tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66489648690024459752024-03-19T23:41:34.794-05:00HerSportsPOVHSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-35634234628465626532010-01-23T10:24:00.002-05:002010-01-23T10:33:06.367-05:00A Matter of Faith<p><span style="font-size:85%;">There had to be a typo, right?</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">We’ve become anesthetized to the headlines in the sports world about steroids, salaries, guns, alcohol, gambling... you name it, we’ve heard it. We’re on a steady diet of pleas for forgiveness with a side dish of feigned tears and lumps in the throat. Nothing shocks us anymore.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Except when an up-and-coming major leaguer decides to give it all up to become a priest.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Come again?</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Wait... he must be in the middle of some big salary negotiations and he’s trying to up the ante. Maybe he foresees a position war in spring training, and he feels this might give him the edge. I know, he must have gotten caught doing steroids or a hooker and he figures this is the best way to sneak out of the game.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">It has to be one of those, right? Because who leaves the glitzy world of sports to pray all day? Instead of spending his Saturdays in a weight room getting ready to play ball in front of thousands of people, he’ll be sitting in a 3x3 booth, waiting to hear an old lady tick off the two sins she accumulated on her soul since her last confession the week before. Instead of pounding homers to increase his value, he’ll be doling out Rosaries to enhance his chances at the pearly gates.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Now that is shocking.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">It takes a special person to enter the religious life. We can hold the door for the neighbor behind us or write a check to our favorite charity, but at the end of the day, most of us are still looking out for numero uno. And there’s nothing wrong with that, but there is something more and Grant Desme is looking for it.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">His God-given gift for baseball was overshadowed by his love for God, which says a lot about him and more about the state of sports today.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">It’s the positive, decent stories that give us pause because we’re used to the bad apples.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Fans aren’t looking for players to be saints, but it would be nice to hear more stories about the good guys to restore our faith in the games we love.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-48940199269571235452010-01-09T11:29:00.002-05:002010-01-09T11:45:52.190-05:00Character-Driven<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Class acts are hard to come by. In the world of sports, it can often seem like looking for a needle in a haystack because they just don’t make for sexy headlines.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">But on Friday, ESPN.com posted the following: </span><a href="http://sports.espn.go.com/boston/mlb/news/story?id=4808346"><span style="font-size:85%;">Red Sox 3B Beltre empathizes with Lowell</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">A tad bit warm and fuzzy among headlines talking contracts and missteps, don’t you think?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The article goes on to say that before signing with the Red Sox, Adrian Beltre was worried about Mike Lowell. He empathized with Lowell’s injury and predicament. He did not want to barrel into Fenway as the third base savior while a man only two years removed from World Series MVP honors was pushed to the periphery. It was only after being assured that he would not be stepping on the toes of Lowell, that the Red Sox would continue to think of Lowell as more than a cog in the wheel of Boston’s drive that Beltre felt free to make the decision that was right for him and his family.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">We’re not used to hearing stories like this. All we see are numbers. How many years and for how much? Certainly other factors play into the decisions of players in contract negotiations, but we only hear about the bottom line and startling greed, which is what makes this story all the more interesting.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">It says a lot about Lowell and Beltre and speaks volumes about the men behind the players that the nature of their characters made headlines.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">They say that God always answers your prayers; it just might not be the answer you were hoping for. Like many other Red Sox fans, I’m praying that Mike Lowell stays in Boston, but the answer to our prayers might be that we’ve got another class act to follow in his footsteps.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-68676717999835289102009-10-05T16:56:00.002-05:002009-10-05T17:18:54.364-05:00Almost Full Circle<span style="font-size:85%;">
<p>I didn’t feel like a princess and I sure as hell didn’t look like one either.</p>
<p>Decked out in two arm bands, one knee band, a visor with dangling iPod wires, and mismatched athletic gear, I looked like a schizophrenic jogger. I didn’t have the look of a svelte runner nor did I look like the type of girl who would glisten.</p>
<p>At the 1st Annual Disney Princess Half-Marathon, I looked like what I was: a 30-year-old sweaty mess of an aging athlete who had gotten herself into something she couldn’t back out of.</p>
<p>But I did it. All 13.1 miles of it in the exact time I was aiming for.</p>
<p>It’s been seven months since that race, and somehow the time to recap the events escaped me, but this weekend I found myself thinking back to that dark, cold morning when I stood with over 6,000 fellow women waiting for their moment in the sun… both figuratively and literally.</p>
<p>We all gathered in the parking lot outside of EPCOT, stretching out our legs and our nerves. We were women from very different backgrounds who had embraced this challenge and made it our own.</p>
<p>When we crossed the starting line with the sun just beginning to light the distant reaches of the sky, we set our individual paces and started counting down the miles.</p>
<p>The first two miles flew by with Dusty at my side, but when I could sense that she had more in her tank than I did, I told her to keep on going and I wouldn’t be far behind.</p>
<p>I spent the next two miles watching the sky grow pink and stared in awe as I ran by the gates to the Magic Kingdom, a stretch we had driven on just the day before.</p>
<p>As I approached a turn just before Mile 4, I saw Dusty ahead. I was close enough to yell her name and see her wave, but far enough back that I wouldn’t be able to catch up. Something told me though that I might catch a glimpse of Izzie on that very same turn, and sure enough I looked back and spotted her green fleece in the crowd.</p>
<p>In a matter of minutes, we were running side by side. Together we watched as Cinderella’s Castle came into view, knowing that we were almost at the midpoint of this incredible journey. We passed Meaks with the trusty race tambourine, which fueled us for several more footfalls. And when we rounded the corner of Main Street, our eyes beheld a most uplifting site. Lined up on either side of the course were the Disney cast members, clapping, cheering, smiling. As we wound our way up the incline towards the castle, it was as if the pain in our legs just melted away. The adrenaline and excitement of running through the Magic Kingdom was second to none, and it made us believe that we were really going to do the impossible.</p>
<p>The further we got from the Magic Kingdom, the greater our awareness became of the pain coursing through our legs, but Izzie and I pushed on, urging each other to fight through the aching for just one more mile and then another one and then another one. At Mile 10, we spurred ourselves onward by saying we had the equivalent of one of our lunchtime runs left. Images of the Mt.Vernon Trail flickered in my mind… the airport fence, the port-o-potties, the river, the mile marker, the rusty bridge, the 14th Street Bridge, and back. Somehow the remaining distance didn’t seem so daunting anymore.</p>
<p>And then when the marker for Mile 12 came into view with the EPCOT sphere just beyond it, our energy reserves kicked in. One more mile to go. We were actually going to do this!</p>
<p>That last mile felt like the longest mile, with well-intentioned people telling us, “One more turn,” when in fact it was much more than that. But finally, there really was just one more turn and we could hear the sounds of the finish line ahead.</p>
<p>As we ran towards that pink banner that hung above the finish line, the banner adorned with images of Cinderella, I’d like to say I fully appreciated the moment, but the only thoughts going through my mind were simple ones. In just a few yards, I could finally rest my weary knees and I could finally let out a deep sigh of relief.</p>
<p>But when Izzie and I were reunited with our fellow princesses, Hoops, Cheesus, J-Woo, Kimpossible, and Dusty, the moment was magical and intoxicating. When I had started the journey, I thought it would be just a one-time thing, but as I stood with my dear friends near the finish line, I knew it was just the beginning.</p>
<p>And it wasn't long after that when I set a new goal.</p>
<p>* * * * * * *
<p>It was all supposed to come full circle yesterday. I was supposed to run the very race where this whole crazy scheme had first been hatched. I was supposed to rise early to compete in the 25th Annual Army Ten-Miler, but a not-so-funny thing happened on the way to the finish line.</p>
<p>I lost the drive.</p>
<p>I took a hiatus after the run at Disney World, but promised myself I’d get back on track. When I ran the Race For The Cure, that was supposed to kick-start the training again. Then I was going to wait until after my vacation. When I was seven weeks out, I knew I still had enough time to prepare.</p>
<p>But suddenly I found myself confronted with a decision on the night before the race: do what was best for my mind or what was best for my body. With great regret, I chose the latter. I hadn't ventured out in a month, and even then, it was only four miles. Physically I just wasn’t ready.</p>
<p>So what would have been the poetic book-end of a year of running turned into a quiet morning of reflection about the ebb and flow of dedication.</p>
<p>Now the half-marathon almost feels like a dream, but I want to have that dream again. Maybe the Army Ten-Miler wasn’t meant to be a book-end. Maybe it’s always supposed to be the motivator I need to lace up my sneakers and get back out there.</p>
<p>And maybe the circle wasn’t meant to close yet because there are still other races to be run.</p></span>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-59623671875789482802009-08-01T14:53:00.002-05:002009-08-01T15:00:48.842-05:00Hitting Close To Home - Epilogue<span style="font-size:85%;"><p>With two outs and one man on base, a familiar form walked towards the batter’s box.</p>
<p>From my seat in the upper deck directly behind home plate, it felt like I was watching something unfold from on high. I could see every section of Camden Yards. I could see into the Red Sox dugout. I could see people gathered on a balcony beyond the park’s perimeter. Everyone was waiting for this moment.</p>
<p>And then we heard it... a cacophony of boos echoing throughout Camden Yards as Big Papi stepped to the plate.</p>
<p>Without warning, a feeling of defensiveness, a feeling of loyalty surged up inside of me. The past 24 hours had seen Red Sox Nation reeling with the news that our beloved slugger might have made a mistake or might have been a liar, depending on whom you talk to and what you choose to think. But none of that mattered in that instant. We might be mad at Big Papi, but we’re not going to let anyone else knock him down, especially not the fans of a team that has been tainted by the very same cancer that is ravaging the sport.</p>
<p>As Papi went into his stance, a few people down in front of us stood up. Then a few more. Then Izzie, Dusty, Meeks, and I jumped to our feet. From our perch, we could see hundreds of other red shirts rise to applaud Papi, not with an ovation of affirmation because the jury is still out, but an ovation of support, an ovation that said we’re mad, but we still love you.</p>
<p>Papi struck out in that first at-bat, but would not make the same mistake the second time around. With Red Sox fans on their feet again and the cheers for him drowning out the boos, Papi drove the ball into the center field bleachers.</p>
<p>And as he rounded the bases, the words of detractors disappeared. The suspicions were erased. There was nothing but pure euphoria.</p>
<p>Eventually the reality returned though, but just as I had hoped, he had given me one more memory for the reel.</p>
<p>One day ago, I stood with my dearest Sox friends and together we watched Papi silence his naysayers with a single swing of the bat.</p>
