HerSportsPOV

A Matter of Faith

2010-01-23T10:24:00.002-05:00

There had to be a typo, right?

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.

Except when an up-and-coming major leaguer decides to give it all up to become a priest.

Come again?

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.

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.

Now that is shocking.

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.

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.

It’s the positive, decent stories that give us pause because we’re used to the bad apples.

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.

Character-Driven

2010-01-09T11:29:00.002-05:00

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.

But on Friday, ESPN.com posted the following: Red Sox 3B Beltre empathizes with Lowell.

A tad bit warm and fuzzy among headlines talking contracts and missteps, don’t you think?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Almost Full Circle

2009-10-05T16:56:00.002-05:00

I didn’t feel like a princess and I sure as hell didn’t look like one either.

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.

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.

But I did it. All 13.1 miles of it in the exact time I was aiming for.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

And it wasn't long after that when I set a new goal.

* * * * * * *

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.

I lost the drive.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And maybe the circle wasn’t meant to close yet because there are still other races to be run.

Hitting Close To Home - Epilogue

2009-08-01T14:53:00.002-05:00

With two outs and one man on base, a familiar form walked towards the batter’s box.

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.

And then we heard it... a cacophony of boos echoing throughout Camden Yards as Big Papi stepped to the plate.

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.

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.

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.

And as he rounded the bases, the words of detractors disappeared. The suspicions were erased. There was nothing but pure euphoria.

Eventually the reality returned though, but just as I had hoped, he had given me one more memory for the reel.

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.

I just hope he continues to do so.

Hitting Close To Home

2009-07-31T00:00:00.001-05:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

Which is why this hurts so much.

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.

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.

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.

Do I believe Papi? I don’t know.

But I want to believe in him... in spite of what the answers might be.

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.

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.

“C’mon, Papi. Please.”

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.

Look How Far We've Come

2009-03-17T09:08:00.002-05:00

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.”

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:

“It’s The Girls’ Turn.”

Girls???

I just couldn’t contain my anger.

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?

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.

The ironic part... the best collegiate basketball team in the nation is a women’s team.

Plum Crazy

2009-02-08T09:53:00.002-05:00

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.

That’s how I run. Anything more that 240 feet around the basepaths is too much for this girl.

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.

But somehow I find myself training for a half-marathon.

Call it a lark. Call it an adventure. Call it a new year’s resolution.

And please call it crazy.

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.

Plum crazy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

What eventually did?

A mouse.

Even at 30, a trip to Disney World is a powerful motivator.

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.

But here I am… exactly one month before the race… and I find that it doesn’t feel so crazy anymore.

100 Mea Culpas

2009-01-22T23:23:00.001-05:00

There are no excuses.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Open wound, pour salt, repeat.

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.

Or maybe they should have quit while they were ahead by less than 100.

The Great Game 5 Comeback

2008-10-20T20:32:00.003-05:00

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.

But still… I had a feeling.

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.”

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.

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.

And we did. For three straight games.

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.

For six innings on the night of October 16th, the gods let us know that they were still forces to be reckoned with.

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.

And then it happened. The gods knew I was truly penitent.

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.

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.

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!”

Ball one to Jason Bay.

”Wheeeeeee-ler! Wheeeeeee-ler!”

Ball two.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeee-ler! Wheeeeeeeeee-ler!”

Ball three.

“WHEEEEEEEEE-LER! WHEEEEEEEEELER!”

Take your base, Mr. Bay.

We were in Wheeler's head.

And then J.D. Drew joined us there by slamming a shot into the stands just to the left of us.

7-5.

My phone was buzzing like mad in my pocket. Izzie and I were practically speechless.

Was this really happening?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We had witnessed history.

* * *

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.

I didn’t want to say it out loud, but I had a feeling.

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.

After all, you can’t ask for too much, and the gods had already given me more than I ever could have asked for.

A Real Pro

2008-05-13T13:29:00.002-05:00

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.

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."

Them’s fightin’ words, Figueroa.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The ABC's of a Very Nats Weekend

2008-04-05T10:51:00.012-05:00

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.

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.

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.

Awesome

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.

Boos for Bush

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.

Cold

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 The Christmas Story. 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.

Doubts

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.

Embraces

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.

Five Dollars

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?

Greatest Love Of All

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.

"Because the greeeeeat-est love of all is haaaaappening to meeee..."

I couldn't think of better song to begin the weekend.

Hot Dogs

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.

Images

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.

Jones

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.

Kelly Clarkson

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.

Lines

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.

Metro

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.

National Pastime in the Nation's Capital

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.

Ovation

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!

Presidents

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.

Quartet

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.

RFK

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.

Sanitary Napkin Containers

(Sorry, gentlemen.)

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!

Team Stores

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.

Unbridled Excitement

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.

Victory

I'm getting ahead of myself...

Water

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.

X - No smoking

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?

Yelling

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.

Zimmerman

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.

Way.

Zimmerman electrified the park and a city with one swing of the bat.

And I can't tell you how thrilled I am to say that I was there.

Eavesdropping On The Madness

2008-03-17T12:45:00.001-05:00

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.

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.

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.

Which leads me to my mission for the day: my bracket.

The pressure.

The stress.

The heartburn... nope, wait... that’s the Easter candy.

Last year I poured over stats and blurbs in The Washington Post 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.

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.

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.

Long Live King Hank

2008-03-17T07:54:00.001-05:00

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?).

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.”

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.

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.

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.

Love Hurts

2008-02-14T19:43:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that has to break their hearts.

Two Seconds

2008-02-12T17:30:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damaging Double Entendre

2008-02-06T18:16:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Super Bowl Diary

2008-02-04T08:40:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9:55 pm: TOUCHDOWN GIANTS!!

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

9:59 pm: Brady sacked AGAIN!

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

10:02 pm: GIANTS WIN!

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

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

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

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

Just A Little Bit Of Chivalry

2008-01-24T19:29:00.000-05:00

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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 Saved By The Bell. 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.

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.

But then the tide turned.

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.

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.

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 Dictionary.com defines “chivalry” as the following: the sum of the ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valor.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Culture Of Cheating

2008-01-15T18:46:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year... plus a couple days! A lot has happened in the sports world since HerSportsPOV 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Sleep well, Barry... Roger... Rafael... Mo... Miguel... Eric... Brian... Lenny...

Hiatus for the Holidays

2007-11-08T17:35:00.000-05:00

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.

Please be sure to check back in after the holidays for some fresh new columns on HerSportsPov!

Thanks for your support!

Red Sox Family

2007-10-28T11:21:00.000-05:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

On The Clear, In The Dark

2007-10-10T22:33:00.000-05:00

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.

But now Marion Jones.

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.

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.

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.

Or so we thought at the time...

We were really standing in the presence of a world-class cheater.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

An Ode To RFK

2007-09-30T13:39:00.000-05:00

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.

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?

Yeah, I guess they were.

RFK is no heaven, but believe it or not, there’s a lot to miss.

Like the gentleman whose sweet sax sounds used to greet me when I got off the Metro.

Like the sight of that behemoth as I rounded the corner.

Like the one place on the upper level that actually sold nachos.

Like the nachos and the lukewarm cheese.

Like the bathrooms where I would rush between innings.

Like the scoreboard you couldn’t always see.

Like the Redskins-colored seats.

Like the undulating shadows on a summer afternoon.

Like the crowd, both on those days when the house was full and on those when I could hear someone laugh across the park.

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.

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.

Solidarity

2007-09-29T20:52:00.000-05:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

“There’s no ‘I’ in team.”

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.

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.

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.

Perhaps this is the time to follow the quiet example of the veteran.

Second Base

2007-09-12T20:56:00.000-05:00

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.

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.

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.

Then from the sidelines, I heard it.

“Hey, Mike… you got to second base both ways!”

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.

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.

If you’d like to find out more, visit Save 2nd Base.

After all, everyone wants to save 2nd base.

Notes From Camden Yards

2007-09-11T07:22:00.000-05:00

The Curse Reversed

I went to my last Red Sox game of the season on Sunday, and I’m relieved to say that I am no longer the living, breathing epitome of a black cat or a crack in the sidewalk. The Red Sox had gone 1-3 in games when I was rooting for them in person, but they squeaked by the Orioles with a 3-2 win in the blazing September sun at Camden Yards, thus breaking a streak that has caused me to have many a sleepless night.

There were some bursts of excitement on the field, but funny enough, the actual game ended up being the least noteworthy thing about this entire excursion.

Tailgate

The morning began with a tailgate in the parking lot underneath the highway outside Ravens Stadium or M&T Stadium or whatever.

Now I do not claim to know the art of the tailgate. I’ve eaten chicken salad out of the trunk of a car in the parking lot before a Maroon 5 concert. I joined a group of old Archives guards after a Redskins game and sampled some fine barbecue. I’ve even sat in the bed of a pick-up, with my hand shoved in a chip bag, marveling at the vim and vigor of the Barra Brava. But I’m no connoisseur of the tailgate.

With little schooling on the subject, I set out to organize the finest spread a wallet the week before pay-day could buy. The Red Sox and Orioles were set to take the field at 1:35, so our group settled on a breakfast tailgate, complete with bagels, donuts, and munchkins from that bastion of Yankee* ingenuity, Dunkin Donuts. Every bit of doughy goodness was sloshed down with generic orange juice, and suddenly we felt energized to accept our challenge as road representatives of the Nation.

Chanting Is Not Cheerleading

I was in a bar with some of these same cohorts in crime on a night several weeks ago when one pal came up with a soccer-style chant for Jason Varitek. It was catchy, it had rhythm, it was the perfect cap to an evening during which many a Sam Adams brew had flowed.

We had yet to break it out in public though… that is until Sunday.

When the captain of the Red Sox stepped to the plate, a friend and I seized the opportunity to receive the stares of several fans around us. Not quite sure what to make of the chant emanating from left field, they looked at us like we had just dropped the top girl in the pyramid.

And then it dawned on me. Was I cheerleading at a baseball game?

Then faster than you can say, “Bring it on,” my mind said, “No, you’re chanting.” That’s different.

It is, isn’t it?

“Varitek! Varitek! Swing it, swing it! Not a check! Varitek! Varitek! Go on, go on, give ‘em heck!”

Right?

Detrol LA

My best friend once sent for literature in my name after watching one of those “Gotta go” commercials. She thought it would be hysterical because I have an active bladder. It was funny, but what isn’t quite so amusing is my penchant for missing the good stuff while going to the bathroom.

Let me preface this by saying that the gametime temperature was 93 degrees. We were sitting directly in the sun, and I was wearing a polyester jersey. Blinking was enough exertion to make me sweat, so the chances of my needing to use the ladies’ room at any point during the game were slim to none. Except in the 6th inning when I decided that my need for nachos and my belief that I should go to the bathroom just because I was in a 20 yard radius of a toilet prevailed.

I was just buttoning up my shorts when I heard the foghorns go off, signaling a Baltimore homerun. I was annoyed that they had hit the dinger, but even more irritated that I had missed it. The action had been limited thus far thanks to my boy Beckett’s commanding presence, so any bit of bingo for either side was something I wanted to see.

When I got back to my seat, I realized just how much I had missed, and the homerun was last on the list. Turns out, location is everything and the homerun landed three rows in front of us, which meant our seats had been on TV. The problem was that the ball was not caught on the fly. It didn’t ricochet or rattle around in an empty seat. Instead it slammed squarely into the face of a fan who made an ill-fated attempt to one-hand it while still cradling his souvenir beer. The EMTs were working to care for the man when I sat down, and I felt terrible about the scene before me. Izzie told me that I would not have wanted to see it, that the sound it made was awful, that a small child had actually burst into tears. But… and I’m ashamed to admit it… there’s a small part of me that’s a little bit jealous of my friends who saw it. I can still tell the story of what happened, but it’s still not quite as good as if I had seen it with my own eyes. I know that’s wrong, and I really do feel badly, but people who rubberneck in glass houses shouldn’t throw baseballs.

