Thursday, February 14, 2008

Love Hurts

A lot of love gets lost on Valentine’s Day. Of course, every store’s display featuring an explosion of hearts and flowers, candies and Cupids will seem like it’s talking about love, but it’s only capturing one part of it. Romantic love is the kind we hear about, talk about, and search for, but few ever really discuss the love between friends. It evolves so effortlessly that people don’t even realize how much they love their friends and don’t think to tell them so… that is unless the unthinkable happens.

The pain of losing a loved one to death far exceeds anything I can imagine, but the loss of a friend can feel nearly as searing. People are afraid to talk about how badly it hurts to lose a friend for fear that they’ll look like a child crying in the driveway as the moving truck pulls away with their best pal in tow. However, the pain is even worse as you get older, because the people you call friends are the ones who truly know you as you’re finally learning to know yourself. A 5-year-old might trust a friend with a toy, but a 25-year-old will trust a friend with much more. And when you’re 5 and your friend steals your toy, you get over it and play together the next day. When you’re five, six, seven, or eight times that age and a friend steals your trust, it’s much more painful and difficult to get over.

This has nothing to do with sports, and yet it has everything to do with the conversation we’re having today about two prominent athletes who traveled from the mound to the Hill to speak their versions of the truth, neither of which sounds anything like the other.

I’ve read no fewer than a dozen different columns on the steroids hearing that involved Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte, so I’m not going to rehash the details, the lies, or the fireworks, but I want to talk about the shattered friendship of Clemens and Pettitte.

Anyone who followed the sport knew that these two remarkable athletes were the best of friends. When Clemens decided to un-retire the first time, the discussion first centered on being closer to his family, but then immediately turned to his desire to play with Pettitte in Houston. They were like peas in a pod, which is why in part it’s so hard to believe the testimony on Wednesday, but which also makes it impossible for these two men not to feel like they’ve lost more than their integrity in this situation.

They’ve lost each other, and from what I know of losing a friend... that hurts like hell.

When Clemens spoke of Pettitte at the hearing, he said, “Mr. Congressman, Andy Pettitte is my friend. He will – he was my friend before this. He will be my friend after this.”

What’s not reflected in the transcript is the stumble and the pause before Clemens was able to choke out the last sentence. In that one moment, Clemens, who for the remaining four and half hours looked like a steel-faced, arrogant, tap-dancer, truly seemed like he was hurting... and not because Pettitte’s testimony damned his own reputation, but because this had blown up between the best of friends.

These two men genuinely cared about each other and loved each other. Far greater friendships have dissolved for lesser reasons, so it’s hard to believe that they’ll be drinking beers and throwing baseballs together anytime soon. But when you brush away the lies, the hearings, the betrayals, and the drugs, you’re left with one sad truth. Both of these men are going through the worst ordeals of their lives, and they can’t turn to their best friend to talk about it.

And that has to break their hearts.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Two Seconds

When I opened one of my many email accounts last week, I was too lazy to take two seconds to open a message I had received from RedSox.com. I thought it was just another blurb about the state of the team and never gave any thought to the idea that it could contain potentially dream-fulfilling information. I didn’t even think twice about the deleted message after Izzie told me she had not been randomly selected to participate in the drawing for the opportunity to buy Red Sox-Yankees tickets for the upcoming season. It wasn’t until two days later, during that brief period of time at around 6:53 in the morning when I’m awake enough not to nick my leg while shaving, but sleepy enough to feel that the world isn’t quite real yet, that I remembered she said there was a coupon attached to her email. I’ve been jonesing for a new Sox cap, so I figured I could go back into my recently deleted messages to see if I had a coupon too.

When I got to work, I combed through my AOL account for the message, and there it was... but alas, no coupon. Instead I was congratulated for being selected to participate in that very same drawing for the chance at Sox-Yanks tickets at Fenway. Of course, it also meant five long hours spent staring at my computer in the Red Sox virtual waiting room on Saturday, but I was prepared to sacrifice.

By 11:45 am on Saturday morning, I was ready to go. My computer was on. The special email was open. I was in my newest Sox t-shirt. I was ready... ready to wait, that is. Matt Damon kept me company on Inside The Actor’s Studio for the first hour, so I felt that boded well for me, but my boredom spiked as the day dragged on. My only saving grace was that the sale was supposed to last from 12 to 5 pm, so as bored as I was, I knew it wouldn’t last all day long. But then the bait-and-switch came at 4:45 pm when a new message appeared, saying that they were extending the sale until 11 pm “for your convenience.” Gee, thanks for thinking of me.