<p>I just hope he continues to do so.</p></span>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-31944283877658650312009-07-31T00:00:00.001-05:002009-07-31T00:00:05.765-05:00Hitting Close To Home<span style="font-size:85%;"><p>Three weeks ago, I leaned forward in my seat in Section 8 of Fenway and watched Big Papi’s 1,000th hit as a member of the Red Sox fly out of the ballpark.</p>
<p>Nine months ago, I sat in the Fenway bleachers and watched his home run sail into the crowd, igniting one of the greatest comebacks in playoff history.</p>
<p>And three years ago, I stood on the walkway behind home plate at Camden Yards and stood in stunned disbelief when I saw him launch a ball out of the stands in person for the very first time.</p>
<p>I’ve been to scores of baseball games in my life and have seen many amazing plays, but Papi’s moments are always at the top of my own personal reel of witnessed greatness.</p>
<p>Which is why this hurts so much.</p>
<p>When I saw the headline, it was like staring at an eclipse. I couldn’t look away even though the words were searing my eyes.</p>
<p>But I wasn’t shocked. Frankly no one would shock me right now. The state of baseball today has left us fans jaded and mistrusting and I’ve read too much about Dominican baseball not to think that its favorite sons haven’t tried this or that to get ahead because the desperation can choke a man.</p>
<p>So no... I didn’t think Big Papi was untouchable, but the fact that his name is now linked to this scandal makes the sting feel a little worse.</p>
<p>Do I believe Papi? I don’t know.</p>
<p>But I want to believe in him... in spite of what the answers might be.</p>
<p>And I don't think that’s being blind, naïve, or misguided. That’s wanting to feel that same magic I’ve felt before when Papi crushes one out of the park.</p>
<p>So when I’m sitting at Camden Yards tonight, watching Big Papi lumber to the plate, adjust his gloves, spit into his hands, and clap twice before settling into the batter’s box, I probably won’t be able to put this debacle out of my mind, but you can bet the headlines will be replaced by the same prayers I’ve uttered hundreds of times before.</p>
<p>“C’mon, Papi. Please.”</p>
<p>And maybe he’ll give me another memory for the reel that will eclipse all of the headlines... even if it is only for the duration of a trip around the bases.</p></span>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-31557955129057155272009-03-17T09:08:00.002-05:002009-03-17T09:13:16.426-05:00Look How Far We've Come<span style="font-size:85%;"><p>You have to pick your battles when it comes to these things because no matter how many inroads are made, there are still inequities. We won “NCAAM” and “NCAAW” in the score crawl, but ESPN still lists “Women’s Basketball” under “All Sports.”</p>
<p>I wasn’t itching for a battle this morning, but that was before I randomly found myself on the NCAA website. The first line that greeted me:</p>
<p>“It’s The Girls’ Turn.”</p>
<p>Girls???</p>
<p>I just couldn’t contain my anger.</p>
<p>Female athletes do not deserve to be cast in a diminutive role as if their participation is cute and quaint. Just because the public interest in their competitions may not reach the same heights as the men doesn’t make their athletic efforts secondary. They are just as good, just as dedicated, and just as deserving of respect as the men. No one would ever refer in print to male collegiate athletes as “boys,” so why is it okay to do that to the women?</p>
<p>I can’t say that I’m surprised by the remark, but I am shocked at the source. The NCAA is supposed to be an organization that represents and promotes its athletes, female and male, equally, but I guess that mission took a backseat to one sexist writer’s need for a synonym.</p>
<p>The ironic part... the best collegiate basketball team in the nation is a women’s team.</p></span>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-56714195330262865032009-02-08T09:53:00.002-05:002009-02-08T10:15:57.528-05:00Plum Crazy<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I love the feeling of the wind whipping in my face, the blood pulsating in my cheeks, and the outright feeling of abandon my legs get when I shift into high gear. I check the air in my lungs, holding it until I can finally push out one great exhale at the end. There’s one last leap as my oversized foot stabs at the base and then my body pulls up like a horse in the Derby, finished with the sprint.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">That’s how I run. Anything more that 240 feet around the basepaths is too much for this girl.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I like sprinting. I do not like running. Long distance, that is. Even when I was a kid… give me a good 50-yard dash and I was golden. Put me on a track to complete my mile for the Presidential Physical Fitness test and I was miserable.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">But somehow I find myself training for a half-marathon.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Call it a lark. Call it an adventure. Call it a new year’s resolution.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">And please call it crazy.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Trying not to strain myself with a big ol’ pat on the back, I’ll admit that I excel at cheering for my friends in races, but when it comes to doing it myself… let’s just say that you’d have a better chance of finding me eating a jar of peanut butter with an expired Epipen at my side than contemplating a half-marathon.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Plum crazy.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">But on one perfect Sunday last fall, with sweat from the Army Ten-Miler still fresh on their brows, my friends Hoops and Cheesus told me about the first-ever Disney Princess Half-Marathon.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I stared at them in disbelief. Maybe that runners’ high everyone talks about was still in effect for them. I showed them the tambourine in one hand and the homemade signs in the other and said that I would be there to cheer them on like the good friend that I am, but that was it.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Then when I was out of earshot, Cheesus said to Hoops, “If she were really a friend, she’d get her ass out there and run.” Touché.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">They joked that maybe they could convince me to do it by saying it was like running around the bases 25,000 times. Instead of a starting gun, there could be the crack of a bat. Not a bad rationale, but it wasn’t enough to make me contemplate running 13 times the distance I had run in nearly 10 years... or ever.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">What eventually did?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">A mouse.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Even at 30, a trip to Disney World is a powerful motivator.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">It’s been almost 4 months since I took my first steps toward a goal I never envisioned, and I never thought I’d see the day when I could run 3 miles without stopping. I never thought I’d voluntarily brave single-digit windchills to stay on course. And I never thought I’d have a legitimate reason to buy the Nike running gear I so desperately drooled over.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">But here I am… exactly one month before the race… and I find that it doesn’t feel so crazy anymore.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-55028760694664014112009-01-22T23:23:00.001-05:002009-01-23T10:29:53.078-05:00100 Mea Culpas<span style="font-size:85%;"><p>There are no excuses.</p>
<p>The record of Dallas Academy’s girls’ basketball team was certainly no mystery to the team from The Covenant School when they took the court. Dallas Academy hadn’t won a game in four years, or the entire history of their program. The chances of an upset were subzero, so Covenant had nothing to fear.</p>
<p>But even if the Covenant coaches were concerned that the Dallas Academy girls may have spontaneously turned into mini-Michael Jordans overnight, when they went up by 10, then 20, then 30, did they ever feel like they could relax just a bit? Did they think that maybe enough was enough? Apparently not. They only let up when the scoreboard read 100-0 at the final buzzer.</p>
<p>And now... as if the game itself weren’t bad enough, The Covenant School is formally requesting a forfeit, which is by far the greatest insult in this unfortunate situation of unsportsmanlike conduct.</p>
<p>For a winless team, handing them a win by forfeit is like throwing a heaping spoonful of salt into the wound. With no other victories to speak of, that one win will become a story. People will ask the Dallas Academy girls about that “1” in their record and they will have to tell the story of how there was once a school that ran up the score 100-0 and then had a fit of conscience.</p>
<p>Open wound, pour salt, repeat.</p>
<p>The forfeit is more about alleviating the guilt of the Covenant team than it is about doing right by Dallas Academy. If Covenant really wanted to do something for their opponents, they would just let the game fade away.</p>
<p>Or maybe they should have quit while they were ahead by less than 100.</p></span>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-37674511183584536452008-10-20T20:32:00.003-05:002009-01-13T22:58:02.547-05:00The Great Game 5 Comeback<span style="font-size:85%;"><p>I didn’t want to say it, but I couldn’t shake it. Deep down in the pit of my stomach, I just had a feeling. I knew the chances of the Red Sox coming back from a 3-1 deficit in the ALCS were slimmer than they had been in previous postseasons. Too many injuries, too many years in uniform, too many reasons why the younger, spunkier team would come into our house and drive the final nail into the coffin.</p>
<p>But still… I had a feeling.</p>
<p>I didn’t say anything to Izzie about it at first. I didn’t know if verbalizing it would cross that very fine line between faith and superstition. But finally I couldn’t keep it to myself. In the bowels of the T, I uttered only these words, “I have a feeling.”</p>
<p>She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. There was nothing either of us could say. Anymore words might rile the gods, and we had to keep them happy.</p>
<p>We had tested the gods already, and they weren’t pleased. As much as we wanted our beloved Red Sox to win, we knew they needed to lose one in the series to force a Game 5 and make our trip possible. So after winning Game 1, we both made decisions not to indulge our superstitions. No lucky bracelet. No lucky shirt. The fact is… we needed to jinx them.</p>
<p>And we did. For three straight games.</p>
<p>We were both ashamed and did everything in our power to reverse the pattern. I knocked on wood so many times that there was little anyone could say about the Red Sox that didn’t warrant my knuckles striking any solid object around me… wood or not. We had both gone through an exhaustive process of packing clothes that could only bring good luck. The Beckett and Ortiz jerseys stayed at home because they had not proven themselves to be charmed during the postseason. I said a Rosary the day of the game and wore lucky underwear. Anything and everything to make the gods happy, to let them know that we were sorry for testing them.</p>
<p>For six innings on the night of October 16th, the gods let us know that they were still forces to be reckoned with.</p>
<p>As we sat five rows behind the Rays bullpen in right field, I still had that feeling, but it was fading fast like the tattered photo of Marty McFly’s siblings tucked in his wallet. Without realizing it, I started composing the final paragraph of this column. I thought how I would write that even in spite of losing 7-0, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. October baseball, win or lose, is a moment to be treasured. Even though I wanted to give in to the burning in my tear ducts, I was glad to be there.</p>
<p>And then it happened. The gods knew I was truly penitent.</p>
<p>After enduring a brutal warm-up session during which he heard a taunt per pitch, Grant Balfour took the mound and coughed up a double to Jed Lowrie. Suddenly a crowd that had been given nothing to cheer for got a second wind. With two outs on the board, Crisp laced a single that sent Lowrie running for third. Then the definition of scrappiness stepped to the plate in the form of Dustin Pedroia. He connected for a single that scored Lowrie. Both the Sox and the crowd had finally showed up by the time Papi stepped to the plate.</p>
<p>I don’t remember seeing the swing, but I heard the roar and looked up to see Papi’s towering fly heading towards us in right field. I looked down at the fence, back at the ball, again at the fence, and back to the ball and finally it registered. That ball was gone. Izzie and I turned to each other in ecstatic disbelief. The unknowns around us suddenly became our best friends as we all exchanged high fives of euphoric glee. It was the Papi of old and we had a contest on our hands.</p>
<p>Balfour was gone after that, and Dan Wheeler never stood a chance. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have 38,000 people chanting your name in a cadence so derisive that you can’t function. Izzie and I joined the chorus around us, yelling, “Wheeeee-ler! Wheeeee-ler!”</p>
<p>Ball one to Jason Bay.</p>
<p>”Wheeeeeee-ler! Wheeeeeee-ler!”</p>
<p>Ball two.</p>
<p>Wheeeeeeeeeeeee-ler! Wheeeeeeeeee-ler!”</p>