All in all, I blame my bladder. If I didn’t have an active bladder, I never would have decided to go just for the hell of it, and I would have been there to see a little piece of history unfold three rows in front of me.

Oh, who am I kidding? I still would have gotten up for the nachos.

Piece de Resistance

After Jonathan Papelbon had safely secured the game for Beckett, the Red Sox, and fans everywhere, our little group made its way out to the tunnel. The ladies in our bunch decided a pitstop was mandatory thanks to an unfortunate encounter with the port-o-potties in the parking lot earlier. As we pushed the door open and got in line, Izzie called my attention to the most magnificent sight I have seen since Lindsay Lohan’s last mugshot. There before us, sitting on top of a garbage can overflowing with dirty paper towels lay a pink hat. Our minds started swimming with possibilities as to how it got there. Did a boyfriend buy it for his girl and she was offended? Did the boyfriend give it to her as a gift, and they had some fight at the game and the purging of the hat was a symbol of the destruction of their relationship? Was it… eh, who knows, but what I do know is that there has never been a more appropriate home for a pink hat!

Is This Heaven?

When the sun’s rays stopped frying us and the game started to wind down, I looked up and noticed how beautiful the clouds were. I grabbed my camera and fired off a few shots before taking the one below. When I finally uploaded it, I couldn’t help but think of the question, “Is this heaven?”

It sure is. Good baseball, good friends, good times.

* Yankee: n. a native or inhabitant of New England; adj. of New England. Not to be confused with Yankees: n. members of baseball's Evil Empire.

A New Era

2007-09-06T22:15:00.000-05:00

I've spent the better part of two weeks trying to suppress the vast amount of Catholic guilt I feel for not posting anything of late. It's not like I haven't had plenty of fodder. There was Michael Vick's come-to-Jesus moment, Clay Buchholz' no-hitter, and Teddy Roosevelt's failure to win the Presidents' Race at RFK on his bobblehead night. I've booed Barry Bonds from the upper deck in left field, ridden a bike for the first time in 16 years, and realized that Wii Sports can be considered exercise. But as badly as I wanted to write about all of these, the words and time eluded me.

But tonight I felt compelled to post a short note about a momentous day for female fans everywhere. On a lark, I just looked at MLB.com's shop to see if there was any new gear for the sports junkie. Suddenly my eyes fell on the most miraculous of sights. There before me was the Holy Grail of the female fan's attire.

Ladies, I give you...

New Era's Women's Essential Adjustable Caps

"An essential cap with a classic look! Embroidered team logo on team-colored cap. Fit for a woman's head, with a re-sculpted crown, adjusted rear slope, and trimmed visor. Adjustable back with metal clasp. 100% cotton."

There is no excuse now for the pink hat. It can be banned. It can be abolished. No one over the age of 6 should be allowed to come within a mile radius of a pink hat.

Makes you feel warm and fuzzy, doesn't it?

Uncomfortably Numb

2007-08-21T08:03:00.001-05:00

We’ve moved past the drugs, alcohol, steroids, philandering... even the shootings and the gambling don’t grip the headlines like they used to. We’re numb. We’re desensitized. It’s either too much to take in or we accept these as byproducts of sports. A few blips on the rap sheet no longer raise eyebrows, so in order to have staying power in a society with the collective attention span of a gnat, the infractions have to be bigger, badder, and more bizarre.

And that’s what we’ve got now.

We’ve got Michael Vick getting off on having dogs rip each other to shreds. We’ve got Jose Offerman wielding his tool of trade as a weapon on the diamond. And we’ve got Tim Donaghy fixing so many games that he makes the Black Sox look like choirboys.

Bigger, badder, and more bizarre.

We’ve gasped at the audacity of these athletic professionals, but as hard as it is to believe right now, we’ll soon be anesthetized to these stories. I’m already tired of hearing about Michael Vick. He deserves everything he’s got coming to him and I hope it’s enough to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face, but it’s a lot to process... how he could throw his career down the toilet and sully a sports world that has crowned him with so many accolades.

I hate the fact that Michael Vick and so many others have tainted sports with their behavior, but there’s been so much in the last several months that railing against it seems futile. Right now, I’d rather monitor the standings between the Red Sox and the Yankees, look for tickets for a Navy football game, and decide whether this is the year I drop the Dolphins for good.

I’d rather be uncomfortably numb, knowing that the scandals are corrupting the integrity of sports, but pretending that there is some shred of integrity left.

Gracious Hosts

2007-08-13T07:07:00.000-05:00

Whenever I have company, I try to roll out the red carpet. The food meant for five could easily feed any army. The candles spark to life with the flick of a match. The corners of the room where dustballs party are swept clean. The cushions on the sofa are fluffed for comfort, and the coasters are lined up on the coffee table for style. I may not have the ritziest of homes or the most sophisticated of wine offerings, but I strive to rank high on the hospitality scale.

On Friday night, I visited someone else’s house and I have to say they would put me to shame. I walked in as an ungracious guest and walked out appreciating that my hosts had ordered up a perfect evening for me in spite of the chip on my shoulder. After a few short hours, I realized that Camden Yards is indeed the most hospitable place to root-root-root for the visiting team.

When I arrived at 4:45 pm, the front gate of Camden was already swarming with Red Sox fans and I was hard-pressed to find an Orioles fan in the lot. Instead I was surrounded by the diehards from New England, the transplants, and the bandwagoners in every conceivable Red Sox shirt. If I were an O’s fan, I don’t think I’d be pleased to have my field taken over by a nation of fans who act like this is the Fenway Annex. But O’s fans don’t seem to mind all that much. They joined the lines and mingled with the faithful without a grumble.

For one reason or another, I had to chat with various members of the Orioles staff, and even they didn’t think twice about my walking up to them in a Sox shirt and hat. One was even so kind as to smile and say, “What can I do for you, young lady?” They didn’t seem to care that I had the cocky swagger of a fan whose team is in first place, that I clearly believed my team would win. Instead they saw a baseball fan with a question that needed answering.

I had purchased cheap seats in left field because it was a last minute decision to come to the game, but I was afforded a breathtaking view of the entire park. From my bird’s nest in the second to last row, I spied a sea of red with a sprinkling of orange. Once the game got underway and the beer started to warm up the crowd, the thunderous chants of “Let’s go, Red Sox…clap…clap…clap-clap-clap,” drowned out everything else. The O’s fans came back with their own chants, and they certainly would have been entitled to come back at us with some choice words as well, but they kept an even keel and quietly enjoyed the one run lead they carried late into the game.

To their credit, the Orioles contingent tried to act mean. After the seventh inning stretch, the familiar strains of “Sweet Caroline” filled the yard. You could see the red- and blue-capped fans turning, smiling, and bobbing their heads along to Neil. Even the weathered hearts of Sox fans softened with the scoreboard promise, “And now here’s a little something for you Red Sox fans.” But just as Neil was about to belt it out, the music cut off abruptly and the scoreboard screamed, “NOT!” Only it didn’t scream. It was more of a nice guy try. The Sox fans chuckled, appreciating the humor, but no one took offense.

When the eighth inning exploded in a run fest for both sides, with the Red Sox first surging ahead for a 5-1 lead and the Orioles answering with four runs of their own, the Orioles fans had every reason to turn to the Sox fans and give them raspberries, but they didn’t. Instead they sat back and calmly rode the momentum into the ninth inning with everything tied.

The top of the ninth saw the Red Sox strand two runners on the basepaths. The Orioles came back in the bottom of the inning with a double, a bunt, and a sacrifice fly that drove in the winning run, and the Orioles fans erupted with cheers and applause. Their boys had fought harder for the glory, and ours had completely imploded on the field. The Birds deserved all of the kudos, and even Red Sox Nation could appreciate that. As I walked out of the yard, I was prepared to hear Orioles fans gloating about the drubbing their team had delivered, but the only words I heard were the strong chants of “Let’s go, Red Sox.” Even in defeat, Boston fans were eager to shout their allegiance, and even in victory, Orioles fans found no reason to stop us. They had won the game in memorable fashion and that’s all they needed to make the night complete.

I’m used to watching my teams play in opposing parks. I’ve seen the Red Sox at Yankee Stadium and the Marlins at Shea. A Yankee fan got in my grill and called me a “Chowdahead,” and Mets fans hurled cups in the direction of me, my Dad, and my “Fish Fans” sign. I knew I was asking for the taunts then because that’s what you get when you tread on someone else’s turf in enemy colors, but going to Camden actually feels like the exception to the rule. Orioles fans are kind and hospitable. They lay down the red carpet for opposing teams and their fans regardless of how virulent the opponents can be about their loyalties. Like good hosts, they believe what's most important is for fans to get comfortable, have a fun time, and enjoy a good baseball game.

Lonely At The Top

2007-08-08T00:29:00.000-05:00

At 11:52 p.m. EST, I watched Barry Bonds break Hank Aaron’s record. After his son congratulated him and his teammates walked (not ran) to home plate to greet him, Bonds tipped his hat to the hometown crowd, gave Willie Mays a hug, said a few words, shook a few hands, and then sat at the end of the dugout bench by himself. You couldn’t mistake the look of relief on his face that the pressure of the chase was finally over, but what was missing was the jubilance, the pure boyish delight in having accomplished the unthinkable. Instead, it was the face of a very jaded man who has stolen a piece of immortality.

I watched the events unfold with resignation, as I know fans who were still awake were doing and those who will learn about it in the morning will do. We knew it was coming. It was just a matter of time, just as it’s only matter of time before the digging and investigating come to a head. I want Bonds to get his comeuppance for tainting the game, but I’m almost afraid of the fallout that will accompany the home run king being dethroned by irrefutable evidence. The game has lost a little of its innocence through Bonds’ pursuit of the record, but how much will these revelations cost baseball? This boil will make the strike of 1994 look like a pimple, and we all know how long it took for that blemish to heal.

Instead of congratulating Bonds, I want to give my condolences to Mike Bacsik, Jr. of the Washington Nationals. It was tough luck to deliver the pitch Bonds launched into the stands for 756*, but we know it wasn’t for lack of fighting against the inevitable.

Mike, it must have been a lonely place on that mound with thousands of flash bulbs committing your moment of infamy to memory, but just remember that you’re not the one who will go down in baseball history for being infamous.

Cribbage*

2007-08-05T22:32:00.000-05:00

I was locked in a dead heat with my opponent. We stared each other down, and each turn of the crib offered a chance for a lead change. I had come back from a seemingly insurmountable deficit, but a few good hands loaded with nines and sixes, face cards and fives had allowed me to come roaring back. One the final hand, my opponent went ahead by four, and I knew for certain I had eight. As I tallied the score for my hand, my opponent watched quietly. Her promise to whoop me had failed to materialize. I was the victor.

And the she said, “Maybe if you had given me those points before, it would have been different.”

The blood rushed to my face and I screeched, “Mom, that’s not true!”

Yes, my mother and I had a grudge match over the cribbage board and she accused me of cheating. The problem was that neither of us has played in some time, so there were a few scoring rituals we couldn’t quite remember. We went with what we thought we could recall and kept it uniform for both of our turns, but seeing as how she’s the origin of my distaste for losing, she used the scoring snafu as a way to undermine my glory.

