today in sports nothing matters but the numbers, the wins, the stats. Athletes cheat, lie, and dope to get the numbers, wins, and stats. But my perfect man finally successfully defined what athletes should strive to be, a sportsman. And standing behind first base on the play and behind Galarraga in the movement towards true humanity in sports was Jim Joyce. Its hard for anyone to admit when they make a mistake, but Joyce stood up for himself. Stood up for Galarraga. Stood up for the game of baseball when he admitted his flaw, his mistake.

Human error is the reason we love sports, and the reason we hate them. And on June 2nd we learned the proper way to deal with an error of this type, with humility. In a world overflowing with technological advances, the best way to fix a situation isn’t to rewrite history, but to accept history, accept human error and grow, learn, and, overall, be human. Galarraga and Joyce will forever be linked because of the imperfection of a perfect moment. Together they created history, and a history one can only hope will be repeated. A history that shows sportsmanship unseen in sports today.

"people ask me what i do in winter when there's no baseball. i'll tell you what i do. i stare out the window and wait for spring." - rogers hornsby

Today was the day. The red-letter day, all the red x’s on the calendar finally culminated at the big red circle: opening day. It’s the day I wait for all year. All the emotions are remembered. The emotions that have lied dormant since October rise to the surface. I did some screaming, and cheering, and I think I even growled at the electronic box showing the Yankees and Red Sox playing the first game of the year.

And while I will choose not to disclose the score, in the fear that my fingers will change it to suit my desire, let’s just say, today, the score doesn’t matter. Today is about recognizing what is before us: eight months of baseball. Eight months of yelling at the screen in hopes that I can cause an error in the outfield, or make my runner just a little bit faster as he rounds third. Eight months of running errands with the radio turned up, visualizing every pitch in my mind. Eight months of guts and glory. Eight months of wins and losses. And at the end, I will have a new set of memories.

This is the day I have looked forward to since the last strikeout for my beloved Colorado Rockies last year. A Troy Tulowitzki strike-out that nearly brought me to tears. It runs through my mind like a broken cassette tape, over and over. But today marks the day where the last, heart-breaking memory I have of the Rockies will soon be erased and be replaced with breathtaking action from 162 games. They will make me mad, and sad, and happy and elated, because with every pitch they’re giving me a little slice of life. Baseball is here.

To me, it also means spring is really here. The sound of Sweet Caroline ringing through the stadium not only symbolizes the final inning of the first game, but the sunshine that lies before us. Not only will my days be full of pop flies, strike-outs, home-runs, and those oh-so-tight baseball pants, but its spring, the birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and the flowers are a-bloomin’ (for once I am sounding like a girl). I love spring and I love baseball and when the two come together, they form a matrimony made in heaven.

And now it is here, the day I have thirsted for. And when I look back in eight months it will be all but a distant memory. And there will be a new red circle on my calendar.

unacceptable loyalities.

Being a sports fan is advantageous in many ways. The players have to worry about the media, the politics, the coaches. There is a rulebook chalked full of personal fouls, ground-rule doubles, offsides, goaltending, and unsportsmanlike conduct. Lucky for the fans we don’t have to worry about 15-yard penalties, fines for technicals, or what any coach thinks. But we have rules. Boy, do we have rules. As a sports fan, it is hard to admit when sports have steered me wrong, but they have. I have broken one of the cardinal rules of sports fandom, and I am ashamed. Where did I go wrong?

What happens when everything you trusted as good and fair did you wrong? It’s like waking up in your grandmother’s house and looking around because you didn’t remember falling asleep there. It’s strange, unfamiliar, and confusing. And then it hits you, you know where you are, but why are you there? I am stuck, and I don’t know how I got here. It’s like I was kidnapped in the middle of the night and tucked snugly into a plush bed at grandma’s house. The sun shines in, the blanket is pulled up over my eyes, but suddenly it’s ripped away. I am the fan of two rival teams. How did this happen?

There is no defining moment I can turn to and blame for this problem. No game, no play, no coach, no player. I don’t know how I got here, but here I am, stuck. Cheering for the Penn State Nittany Lions and the Michigan Wolverines. I want to blame my parents; believe that I was born bleeding navy and white, from my father, and blue and yellow, from my mother. But we all bleed red, no matter how many t-shirts we have that say differently. How could they let this happen?

I have tried to remedy this serious sports illness, but I am think I am suffering from a terminal disorder. I’ve used every trick in the book, done all the prescribed methods: nothing works. I’ve judged character, coaches, jersey style, individual players, play calling, location, and it all comes down to the same result: I am the fan of two rival teams. No solution can fix this detrimental problem. As I write this I am addressing what most say is the first step to recovery: denial. I no longer deny this unforgivable sports sin. I hope the next eleven steps come soon, painless, and easy. But for now, all I can do is admit it: I am the fan of two rival teams.

I dread the day of this Big Ten matchup every year, it reminds me of my wrong doings. Like the pictures from the nights you’d wish to forget, or the camera-caught speeding ticket that gets mailed to your front door. You know it’s there and you’re the culprit, but maybe, just maybe, if we don’t think about it, it will go away. But it doesn’t, there it lies dormant, ready to strike and remind you that you have done wrong. Watching your teams tackle eachother, the colors bleeding together, and then it comes back: I am the fan of two rival teams.

So as I sign off I wish upon you to forgive me, understand that I have tried to fix this. But I am the fan of two rival teams.