<p>Ball three.</p>
<p>“WHEEEEEEEEE-LER! WHEEEEEEEEELER!”</p>
<p>Take your base, Mr. Bay.</p>
<p>We were in Wheeler's head.</p>
<p>And then J.D. Drew joined us there by slamming a shot into the stands just to the left of us.</p>
<p>7-5.</p>
<p>My phone was buzzing like mad in my pocket. Izzie and I were practically speechless.</p>
<p>Was this really happening?</p>
<p>Before we knew it, we had reached the middle of the 8th, and as Neil Diamond’s voice filled the air, the raucous crowd truly believed that things were oh so good now that the Red Sox had come within one run of tying the devilish Rays.</p>
<p>Fear still lurked in my gut though because Papelbon was done for the night, but I knew that no one else could have stopped the bleeding but him. He had come in at the right moment and I just had to believe that Justin Masterson could bring the magic.</p>
<p>With only one minor heart palpitation, Masterson retired the Rays, and before we knew it, the bottom of the 9th arrived. Nothing seemed impossible then. Not even when Pedroia and Papi went down. Not even when Youkilis grounded to third. Not even when the throw to first seemed to glide so perfectly toward the outstretched glove of the first baseman… and then it didn’t.</p>
<p>Pure pandemonium undulated through Fenway on the error. Youk took second, and the triumph was so close I could have seen it with my 20/200 vision in the dark underwater.</p>
<p>It was right there in front of us… which was exactly where Gabe Gross was when J.D. Drew’s game-winning hit skirted over the top of of his glove.</p>
<p>I didn’t see Youk cross the plate, but I knew as soon as I saw Drew's rope to right that he would. When I saw the ball miss his outstretched leather, my arms flew up in the air and my hoarse voice found its tune one more time to yell for the victors.</p>
<p>Izzie and I looked at one another and had no words. We slapped five with each other and anyone else in a five- seat radius. When the strains of “Dirty Water” became the soundtrack of the moment, we took our cue and began to sing along, jig in place, and fire off texts and calls to everyone who we loved and who loved the Sox.</p>
<p>It was the type of moment you want to wrap in tissue paper, tuck in a hope chest, and keep safe forever. It was transcendent. It was perfect. It was the epitome of October baseball.</p>
<p>Even when Izzie and I were walking to the T, joining the Red Sox cheers and bouncing along to the cacophony of horns in Kenmore Square, I don’t think either of us realized the true magnitude of what we had just seen. We knew full well we had been at a spectacular baseball game, but we didn’t understand that we had actually seen one of the greats. It wasn’t until the next morning when we read the paper and watched the recaps that the reality began to set in.</p>
<p>We had witnessed history.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>When Red Sox Nation finally landed back down on Earth, we discovered that our team, though gutsy and talented, still didn’t have enough gas to defeat the Rays. In the end, the Red Sox fell to Tampa Bay in the 7th game. Had they won, it would have made a nice footnote to The Great Game 5 Comeback, but it wasn’t meant to be.</p>
<p>I didn’t want to say it out loud, but I had a feeling.</p>
<p>I had a feeling it was someone else’s year to win it all, and even though I finally gave in to the tears, I was okay with that.</p>
<p>After all, you can’t ask for too much, and the gods had already given me more than I ever could have asked for.</p></span>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-62388324884649589672008-05-13T13:29:00.002-05:002008-05-13T13:32:39.313-05:00A Real Pro<p><span style="font-size:85%;">On a dark, windy night at Shea Stadium, pitcher Nelson Figueroa got a little flustered. Nothing was going his way, and when the claps and cheers from the Nationals’ dugout floated out to the mound, his blood pressure skyrocketed. </span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Feeling angry and superior, he lashed out at his National League East counterparts, saying, “They were cheerleading in the dugout like a bunch of softball girls. I'm a professional just like anybody else. I take huge offense to that. If that's what a last-place team needs to do to fire themselves up, so be it. They could show a little more class, a little more professionalism now that they won tonight, but in the long run, they're still who they are."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Them’s fightin’ words, Figueroa.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The U.S. Women’s National Softball Team appeared at the Nationals game on Sunday, and I would love to see what they had to say about Nelson Figueroa. These women are going to represent our country in the Olympics, but by Figueroa’s estimation, they’re immature and unprofessional.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">If Figueroa wants to insinuate that the Nationals are immature and unprofessional, he shouldn’t denigrate a sport that isn’t much different than his own and insult a group of athletes who are as dedicated and professional as he claims to be.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">If he had really wanted to make a point, then maybe he should have said they were cheering in the dugout like a bunch of Little Leaguers. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we all know that 6-year-old boys love to scream, “We need a pitcher, not a belly itcher!” as much as girls do.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">But before Figueroa hoists himself up onto that giant pedestal, maybe he should remember that he gets paid to play a game for a living. He’s not finding a cure for cancer. He’s not teaching kids how to read. He’s not patrolling a war zone praying that he and his buddies make it home in one piece. He’s paid to play catch.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">If the Nationals wanted to have a little childlike fun in the dugout, then let them. From an early age, we’re taught that games are supposed to be fun. Then again, we’re also taught not to be sore losers and not be sexist, but I guess Figueroa was absent that day.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-77634457682273698662008-04-05T10:51:00.012-05:002008-04-05T14:57:34.829-05:00The ABC's of a Very Nats Weekend<p><span style="font-size:85%;">When I walked out of my house on Saturday morning, the air was perfectly still and the sky was cloudless. It was a quiet Washington morning and I could practically smell baseball in the air. I had dreamt about baseball the night before... nothing specific, just that I was at the park with a wonderful sense of anticipation palpable even in my REM cycle.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">As I walked to Starbucks that morning with a sense of euphoria that couldn't be contained, I knew that I would be able to enjoy at least one game over the weekend and was hoping for the chance to see two. But even if that didn't happen, the reality that baseball was back and back at a new ballpark was all I needed.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Thankfully it did happen, and for sixteen blissful hours over the course of one weekend, I roamed around Nationals Park, saw two games, and soaked up everything in sight. However, I couldn't even begin to describe it all, so instead, here are the ABC's of a very baseball weekend at Nationals Park.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Awesome</span></b></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzYjUDhbjg_m6tFfc2tgFoinsY-8u6PMLsWQDVHzfQfZP9EnPIbnG5KRCcbnirZ2EOGl0FbOs0TzuhiWpCtzy-kWMiWosSrDmf7beAP5BC-6iudPzeAX8AfS7JbjwUtmFGO5YTVLbzWw/s1600-h/blog+1.jpg"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185838370409525218" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzYjUDhbjg_m6tFfc2tgFoinsY-8u6PMLsWQDVHzfQfZP9EnPIbnG5KRCcbnirZ2EOGl0FbOs0TzuhiWpCtzy-kWMiWosSrDmf7beAP5BC-6iudPzeAX8AfS7JbjwUtmFGO5YTVLbzWw/s200/blog+1.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">There are no other words to describe Nationals Park. When Dusty and I rounded the corner of M Street SE on Saturday and the navy blue seats came into view on, I actually choked up. I've been to some of the great parks and each holds a mystique that can't be put into words, but there's an unspeakable emotion that wells up inside when you step up to a brand new ballpark that's almost in your backyard. I've never lived so close to a baseball stadium in my life. I grew up looking forward to that one opportunity a year to see my favorites take the field, but this... this was a lot to take in. My eyes filled with tears as I walked through the turnstiles and beheld that bright green grass for what will surely be the first of many visits.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Boos for Bush</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I did not vote for George W. Bush the first time or the second time. I refused to buy a Nationals hat with a curly "W" because of what "W" is a synonym for in this town. I'm counting down the days until he ships back to Crawford. But I'll admit I didn't boo him when he took the mound to throw out the first pitch at Nationals Park. Putting aside the fact that I could barely feel my lips because of the biting cold and that I was too focused on snapping blurry pictures, I just couldn't bring myself to boo him because of the moment. It transcended partisan differences and presidential stupidity. It wasn't Bush on the mound, but rather the symbol of our nation, for better or worse.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Cold</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Did I mention how cold it was? I've had some chilly moments in my life and live in a house that is often too expensive to heat, but sitting in Section 401 of Nats Park in 30-something degree weather ranks high on the list of the coldest moments of my life. I knew from the exhibition game that it would be cold, especially since the opener was slated to start a full two hours later, so I made sure I was prepared. In order from skin to air, I was wearing a turtleneck, long-sleeve t-shirt, sweatshirt, Nationals ¾ length t-shirt, and my Lands' End coat. I dug out my old volleyball spandex shorts to keep my rear from freezing and wore two pairs of socks, one of which came to my knees. I even brought my fleece UConn blanket to wrap up in. And don't forget the scarf, earband, and gloves. I felt like Randy from <i>The Christmas Story</i>. I actually had a hard time bringing my phone to my ear because my arms were so bundled. It was a cold night as it was, but with my seat at the tippy-top corner of the park, I knew the wind would be my nemesis for the duration of the game.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Doubts</span></b></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwUqA66UK8xTWPEzIvDBvhvHWYe51F7uBcc0zW72YuZ0nnxElV-njzDF3a52RzvEiXlC8x8uW5bjHq5pFu7uvHUUKazrPTokUxK7F_zdhMUd6DvjHMKnY2LKQTiZ6xrImghS76T__v3w/s1600-h/blog+8.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185844911644717138" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwUqA66UK8xTWPEzIvDBvhvHWYe51F7uBcc0zW72YuZ0nnxElV-njzDF3a52RzvEiXlC8x8uW5bjHq5pFu7uvHUUKazrPTokUxK7F_zdhMUd6DvjHMKnY2LKQTiZ6xrImghS76T__v3w/s200/blog+8.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Ever since baseball landed back in the District, people have doubted its staying power and its ability to pack a house. When officials broke ground on the new ballpark, people doubted whether this state-of-the-art facility would live up to expectation without burdening the city with its price tag. The day Alfonso Soriano shipped out of town, people doubted whether the Nationals would ever have the star power to be contenders. But on the night of March 30, 2008, when the ball left the hand of Odalis Perez for the first time, it seemed that every one of those doubts evaporated. Washington loves baseball. Nationals Park is a wonder to behold. And the Nats are ready to take on the best of the best.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Embraces</span></b></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAR59eNoo596Lu-oxB0FjCC5-nGLQctZrbLmlriI61SgkuXt11jjHDVSuvEnQxzwrjqUFdzUGLi0MGTwPavc4XHavE53vgBAxszUVV0_c-VdvK4nsueP3XQzm1a6WrelrzGQJbC6l3xw/s1600-h/blog+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185838855740829682" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAR59eNoo596Lu-oxB0FjCC5-nGLQctZrbLmlriI61SgkuXt11jjHDVSuvEnQxzwrjqUFdzUGLi0MGTwPavc4XHavE53vgBAxszUVV0_c-VdvK4nsueP3XQzm1a6WrelrzGQJbC6l3xw/s200/blog+2.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I got three hugs and the warmest reception from every worker I encountered at the park. When I saw the security guard at the door of the team store, I said to him, "I remember you from RFK!" He looked at me for a moment and said, "You know... you look familiar to me too!" When I paused to make fun of this sign (because who has pizza and wine together?), another member of the staff put her arm around me and had a good chuckle also. It really did feel like I was being welcomed home.