I railed against her. I had won fair and square. There was no way I could put my head on the pillow and have her believe I had cheated my way to a win. Like a battering ram, I defended my position and pushed away the asterisk that floated like a storm cloud above my head. I had fought back as the underdog and now I was fighting for the credit I deserved.

Barry Bonds tied Hank Aaron’s home run record on Saturday night. 755 home runs is an impressive number. It’s the most hallowed record in sports. It’s an achievement mere mortals couldn’t hope to accomplish, and yet two men have. One was pure; the other we’re not so sure.

Bonds should be proud of his feat, but what I want to know is why he’s not fighting harder to defend himself. If he didn’t cheat, if he didn’t take steroids, why is he not defending himself until he’s hoarse? Why would he allow the naysayers to detract from what he has supposedly earned outright? If I were in his shoes, one critic would be enough for me to speak out. Why isn’t Barry?

Maybe he believes he doesn’t have to defend himself, that he should just go about doing what he’s doing and to hell with the rest of us. Maybe he’s a unique person who doesn’t care what other people think of him, but the problem is that he works in a profession where 50,000 watch him on any given night and care what he does, so he should be cognizant of what the fans think.

I don’t believe Barry Bonds is worthy of 755 or 756, but he might make me a believer if he fought back against the asterisk.

A Class Act

2007-08-01T07:55:00.000-05:00

Late last week, Jeff Conine was asked what it was like to play with Cal Ripken, Jr., a man who has set the bar for class in Major League Baseball. Conine expressed his admiration for Ripken, citing his dedication, knowledge, and passion for the game, but what was lost in that interview was that it was one class act praising another.

When Conine most likely hangs up his cleats at the end of the season, he won’t be remembered as the greatest player who ever played the game, but he’s had brushes with greatness. He came in 3rd on the 1993 Rookie of the Year ballot, behind Mike Piazza and a player whose career fizzled shortly thereafter. He was the 1995 All-Star Game MVP. He has two World Series rings to his credit. He owns a solid career batting average and a strong fielding percentage. Statistics aside though, he’s always been the guy playing quietly under the radar, doing well, setting the tone, making every team he has played for better because of his presence. If he retires this year, he won’t get the fanfare he deserves, but his fans will remember the classy way he played the game.

Last night, I went to see the Reds at RFK in order to see Jeff Conine take the field one last time in person. Decked out in my old-school, teal Conine t-shirt and armed with a sign I made out of a pillow case last year, I rushed to RFK so that I might have the chance to catch a glimpse of Conine before batting practice ended.

As I made my way down to the field, I couldn’t help but think back to the time I stood by the dugout of Shea Stadium, waiting patiently for the Marlins to finish batting practice. With only minutes to spare before the National Anthem, Jeff Conine made his way to our section and signed every baseball trinket that was thrust in front of him. When a young girl with glasses and a ponytail sticking out of the back of a bright teal cap put her Marlins yearbook in front of him just as the Anthem singer was being announced, he kindly signed, “Jeff Conine 19.”

Some 13 years later, I was now seeing Conine on a different team, in a different city, in a different park, but the graciousness was exactly the same. He walked over to the group gathered by the visitors’ dugout at RFK and signed no less than 50 items put in front of him, including a homemade sign from this fan who remembers the kindness he showed to me so many years ago. When Conine finished writing, “Jeff Conine 19,” and handed the pillow case back to me, he looked me in the eye and said, “Thanks for the sign.”

Thank you for the memories, Jeff Conine. Thank you for being the type of player fans can feel proud to root for.

I'm Sorry, Alyssa Milano

2007-07-31T07:53:00.000-05:00

I misjudged you. I still don’t like your flair-covered clothing line, but I respect your intentions and you and I are more alike than I ever thought I could admit. You’re no bandwagon baseball fan and I apologize for thinking you’re a serial pitcher dater. You’re true blue, and I would burn a pink hat with you any day.

The reason for my about-face has to do with an article Milano posted on her blog a few months ago. In a piece, entitled “The Female Fan and The Business of Baseball,” Milano discussed how television executives like to court women because they are the most loyal viewers and the most loyal consumers. Loyalty translates to the sports world, but the sports world does not necessarily embrace loyalty as a commodity. Milano asks, “How does the way baseball business is run affect the loyal female fan or the potential female fan? And do you think baseball would have more female fans if there were more franchise players signed to longer contracts?” I’m with Samantha Micelli on this one. Women invest themselves in people, not statistics. Sure, we want our teams to win, but we also want to root for the same players year after year. We don’t want pink hats; we just want our boys.

Some players and front offices value loyalty as a commodity, but with the induction of Cal Ripken, Jr. and Tony Gwynn this weekend, I feel like we’re celebrating a dying breed. I’m grateful that I remember the days when Brett meant Royals, Yount meant Brewers, Sandberg meant Cubs, Mattingly meant Yankees, and Murphy meant Braves. This was the era in which I grew to love baseball, and it’s still hard to adjust to a time in which contracts and trade deadlines monopolize the headlines.

The business of baseball can break the bonds of loyalty, but sometimes the bonds are too tough to break. Tonight I’ll be standing by the visitors' dugout of RFK Stadium, waiting for Jeff Conine to emerge. A member of the Royals, Marlins, Royals again, Orioles, Marlins, Orioles again, Phillies, and now the Reds, Conine has made decisions and has had decisions made for him, but through it all, I've remained loyal. He doesn’t play for my favorite team and I don’t really care if his current team wins tonight, but I do want to see him on the field one last time before he retires from the game that hasn’t always been loyal to him and to his fans.

Names In The Headlines

2007-07-26T23:23:00.000-05:00

I’m tired of reading about doping, gambling, dog-fighting, and the all-around stupidity that has infiltrated the headlines this week. The athletes and officials who have sullied their sports with their greed and idiocy deserve public humiliation, but I’m too tired of their antics to even mention their names right now.

Instead I want to mention these names:

Mike Coolbaugh. Skip Prosser. Maggie Hilbrands.

Mike was a minor league coach who tasted big league dreams for a second before finding his niche as a father and a mentor.

Skip was a leader on and off the court, inspiring young basketball players to push their limits while gaining the respect of his colleagues from coast to coast.

Maggie was on the verge of becoming a teenager and unleashing a wealth of talent on the diamond.

This week, all three died doing what they loved most.

In light of these tragic deaths, it’s easy to think that sports are trivial, and they are… until we remember how much of these people’s lives were devoted to them and that’s when they gain such poignancy.

The cheaters who have dominated our headlines don’t deserve to be a part of a sports world where true competitors like Mike, Skip, and Maggie have walked. They don’t appreciate the gifts they have and the stage they’re on. Instead they squander these precious moments to boost their egos and pad their wallets. They dishonor themselves, fans, and every other athlete, coach, and referee who views sports through the lens of fair play.

They dishonor people like Mike, Skip, Maggie, who I wish could have cheated just once... just enough to cheat death.

Scott Howard and The Soccer Savior

2007-07-25T07:44:00.000-05:00

I wonder if David Beckham has ever seen Teen Wolf.

You know the story. Boy turns into wolf. Wolf becomes phenom. Fans love phenom for a spell, but suddenly start to miss boy. Wolf turns back into boy and wins the game on pure heart. Cue music. Roll credits.

Or something like that.

David Beckham is our soccer’s “wolf,” only with a lot less hair as we’ve had the eye-searing pleasure of seeing thanks to W Magazine. He’s been imported to enlighten us about the world’s game (though when have Americans ever followed the rest of the world?). I have no doubt that Beckham’s arrival will boost interest in the sport and merchandise vendors will be as giddy as Stiles surfing on top of a hardware van, but will it last?

The biggest boost will probably be to our sport of celebrity worship, with Posh’s US Weekly article count rivaling that of Paris or Lindsay, but what about the other players, both teammates and opponents alike? These men have been toiling for years, and yet it takes the arrival of a superstar to validate their efforts? Sure, they will certainly benefit because they’ll have the chance to play in front of bigger crowds and bigger crowds lead to more revenue and that just might lead to a raise, but they’ll probably never earn enough to hang with the Soccer Savior on the cheapest of his excursions and they deserve to be more than just Beckham’s supporting cast.

So once Becks has finished his tour of the country this year, once the vendors are done hawking their wares, once the novelty of the world’s best being on our soil wears off, what will happen next?

At the end of the movie, the wolf turns back into everyman because he can see the heart and soul of his game and his team were lost in the trappings of fame.

Can David Beckham really shed the aura of his celebrity on the American field? Can one man really make us fall in love with soccer?

If he succeeds, it will be a miracle. If he doesn’t, we won’t miss something we never had and this will all have been a delightful diversion before the American pastimes kick into high gear for the fall.

Fresno State's Folly

2007-07-18T23:28:00.000-05:00

It was among the top ten headlines ESPN.com had on its homepage on July 9th. Then it was gone.

Jury rules against Fresno St. in discrimination case, awards Vivas $5.85M.

Lindy Vivas, the former head volleyball coach at Fresno State, was fired in 2004 because the university said she had failed to achieve the objectives outlined by the athletic department. She hadn’t won a championship; she couldn’t pack the house; and she didn’t schedule enough games against elite adversaries. The reasons seem plausible... after all, other coaches, both male and female, have been fired for less. But there was more to this story.

Vivas claimed she had been dismissed for less tangible reasons, such as being a voice for women’s athletics. She was an advocate for Title IX, believing that her players deserved the same treatment afforded to other athletes at Fresno State, perks as extravagant as snacks on the road. The football team got goodies; the volleyball team was denied. I understand the argument that men’s sports bring in more revenue, so they are entitled to more. But we’re not talking new sneakers. We’re talking pretzel baggies.

Fresno State built a state-of-the-art gym, but the volleyball team was only allowed to play one match a year there. If the university sent the message that the team wasn’t good enough to compete in the best facility, why would anyone bother to show up at the games unless they were bound by blood, friendship, or sex to do so? And if the team was relegated to an old gymnasium, what would make any school in the top 25 believe they were contenders?

The other component of Vivas’ lawsuit was harder to prove, but no less real. The perception was that Vivas is a lesbian, and that several members of the university community wanted her gone because of it. To my knowledge, Vivas has not made her sexual orientation public, but even if she had said she was a lesbian while she was at Fresno State, does it have any bearing on her abilities as a volleyball coach? When was the last time a male coach said, “I’m heterosexual; therefore, I can coach.”?

Society has come a long way, but on the road to acceptance, we’ve gone about 30 feet. As long as there is a stigma about being gay and as long as being a woman who loves sports is perceived to be gay, then female athletes will continue to be the subject of whispers. And if they are constantly scrutinized for their sexual orientation, then they will continue to be marginalized in the sports world because the dialogue revolves around their personas rather than their abilities.

College is supposed to be a learning experience, but what did Fresno State teach its students and the generations to come? By dismissing Vivas, they reinforced our need for Title IX because clearly society isn’t ready to put every female athletic program on the same plane as the male counterparts. Furthermore, in allowing the campus to become a petrie dish of intolerance, Fresno State sent the message that in order for any woman to be involved in sports, she has to be prepared to defend herself in order to protect her love of the game.

All kids need to learn that the world is a cruel place sooner or later, but the playing field should be the one place they can be themselves and give their all without worrying that someone is cheating them or judging them.

Coach Vivas recognized that. A jury recognized that. When will everyone else?

Red Sox Road Trip: Part 5

2007-07-12T08:04:00.000-05:00

The Lord's Day

Two hours before Izzie and I were slated to leave work on our last day before the trip, she got a call from our pal Swany. We had planned to drive back to Washington on Sunday, but he asked if our plans could be rearranged to accommodate Sunday’s game. Izzie shouted over the cubicle, “Can we go to Sunday’s game?” Without bothering to put the shoes I had kicked off back on, I leapt out of my chair, ran around the corner, and nodded in affirmation. Turns out, a friend of a friend of a friend knew people. Those people had arranged for us to have two tickets waiting for us at will call on Sunday. Swany told Izzie there would be hell to pay if these tickets went unused, which struck us as curious, but we were too excited to dwell on it.

