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. 

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.