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Five Dollars</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">That's how much I paid for my Opening Day ticket. I was one of 400 people who stood in line on Sunday afternoon for a shot at being part of this historic event. Up until that morning, I wasn't 100% I would go. I knew from the previous night that it would be freezing and that once I bought the ticket, I had to go immediately into the park, which meant roughly 10 hours just hanging out and roaming around. But I also knew that I didn't have any plans and that I could either go stand in line or I could mope around my house all day because I wasn't at the park. I decided to take my chances, and I'm so glad I did. Now I'm the type of person who expects the worst and hopes for the best. Better to be prepared for disappointment than to be devastated by it... but I did have a feeling I would be there and my Mom had the same feeling, so who could argue with that?</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Greatest Love Of All</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">That's the song the gentleman in line behind me at Starbucks was singing on Saturday morning before my blissful baseball weekend had even begun. I couldn't quite place the song at first, but then the little voice inside my head started singing along.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Because the greeeeeat-est love of all is haaaaappening to meeee..."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I couldn't think of better song to begin the weekend.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Hot Dogs</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Call me crazy, but I was hoping for an RFK-style hot dog... stale bun, cold dog, too much ketchup. It's all part of the experience, and on Sunday, I got just that. At work the next morning, a few people asked me, "So how was the food?" I knew they were expecting stories about Ben's Chili Bowl, Hard Times, and Red, Hot and Blue, but instead I regaled them with tales of my fabulously imperfect hot dog. They were disappointed, but I wasn't.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Images</span></b></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkiG6miTCs9mDIcF6RVyW4t3cruL9e49IHbZJXPBLATy5SxveNpgcgiEbi_3g0BuJj34vqFVGTP3Kfhkja9TbJRvJ8Cw2GXzv_3fDpVGcKUPVq6KjgEpsSYeFeC0VvKF0Fa3mzy-57A/s1600-h/blog+3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185839315302330370" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkiG6miTCs9mDIcF6RVyW4t3cruL9e49IHbZJXPBLATy5SxveNpgcgiEbi_3g0BuJj34vqFVGTP3Kfhkja9TbJRvJ8Cw2GXzv_3fDpVGcKUPVq6KjgEpsSYeFeC0VvKF0Fa3mzy-57A/s200/blog+3.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The scoreboard at RFK was really the size of a postage stamp... well, at least in comparison to the behemoth of a building it sat in. Most of the cheap seats offered a pretty decent view of the miniature monitor, but if you sat anywhere from center to right-center, then you automatically forfeited your ability to see the score, the line-up, or an animated Abe Lincoln doing the hidden ball shuffle. It's a brand new world at Nats Park though. The scoreboard is the size of Rhode Island and has more pixels than there are people in China. It's almost hard to pay attention to the game because the electronic image is so crisp and clean. If men had remote controls on their seats instead of cup holders, they might actually be in the perfect world.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Jones</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">As in Larry Wayne, a.k.a. Chipper, a.k.a. a player I can't stand. He was the one who marred the scoreboard by hitting a solo shot out to the Red Porch area of the park. As he trotted around the bases, I had to wonder whether he was thinking about some Hooters wings. Old joke, but still a goodie.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Kelly Clarkson</span></b></p>
<span style="font-size:85%;">The music in the park was your typical fare. Neil Diamond played during pitching changes. "Eye of the Tiger" blared at another point. Then there was the canned organ music that made the time between batters more energetic. But imagine my surprise when I heard not one, but two Kelly Clarkson tunes floating from the speakers before the start of the Opening Night game. I was psyched when I caught an earful of "Behind These Hazel Eyes," but then two songs later I heard the familiar opening beats of "Since U Been Gone" and I was downright giddy. In the middle of the song, my phone buzzed with a text message. When I flipped it open, I had a note from Chase. He wrote, "Ha ha Kelly Clarkson is on." My friends know me so well. </span><p></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Lines</span></b></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzRPnfbLm2Yt6uK_RGlAC41YKXFXTvHmlhvpKMcBtyNZ959F1OpWJ_IQLjfoZHM3VjNLnaprOItjXK3b9J2pme360xIu6L5k_nHg24FUZ_HRgimW0g_qKyZOKSlfqRXcbAt0SZszPfA/s1600-h/blog+4+a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185842218700222482" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzRPnfbLm2Yt6uK_RGlAC41YKXFXTvHmlhvpKMcBtyNZ959F1OpWJ_IQLjfoZHM3VjNLnaprOItjXK3b9J2pme360xIu6L5k_nHg24FUZ_HRgimW0g_qKyZOKSlfqRXcbAt0SZszPfA/s200/blog+4+a.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The Secret Service and Ben's Chili Bowl conspired to make many a fan's experience just a little irksome, but thanks to my early arrival at the park and my distaste for chili, I didn't have to deal with either. The only line I had to contend with was the one that had formed outside the Nationals ticket office on Sunday morning. The Nats organization had made it abundantly clear that no one would be allowed to form a line for the $5 tickets before 3:30, but I didn't quite believe that and I was right. When I arrived, I found roughly 250-300 people ahead of me. I was crestfallen, but determined. The line itself wasn't unbearable, but the people around me were. In front were representatives from the Class of 2010. I didn't mind their mini radio or the discussion of their study schedules, but when the boys literally started climbing the walls of the stadium, I had a hard time containing my annoyance. In front of the frat boys was a man who looked like a cross between Randy Johnson and Jed Clampett. His scraggly hair hung down the center of his back and he was wearing a cap that said, "Two Dogs." Huh? His common-law wife looked like she might pull a corn cob pipe out of her overcoat at any second. The best crew was behind me though. Picture three paunchy guys in homemade, white, crewneck sweatshirts who looked like they had been playing too many video games in the basement of their mother's house. But they thought they were cool, which was the worst part. Every other word out of their mouth was modified by an expletive that only thinly disguised just how badly they wanted tickets to this game. If they didn't swear, they probably would have cried. These were my linemates and I was praying that they wouldn't be my seatmates. Apparently I used up all my prayers on actually getting a ticket.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Metro</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">For months, everyone and their uncle who had any connection to the building of the new park encouraged people to take the Metro to and from Nats Park. I figured I'd sample the Navy Yard station on my way home from the opener, so after weaving my way through the crowd filing out with their free rally towels, I rushed right into a bottleneck at the escalators. So much for Metro renovations. </span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">National Pastime in the Nation's Capital</span></b></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlG_3eAlcaTulu8EHFInyFrKf2daMR01bV75bGzc0ozACgpb1bdJb2fUzQDpUrQRdpVXy4kzJRUM2bJx5iIcPH9pMtQOJEIPa2itBzFQyakfNpzkb5Fbk20weZu7PfWqMr6sYFHIfSKQ/s1600-h/blog+9.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185845259537068130" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlG_3eAlcaTulu8EHFInyFrKf2daMR01bV75bGzc0ozACgpb1bdJb2fUzQDpUrQRdpVXy4kzJRUM2bJx5iIcPH9pMtQOJEIPa2itBzFQyakfNpzkb5Fbk20weZu7PfWqMr6sYFHIfSKQ/s200/blog+9.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">It was the 6th inning before I noticed the phrase spinning around the top of the Red Porch. It said, "The Official Home of the National Pastime in the Nation's Capitol." When I walk to the Metro every morning on the way to work, the magnificent white dome less than a mile ahead of me disappears in a haze of thoughts for the upcoming day. I tend to forget that I live in the nation's capital, but when I looked to my left on Sunday night and saw that same dome, then looked back ahead to see the Nats staying strong against the Braves, I suddenly felt a surge of pride in calling this city my home.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Ovation</span></b></p>
<span style="font-size:85%;">The ovations were plentiful over the weekend... baseball is here to stay in Washington, the park is gorgeous, and Nick Johnson's leg works again... huzzah! </span><p></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Presidents</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">When Teddy Roosevelt didn't win the Presidents' Race at the end of last season, rumors flew that he would win on Opening Day. I had purchased a special t-shirt for the occasion, one that said, "Let Teddy Win," and when I wasn't sure I'd get tickets, I secretly wondered if my purchase would be for naught. If Teddy won in the first game, it would be obsolete by the time I got to the second. So as much as I was rooting for Teddy to beat out George, Abe, and Tom, I was secretly hoping to have another opportunity to don my t-shirt. When Teddy broke from the pack... in the wrong direction, I knew my shirt would live to see another day.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Quartet</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I had been waiting in the $5 line for about 90 minutes when all of a sudden I heard the gentle strains of "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" being sung up ahead. I stood on my tip-toes and sure enough there was a barbershop quartet entertaining the masses. I appreciated the gesture.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">RFK</span></b></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Ls2s2u9_Kar4ks3zNxoFjLZJu9hyphenhyphenSwwUVCsoxv5i1NN9kRADxG1Y8F-JE-M6fkwT6yMsDmLJhuQZ52wuzQMQKdpm5suXSLgjTIYmo6ZBOTCIbTZpZhQgl29GwtvY2950oVYG8qjDkw/s1600-h/blog+5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185843279557144610" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Ls2s2u9_Kar4ks3zNxoFjLZJu9hyphenhyphenSwwUVCsoxv5i1NN9kRADxG1Y8F-JE-M6fkwT6yMsDmLJhuQZ52wuzQMQKdpm5suXSLgjTIYmo6ZBOTCIbTZpZhQgl29GwtvY2950oVYG8qjDkw/s200/blog+5.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I left a piece of me at RFK. As beautiful as Nats Park is and as much as RFK looks and feels like a toilet bowl, there will always be a little part of my heart somewhere between sections 503 and 509. I've seen too many games there, spent too much time with people I care about there, eaten too many nachos there not to feel a little warm and fuzzy when someone mentions RFK.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Sanitary Napkin Containers</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">(Sorry, gentlemen.)</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Much has been made of the fact that Nationals Park came in on budget and on schedule. Phew! Imagine what would have happened if they had added sanitary napkin containers to every stall in the ladies' room! Man oh man, that budget would have skyrocketed. Those little tin boxes that you can stick to the stall walls with ticky-tacky do break the bank. C'mon now... not one person in the planning of this bastion of baseball thought that this might have been a good idea to serve all of the women they're so desperate to cater to? Keep the pink hats and stick to the basics!</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Team Stores</span></b></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zilKoP2QLoz_Sl0gOtRsIAscwTDVoV7tkMjtfNLamrT-VamyazhE9EyyJlDQ6xmTuF9n4s9HVe6CoPHILMIfMHvefgYIWlqPgAO-Zdh4n6gCvLaPYN_o9PHi-DpCPc_U0T5zd0aVEg/s1600-h/blog+6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185843485715574834" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zilKoP2QLoz_Sl0gOtRsIAscwTDVoV7tkMjtfNLamrT-VamyazhE9EyyJlDQ6xmTuF9n4s9HVe6CoPHILMIfMHvefgYIWlqPgAO-Zdh4n6gCvLaPYN_o9PHi-DpCPc_U0T5zd0aVEg/s200/blog+6.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I love a good gift shop almost as much as I love baseball. Ask anyone who has ever taken a trip with me and they'll tell you that I have to go into every gift shop I see on the off chance that one will have something the other doesn't. The premier Nationals team store is located at the main center field entrance of the park, and it's a beauty. It's spacious and smells like freshly laid carpet. It has a replica of Mount Rushmore above the registers, adorned with the mascot faces of our favorite four presidents. It's just spectacular. But even after spending 20 minutes roaming around the main location, I couldn't keep myself from going into the auxiliary one behind home plate and stopping at several kiosks along the way, looking for that diamond in the rough that would make me pull out my money. I'm happy to report I bought a t-shirt, a baseball, and of course, a mini bat. Let's just say I have a collection of them.