When Sunday rolled around, Izzie and I checked out of the Omni, somehow consolidating the 9 bags we brought with us into 7, and left our stuff with the bellhops. With a brief pitstop to pay our respects to Sam Adams, the patriot, we headed to Fenway for the third time that weekend.

We both opted to forego the jerseys in favor of other Red Sox tees, and now that I think about it, perhaps wearing my 1918 shirt was not a good idea, but there’s only so much superstition you can cave into. Izzie and I are experts at the rituals to save our team, which include hats to the back when the Sox are behind and her tapping my head three times when things get tense. Don’t ask how these came to be, but we’ve got a come-from-behind win against the Yankees and a Wily Mo grand slam that we saw in person to the credit of these rituals, so who in their right mind would mess with that?

As soon as we got to Fenway, we parked ourselves in front of the will call door, waiting for it to open. When it finally did, we were at the front of the surge to the window, but that’s when the trouble happened. Izzie gave them all of the information we had, but there were no tickets. My heart got stuck in my throat. How could we be this close? They wanted the name of the friend of a friend of a friend, but all we had were ours and Swany’s. Wouldn’t you know that Swany’s name was the magic word? When the ticket agent reappeared at the window, we were certain he’d tell us there’d been some mistake. Instead he handed Izzie two shiny tickets for Section 20 with Swany’s name on the receipt.

After we went through the turnstyles, we saw a sign that directed folks to section 21. We knew that at that moment we were entering the area roughly behind home plate, so if section 21 was right near there, then 20 should be... right... next, like right... behind...

Oh. My. God.

I looked at Izzie. Izzie looked at me. We both came close to shedding a tear. We sat down slowly and realized that we were sitting in the oldest seats in baseball, 25 rows behind the field, dead center behind home plate. We wouldn’t need to rely on the umpire’s calls because we would be able to see every pitch as it came over the plate. It was positively breathtaking.

Then the battery of phone calls and text messages began.

“Mom, guess where I’m sitting?!”

“Dad, you’re never going to believe this!”

“Swany! You're the best!”

Text message to my best friend, “Dude… I know you’re a Yankees fan, but you’ve gotta appreciate this!”

Text message to Kino, “Oh my God… this is unbelievable!”

Suddenly we knew why there would have been hell to pay if no one sat in these seats. Who would squander these?

I won’t say the novelty wore off, but right after I put my phone down, the hunger kicked in and distracted us. Izzie and I decided to break for food and were ecstatic to find that there was a concession stand AND a bathroom right behind our section. Could this be any more perfect?

With a Fenway Frank in one hand and a pretzel in another, I settled back into my old wooden seat to enjoy the pre-game festivities which included the Navy Leap Frogs parachuting into the park. A crisp, autumn-like breeze was blowing in from the outfield as we stood for the Anthem, and then the Red Sox took the field as I grabbed a pen to keep score of what would surely be a momentous game.

A brief aside about beer, tiny tanks, and roving vendors at Fenway. It came to our attention that the vendors at Fenway do not serve beer in the stands, so that means that every patron who would like a brew needs to get up to buy one at a concession stand. Of course, what goes in, must come out, so if multiple beverages have been consumed, then all of those people must get up at some point to empty their bladders. I do believe that Izzie and I ended up in the thirstiest row each night. I’ve never seen so many people get up and trip over us to get beer and to go to the bathroom than I did in the two days at Fenway, and that’s saying a lot seeing as how I have a bladder the size of a thimble. A word to the wise though… if you need to leave the row or come back into the row, don’t barrel in before I have the chance to move my legs, drink, or purse because I’m more apt to trip you and that beer of yours. Okay, I feel better now that I’ve gotten that off my chest.

I wish I could say the Red Sox won that game, but as we all know now, it was an ill-timed losing streak. We wondered if maybe we were the jinx, and as of yet, we haven’t been able to prove otherwise. The final score of the game was 2-1, and no amount of superstitious rituals could turn things around.

We left Fenway feeling a little dejected, but overall we couldn’t complain. In the span of 30 hours, we had touched the Green Monster, watched a homerun clear the wall, seen one of the best pitchers in baseball, sung “Sweet Caroline” with the Nation, and had one of the most coveted views in any major league park. What more could we ask for?

We had worshipped at the Cathedral of Baseball… in the name of The Sock, The Monster, and The Splendid Splinter... Amen.

Red Sox Road Trip: Part 4

2007-07-11T08:03:00.000-05:00

Fenway Faithful

There was a list of emergency contacts and a FedEx plan in the event that the Red Sox tickets were left home alone. Izzie and I had talked about it on a few occasions even though we were both certain it would be near impossible to leave them behind. Of course, the story probably would have been more dramatic if that had happened, but that is not a story I would have wanted to live. Rest assured, two tickets to see the Red Sox and Rangers were safely tucked away in Izzie’s purse, and the four of us made it safe and sound to Fenway Park on that Saturday night.

After the Fenway tour and a quick loop around Quincy Market, we had returned to the hotel to change into our gear. Izzie had her Ortiz jersey; I had my Beckett. She was in her blue Sox cap; I was in my red. We had donned these outfits several times before, always sticking out just a little in the Mid-Atlantic, but never caring when it came to the matter of team pride. We still stood out a little bit in the ritzy lobby of the Omni, but once we hit the streets, we blended right in. We were waiting for the T when a girl with a thick Boston accent asked us for directions, and I have to say I was flattered that we looked like we belonged.

When we got to Kenmore Square and turned the corner onto Yawkey Way, the sight before us was much different than it had been that morning. The street was jam-packed with people in every Red Sox outfit imaginable. Smoke from the sausage vendor’s station hung in the air. There was an electricity that just doesn’t exist anywhere else.

After weaving through the crowd, we made our way to the turn-styles and then headed off in the direction of our seats in Section 10 along the right field line. We sat down and surveyed our view of the field. It was fantastic… except for the pole that blocked our sightline to the pitcher’s mound. My heart fell when I realized that Fenway’s famous obstructed view would prevent me from seeing Josh Beckett going for win number 12. I didn’t say a word about it, but Izzie read my mind and offered to switch seats so that I could at least see Josh’s wind-up.

Content in knowing where we’d be sitting and being the nacho connoisseurs that we are, Izzie and I then hit the concessions to see how the chips and cheese would compare to Baltimore, Philly, and RFK. I’m happy to report that the Fenway nachos held their own. The cheese was hot (unlike RFK), though they did not provide the plethora of chips that Baltimore does. (Incidentally, Philly still has the best chips because the oval shape renders biting the chip in half unnecessary, in case you were wondering.) I will admit that I did not partake of the Fenway Frank on that first night because I was too overcome with joy at the prospect of eating a Papa Gino’s pie for the first time in years, but I will say it was everything I remembered it to be.

I gobbled down my food just in time to see Josh Beckett jog across the outfield and begin his calisthenics routine, for which I now have entire sequence of photos for you to enjoy.

That night at Fenway, the Red Sox were honoring folks with mental and physical disabilities, so there were several moving moments during the pre-game ceremonies, but none tugged at the heartstrings more than the singing of the National Anthem. A young man who was mentally challenged stepped up to the microphone and serenaded us with the slightly off-key strains of the Star-Spangled Banner. Right around the time we should have been hearing about the rocket’s red glare, the man started to giggle. Then he sang another line, but the giggling was infectious and we couldn’t help but laugh with him. Before long, it was clear that the young man wouldn’t be able to finish because the laughter had eaten up the words, and that’s when 35,000 voices became one as every fan in the park helped him finish the song. I had goose bumps from head to toe. And who says Sox fans are incorrigible?

The Red Sox didn’t disappoint us during the first few innings. Beckett seemed to have the right stuff, and the offense took advantage of a weaker Rangers pitcher by scoring 4 in the first two innings. Youkilis hit a shot over the Green Monster, and the young Jacoby Ellsbury made his major league debut by beating out an infield grounder to first. Afraid to say anything that might jinx the evening, I turned to Izzie and said, “If this stays... well, you know... then we need to get a beer afterwards to, you know...” Well, apparently even that allusion to victory was too much for the gods of the jinx because not long after I tempted fate, things started to fall apart. During the 4th inning, the Rangers lit Beckett up and scored 4 runs of their own. Annoyed, but confident, I went to the bathroom in the 5th, thinking that our bats would prevail. Sadly it was Sammy Sosa’s bat that prevailed. He jacked one that hit just above the line on the Monster for the go-ahead run, or so I heard, and the Rangers didn’t need anymore. Becket would go on to lose only his second game of the season.

The Nation kept the faith right up until the bitter end though. The fans summoned up the air in their lungs once again for a rousing rendition of “Sweet Caroline” in the 8th and jumped to their feet to participate in the best wave I’ve ever seen. The crowd undulated with gusto a full four times before people’s arms got tired. Even when Youk, Papi, and Manny went down 1-2-3 in the bottom of the 9th, there was still that electricity of hope in the air.

For Izzie and I, that hope was a little more urgent. We had one more chance to see our team on their home field before we left Boston. It was do-or-die time for our boys.

One last note... when Izzie and I walked back into the hotel, a well-dressed wedding guest in the middle of the lobby took one look at us in our jerseys and launched into a drunken commentary about the Yankees. Izzie took one look at him and cracked, “That’s brave in the middle of Red Sox country.” We would’ve liked to have stuck around to see if he would be fed to the lions, but we were still smarting from the loss and we had a win to pray for.

Red Sox Road Trip: Part 3

2007-07-10T00:33:00.000-05:00

Confirmation

Izzie and I had driven to Boston with the mission of seeing a couple of Red Sox games, but our first Fenway experience would be well before they yelled, “Play ball.” Instead our first full glimpse would be on the famed ballpark tour.

When we got off the train at Kenmore Square, we followed the small stream of folks who looked like they knew where they were going. A father and his young son stopped to ask us where the park was, but we said we were looking for the same thing. We had a hunch it was just around the corner, and sure enough, we soon saw the towering lights of the Green Monster. We walked over the footbridge towards the back of Cask and Flagon, and my heart started beating just a little faster. When the sign for Yawkey Way came into view, I couldn’t help but smile.

The massive Yawkey Way Store was the holding area for the scores of fans gathered on this sunny day. Normally a junkie for gift shops, I was so overwhelmed by the amount of gear around me that I couldn’t even think about actually purchasing something. Instead I just wandered around, looking as if I were drunk on the Red Sox.

I had run outside to take a picture of a Warhol-esque Papelbon poster when I noticed the stragglers flocking back into the store. A little old man in a green polo was holding court for all of the pilgrims who had come from far away for the chance to have a quiet moment with the Monster. We soon found out that we wouldn’t be disappointed. It was as if the Voice itself whispered in our ears, “We will have access to the field today.”

As orderly as a motley group of fans can be, we marched across Yawkey Way and lined up in the tunnel in two lines. We groaned when the other line made the first move, but our disappointment soon evaporated when we were told we'd be the first ones on the field. With a little bounce in our steps, we wound our way along the inside perimeter of the park, walked down a few flights of stairs, and made a final turn down a ramp that opened onto the most glorious expanse of lawn I have ever seen in my life. Our guide stopped us so that the entire group could catch up, and then she said all we had to do was stay within the ropes along the Monster... and not take the grass or dirt. That was it. Then she stepped aside and allowed us to be alone with Fenway.

