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. 

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.

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.

"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.