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Unbridled Excitement</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">During the winter, I had tried everything I could to get tickets for Opening Day and everyone I knew tried everything they could to get me tickets to Opening Day, but it was to no avail. After virtual waiting rooms, lotteries, and begging, I had resorted to combing Craig's List and found two tickets for the exhibition game that were right in my price range. If I couldn't go to Opening Day, then I would at least get to say that I saw the first major league game ever played in Nationals Park, even if it didn't count. I couldn't have been happier with my boon, and on the day I bought the tickets, I ran around my office like I had just sucked down a dozen pixie sticks.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Victory</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm getting ahead of myself...</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Water</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The sun never made an appearance on Sunday, so as the clock inched closer to gametime, the temperature dropped more and more. All of those layers did little to protect me from the elements, and the only relief I got was by ducking into the bathroom on occasion so I could shield myself from the wind. While I was in there once, I decided to actually use the facilities and when I went to wash my hands, I discovered a most beautiful thing. Steam billowed from the faucet as hot water gushed over my red, chapped, frigid hands. I sat there, rhythmically going from left hand to right to faucet button, left, right, faucet, left, right, faucet. I just couldn't get enough and I felt tingles of warmth fly up my arms. For a moment, I thought I could stay there for hours, but then I felt a little like a homeless person, so I decided it would be best to brave the elements once more... and then find another bathroom.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">X - No smoking</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I don't remember seeing any sign in the park that said you couldn't smoke, but when was the last time you went to a sporting event where it was okay to light up? Randy Johnson and his common-law wife decided to break out their Marlboros not long after the first pitch. I couldn't believe it, but didn't dare say anything. I just sat there hoping the wind would carry the smoke elsewhere. The funniest thing was when common-law wife went on an 8-inning journey for two Heinekens and Randy couldn't find anyone with a light. Gee, I wonder why?</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Yelling</span></p></b>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I didn't do a lot of yelling on Saturday or Sunday. I'm a big-time woo-er and sometimes my vocal cords snap me back to reality, reminding me of the shallow vocal range God gave me. It usually takes about 20 minutes of wooing before my voice cracks like an adolescent boy and my friends start laughing at me. But I continue to woo nonetheless because I know the players appreciate my wooing. Really, they do.</span></p>
<p><b><span style="font-size:85%;">Zimmerman</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The Nats looked good on Sunday night, almost too good. Maybe it's the Italian side of me, maybe it's the Red Sox fan in me... whatever it is, I know that the other shoe can always drop... and fast. The Nats held a 2-1 lead going into the top of the 9th inning. I could almost feel the hot shower, but when the notion popped into my mind that maybe I should start folding up my blanket, I made a conscious effort to resist. It ain't over 'til it's over. And then the Braves scored. The diehards who stayed either because they love baseball or because they were frozen to their seats let out an audible groan that was part pain for the Nats, part pain for all of us who knew we couldn't leave even if there were extra innings. I'll admit that I wasn't too certain the Nats would find the magic in the ninth to spare us a tenth, and when Guzman and Milledge didn't reach base, doubt crept in. Two outs and then the murmurs started. Ryan Zimmerman's name was announced and the murmurs turned into a buzz as he strode to the plate. I don't know if anyone really dared to hope for the Hollywood ending, the Hobbs ending... the night was perfect, but that would be too perfect, the kind of ending a filmmaker would scoff at as cliché and predictable. No way a pitch lands right in Zimmerman's wheelhouse. No way that ball slams right into the sweet spot of his Louisville Slugger. No way that ball rockets towards left center field. No way it clears the wall and lands in the outstretched palms of an eager fan. No way the first homerun in Nationals Park is a walk-off homer by the fresh-faced franchise kid. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Way.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Zimmerman electrified the park and a city with one swing of the bat.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">And I can't tell you how thrilled I am to say that I was there.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdmUojFGuCIgdhipwbT3mXr0W86B48Vz5kmgoD_h7hGLMCp0O2iMh4WMQuAoVWvVAij8SRFeKoxH4CtEBE7i4BuVhfzJxN7VAFG62fsv72FjMxOQvT-QV1za5Ccz_hNbmQY8nQkpk7tw/s1600-h/blog+7.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185845890897260658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdmUojFGuCIgdhipwbT3mXr0W86B48Vz5kmgoD_h7hGLMCp0O2iMh4WMQuAoVWvVAij8SRFeKoxH4CtEBE7i4BuVhfzJxN7VAFG62fsv72FjMxOQvT-QV1za5Ccz_hNbmQY8nQkpk7tw/s200/blog+7.jpg" border="0" /></a>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-36702003562534682742008-03-17T12:45:00.001-05:002008-03-17T13:58:11.057-05:00Eavesdropping On The Madness<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I won’t admit this to Izzie or Kino lest they disown me from our trio of sports fanaticism, but sometimes March Madness makes me feel a little like a high-heeled, glitter-wearing chick in a pink hat.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">It’s not that I don’t know anything about men’s college hoops because I have my allegiance (UConn) and I do monitor the progress of certain teams throughout the season (okay, after the new year), but I don’t have anything close to the encyclopedic knowledge they do when the third month rolls around. I know the Big East and the ACC, and though I could tick off half a dozen other Division I conferences, I probably couldn’t tell you which teams were where. Of course, I know Mike Krzyzewski has coached Duke since Jesus was a boy, though I had to look up the spelling on Google. Jamie Dixon is at Pitt, Jim Calhoun at UConn, and Matt Dougherty used to lead UNC. I know Roy Hibbert stayed by the Potomac for another year while Jeff Green opted for richer pastures, and Tyler Hansbrough looked better in the face mask. But when Izzie and Kino start riffing on the minutiae of the teams, I just smile, nod, and act like I know exactly what they're talking about.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Of course, they see right through it. They know that with baseball on the horizon, I have room for little else in my mind and heart. But they also know another truth… that I’m a highly competitive person who is bound and determined to win our office pool one way or another. It doesn’t even matter that we’re not playing for dollars, euros, or marbles. A free lunch is good enough for me.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Which leads me to my mission for the day: my bracket.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The pressure.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The stress.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The heartburn... nope, wait... that’s the Easter candy.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Last year I poured over stats and blurbs in <i>The Washington Post</i> and on ESPN.com. I tried to put personal biases aside (UNC) and tried to conjure up any shred of information I might have heard in passing in order to make my decisions. I was the queen of the educated guess, and when that didn’t work, I decided to pick the Catholic schools (except for Notre Dame). Hey, some people go by mascots, others by colors… but it doesn’t hurt to go with God when it comes to things like this. In the end, I came out in the middle of the pack, which wasn’t too shabby, but I still would have loved that lunch.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">This year, I’m not quite sure how I’m going to choose my teams. I’ve already inked in Georgetown, UNC, and Duke to win in the first round. I’d love to see the Eagles from my alma mater, American University, be the Mason of 2008, but I think the Vols will be too much for these Patriot Leaguers. UConn and Pitt can advance, but beyond that, I’ve got some serious homework to do because I want that free lunch.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go smile, nod, and eavesdrop on Izzie and Kino to find out who they think will go all the way.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-52903516254545288452008-03-17T07:54:00.001-05:002008-03-17T11:03:08.456-05:00Long Live King Hank<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Hank Steinbrenner is his father’s son. Though some believe he will rule the Evil Empire differently than his father, there’s no question that his reign will feature the same bombastic gems that made George Steinbrenner the personality that he was (is?).</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Following the scuffle between his Yankees and the Devil Rays last week, Steinbrenner the Younger said, “I don’t want these teams in general to forget who subsidizes a lot of them, and it’s the Yankees, the Red Sox, Dodgers, Mets. I would prefer if teams want to target the Yankees that they at least start giving some of that revenue sharing and luxury money back.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Well, Hank, if every small market team is supposed to roll over and play dead when the mighty Yankees come to town, then what’s the point of playing them? Maybe you could shorten New York’s schedule so that the Yanks face only the Red Sox, Dodgers, and Mets. The boys of summer could be the boys of June, and you could rush right back to your horse farm.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Just because the team is a mega-million dollar business that helps support the baseball infrastructure does not give the Yankees a free pass when facing any team whose combined salaries cost less than a square yard of sod at the new palace of pompousness in the Bronx. These other teams are not children who must bow to the paternalism of the Yankees. These are gritty, hard-nosed players who hold the same bats, wear the same helmets, and sport the same jocks that the Yankees do. To suggest that the Yankees are more important than any other team, and therefore, somehow untouchable, is arrogant and absurd.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">People may hate the Yankees, but no one is trying to sweep the leg and no one is saying they are not talented. At the end of the day, everyone knows that playing a high-caliber team only makes opponents step up. Playing hard against the Yankees is a sign of respect for a ball club that has shaped the game for a century. But if the men in pinstripes want to clutch that sense of entitlement and want to believe they should be mollycoddled purely because their payroll is more inflated than a Macy’s Thanksgiving balloon, then go right ahead… but they better not expect to win a World Series that way.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-6598294812492212992008-02-14T19:43:00.000-05:002008-02-14T19:44:01.231-05:00Love Hurts<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">They’ve lost each other, and from what I know of losing a friend... that hurts like hell.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">And that has to break their hearts.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-38825198763024028862008-02-12T17:30:00.000-05:002008-02-12T17:41:16.280-05:00Two Seconds<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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 <i>Inside The Actor’s Studio</i> 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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">And now it’s back to waiting... 60 days and counting.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-13563419345887171462008-02-06T18:16:00.000-05:002008-02-06T18:04:41.522-05:00Damaging Double Entendre<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">In fairness, female athletes aren’t the only ones who sell their bodies. I recently opened an issue of the latest <i>Vanity Fair</i> 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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-9017187494407313352008-02-04T08:40:00.000-05:002008-02-04T12:55:43.212-05:00The Super Bowl Diary<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgC483Do-iidqAyIbs6qkNFFm31dYiZRX6u90rQmekSSutzjKisrquOxBS45A6vMGbN6bUSXFRXfelV0eY68Iuisqah23RCqk3Cz1Rw_aI6JveSvw4XfxOyIpw34LrsjOnJr8wsoGJkw/s1600-h/P1020611+-+edit.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163180532215010690" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgC483Do-iidqAyIbs6qkNFFm31dYiZRX6u90rQmekSSutzjKisrquOxBS45A6vMGbN6bUSXFRXfelV0eY68Iuisqah23RCqk3Cz1Rw_aI6JveSvw4XfxOyIpw34LrsjOnJr8wsoGJkw/s320/P1020611+-+edit.JPG" border="0" /></a>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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. </span>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">And when you stop laughing about the Dolphins, feel free to continue reading.