I stepped onto the brilliant orange gravel of the warning track. Hours later, the cleats of the Red Sox would pass over this very same spot, and perhaps one of the players would sprint in this exact direction to chase down a flyball. Then I walked to the right and stared up at the Monster. As my eyes adjusted, I could see the pock marks of hundreds of hits that have ricocheted off that perfect green wall. I saw the square cubbies that would soon be replaced with run totals. I passed four feet in front of the lights that would let over 35,000 fans know if that last fastball was a ball or a strike later that night. I stared at the door that had played a pivotal role in games of hide and seek for many an outfielder. My God... I was actually standing in front of the Green Monster.

And then I reached out to touch it.

Our tour guide brought us to all the nooks and crannies of the park, and my camera got quite the work-out. We went to the top near Conigliaro’s Corner and sat at the top of the Green Monster. We walked by the Red Sox Hall of Fame and passed the stacks of hot dogs buns that would be doled out later. We sat in the oldest seats in baseball and drank in a view that looked like Norman Rockwell himself had used his brush. We saw so much of the park that morning that by the time the first pitch rolled around, it would feel like we were coming home.

When the tour was over, Izzie and I had worked up a powerful hunger, so we walked up the street to a local restaurant for some lunch. As we made our way there, I happened to look down at my flip-flops and noticed that I still had the pale orange tinge of the warning track along the sides. It was at that moment that I knew we had really been confirmed into Red Sox Nation.

To be continued...

Red Sox Road Trip: Part 2

2007-07-06T08:02:00.000-05:00

Communion

Izzie and I were up, at ‘em, and on the road by 9 am on Friday morning. We made our way through the Connecticut Valley, and Izzie patiently listened as I pointed out the most random of details about my home state… or rather my life story in my home state. “See that mile marker? I once sneezed while driving by it in 1989.”

The day started off gray and cloudy, but just after we passed Bristol, the home of Boomer, Stu, and my schoolgirl crush, Karl Ravech, the sun pushed through and all that lay above us were bright blue skies for the final stretch to Boston.

Our journey into the heart of the city brought us right past Fenway Park, but our first stop would be the hotel so we could continue our trip unfettered. After we were done with the rigmarole at the front desk, we headed out to find a bite to eat. As we walked the three blocks to Quincy Market, we started taking note of the folks in Red Sox attire as if we were back in DC and this was something out of the ordinary. Then it clicked. Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore; we’re in Red Sox country and the majority of people are just like us. It was a lot to absorb at that moment and we tried not to yell excitedly or point every time someone passed with a Sox shirt lest we be mistaken for crazy tourists.

After lunch, we put money on our “Chahlie cahds” and hopped the T to Jamaica Plain and the Samuel Adams Brewery. Both Izzie and I consider ourselves connoisseurs of the Sam Adams brews, so going on the tour was like icing on an already stellar cake. We heard about the hops and barley from our one-man-comedy-show of a guide and even had the chance to see the birth of a bright and shiny keg, but we were all there for one reason… free beer. When the guide was finished talking, we were then herded into a back room loaded with Sam memorabilia and the same Red Sox World Series pennant that adorns the wall of my bedroom. We took our seats at the end of the room and watched in awe as a beautiful, clear, amber-colored pitcher made its way down to us. I don’t know that there is a finer place in the entire world to drink Sam than in that very room.

Once our penchant for Sam Adams and mine for a good gift shop had been met, Izzie and I made our way back to the city for dinner. We were on a mission to find a place where we could enjoy some more Sams, have a good meal, and watch the Red Sox game. Again we were in DC mode, thinking that it would somehow be difficult to find a locale with NESN. We settled on the Green Dragon Tavern where the Boston Tea Party had been planned and Sam Adams himself had certainly enjoyed a nice ale on a brisk New England day long ago. Just thinking of that gives me goose bumps and puts me in the upper echelons of nerd-dom, but I digress.

As we sat near a window that opened to the street, listening to the din of fans in our own bar and that from the bar across the street, we were both struck by how awesome it was to be watching the Red Sox in Boston while enjoying a Sam Adams beer. Nothing against our favorite watering holes at home, but it was really something special. It was a communion we could only feel right there, right then.

While we were watching the Red Sox cruise to victory, I noticed an older woman sitting at a table nearby, and it was clear that she had had many a beverage. Just after the waitress brought yet another round, I heard her talking about how baseball was classic, American, and damn near perfect. I turned to Izzie and said, “That’s what I want to be when I grow up… a feisty old broad talking about baseball.” She looked me right in the eye and said, “I have no doubt at all that you will be.” A girl can dream...

Unfortunately, our time at the Green Dragon ended with the arrival of a cover band and a speaker stand that blocked my view of the television, so we headed back to the hotel where we snuck into the swanky, paneled bar there. We hid behind a pillar so the bartender couldn’t see us hovering without ordering, but who were we kidding? He knew we were there, but he also knew why we were there. It was for the same reason that a woman who looked like she couldn’t have cared less about baseball asked the bartender for the score of the game. We were all in it together.

After the third out of the 9th, I looked at Izzie’s watch. T minus 12 hours...

To be continued...

Red Sox Road Trip: Part 1

2007-07-05T01:22:00.000-05:00

Baptism By Fire

After spending an inordinate amount of time deciding which pair of mesh shorts to wear in the car and doing a mental rundown of my packing list for the 47th time, I figured that tweezing my eyebrows would be a good way to pass the time and burn off nervous energy before the big trip. I was midway through the right eyebrow when Izzie arrived, so I gathered my many bags and hustled out the door. Between the two of us, you’d think we were actually transporting the Red Sox batting equipment, but a true fan must have options to suit every occasion and superstition.

With the aid of my Dad’s EZ Pass and our friend Kino’s iTrip, the drive was going swimmingly as we zipped up 95. We sang along to Augustana’s “Boston” and jacked the volume up for “Tessie.” We hit the rest area trifecta (bathroom/gas/Starbucks) and had an enjoyable lunch at the Joyce Kilmer stop on the New Jersey Turnpike, during which we determined that it was not in fact named for the ex-wife of Val Kilmer (a.k.a. Joanne Whalley Kilmer, a.k.a. Scarlett of 1990’s miniseries fame). By the time we saw the New York skyline through the haze of the summer day, it seemed like a sure bet that we’d reach our midpoint destination in Connecticut right on schedule.

As a rule, Red Sox fans never spit up in the air, walk under ladders, or pretty much say anything because we know the opposite is bound to happen. Even after 2004, that’s a mentality I just can’t seem to shake. Why I even had the conscious thought that we were making great time was just a disaster waiting to happen. Luckily, we didn’t encounter a major catastrophe like a flat tire, a thunderstorm, or a seagull with a bad stomach, but the rest of the trip did not go quite as smoothly as the start.

Let’s just say that I would like to take this opportunity to thank Mapquest for giving us the privilege of a drive through Newark, New Jersey. It truly is lovely this time of year. I also can’t forget to give a shout out to the George Washington Bridge in all its bumper-to-bumper glory for allowing us to enjoy the incomparable view you can only get from the top level when you’re going 3 miles per hour. Simply stunning.

(And if you’re at all familiar with the Northeast Corridor and still trying to figure out how it’s possible to go to Connecticut by way of Newark, just stop. Really. Please.)

With the monkey wrenches of Newark and the Cross Bronx Expressway safely behind us, we continued towards New England in less than stellar moods. Slowly our excitement about Fenway started to seep through the travel malaise even though we had miles to go before we would see the Monster with our own eyes. However, what we didn't factor in was that soon we would have a run-in with the enemy and Izzie’s first trip to Fenway would entail a baptism by fire.

We arrived in Connecticut just after 3:00 and easily found the apartment of my friend, Emmy, with the assistance of her hand-made Microsoft Word map. (Are you listening, Mapquest?) I had only heard about her new digs, so I couldn’t wait to see what she had done with the place. When we entered, she welcomed us with open arms, offered us a drink, and quickly directed our attention to the beautiful, round, mahogany table at the end of the room. As I inched closer, I saw that under the glass lay an image of Yankee Stadium. I came very close to losing my Burger King lunch. I knew we’d be going through Yankee country, but it never occurred to me that we’d have to depend upon the hospitality of the Evil Empire in order to pass go and collect our Red Sox tickets.

I really can’t blame Emmy for trying to get her licks in early. She was glad to lay out the red carpet for us, but she had to let us know in some small way that she was just as overjoyed about her home being used as a pitstop en route to Fenway as we were about resting our heads in a house of Steinbrenner.

Izzie, Emmy, and I playfully exchanged not-so-pleasantries about our teams for a few minutes, but we curtailed the rivalry when our neutral friend joined us for a girls’ night celebration. For several hours, we were able to co-exist happily, just drinking wine, laughing, and talking about everything but baseball.

But as I drifted off to sleep that night, surrounded by Yankees paraphernalia, the only thing I could think about was baseball, and how in a few short hours, I would finally be in Boston.

To be continued...

Field of Dreams

2007-06-27T21:23:00.000-05:00

Shampoo

Conditioner

Hair Dryer

Flat Iron

Hair Straightening Gel

Deodorant

Contact Solution

Glasses

Toothpaste

Toothbrush

Underwear

Bras

Pajamas

Jeans

Shorts

Flip-Flops

Sneakers

Skirt

Going-out shirts

Sweatshirt

Red Sox Cap

Red Sox Visor

Red Sox Jersey

Red Sox T-shirt

Red Sox Jacket

Red Sox Tickets

On Thursday, I will embark on a road trip to the most hallowed of ballparks. My friend Izzie and I have waited seven long months for this weekend to come, and I can’t believe it’s finally here.

I’ve been to Fenway twice in my life, once in 1994 and once in 1997, the latter being my dream match-up, Red Sox versus Marlins. Both times were thrilling, but with age comes appreciation, and I have a hunch this will be an experience to remember.

For Izzie, this will be a dream come true. She’s never stepped foot in Fenway before, so I can only imagine how spectacular it will be for her when she first lays eyes on the Monster.

I really can't believe this weekend has finally arrived.

After I'm done packing and I drift off to sleep, maybe I’ll have that dream where I’m sitting along the first base line about halfway back eating a hot dog...

On Saturday, that will be my reality.

***

I’ll be offline for the next several days, taking notes on the wicked hijinx that could only ensue in Beantown, but you’ll hear all about it when I return.

So let the Ladies' Road Trip to Boston begin. Fenway or bust!

Exposure

2007-06-25T07:34:00.000-05:00

In the nearly three months that HerSportsPOV has been live, no column has drawn more comments or sparked more debate than “A Model of Decency.” I have wanted to respond, but unfortunately I haven’t had the opportunity to give these issues the attention they deserve until now.

First and foremost, I stand by my remark that athletes should view themselves as role models, not because they are athletes, but because that is the responsibility of all adults. Whether we have our own children or not, it is our duty to set an example for those who will run the world when we’re old and gray.

The question, however, that has been posed by the loyal readers of HerSportsPOV is whether nude modeling itself sets a poor example. It’s true that Americans still clutch a certain level of Puritanism when it comes to nudity, and if we relinquished this, then perhaps much about our society would change for the better. People want what they can’t have and crave what is taboo just to be different, just to be rebels, just to be the rugged individualists they’ve been taught to be. If it weren’t so taboo, then the shock factor would be destroyed, and people wouldn’t want what they can readily get.

However, I still don’t believe that an athlete posing nude is setting the proper example for young people because American society has not embraced a post-Puritan perspective on the human form. And until an athlete explicitly states that she’s posing for the sake of art to honor the beauty of the human figure or as a statement against patriarchal oppression, then these images will be continued to be objectified in a sexual, non-empowering way.