Unable to sit still any longer, I took a dinner break and decided that if my chance came while I was out, then it wasn’t meant to be. But when I returned at 7:30, I found my computer in the same place I had left it, with the very same screen I had been staring at. I wasn’t nearly as religious about monitoring it that evening as I had been all day. I decided that it was okay to play Scrabbulous and check my email, that as long as I was careful, I wouldn’t accidentally click out of the waiting room altogether.

At 9:44 pm, I was sitting on my couch with my computer at my side. I figured it was high time I deleted some text messages, so I was fully engrossed in my phone when I happened to glance to my right. I was stunned to see a brand new page that said, “Exclusive Purchasing Something-or-Other.” I panicked. My hands started shaking, and my heart started pounding. I very carefully entered my email address and password, making sure that I didn’t hit one wrong key. I felt like Andie playing the skeleton piano … one bad note and the Goonies are toast. I tried my hardest to read all of the instructions, but my mind was racing. I was afraid to move around the pages too much for fear I’d get the virtual boot, so I clicked on the first Saturday in April. The page quickly changed to a purchase window and I selected my seats. Bleachers. Then onto my credit card info. It was all too easy and unbelievable. It seemed that after waiting ten hours, it took two seconds for me to buy tickets for one of the greatest events during the baseball season. I was speechless. I was stymied. And then I started to cry.

And now it’s back to waiting... 60 days and counting.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Damaging Double Entendre

The last time I wrote about female athletes using their body for exposure, I received many cogent responses both for and against my own position. One of the chief arguments in favor of Amanda Beard’s posing nude was that she was embracing the beauty and uniqueness of the female athlete’s form. I still don’t support this rationale, but I respect it and understand where its proponents are coming from. However, what I don’t understand is how a sports figure like Danica Patrick, who has the rare power to define how men and women view female athletes, could agree to participate in an ad like the one featured on GoDaddy.com and still have any self-respect for herself as a woman and as an athlete.

The GoDaddy.com ad that was barred from broadcast during the Super Bowl was meant to be a spoof and was by no means a subtle one, but apparently that’s their strong suit based on previous ads. I’m not going to recount the details because I’m sure you’ve either seen it or you’re going to go to the site now thanks to my free advertising, but suffice it to say that the commercial belittles and mocks women by utilizing a derogatory term for the female anatomy.

Gratefully, Fox had the decency not to air the commercial on broadcast television, but that didn’t necessarily lessen its reach. That same record-breaking audience went in record-breaking numbers to the website to see what the fuss was about.

In fairness, female athletes aren’t the only ones who sell their bodies. I recently opened an issue of the latest Vanity Fair and found a two-page ad featuring an underwear-clad David Beckham. While in many ways it’s no different from any provocative ad featuring a female athlete, the difference lies in the importance of the physique in defining these figures as athletes. When people talk about David Beckham, they’ll talk first about his skills, then about his appearance. When they talk about Danica Patrick, the first thing that pops to mind is attractiveness, not ability.

It doesn’t have to be this way, which is why her participation is so damaging. So few female athletes reach the status of household names, but those who do should see it as a chance to give back something more than entertainment on the track, field, court, etc. By accepting the offer from GoDaddy.com, Patrick condoned the notion that female athletes have to be sexy to be accepted, and while sexiness can be a powerful commodity, it does little to improve the lot of females in the sports world.

I’ve already established my position that it is the responsibility of athletes to be role models, but in this instance, I don’t think that’s limited to just girls. Certainly the message to young girls is not favorable, but what does this say to young boys as well? That it’s okay to objectify women, to speak pejoratively about them?

Maybe I should lighten up... maybe I should just see the commercial as some clever joke that will be swept away from public memory as quickly as the ticker tape in New York, but I can’t. Athletes can be sex symbols, but the problem lies in when their status as sex symbols takes precedence over their abilities as athletes.

Monday, February 4, 2008

The Super Bowl Diary

In an homage to Bill Simmons, a.k.a. ESPN’s The Sports Guy, I have decided to keep a running diary of the female fan’s Super Bowl Sunday. So the party begins with my dusty 27-inch TV, my computer, one solitary Sam Adams Light, and a tray of little wieners.

But first let me establish that I’m rooting for the Giants for four reasons: 1.) I don’t like the Patriots because they are cocky; 2.) I don’t like the Patriots because Tom Brady is a mirror-hogging pretty boy; 3.) I don’t like the Patriots because Bill Belichick is an arrogant cheater; and 4.) I’m a Dolphins fan who is clinging to their streak more tightly than Huckabee and his presidential delusions.