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">1:46 pm: Not one jar of queso remains in Our Nation’s Capital. I consider this to be a national emergency.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">5:56 pm: Crushing revelation. I have little wieners, but no crescents. What’s a pig without a blanket?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">6:18 pm: We get a close-up of Eli. Is it me, or does he look like Jim from <i>The Office</i>?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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!</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">6:26 pm: I’m officially tuning out all <i>House</i> commercials.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">6:30 pm: Suddenly I feel like John Favreau watching Rudy on the field. Eli’s so little!</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">6:38 pm: We get our first glimpse of big brother Peyton in the box looking downright Cantonesque in his blazer.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">6:48 pm: Did anyone else find the Underarmour commercial disturbing in a brainwashing sort of way?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">6:53 pm: Glamor shot of Brady’s ankle. Gag me.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">6:59 pm: The Doritos girl who got a record deal is now on. See also: Michelle Branch.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">7:13 pm: A high five between a Dalmatian and a Clydesdale ranks high on the cute scale.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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 <i>Thriller</i>. I’m repulsed and try to down the rest of my blanketless pigs staring at my feet.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">7:27 pm: Time to multi-task. I just started a Scrabbulous game.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">8:34 pm: Did Belichick just do “The Sprain” while demonstrating how the Giants had 12 men on the field? I think he did.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">8:53 pm: Full-scale Scrabbulous action now, and I’m hoping to get lucky in the pool.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">9:07 pm: Mothers everyone swoon as Peyton cheers for his little bro.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">9:10 pm: TOUCHDOWN GIANTS! I’m definitely not winning the pool now.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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!</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">9:19 pm: FYI... the punter for New England is bow-legged.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">9:39 pm: NOW the Patriots score. I crumple up my pools and serve them like volleyballs across the room.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">9:45 pm: Who knew Ben Roethlisberger liked Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">9:53 pm: Eli Manning is the definition of scrappy tonight.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">9:55 pm: TOUCHDOWN GIANTS!!</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">9:57 pm: We haven’t seen Peyton this excited since he pegged that kid in the back with the football.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">9:59 pm: Brady sacked AGAIN!</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">10:01 pm: Cue the montage of the 1972 Dolphins. Don Shula and Larry Csonka just popped open a bottle of champagne.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">10:02 pm: GIANTS WIN!</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">10:03 pm: Wait… there’s one second on the clock, but everyone except the band is on the field. And Belichick is... leaving?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">10:05 pm: Let the celebrating begin in New York and South Beach.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">10:11 pm: Pitchers and catchers report in 12 days... in case you were wondering.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-38027682164378240092008-01-24T19:29:00.000-05:002008-01-24T19:54:06.142-05:00Just A Little Bit Of Chivalry<p><span style="font-size:85%;">When I started playing coed softball a few years back, it took me a while to earn the respect of my male teammates. After flat out refusing to catch because my dental work is the most expensive thing I wear every day, I was stationed in the other “girl” position at 2nd. I had played all four infield positions during my career, so 2nd was fine by me and afforded me the opportunity to go after that rush of the double play… if, that is, my teammates trusted me enough to A) catch, and B) throw. It didn’t come right away, but little by little, they realized that I could hold my own right next to them.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">And other teams figured it out too. I’d knock a grounder down here and there, make a clean cut-off catch from the outfield, and they knew that I might be a factor.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">But there is a downside to being “one of the guys.” I’m a scrappy athlete who enjoys testing my mettle with the boys, but even I’m intimidated when I see a 210-lb. brute barreling towards me, cocking one leg behind the other and dropping low with spikes high. I mean, really... what jerk slides into a girl?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Therein lies the double-standard that I’m woman enough to admit. I want to be treated as an equal by my male counterparts when I’m playing sports, but deep down inside, I still expect just a little bit of chivalry. I don’t want them to go easy because I’m a girl, but I don't want them to ignore the fact that I’m not a linebacker who can bench press a Buick.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Don’t get me wrong... I know plenty of guys who are equal parts respect and chivalry on the diamond, the court, the field, you name it. But when I run into an opponent like the one my dodgeball team faced last night, I’m reminded that at times the relationship between a female athlete’s abilities and the level of chivalry is inversely proportional. The more skills she has, the less likely they are to treat her like a woman.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I was just minding my own business outside the dodgeball court when I heard the nails-on-a-chalkboard voice of one of our opponents and couldn’t help but take note of this charmer who closely resembled Screech from <i>Saved By The Bell</i>. When my teammates arrived, one of them said that she knew Screech from another team and that he was a bit intense about his rec sports. One of those… excellent.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The games flew merrily by, one after the other, the score see-sawing back and forth. When the fifth game rolled around, the score was 2-2, but it wasn’t like the air of sudden death was hanging over us. There was still much dodgeball to be played, so the mood was light.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">But then the tide turned.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">The game hadn’t been underway more than two minutes when I was startled by a throw that hit me squarely in the mouth. Knowing the rule that if you’re hit in the head, no one is out because it’s supposedly accidental, I just shrugged it off. But then I saw Screech across the court. He wagged his scrawny finger at me and yelled the yell of a 13-year-old boy on the verge of puberty, “You’re out! You’re out!” I shouted back incredulously that I had been hit in the face. Now there are times when a hit to the head is subject to interpretation based on how close it lands to your shoulder, but there was no question that this hit me above the neck. But no sooner had the words left my mouth when I was pelted in the gut with another ball while a third whizzed past me. I was incensed, not because I was out, but because this team didn’t even have the courtesy to wait a split second to allow me to regroup. I was a sitting duck after an illegal hit, and they took the shot.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">In that instant, I was both proud that my opponents saw me as an equal who was capable of giving as good as I got and bitter that Screech and his teammates had unleashed such fury on me as a woman. Once they saw that I had a decent throwing arm, all bets were off and there was no going easy on me.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">It’s not fair for me to want it both ways. When I play against a guy, I want him to forget that I’m a woman; if he hurts me while playing, he better remember that I’m a woman. It’s a double-standard that is a part of coed sports, but I still don’t think it’s wrong to want a little bit of chivalry, especially since <i>Dictionary.com</i> defines “chivalry” as the following: the sum of the ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valor.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Tradition has taught us that chivalry is displayed by men towards women, but no where in the definition does it say that displaying the qualities of a knight is decidedly male. Courtesy, generosity, and valor can be displayed by any athlete, male or female, towards any other athlete, male or female. It’s called sportsmanship.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I didn’t care that Screech pegged me in the kisser; I was more upset that he got downright ugly after doing so. There was no apology, no remorse, just pure competitiveness, and his teammates were no better for taking advantage of the situation.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I don’t live in a glass house; I haven’t always been chivalrous on the field or the court, but that doesn’t mean I don’t expect more out of myself just as I expect a lot out of those I’m playing with and against.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">After the match ended, our team grumbled about having to shake hands with our opponents. All niceties had disintegrated, and we didn’t much feeling like telling the other team, “Good game.” But we knew the code of conduct and lined up to slap hands with them just as they had started to do for us. Funny enough, I think both sides felt better afterwards because we had all put the battle and the words behind us.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">All except for Screech though. He was the only person who didn’t go through the line, and just when he had the chance to redeem himself, he made his least chivalrous move of all.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-10024051953257857182008-01-15T18:46:00.000-05:002008-01-15T18:48:18.027-05:00The Culture Of Cheating<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Happy New Year... plus a couple days! A lot has happened in the sports world since <i>HerSportsPOV</i> went on hiatus, but perhaps nothing has generated as much commentary as Roger Clemens’ buttocks. Okay, maybe that’s an overstatement, but the dark cloud of steroids has invaded household dialogues like never before. When we can rattle off the names of substances like HGH, Anadrol, and Winstrol as if we’re reciting our ABC’s, then we know we’re in uncharted territory.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">But aside from the obvious issues associated with steroids, I think the biggest problem we have to face is the culture of cheating. There is a large segment of society that will do anything, and I do mean anything, to get ahead. The American Dream was built on the belief that you can do anything you set your mind to, but somewhere along the way, that idea morphed into doing anything legal and illegal to get a leg up. On some level, I can see why people do it, but I really can’t fathom living with the knowledge that I cheated to get ahead. There’s nothing sweeter than victory and nothing more bitter than that nagging voice in the back of your mind that says you didn’t play by the rules.</span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I recently joined a dodgeball league, a.k.a. organized adult exercise, and wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I’m known for being competitive, but didn’t really see myself spewing venom at my opponents across the line in a grammar school gymnasium. My friend warned me though, saying, “You’re going to get worked up,” but I didn’t really think it would be true. I get fired up when it comes to my own sports… volleyball and softball… but kickball, bocce, dodgeball, and any other league I’ve joined to avoid working out in the gym, nah... I’m just there to have fun.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">But then it happened. I felt my blood pressure spike. My face reddened. My arms started flailing, and my voice hit that decibel reserved for only the most world-shaking of events (like finding two dead mice in my kitchen or getting top-notch seats to a Kelly Clarkson concert). I yelled, “I got him! He's out!” I had beaned the Neanderthal across the line with the tiny yellow Nerfball. It hit him squarely in the shin. He knew it. I knew it. He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked left, right, at me, left again, and kept his Reeboks planted exactly where they were. Unwilling to admit that he had been nailed by a girl and thinking that his services were too vital to leave his teammates dodging Nerfballs alone, he made the conscious decision to cheat.