Women should be proud of their bodies, but our bodies are what everyone pays attention to first anyway. The true struggle is teaching girls to flaunt their intelligence before they flaunt their physique. With that said, the argument that Amanda Beard’s posing is a form of resistance against the perception that athletic women are less feminine because of their musculature is intriguing. Young girls receive the message that they should be skinny and petite. They shouldn’t have strong arms, shoulders, and calves because that would be too manly. If a female athlete can change the perception that to play sports is less than feminine, then I fully support it, but I believe this could still be accomplished without appearing nude in the pages of Playboy.

I found the article on Matthew Abboud very interesting, and like other readers, did not think about the discrimination a male athlete might face for making the decision to pose. However, what I found most revealing is that the sorority girls who posed weren’t reprimanded at all, and why? Because people don’t think twice about women posing nude. It’s deemed to be an acceptable practice for women to act like sirens, using their physicality and sexuality as tools to get ahead. Maybe some would see this as empowering, using our bodies for gain before someone else has the chance to objectify them, but if only a few people see it this way, what progress is being made? If a tree falls in the woods, but no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

I agree with the readers who believe that posing nude can be an artistic form of expression or a method of resistance, but I don’t believe that is the overarching goal when athletes make that decision. It is a career move, designed to get the maximum amount of exposure and the maximum amount of money. Sadly, most female athletes’ salaries don’t approach that of their male counterparts, so perhaps posing is a savvy business decision. I just think that decision overshadows the true gifts and talents all women should be pushing to the forefront. When Amanda Beard competes in the Olympics next year, count how many times commentators mention her Playboy pictures versus how many times they mention her athletic accomplishments.

Maybe this all sounds very Puritan of me, but it’s all about what brand of exposure you want.

Daddy's Little Girl

2007-06-19T07:35:00.000-05:00

Since the days of yore, the birth of a son has always been looked at as a blessing. Women’s lib be damned, we’re supposed to believe that all fathers harbor secret hope for a boy to carry on the family name and the family tradition. It doesn’t matter that we no longer need to populate the world with strong farmhands to work the land; there’s still something about having a gaggle of boys that makes men feel manlier.

My father grew up in a culture that thrived on machismo and still does. If he had a dime for every time one of his cousins or aunts told him he needed a son or asked if he felt bad about not having one, I wouldn’t have so much college debt.

My Dad was different though. From the moment my Mom found out she was pregnant, he wanted a girl. He didn’t care about what his friends or relatives said to him. He didn’t worry about carrying on the family line. He wanted a healthy baby and a little girl.

But in the same way that my Dad never cowed to the criticism about not having a boy, he never succumbed to the stereotypes of what a girl should be like either. When I wanted a baseball glove, he took me to Benny’s in Norwich, CT, to buy my very first, but when I wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid, he stood in a line out the door for that too. When I got my first pink bicycle, my Dad dutifully added the baseball card to the spokes per my request instead of streamers to the handlebars.

My Dad let me be me and some of my fondest memories come from sharing sports together. Whether it was Saturday morning trips to the baseball card store or circling Shea Stadium with a Marlins sign while being pelted with cups... whether it was playing catch in the backyard or being wrapped in his arms after a tough loss to a rival team… my Dad was always there, never once wishing for a son, never once thinking less of me as a daughter.

I may not have preferred the bows and frills when I was growing up and I may still sport bruises on my knees from playing sports, but no matter what, I’ll always be my Daddy’s little girl.

Happy Belated Father’s Day, Dad… and Happy Father’s Day to all the dads who just let their kids be themselves.

Model of Decency

2007-06-08T12:47:00.000-05:00

When I read that Olympic swimmer Amanda Beard was going to pose in Playboy, I rolled my eyes. Every feminist alarm in my body went off, and I immediately started asking questions like, “Did Peyton Manning pose nude in Playgirl after he won the Super Bowl?” Of course not. There’s a double standard that exists when it comes to how male and female athletes are expected to promote themselves, but I’m going to save that soap box for another day.

Instead Beard’s posing made me think of something else, an issue many athletes have either embraced heartily or railed against mightily, and that’s the issue of role models.

Whenever an athlete gets called on the carpet for an infraction, inevitably a reporter will ask him or her about being a role model. The answer usually touches upon how it’s up to the parents to set examples for children, not to some unknown athletic star who gets paid mega-millions for playing a kids’ game. There’s some truth in that statement, but I don’t agree with it.

Here’s a message to the athletes out there: you’re not a role model because you’re an athlete; you’re a role model because you’re an adult.

Just the other day, I was playing in a rec softball game when I swore. Then I realized that my teammate’s little girl was within earshot and immediately felt terrible for having uttered a profanity. Am I her role model? No. But as an adult, should I set a good example? Definitely.

The United States was molded on the principle of rugged individualism, and we live by that motto today. Do whatever you can to get ahead and live your American dream. It’s an amazing concept, an ideology that we take for granted because there are so many other people in other parts of the world who don’t have that luxury. But I fall back on the same adage I’ve quoted before, “To whom much is given, much is expected.”

Most of us only have to worry about setting an example for our children or the children of those closest to us, but for those athletes who are paid handsomely to play and compete, then it is their responsibility to give back, to set the example, to try to be as upstanding as possible because kids are watching, and as visible adults, that is the healthy burden they are paid to bear.

Amanda Beard is being a rugged individualist by choosing to pose in Playboy. It will get her exposure which will probably lead to endorsements before and after the Olympics next year. She’s living her life and doing what she can to get ahead. She should be applauded for pursuing the American Dream.

But on the other hand, do I think Amanda Beard is setting a good example by posing in Playboy? No, I don’t. She’s fortunate enough to be competing at one of the highest levels, and whether it cramps her style or not, she should think about how this decision affects the state of women’s sports and the young people who look up to her. What message does this send to a little girl who’s just starting to swim laps or a teenager who just found out she’s getting a scholarship to swim in college? The message is that a woman needs to use her body to get ahead, which runs counter to every reason that girls should get involved in sports in the first place. Women have more to offer than the outside package, but when a prominent female athlete decides she’s going to use her body for gain, she detracts from the progress we’ve made since Title IX.

Of course, many others before Beard have done the same thing, so I don’t meant to place all of the blame on her, and we can point to myriad male athletes who have made headlines for much greater breaches, but all of these issues strike at the heart of the role model issue.

Athletes can still live their lives in the American tradition, but the next time they are asked how their actions can be reconciled with their status as role models, maybe they should just pause and think about it before trying to shirk responsibility.

Bold. Pretty. Pink.

2007-06-04T07:46:00.000-05:00

Here we go again.

That’s what my friends said when I told them about writing this post.

Pink Vendetta, Volume 987.

I really don’t have a vendetta against pink. I do, however, have a problem when it is used, not as a symbol of empowerment, but rather as a tool of conformity.

I was merrily strolling through Target last week when I happened upon a rack of pink basketballs, volleyballs, and soccer balls. Just as I was about to take out my camera-phone to document this annoyance, my gaze drifted to the top of the rack and that’s when my blood started to boil.

It’s not that I don't like pink, and to be honest, if they had pink caps when I was small, my parents probably would have gotten one for me because it seems like the perfect marriage for a girl who likes baseball. And in a lot of ways it is, but not if it’s made to seem like the norm for a girl who likes sports.

Little girls are growing up now with a distorted perception of what they should look like and how they should act, being told that they have to fit within the confines of unattainable stereotypes. There are very few women in the world who would live up to modelesque expectations, and those of us who don’t are left feeling inadequate, constantly striving to be something we’re not. By the time we are old enough to accept our bodies the way they are, we’ve wasted half our lives worrying about fulfilling whatever fickle definition of perfection is in fashion at the time.

The message on that Target sign seems innocuous enough, but it’s actually propagating the distorted perceptions that women are taught to pursue. You can be bold and you can be athletic, but make sure you look pretty in pink while you’re doing it because that’s what girls are expected to be.

Athletes are not pretty when they’re playing. They’re sweaty. They’re smelly. They’re gritty. They’re beautiful for their drive and determination, but they’re not going to make the cover of Cosmo with drops of perspiration rolling down their faces and dirt on their legs. And that’s okay. They don’t have to be.

* * *

On Saturday, I ran through the streets of Downtown Washington in a sea of pink, sweating alongside over 60,000 participants in the Susan G. Komen National Race for the Cure. For those who have conquered the disease and for those who have been left behind, pink is a symbol of courage and determination, not of conformity.

That pink is truly bold and beautiful.

Drums Along The Anacostia

2007-05-30T00:04:00.000-05:00

Forget the Jock Jams. Forget the Top 40. Forget “Cotton-Eyed Joe.”

I think every sporting event needs a drum.

Picture it...

Bottom of the ninth, two outs, two strikes, winning run on third... pum-pum-pum-pum...

Fourth and goal at the 1, three seconds left in the fourth quarter, home team is six points down...pum-pum-pum-pum…

Five seconds on the shot clock, point guard streaks down the court, 2 to tie, 3-pointer to win… pum-pum-pum-pum...

I never realized how lacking most sports soundtracks are until I went to the DC United-Houston Dynamo soccer match this past weekend at RFK. As I sat with 18,077 raucous fans and a drummer, I couldn’t help but feel my blood pressure rising with each passing minute. Whether the ball was being kicked from player to player or whether it was flying in the air towards the goal, that low level pum-pum-pum-pum never let up. It was the perfect way to truly feel every ounce of suspense the match could offer.

Of course, I suppose it isn’t realistic to have a drum at every event, and certainly soccer fans are a rare breed of aficionados because they have a passion that surpasses the levels of even the most rabid fans of homegrown American sports. But Barra Brava and El Norte, the two main fan clubs for the United, set a fine example by making that soccer match positively electric, both on and off the field. Their enthusiasm made it seem like they had just discovered the beauty of the game for the very first time, which is a feeling so many of us have forgotten when it comes to the sports close to our hearts.

So if there is no drum at your next baseball game or tennis match, then just pay close attention to the rhythmic pum-pum-pum-pum deep down inside. That's the sound of your heart beating like it did the very first time you fell in love with sports.

Wide Open

2007-05-25T07:26:00.000-05:00

Yankees 6 Red Sox 2

Red Sox 7 Yankees 3

Yankees 8 Red Sox 3

When I walked into work yesterday, I entered the little Red Sox cocoon I inhabit for 9 hours a day and prepped myself for the onslaught of Yankee fans. The time ticked by slowly. It was surprisingly quiet, almost disappointingly so. I expected the Pinstripe Posse to stop at my desk to flaunt the previous night’s drubbing. But there was nothing. I could actually let myself be blissfully unaware of what had happened, and by the time I left early for my gynecologist appointment, I had nearly forgotten about the scores.

When I arrived at the office, I sat in the waiting room for well over an hour. There was nothing to read except for parenting magazines and one random Motorweek. I stared at the clock on the wall, trying hard to keep in mind that it would soon be over and I’d be walking to Starbucks for my celebratory “I am woman, hear me roar” mocha. But then I started to notice that the waiting room was clearing out. Big belly after big belly left the room, and I wondered if a girl had to be pregnant in order to get seen around this place! With my odds of being struck by lightning greater than my odds of being pregnant, I passed the time devising ways to look pregnant or act pregnant, but it was to no avail. I would just have to stew in my own estrogen for a while.

Seventy minutes after my arrival, I was ushered into a room by the doctor’s assistant who mispronounced my name. She told me to hop up on the table, and for a moment I paused, knowing that the very jeans that touched the subway seat were now on the very paper that would shield my naked rear from the table. I shrugged off just how unsanitary that seemed and focused on the matter at hand. When the assistant was done with her routine, she handed me the dusty rose paper gown and the flimsy white paper sheet with a cheery “Everything off! Opening in the front!” Then she was gone, and I was left to enjoy the draft.

