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.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
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.
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.
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