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I was pissed, and my friend knew it. This is what she was talking about. But my ire had nothing to do with being competitive and everything to do with the fact that this guy wasn’t playing fairly. What did he have to gain by cheating? Bragging rights in front of the watercooler the next morning about how his dodgeball team beat up on some other equally old and equally out of shape adults? Please sign me up for a date with that stud.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">No matter what the situation is and no matter how high the stakes are, I’d rather play the worst game of my life than win it all knowing that I cheated, but I guess not everyone is like that. For some, the taste of glory is too addictive to be bothered by matters of conscience and decency.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I'll acknowledge that athletes who take steroids all have their reasons for doing so, and many of those reasons may fall into the gray area between right and wrong. Do I think Andy Pettitte was wrong to use HGH? Yes. Can I fault him for wanting to heal faster and get back to the game he loves? Not entirely. What about the kid in Latin America who unwittingly believes some pusher who tells him he'll be bigger, better, and find himself inking a contract for millions of dollars that he'll be able to send back home to provide for his family? Is it wrong? Yes and no. All that said, cheating cannot exist on a spectrum where the blame slides depending on the situation. It's unfortunate that these players will get lumped up with the likes of Barry Bonds who is a glory hog and a thief who stole the most sacred of records, but they all chose unnatural means to get ahead while the guy three lockers down was packing his bags for Pawtucket or Durham.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Our culture has accepted cheating because Americans are gluttonous consumers who want larger and faster, greater and richer, and though there are major efforts to eradicate this blight on baseball and other sports, the culture that condones the cheating will never be wiped out completely.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">There will always be those who choose the greater of two evils to stay in the game, who will risk getting caught, who will chance the label of cheater for one shot at the glory. But we also know that glory soon fades and when that happens, those people will be left to lie alone at night with only that little voice in their heads reminding them that they didn’t really earn what they achieved and that they’ll never know what they really could have done if they hadn’t cheated themselves.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Sleep well, Barry... Roger... Rafael... Mo... Miguel... Eric... Brian... Lenny...</span></span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-50192731152453311532007-11-08T17:35:00.000-05:002007-11-08T17:41:13.386-05:00Hiatus for the Holidays<div><span style="font-size:85%;">
<p>If my loyal readers haven't noticed already, it's been awhile since I last posted and I fear it may be awhile before I will again. It's not that I don't have a plethora of sports-related things to write about (the Red Sox World Series Championship being one of them, of course), but another writing project has usurped my attention for the time-being.</p></span>
<span style="font-size:85%;"></span>
<span style="font-size:85%;">
<p>Please be sure to check back in after the holidays for some fresh new columns on HerSportsPov!</p></span>
<span style="font-size:85%;"></span>
<span style="font-size:85%;">
<p>Thanks for your support!</p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPx8yscdfIakMMgRguIvnOvLvmG-Prs3km85mT1ityNo6Im5jX9LXgkN_ttCwN807bNHY_cZzRetg-aK0kZaLE0vDJtlXvB9q5c21GXpo2UmWo5h4powDtpf1Q-d7FVrGRQeGSURscQ/s1600-h/sox.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130603180917906882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPx8yscdfIakMMgRguIvnOvLvmG-Prs3km85mT1ityNo6Im5jX9LXgkN_ttCwN807bNHY_cZzRetg-aK0kZaLE0vDJtlXvB9q5c21GXpo2UmWo5h4powDtpf1Q-d7FVrGRQeGSURscQ/s320/sox.jpg" border="0" /></a>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-48844019643031958692007-10-28T11:21:00.000-05:002007-10-28T17:31:27.838-05:00Red Sox Family<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I’m not going to write about the Red Sox. No stars, no scores, no hyperbole. There are already a million words out there describing every facet of their game. They don’t need me to add to the mix. But I do want to write about being a Red Sox fan.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">As I was just walking back from Starbucks in my Red Sox sweatshirt, a woman stopped me and said, “Excuse me, can you tell me what happened in the game last night?” There was an eagerness in her eyes as I told her what had unfolded in Colorado. When I was done, she graciously thanked me and went on her way.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Yesterday there was a grizzled old man who passed by me in the check-out line. I was wearing one of my many Red Sox t-shirts, and as he walked by me, he said, “Nice shirt.” I turned to see who had made the comment, and as he continued to another register, I recognized the Boston cap on his head.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I was on my way home with the very groceries I had just purchased when my neighbor pointed out my shirt. We’ve never spoken before, but he asked me what I thought about the Ortiz-Youkilis-Lowell conundrum in a National League park. We may never speak again, but we had that moment.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">And how about the boyfriend decked out in Sox gear who walked out of the Kelly Clarkson concert on the arm of his girlfriend. I too was wearing my gear, and we gave each other a simple nod of the head and said, “Go Sox.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Then there are those who don’t care quite so much about the game, but love the people who do. My Mom has grown to love baseball because of me, but even she has her limits sometimes. Nevertheless, she told me that 30 minutes after she had decided to call it an evening, she asked my Dad to get up and check the score to see what was going on. She’s becoming a full-fledged Sox junkie!</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">There’s our "work mom,” the one who watches out for all of us from 9-5 every day. She text messages me after almost every game and is as superstitious as I am about what to do, wear, and say when watching the Sox.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Even my best friend, the Yankee fan, who will audibly express how much she loathes the Red Sox every chance she gets, respects my devotion and is the one responsible for giving me the Beckett jersey I treasure so dearly.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">And of course, there's Izzie, Dusty, Meaks, Nuwanda, Sully, and Karch... those who have gathered with me at our local watering holes, at Fenway, at Camden, all to watch the Sox together. Plus Kino, Chase, Bay, and Expo who may not love the Sox, but love baseball enough to watch the Sox with us.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Red Sox Nation is not a cadre of obnoxious fans seeking to run roughshod over every other team. It’s a family… a family of fans and a family of those who love the fans.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I’m proud of the Red Sox. I’m excited about the season they’ve given us. But most of all I’m thankful for the memories my Red Sox family and I have had over the past six months. It’s been a ride to remember.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-28340386942885422262007-10-10T22:33:00.000-05:002007-10-10T22:40:28.088-05:00On The Clear, In The Dark<span style="font-size:85%;"><p>Barry Bonds. Floyd Landis. Jason Giambi. The list goes on, but the names are untouchable. These athletes exist in another realm apart from us, so when the accusations of their steroid use started flying, it was easy to have a sense of detachment.</p>
<p>But now Marion Jones. <p>
<p>I don’t follow track and field except once every four years, but inexplicably, I feel betrayed because she really seemed like one of us.</p>
<p>Exactly eight years ago, in October 1999, I was visiting Atlanta with my volleyball team for a tournament. I knew that I would play the last game of my collegiate career in that city, but just when it would happen depended on how far our young team could go. Even as the only senior among sophomores and freshmen, I felt we could go the distance with our strength, determination, and pure gutsiness. What we lacked in consistency, we made up for in spirit. It was a fine group of athletes, young women I was proud to be among.</p>
<p>The pressure of that tournament was palpable, but we pushed it out of our minds with a trip to Lenox Square Mall to do some shopping. My friend and I veered off from the group for a moment and went into Guess to check out the latest fashions. We were standing among the racks at the front of the store when we spotted two women near the wall. Something seemed very familiar about one of the women. She was tall, athletic, and cheery. I was certain I had seen her before. Then she turned, and I noticed a distinguishing characteristic. It was the tooth. Then I realized it was Marion Jones. I nudged my friend and both of us were floored. Here we were standing in the presence of a world-class athlete, a runner destined for greatness less than a year later in Sydney. We were just two lowly volleyball players from a small Division III college in Virginia, staring at one of the best competitors on the planet. We weren’t even fit to hold her sneakers.</p>
<p>Or so we thought at the time...</p>
<p>We were really standing in the presence of a world-class cheater.</p>
<p>True athletes capitalize on their strengths and compensate for their weaknesses through training and techniques. They don’t try to inflate their abilities and obliterate their blind spots through unnatural methods like she did.</p>
<p>Marion Jones didn’t just betray her family, her friends, her followers, and her fans. She betrayed young female athletes everywhere. So few of us ever have the chance to compete on the national and international stages of the sports world, but Marion Jones was one of the chosen few and she took her opportunities and destroyed them.</p>
<p>The team I went to Atlanta with was not composed of 6’4” dynamos who could spike the ball on the 10-foot line, but we were real. Every point and every kill, every shank and every gaff were ours and ours alone to be proud of or ashamed of.</p>
<p>And the mistakes were as plentiful as the triumphs. On the very last play of our tournament and my career, I shanked a serve that I can still see slicing through the air when I close my eyes. I watched as it flew off my arms and slammed straight into the wall. It felt like hell, but at least it was pure, 100% me.</p>
<p>The pain is just beginning for Marion Jones, but perhaps the greatest loss of all won’t be the parts we read about in the paper or see on TV. She’ll feel it when she’s alone with her thoughts, when she finally knows the sting of having the title of “athlete” stripped from her. It’s an ache every competitor who has lied and cheated his or her way to fame, fortune, and glory should have to face. </p>