The list of things going through my mind: the room is sterile, the pain chart is asinine, I can’t read the patient rights in Spanish, do they sell that plastic supply cart at Target, the woman on the phone outside the door left her insurance card at home, I’m hungry, my armpits are sweating, and my naked rear is now resting on subway germs. The fact that Schill got shelled didn’t even crack the top 100.

When my merry OBGYN entered the room, we made small talk as she went through the standard questions and admonished me for not taking calcium. She told me about her accidental encounter with self-tanner, and I told her I had a cold. Then we got to the crux of my visit. She called the assistant in, lowered the back of the table, and continued yammering. I knew the ploy, but I played right into her hands. Talk talk talk and maybe she won’t notice. Talk talk talk and she won’t feel a thing. Talk talk talk and the embarrassment is over. Then came the question that was supposed to keep me occupied for the next three minutes. The doctor asked, “Any fun plans for the summer?” Feeling my brain starting to disassociate from the lower half of my body and knowing that all thoughts were flying out of my head, I simply replied, “Well, I’ve got tickets to Fenway.” Suddenly, like a voice from beyond, the assistant piped up, a snarky smirk on her face, “They lost last night.” I froze. My brain was torn between the order to scoot ever further down the table so that my rear felt like it was hanging over an abyss and the anger I was feeling towards the woman who had just taken my blood pressure. She continued, “My family are huge Yankee fans.” Lying there in nothing but my birthday suit and a sheet of looseleaf, I was rendered speechless by the stirrups. The statistics, the schedule, A-Rod’s cheap slide… all of it was gone, and I was forced to listen to Yankee love in the most undignified of positions.

Wouldn’t you know, the Evil Empire lurks in the most unlikely of places, and not even the gynecologist’s office is safe.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find a new doctor that meets my criteria: female, Metro accessible, Red Sox fan.

The Poster Boy For Bad Behavior

2007-05-23T07:52:00.000-05:00

Please listen closely. This is the only time you’ll hear me say this. I feel bad for Jason Giambi.

Don’t get me wrong… I can’t stand him and his beady little eyes, his ferret face, and his sweaty hair. If he were the last man on Earth, you couldn’t pay me to come within 20 feet of him. But he’s going to be the scapegoat in this steroids scandal when there are much bigger fish to fry.

Giambi has come within a hair’s breadth of admitting that he used the ‘roids. Tell us something we don’t know. He looked like the Michelin Man for the past decade, so it’s not exactly like he was fleecing us. More shocking is the accusation that Floyd Landis was doping because we couldn’t see the tell-tale symptoms of abuse. But with Giambi, we figured.

The thing is that no one else is stepping forward to admit any wrongdoing, and yet the one player who is will be skewered by public opinion. He may even be released from his contract because of his comments. Oh certainly, that’s the solution. Punish him so severely that no one will come clean of their own accord, and instead the game will be infested with rats and besieged by witch-hunts.

Baseball needs to clean up the mess, and if there’s a player willing to come forward as an example, we should listen, learn, and then eradicate the problem.

I don’t think Giambi wants to be the poster boy for a “Just Say No” campaign, but he’s doing more than a lot of other people, and I have to have some respect for that, even if I can’t stand him, because all the while, the biggest fish keeps hitting homeruns and I have no respect for that.

It Sure Isn't Iowa

2007-05-18T08:46:00.000-05:00

Last night, I thought I walked out of a cornfield.

My friends and I had gathered at a little hole-in-the-wall pub to say goodbye to a co-worker, but when the festivities wound down, we weren’t quite ready to call it an evening. We had heard rumors that there was a mysterious third floor where dreams came true, but we had our doubts. Kino and Swany were the first to take the dare and they came back changed men. Izzie, Chase, and I then decided to venture up to this unknown world, and when we beheld it with our very own eyes, we could have sworn we were in Heaven.

Before us lay a palace of sports fanaticism. Thirty-three televisions ringed the polished bar and seating area while three massive flat-screens filled the space up to the ceiling. Enormous sports tickers changed every second, providing information on schedules, scores, and probable odds of every team imaginable winning their respective championships. And no matter where we looked, we had a perfect view of whatever game our hearts desired.

The five of us were giddy. We had never before been in such a glorious venue to watch competition, and we actually pondered moving in permanently. The digs seemed suitable, and then Swany went to check out the bathrooms to see if we could seal the deal on our new favorite watering hole. When he had first returned from the third floor, he looked like he had just gotten a Red Rider BB Gun for Christmas, but when he emerged from the bathroom and announced, “There’s a 42-inch flat-screen above the urinals!”, you’d think he had found his nirvana.

Not being able to contain my feminist tendencies, I turned to Heaven's manager, Jack (name has been changed to protect the innocent), and asked him if there was also a flat-screen in the ladies' room. He stared at his shoes and shook his head. Izzie and I were shocked. I asked him where the ladies' room was, and he told me that I had to go down to the second floor. Who knew Heaven was so exclusive.

My blood was boiling. I had to see both for myself.

I grabbed Swany, Chase, and Kino and told them to make sure the bathroom was clear, and then asked them to guard the door as I snuck into the male inner sanctum. Once the coast was clear, I whipped open the door and stared at the beautiful television that spanned the length of four urinals. Being the owner of a small bladder, I consider myself a bathroom connoisseur, and this, by far, was one of the most fabulous.

Then I made my way to the ladies’ room one level down. No TV. No glitz. No glamour. Nothing special. I was appalled. The inequity made me want to go Title IX on them, but I refrained from showing too much emotion. I didn’t want to jeopardize Jack’s job, as he went on about how he had nothing to do with the design. I also didn’t want to ruin what was shaping up to be a beautiful evening of sports for all.

I plan on returning to this fine establishment, but I won’t return quietly… not until I too can live without the fear of missing a play when I have to make 37 trips to the bathroom after 3 beers.

I will add that it doesn’t make me feel better that Chase grudgingly admitted that the television in the men’s room is at a terrible angle, that it’s more like sitting in the first row of a move theater. It’s all about equal opportunity bathroom visits.

Special thanks to Swany who dared to bring a camera where no man has brought a camera before.

The Biggest Fan

2007-05-14T07:47:00.000-05:00

My Mom may not be the biggest sports fan, but she’s my biggest fan, and because of that, sports have become a huge part of her world as well. She grew up in a time when it wasn’t acceptable for girls to play sports, but never once did she discourage me from being both a fan and a player. She didn’t mind that I preferred a Red Sox cap over pink when I was little and she always came to my games throughout grammar school, high school, and college, even if she was the only person in the stands. She still checks to see how the Red Sox and Marlins are doing and still listens to me describe my softball games in vivid detail. She may not have grown up with sports, but she developed a passion for it through me.

Two of my favorite sports-related Mom memories were when she joined a group of us playing pick-up softball on a weed-filled lot after school one day and when she left me a voicemail while I was away at a volleyball game, with detailed highlights from the Marlins first play-off run. Watching my Mom rip a hard grounder up the middle and hearing her give a report that would put a color commentator to shame made me proud and made me smile.

So as I sat next to my Mom (and Dad… next month is your month, Dad!) at the Nationals-Marlins game yesterday, watching the Nats wave to the crowd with their own mothers by their sides, I thought about how lucky I am to have a mother who let me love what I wanted to love instead of telling me what I should love. It was a valuable lesson that I’ve taken to heart.

My friends have often taunted me that someday I’ll have a daughter who will want to be a cheerleader. That would be the ultimate irony, but somehow I know I’d end up traveling miles and miles to watch her competitions and being able to go on at length about bases, pyramids, and herkies because it’ll mean the world to her and I’ll be her biggest fan as well.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

A Tale of Two Pitchers

2007-05-11T07:50:00.000-05:00

A possible conversation between reunited teammates, Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte…

Roger: Hey, P-Man…

Andy: Hey.

Roger: You’re mad.

Andy: I’m fine.

R: Andy, really… I had no idea they would announce it at the game.

A: If 52,000 people are more important than I am, then that’s fine, Roger.

R: C’mon, don’t be like this.

A: I’m not being like anything.

R: It’s gonna be like old times.

A: Whatever. Derek said that to Alex and now look at them.

R: They share lipstick. We share something stronger.

A: A special bond.

R: We’re more than brothers.

A: If we’re more than brothers, why did you stay away? Were you mad at me?

R: Mad at you? I could never be mad at you, P-Man.

A: I guess, but I can’t keep having my heart trampled.

R: I know.

A: Do you know how many times I wanted to pick up the phone and call you when I was having a rough start?

R: Why didn’t you?

A: I needed to be strong.

R: Why?

A: I needed to see if I could quit you.

R: (Gasp)

A: I never know if you’ll come back and it cuts like a knife, Roger.

R: I’m so sorry, but I needed them to want me.

A: Why do you need 52,000 people to want you when I want you? Isn’t that enough?

R: Of course it is.

A: I won’t compete with them.

R: You won’t have to. I’m all yours. I’ve missed you, man.

A: I’ve missed you too.

R: I’m here now.

A: And I’m glad.

R: Now come back to bed.

Foul Play

2007-05-10T12:49:00.000-05:00

Rickey Henderson, baseball’s greatest base-stealer, stole a foul ball out of the hands of babes. Okay, maybe not stole… he caught the foul ball outright, but he didn’t give it to a young fan nearby. Selfish? Mean? Ridiculous? Maybe a little. The man has more baseball memorabilia to his credit than the Tampa Bay Devil Rays as a team, but the one thing that apparently eluded him was a foul ball caught in the stands. No doubt, it’s a desire he’s had since he himself was a young fan of the game, so it was a dream fulfilled. But should he have fulfilled the dream of the kid next to him?

This conversation usually comes up whenever my friends and I find ourselves sitting in the hot zone for fouls. We scan the crowd around us to see if there are any kids we would be required to give the ball to. If so, we act altruistic and vow to ourselves to hand the ball over if it lands in our vicinity. If not, then we secretly hope that a piece of baseball history will end up on a dusty Ikea bookshelf at home.

But then there are always the “what if’s.” What if you bare-hand it? What if the ball was fouled off Big Papi’s bat or Bonds’? What if the ball actually maims you? Then are you entitled to keep the foul treasure? If the answer is yes to all of these, then what do you do if the crowd is yelling at you to give it the kid next to you? Can you handle the pressure of thousands of fans booing you?

I’m lucky enough to have a foul ball in my personal collection, and I didn’t have to make that tough choice about giving it to a kid. It was from a minor league game at the home stadium of the Salem Avalanche in Southwest Virginia. My friend and I were sitting down the first base line in an empty section when a ball careened towards us. It bounced one row below us and popped back two rows behind us. We both scrambled out of our seats to retrieve the ball, though there was no one around to give us a run for our money. We decided that I would have sole custody of the ball after my friend showed it to her boyfriend, and I’ve still got it on display to this day.

And it’s precisely because I still have that ball on display that I have to question the call to give a foul ball to a child. I don’t think kids really appreciate the value of the moment. That ball will end up in the back of the kid’s closet or in a Little League ball bag unless an adult intervenes and holds onto it until the kid can really understand. And if that ends up happening, then in essence you’ve just given the ball to another adult and the kid probably won’t have any memory of the exchange anyway.

Is it a little ridiculous for a star player to covet a foul ball? Maybe. But the kid didn’t go away empty-handed. He ended up with something better… a baseball signed by a man bound for Cooperstown. Who would pick a scrubby foul ball in a random game over a valuable piece of sports history? You know who would? Rickey Henderson. For all of the memorabilia he has, for all of his records, the one thing he wanted ever since he was a kid was a foul ball.

