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. 

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?

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.

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.

baseball: my favorite child.

I love sports. I love the way they mirror life. With imperfections and flaws, spontaneity and luck, heros turned into zeros, and nobodies becoming somebodies. Sometimes I like to think of myself as a mother, loving all sports equally. But secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, every mother has her favorite. My favorite child has to be baseball.

I remember the first time someone asked me why I like baseball so much, it seemed odd to watch a girl enthralled in every pitch, jumping up and down, holding her breath, but that’s me. Every game seems to deal me at least one moment where I want so badly to close my eyes, but you have to keep them open, like, watching a scary movie through the cracks of your fingers.

And at first, I couldn’t answer their question. Why do I like baseball? Then I thought, baseball is life. A sport where imperfection is the norm and failure surrounds you. Where even perfect has its flaws. In the moment, it seems like every mistake matters, every strike, every pop fly. But in the end, you have time, you make the mistakes and move on, there will be another pitch, you’ll get another chance. And with every swinging strike or foul ball, you learn, you grow. You play every game like it’s your last one, but its not.

That’s why I love baseball, you get a little slice of life with every pitch.