And when you stop laughing about the Dolphins, feel free to continue reading.

10:39 am: I’m staring at the many hats hanging amongst my purses on the Container Store apparatus rigged to my closet door. A usually mindless decision has now become a source of consternation. Do I throw on my well-worn Sox cap and run the risk that others will mistake my allegiances in the big game? Just because you're a fan of one, doesn't make you a fan of the other, but others wrongly believe that. Five minutes later, I walk out of the door in a Binghamton University ballcap and a bright blue t-shirt.

10:51 am: I encounter the only person I will see all day in any type of Patriots garb. He glares at me from the back of the Starbucks line, but I respect him for his wardrobe choice. Note to Patriots fans: go buy some gear and stop wearing Red Sox stuff. You're giving Sox fans a bad name.

1:46 pm: Not one jar of queso remains in Our Nation’s Capital. I consider this to be a national emergency.

3:05 pm: While sitting on my front stoop, enjoying the day, I have seen three people walk by in Sox caps. I’m still supporting the Binghamton Bearcats.

3:54 pm: Just flipped on the Fox pre-game show. There’s Ryan Seacrest on the red carpet. Maybe instead of Bud Bowl, we could have Celeb Bowl. No doubt, Ryan would be the scrawny kicker who shanks it at the end and leaves the field for a cabin in Montana to hide in shame.

3:59 pm: I just found the Super Bowl column I wrote last year and check out what I wrote, “Let me establish that I am not a Peyton Manning fan. Frankly, I’d rather see Eli out there because there’s something special about the kid brother, something he hasn’t shown as of yet, but if Peyton ever gets the monkey off his sloping shoulders, then someday it will be Eli’s time.” My roommate just called me Nostradamus.

4:13 pm: Only I would find the Caribbean World Series on TV and breathe a sigh of relief on Super Bowl Sunday. Like an oasis in the desert, I tell you.

4:53 pm: Ryan Seacrest asks Samuel L. Jackson if the Patriots are the best team ever. I hate that question. There’s no way to measure that because 5 million variables go into a winning team’s season. I mean, that’s like asking if Britney is the craziest person ever.

5:56 pm: Crushing revelation. I have little wieners, but no crescents. What’s a pig without a blanket?

6:11 pm: Why is Tom Brady the only Patriot not wearing his helmet coming out of the tunnel? Is that so we can all see his pretty face? Or is that so all of his baby mamas can say, “Look... that’s what your daddy looks likes.”

6:15 pm: Kraft Foods has a wonderfully informative website. If you accidentally leave Velveeta cheese out, it will not kill you. Of course, I haven’t eaten it yet and I have to wonder if it’s really cheese.

6:18 pm: We get a close-up of Eli. Is it me, or does he look like Jim from The Office?

6:24 pm: Jason Taylor of the Miami Dolphins is the Walter Payton Man of the Year. Whaddya know? The Dolphins did represent at the Super Bowl after all!

6:25 pm: The ref doing the coin toss has been in the business for 18 seasons and this is his first Super Bowl. Makes you wonder if he’s like the Susan Lucci of Super Bowl refs.

6:26 pm: I’m officially tuning out all House commercials.

6:28 pm: Praise the Lord! Tom Brady is pain free. I can sleep tonight. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say New England has a preoccupation with feet. First Curt’s bloody sock, now Brady’s boot.

6:30 pm: Suddenly I feel like John Favreau watching Rudy on the field. Eli’s so little!

6:30 pm: So glad that Bill Belichick dressed up for the occasion. At least we can thank our lucky stars that he doesn't wear cut-off sweatpants.

6:38 pm: We get our first glimpse of big brother Peyton in the box looking downright Cantonesque in his blazer.

6:41 pm: Eli and the Giants are off to an amazing start, capping off their drive with a field goal. The announcers quickly cover up the frighteningly easy time the Giants just had getting downfield by lauding the Patriots for stopping Manning and Co. in the red zone. But Patriots fans just got the uh-oh feeling.

6:47 pm: The Patriots take command of the ball, and the lovefest begins. The announcers stop just short of saying that the Patriots could defeat Jesus and the Apostles on the gridiron.

6:48 pm: Did anyone else find the Underarmour commercial disturbing in a brainwashing sort of way?

6:51 pm: The new world has arrived. We can now watch all of the Super Bowl ads on MySpace during the game. The entire West Coast just asked, “So then why are we watching the game?”

6:53 pm: Glamor shot of Brady’s ankle. Gag me.

6:57 pm: I’m now trying to figure who’s duking it out at the end of the 1st quarter in my Super Bowl pools. Suffice it to say, it’s not me.