<p>When I look back at how I stood in awe of the woman we all knew would bring home the gold, I feel disgusted, yet perversely, I feel proud that she stood in our presence. If she had turned around that day, she would have looked into the eyes of true athletes.</p></span>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-25062516128136765072007-09-30T13:39:00.000-05:002007-09-30T15:15:29.377-05:00An Ode To RFK<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I’ve never liked goodbyes. No matter how good the other end of the spectrum looks, I have a hard time letting go of the memories. Maybe it’s because I’m a sap. Maybe it’s because I’m a sucker for history. All I know I that when I walked out of RFK Stadium a week ago, I had a lump in my throat.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">It caught me by surprise. Were my eyes really welling up because I’ll never see another baseball game at that concrete toilet bowl again?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Yeah, I guess they were.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">RFK is no heaven, but believe it or not, there’s a lot to miss.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Like the gentleman whose sweet sax sounds used to greet me when I got off the Metro.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwH695Q98Hzkn3Z2XRO-dAncW6JYt8_GiQeP6FEytahfsnqFcehVqMIyv_Pr53CfAhr4awBn7r_ReMTZLkqB7Wjngqmnkm-2GXFpLG6kxxArA3Ryl-8qQbMdVJsQ9ATOyvR4whiTOa7g/s1600-h/2007_0923Image0048.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116069565636217218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwH695Q98Hzkn3Z2XRO-dAncW6JYt8_GiQeP6FEytahfsnqFcehVqMIyv_Pr53CfAhr4awBn7r_ReMTZLkqB7Wjngqmnkm-2GXFpLG6kxxArA3Ryl-8qQbMdVJsQ9ATOyvR4whiTOa7g/s200/2007_0923Image0048.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Like the sight of that behemoth as I rounded the corner.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3kETwlNWz2mkf0034PC7uKXhRk0rOYVvtnTRAur0ppWlMVtw5uGOHgUdJHsolgpxfaxmarMBENReZcZYi7TV1qiNWGZ75cJfGCHR1QsFCvpPkwZmWob3_qm7HzW98FxGD-EzfG6DVug/s1600-h/2007_0923Image0058.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116070605018302866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3kETwlNWz2mkf0034PC7uKXhRk0rOYVvtnTRAur0ppWlMVtw5uGOHgUdJHsolgpxfaxmarMBENReZcZYi7TV1qiNWGZ75cJfGCHR1QsFCvpPkwZmWob3_qm7HzW98FxGD-EzfG6DVug/s200/2007_0923Image0058.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Like the one place on the upper level that actually sold nachos.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU4e6iPq01UV2a6527Hsh4Z6EjKcEL87r7DBBnXMTQyyC7dZagTXhSNUq-VSCek7pKVTxOeRBQVHwnCNnhnJwlbQxXX7aTI_OJS9-Z6JS3aoQEvHaeowxo72Vp0ITSoqGeHUSmII3C5w/s1600-h/2007_0923Image0079.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116074375999588786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU4e6iPq01UV2a6527Hsh4Z6EjKcEL87r7DBBnXMTQyyC7dZagTXhSNUq-VSCek7pKVTxOeRBQVHwnCNnhnJwlbQxXX7aTI_OJS9-Z6JS3aoQEvHaeowxo72Vp0ITSoqGeHUSmII3C5w/s200/2007_0923Image0079.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Like the nachos and the lukewarm cheese.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BJEniDD30CcXjTDYgAvpcBxL8heCJboxjqZgjmU2H3gyj0k7UnpWd_ejSAw0ppR37d_7DEEAHNyHZJZl-3kb80MiqQSMKN7GHGDF7hELz-h1z924KUjoBbvaLXiPjeZvc_PhVExC_A/s1600-h/2007_0923Image0118.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116074388884490690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BJEniDD30CcXjTDYgAvpcBxL8heCJboxjqZgjmU2H3gyj0k7UnpWd_ejSAw0ppR37d_7DEEAHNyHZJZl-3kb80MiqQSMKN7GHGDF7hELz-h1z924KUjoBbvaLXiPjeZvc_PhVExC_A/s200/2007_0923Image0118.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Like the bathrooms where I would rush between innings.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1bfrOSWyjlLjwb_sjQ6IIJWS24s9pEQ_bp3gbCi31v9s28Lx8VImbvMVIr7CqtKt7cCefADC0xxrRPx3HhFxXdyAzZueHqlfuMFzEZl5cNNfY7ePSDFLBpeGNtJRvRJws3twG_APZA/s1600-h/2007_0923Image0085.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116074393179458002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1bfrOSWyjlLjwb_sjQ6IIJWS24s9pEQ_bp3gbCi31v9s28Lx8VImbvMVIr7CqtKt7cCefADC0xxrRPx3HhFxXdyAzZueHqlfuMFzEZl5cNNfY7ePSDFLBpeGNtJRvRJws3twG_APZA/s200/2007_0923Image0085.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Like the scoreboard you couldn’t always see.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeCkarx7OUVU2qF9SYh7ZUu34m9u9AFeX5D1XWQYBVPQNRJBCULNOEw3tlSVSB-NnVhlROUE-Z-jAEEv1MBlCrRyaF8Wi9HXJ97OwRE8WRB7DDwcU3GEzzDIYDsjaljw4CLEISQvBo2A/s1600-h/2007_0923Image0113.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116076437583890914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeCkarx7OUVU2qF9SYh7ZUu34m9u9AFeX5D1XWQYBVPQNRJBCULNOEw3tlSVSB-NnVhlROUE-Z-jAEEv1MBlCrRyaF8Wi9HXJ97OwRE8WRB7DDwcU3GEzzDIYDsjaljw4CLEISQvBo2A/s200/2007_0923Image0113.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Like the Redskins-colored seats.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLXKafTzfBK8r0b12tcmP_R5KeRhkAKLr6skulE3NcOMjFBgepyezmXDOHQ8o9i1a40efHpa8eB2IqC7bW6arEucB1hTBilzmnlDNrUzRhDgXpWGaa7vzCfLWli3GB5JgppZa5JMuiw/s1600-h/2007_0923Image0181.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116076446173825522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLXKafTzfBK8r0b12tcmP_R5KeRhkAKLr6skulE3NcOMjFBgepyezmXDOHQ8o9i1a40efHpa8eB2IqC7bW6arEucB1hTBilzmnlDNrUzRhDgXpWGaa7vzCfLWli3GB5JgppZa5JMuiw/s200/2007_0923Image0181.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Like the undulating shadows on a summer afternoon.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbpQ-5Qj2_VW5eG0RkEyUQhyMIQCu_oV_TkU6n7y84hzqNllgw_hlKtWP2C1exzeTQnx__CJLpL_Eg16ztSWbwMiIaxKgpJLQdSFhArIuOzxLkzAkcTrlH3iJZxy_yTNKFPcO9IN8YA/s1600-h/2007_0923Image0138.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116076459058727426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbpQ-5Qj2_VW5eG0RkEyUQhyMIQCu_oV_TkU6n7y84hzqNllgw_hlKtWP2C1exzeTQnx__CJLpL_Eg16ztSWbwMiIaxKgpJLQdSFhArIuOzxLkzAkcTrlH3iJZxy_yTNKFPcO9IN8YA/s200/2007_0923Image0138.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Like the crowd, both on those days when the house was full and on those when I could hear someone laugh across the park.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGtIK_tVc4ne6sqQw725f1uXKWZ2Ud8whyphenhyphenb3R11_bdzPRV-GNOOD5hWhkyXsz3K9Bz3PNUPxlsU_BaiKfSQTX4w3YibXVhpSi6Lg3HmJPBHoznM4E9aVAS4rf1f5IEHcf7V4f9I2rEw/s1600-h/2007_0923Image0129.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116076471943629330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGtIK_tVc4ne6sqQw725f1uXKWZ2Ud8whyphenhyphenb3R11_bdzPRV-GNOOD5hWhkyXsz3K9Bz3PNUPxlsU_BaiKfSQTX4w3YibXVhpSi6Lg3HmJPBHoznM4E9aVAS4rf1f5IEHcf7V4f9I2rEw/s200/2007_0923Image0129.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">And there’s still so much that can’t be photographed. There’s the sweet and sour smell that permeates the corridors… the roar of the crowd when Teddy Roosevelt ambles out of the tunnel in right field and inevitably loses… the memories of spending weekends and weeknights with my parents, my friends, my co-workers, my dates, and even just myself. I’ve giggled in those stands and I’ve fought in those stands. I’ve thought about things in my life and I’ve escaped from those very same things.</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHLi95a4dZe_yYq7IOoTq8oyiEFfPlfF8MNKfpXEcKxn8Yqtbj7Zw5svVwaHK2xOQ13nYHLj-FWkV31cUTxvcbkpu0hZ_KK_F3ZlPd9ndbED3KEHySyQgvrhERCNUl1aOxKZ7IMcTI_Q/s1600-h/2007_0923Image0190.JPG"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116087608793827874" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHLi95a4dZe_yYq7IOoTq8oyiEFfPlfF8MNKfpXEcKxn8Yqtbj7Zw5svVwaHK2xOQ13nYHLj-FWkV31cUTxvcbkpu0hZ_KK_F3ZlPd9ndbED3KEHySyQgvrhERCNUl1aOxKZ7IMcTI_Q/s200/2007_0923Image0190.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Only a mile away from my house, RFK became like a second home and a haven for me over the past three years, and though the new Nationals Park will be a magnificent place, I think there will always be a little part of me that longs for the ugly beauty of RFK.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-14672535393081984232007-09-29T20:52:00.000-05:002007-09-29T21:12:54.048-05:00Solidarity<p><span style="font-size:85%;">If only I had cable in my bedroom. Then I would have been able to watch the impossibly early broadcasts of the Women’s World Cup. I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t watched a single minute of live coverage, but I’m more ashamed that the only reason the World Cup has managed to break into the headlines is because of the catty dialogue coming from the locker room of the hometeam.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I don’t envy the position of any coach who must decide between the veteran and the phenom, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when the veteran’s experience is just a tick better than the phenom’s excellence.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Coach Greg Ryan thought he was making the right decision by starting Briana Scurry versus Brazil. He thought her past would prove more important than her present and she could lead her young teammates to the final. But by all accounts, her quickness and precision are waning, and she could not withstand the onslaught of a stronger Brazilian squad.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">We’ll never know if Hope Solo could have done any better, but she has told everyone she would have. She chimed in to the dialogue that was already swirling around the decision, but she forgot one important adage, an adage that the youngest of athletes can recite by heart.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">“There’s no ‘I’ in team.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Critics said that Ryan’s decision to start Scurry over Solo might affect morale, and I’m sure that it did, but I would think loyalty to the whole team and its common goal would supersede loyalty to any one player. Loyalty has its place in sports, but this was not a situation that called for the rest of the team to turn in their jerseys in solidarity with Solo. Whether they agreed or not, they took the field with their other teammate, a teammate who still possesses immense talent and is still a member of the team for a reason.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">I don’t believe that Solo meant to diminish the reputation of Scurry. I think her desire to win and her frustration at not being able to help her team do so clouded her judgment. In the end, it was a rookie mistake for her to speak out as vehemently as she did and that decision has cost her a role in the third place match versus Norway.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">What happens with the National team from here on out waits to be seen. Whether Ryan, Solo, or Scurry return for the Olympics next summer will be hot topics, but for now there’s still one more match to be played in which the United States needs to rise above the fray.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Perhaps this is the time to follow the quiet example of the veteran.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6648964869002445975.post-23285639761051033352007-09-12T20:56:00.000-05:002007-09-12T21:07:50.254-05:00Second Base<p><span style="font-size:85%;">We were playing on a beaten-up field just beyond 395 in Washington, DC. The basepaths were almost non-existent and every grounder had the potential to soar over a baseman’s head if it hit just the right pothole. The gnats zig-zagged through the air on that late summer evening, but none of us seemed to notice because there was business to be done.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">As I guarded the runner on first in my peripheral vision, I looked over at our shortstop and third baseman. After three years of playing rec league softball, I had finally earned their trust. Though these guys had hearts of gold, they were not quick to believe that girls could be just as tough on the diamond as they were. But by playing the basics and then going that extra mile, I had finally proven myself worthy to be the recipient of their hardest throws.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">As the next batter strode to the plate, I knew I would have to be vigilant for the double-play ball. When a chopper bounced through a gap in the infield, I rushed to the bag and readied myself. The runner raced towards me as I thrust out my glove hand toward my teammate. The throw was off-target, but I knew I could just about reach it while keeping my heel on the bag. Never one to back down during a softball game, I ignored the guy who had a good 60 pounds on me and focused on the ball. Both reached me at the same moment, but there was a tangle of arms and legs as he slid. I felt my body go off balance and there was nowhere else to break my fall. Without meaning to, I fell right on top of him. I was annoyed that I had fallen, but my main thought was that I had gotten him out. However, no one else agreed. Furious, I scrambled up and resumed my position.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Then from the sidelines, I heard it.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">“Hey, Mike… you got to second base both ways!”</span></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerp8SsdqZRon2p5hqHmYWQ5C4o3jcU4G6fCIrJB0aTSbftmDdTBcBeyV9hnCchHXG65uqUpiGHj24MUTwOA6uxSsJm1RffNyvxxgRYupEezo66HXMLDQ3cWvJh0ao2PBd-PigFAGDaQ/s1600-h/Save+2nd+Base.bmp"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109503406928262850" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerp8SsdqZRon2p5hqHmYWQ5C4o3jcU4G6fCIrJB0aTSbftmDdTBcBeyV9hnCchHXG65uqUpiGHj24MUTwOA6uxSsJm1RffNyvxxgRYupEezo66HXMLDQ3cWvJh0ao2PBd-PigFAGDaQ/s320/Save+2nd+Base.bmp" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">
</span><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Baseball has long been used as an analogy in the world of dates and hook-ups, but just the other day I heard about what could possibly be the best use of the basepath metaphors. A friend told me about “Save 2nd Base,” an organization formed to raise awareness for and to combat breast cancer. The idea came from Kelly Rooney, a mother with breast cancer who didn’t lose her sense of humor even when it seemed there was so much else to lose. The t-shirt she designed became a rallying cry for her friends, family, and supporters, and though she lost her battle with cancer, her message and her humor carries on, inspiring millions of others in the fight.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">My loyal readers have heard me rail against the evils of pink in the sports world, but this is the strongest exception I could ever imagine and I’d be proud to wear this pink baseball shirt anywhere.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">If you’d like to find out more, visit </span><a href="http://www.save2ndbase.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;">Save 2nd Base</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">After all, everyone wants to save 2nd base.</span></p>HSPOVhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03035283020016834656noreply@blogger.com1