6:59 pm: The Doritos girl who got a record deal is now on. See also: Michelle Branch.

7:00 pm: We’ve had only 2 possessions in the 1st quarter which is a Super Bowl record. I really wish they would cut away to the statisticians the way they cut away to the director’s booth at the Oscars. I want to see smoke coming from the ears of the guy whose job it is to look that up.

7:13 pm: A high five between a Dalmatian and a Clydesdale ranks high on the cute scale.

7:17 pm: I can’t wait to see Leatherheads with the U.N.’s Messenger of Peace. Anthony Edwards just hurled something at his television.

7:23 pm: By far the worst time to eat dinner. First commercial… a heart leaps out of a woman’s chest and heaves itself across the floor. Next... a pack of reptiles dance to Thriller. I’m repulsed and try to down the rest of my blanketless pigs staring at my feet.

7:26 pm: Brady sacked twice in a row. I haven’t seen anything that funny since I watched the Sarah Silverman/Matt Damon song on YouTube.

7:27 pm: Time to multi-task. I just started a Scrabbulous game.

7:32 pm: Revelation #2 of the night: if the score is 14-3 Pats at the half, I win a portion of my pool. But I’m torn because I hate the Patriots like I hate the Yankees... okay, well maybe not that much, but close.

7:41 pm: Is it even necessary to have Justin Timberlake do anything in his commercials? He could be reading an Ikea manual in a spider hole and all of America would still stop whatever they’re doing to hang on his every word. Save the money on the production values, guys.

7:41 pm: The Doritos mouse commercial is infinitely funnier if you’ve had mice in your house recently. Cake works just as well, by the way.

7:56 pm: We remain locked at 7-3 at the half, so I don't win. Izzie just texts to tell me that she did.

8:18 pm: I have now rejoined the game after laundry, a conversation with my Mom, a bathroom break, a heating duct check, a tantrum for not winning the pool, and a Scrabbulous move.

8:29 pm: I just made the world’s worst queso with salsa and Velveeta. I dipped one Tostito and nearly wretched, so then I dipped another just to make sure. Then a third. I can now confirm that it is in fact the worst queso ever. If Ryan Seacrest interviews me, I’ll tell him that.

8:34 pm: Did Belichick just do “The Sprain” while demonstrating how the Giants had 12 men on the field? I think he did.

8:53 pm: Full-scale Scrabbulous action now, and I’m hoping to get lucky in the pool.

9:00 pm: The Patriots are killing me. I just needed one touchdown at the end of the 3rd, but no. Izzie informs me that she won again. I’m happy for her. Really. I am.

9:01 pm: Phone-a-friend about Scrabbulous. I’m tired of her short words that get her 24 points. My competitive rating is now at a 9.

9:07 pm: Mothers everyone swoon as Peyton cheers for his little bro.

9:10 pm: TOUCHDOWN GIANTS! I’m definitely not winning the pool now.

9:17 pm: Fact: Week 17, Pats regain lead with 11:06 left. Tonight, Giants regain lead with 11:05 left. Cut to the stat booth. C’mon! Just one glimpse!

9:19 pm: FYI... the punter for New England is bow-legged.

9:39 pm: NOW the Patriots score. I crumple up my pools and serve them like volleyballs across the room.

9:44 pm: I find the “Do not attempt” disclaimer amusing when the guy attaches jumper cables to his breasts. Sure... for a good time, call 1-800-TOWTRUK.

9:45 pm: Who knew Ben Roethlisberger liked Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain?

9:50 pm: Manning and Co. just pull of the most unbelievable play ever! Eli escapes the jaws of death and launches a bomb to Tyree. You know Peyton just turned to his mother and said, “I told you beating him up would pay off in the long run.”

9:53 pm: Eli Manning is the definition of scrappy tonight.

9:55 pm: TOUCHDOWN GIANTS!!

9:57 pm: We haven’t seen Peyton this excited since he pegged that kid in the back with the football.

9:59 pm: Brady sacked AGAIN!

10:01 pm: Cue the montage of the 1972 Dolphins. Don Shula and Larry Csonka just popped open a bottle of champagne.

10:02 pm: GIANTS WIN!

10:03 pm: Wait… there’s one second on the clock, but everyone except the band is on the field. And Belichick is... leaving?

10:04 pm: Final play of the game and the announcers note that Belichick is already in the tunnel, presumably ripping off the rest of his sleeves.

10:05 pm: Let the celebrating begin in New York and South Beach.

10:11 pm: Pitchers and catchers report in 12 days... in case you were wondering.