The thing of it is… you have to be an adult to appreciate fulfilling that childhood dream.

The Rocket Who Cried Wolf

2007-05-07T07:57:00.000-05:00

The Earth can resume its journey around the sun. The swallows can return to Capistrano. Britney Spears can wear underwear again. That’s right, go ahead and exhale… Roger Clemens has made his pronouncement. He will grace the diamond with his presence once again.

Baseball does not lack for egos, but I don’t know if I’ve ever witnessed the arrogance it takes to drop in and out of your chosen profession at whim just because you’re that good. Whatever happened to the adage, “To whom much is given, much is expected?” Clemens has a gift, but what does he do for the game in return?

I am no Yankee fan, but I will never forgive, nor forget, what he did to them in 2003, allowing that franchise to go through the motions of sending him on a farewell tour, practically ordering the sun to set perfectly for his departure, only to have him waltz back onto the Astros’ roster the following year and every year after that. It was the ultimate slap in the face that no fan base deserved, not even the Evil Empire’s.

And what about his teammates? Those guys who report to Spring Training in February, go through the work-outs, build the camaraderie, mingle with the faithful… those guys who sit through 162 games a year because that’s their job. Is he too good for them? Too good to do full-time duty? There are men, young and old alike, big talents and dreamers the same, who would give anything to spend one more minute or just one second at all in the game they love. Roger Clemens offends them by dropping in and out instead of putting in all of the effort others cannot.

Of course, none of the hype around Clemens’ return would be possible without teams falling all over themselves to give him special treatment by signing him to a shortened season. The Astros, the Yankees, and sadly, the Red Sox have all drooled over landing the Rocket this time around, but he doesn’t care about them. All he cares about is pumping up his own legend with Lazarus-like returns.

Someday he’ll retire for good, but when will we really know to start the countdown to Cooperstown? You can only cry wolf for so long before fans stop caring.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

2007-05-04T08:03:00.000-05:00

I didn’t ask my parents for a pony when I was a little girl. In fact, I don’t like horses much at all. I can appreciate their beauty and majesty from afar, but they scare the daylights out of me up close. I went horseback-riding once, and though my horse was gentle, he had a severe bladder problem that made him stop every ten minutes to relieve himself. My best friend caught the entire debacle on film because she was proficient enough to hold the reins and balance a video camera. Show off.

But with the Kentucky Derby this weekend, I felt it was important to talk about horses, though not in terms of racing styles, doping tests, or betting odds. I want to talk about their names. I may not like horses, but I find their monikers fascinating. One of the horses in the Derby tomorrow is called Storm in May. How strong is that! What do they call him for short? Stormy? May? Baby? How did Miller end up with that name over Bud, Coors, or Heineken? Why did the owner of Nobiz Like Showbiz throw grammar out the window?

A friend of mine is having a baby, and there have been names flying back and forth across the cubicles for weeks, but there’s a lot to consider… like will this name be the subject of ridicule on the playground… will it yield a nickname that will scar his psyche for life… will it be forever misspelled and butchered by people who don’t understand basic phonics rules? Planning a military operation might be easier than choosing an appropriate name for a newborn.

But when it comes to naming a horse, you’re free to do whatever you please! How else can you explain the Derby entry, Imawildandcrazyguy?

I’ve often thought about what I’d name my Derby racer… well, okay, not often… but every once in a while I’ll think of names like…

Vertically Challenged

Flux Capacitor

Junk in the Trunk

The possibilities are endless.

The Pink Hat Challenge

2007-05-02T08:11:00.000-05:00

I received an email from a reader that said: “I'd like to point out on the pink hat issue: when they first started coming out, they were the only hats made to fit small-sized heads. Hence, I own a pink Bosox hat. It was the only hat that didn't make me look like I had a goiter growing out of my forehead.”

Touché.

We all remember the days when baseball caps made you look like you stuck a Burger King crown underneath that hot, picky, sweat-inducing fabric. The button in the center looked like the bow on a present and the brim looked like the landing strip on an aircraft carrier. Those hats could possibly have been the most unattractive pieces of apparel one could wear to the ballpark... for both men and women. Finding a substitute could be difficult, but with the advent of the soft, floppy cap, we’ve entered a new realm of fashion-forwardness. The days of the boxy ballcap are over, and we can now choose from an array of head-hugging alternatives.

So I commend this reader for buying a cap in the first place, support her reasons for buying one that fits, and admire her admission that a pink hat hangs in her closet, but I still beg her to go traditional.

Who's The Fairest Of Them All

2007-04-30T08:09:00.000-05:00

I received an interesting email over the weekend from a friend who was watching Brady Quinn’s stock value plummet faster than The View’s ratings without Rosie O’Donnell. Having no inherited sports allegiances, she found herself drawn to Quinn for his athleticism, his intellect, his presence, and yes, his hotness. We may not be able to agree on whether he can run with the big dogs in the NFL, but we can all agree that Quinn is an attractive guy. So the question she raised was this: Is it wrong to pledge allegiance to a team because you find a player cute?

Well, it’s almost like asking if it’s wrong to marry someone because they’re cute. Odds are, the physical attractiveness is what caught your attention, but if you don’t dig beneath the surface, then you’re in for a very shallow love affair. The same is true for picking your players based on looks. It can be done, but you have to be ready to commit to the player and the team. Know the stats. Know the quirks. You cannot expect to garner respect among your peers if you can’t think of any factoid other than what hair gel the player uses.

I don’t think choosing a player based on attributes other than statistics is an exclusively female phenomenon, and rather I think it’s all about forming a connection. I have a friend who roots for the Pittsburgh Pirates because when he was growing up, he loved Barry Bonds. When Barry left town, the allegiance stuck, and there are plenty of examples like that with people who love the Bulls because of Michael Jordan or the Redskins because of Joe Theismann. As fans, we want to feel like we’re part of the action, so we’ll look for any little quality that will endear a player and a team to our hearts, and it doesn’t matter if it’s how attractive a player is, where he hails from, or whether Frosted Flakes is his cereal of choice.

With all of that said, I will leave my friend with one caveat in her desire to follow Brady Quinn and the Browns. In the deep recesses of a closet in my parents’ house lies a Vikings ballcap. I am not from Minnesota, I have never been to Minnesota, I don’t know that I will ever go to Minnesota, but once upon a time, my favorite college football player, a quarterback who made a 13-year-old girl’s heart go pitter-patter, walked away with the Heisman Trophy and a seventh-round selection by the Minnesota Vikings. Yes, I was a Gino Torretta fan, and when I saw where he landed, I decided to renounce my inherited allegiance to the Dolphins in favor of becoming an ardent supporter of the Vikings. But when the season rolled around, I couldn’t commit to the Vikings. Maybe it’s because Gino rarely played, maybe it was because our cable package didn’t include the German football league he eventually signed with, maybe there just wasn’t enough beneath the surface to hold onto. Maybe if his career had been different, the Vikings allegiance would have stuck, but before running out to buy Quinn's Cleveland jersey, it's probably a good idea to make sure he'll stick in the NFL.

Chick Chapeaux

2007-04-27T08:01:00.000-05:00

On a chilly night at Camden Yards when the most memorable moments should have been...

... standing so close to Jonathan Papelbon that I could have touched him...

... being so cold that I had to have a conversation with a merchandise vendor explaining that I wanted to buy socks and not Sox gear...

... watching the O’s taunt Red Sox fans with the opening strains of “Sweet Caroline” only to have it come to a screeching halt with a giant Jumbotron graphic, “NOT!”...

... and jumping up with absolute euphoria as Wily Mo Pena took the pitcher yard with a grand slam in the top of the 8th...

I was forced to deal with the one thing that trumped all of them in my memory bank:

The pink hat.

When my friend Izzie and I arrived at the ballpark, we made a beeline down to the left field wall to catch a glimpse of the Red Sox during warm-ups. A girl to our left immediately struck up a conversation with us, gushing over the fact that we were mere inches away from the players. She was wearing a pink hat, a Forever 21 choker, two tank tops and a hoodie, and glitter eyeshadow. She was exactly the type of girl I have railed against before… the girl who thinks she has to wear pink and be glam at the ballpark. But then something strange happened… the more she talked, the more I realized she was the exact opposite of the stereotype. She was identifying players by name, plotting her strategy for snagging a batting practice ball, and referring to the New England Sports Network commentators as if they were long-lost friends. Izzie and I were dumfounded as she blinked her glitter-covered eyelids with excitement. This was a pink hat we could respect, and I knew I had to recant my entire position in this column.

But hold on one second...

Shortly after we took our seats along the left field line, a family of five barreled into the row. Mom was wearing a pink hat, as was daughter, while dad, son, and grandpa were all sporting the proper Red Sox colors. I was prepared to give the pink hats the benefit of the doubt after the encounter with our friend, but then mom lifted her sausage sandwich in my direct line of vision. Then she lifted her arm to point out a bird in center field. Then she took her jacket off and replaced it with a sweatshirt. Then she shoved her ponytail in my face to take pictures of everything but the field. Then she hoisted her daughter onto her lap. If she saw five pitches during the entire game, I’d be shocked. Suddenly I realized that she wasn’t proudly touting the Red Sox with her hat, but rather she had chosen the most palatable article of clothing for a boring night at the ballpark. The stereotype lives, and our friend near the field was just a pink hat anomaly.

Then the pièce de résistance...

It was sometime in the 5th when I heard Izzie grumble. I looked up, and there before me on the Jumbotron was this advertisement for an upcoming Orioles promotion:

That’s right… Women’s Cap Day on May 6th at Camden Yards. Pink hats for the first 22,000 female fans through the gates. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Part of me wants to go to the game that day just for the satisfaction of saying, “No, thanks,” or just taking the hat and having a ritual burning with all of my pink-hat-hating friends later. But I don’t know if I can because the thought of sitting in a stadium with 22,000 pink hats makes my blood boil. If management wants to appeal to women, how about giving away women’s cut t-shirts? I love a free t-shirt as much as the next person, but not when they’re all extra larges that hang to your knees. So what about that? Huh? Why does it have to be pink? Do they think that women will come in droves for the chance at a free pink hat? C’mon! Give us more credit than that!

But I’ll stop for now. I hear there’s a sale on pink fanny packs, and I just have to have one.

Belly Itcher

2007-04-24T22:38:00.000-05:00

From the mind of a 9-year-old…

“Okay, so here I am at second base. I’m hot. Our orange shirts match the dirt. Look at those funny little holes my cleats make. If I just move my foot back and forth, back and forth… well, look at that! It’s like a rainbow. Wow! Uh-oh, Coach just yelled at me to stop drawing with my shoe. I better look up… shoot, that scary girl is at bat. Hit it to me! I’m ready!”

Twenty years later…

“Okay, so here I am at third. God, my quads are killing me. My back too. Which reminds me, I forgot to call my PCP today for that referral. Oh, there’s a big rock in the dirt. Let me pick that up and throw it to the side. Someone could really get hurt out here. I hope I don’t trip and skin my knee. That will look terrible when I’m in my meeting tomorrow. Oh sh**, that big guy is at bat. Oh, don’t hit it at me. I don’t think I can move.”

Cheers from a 9-year-old's bench…

“We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher!”

“Hey, batta-batta…suhhhhh-wing… batta-batta!”

“I see a hole out there! I see a hole out there! I see an H-O-L-E HOLE out there!”

Twenty years later…

“Don’t pull something!”

“You hit this, I’ll never ask you for another TPS report!”

“Only a few more outs and then we can go get beers!”

A 9-year-old after the game…

“When’s our next game, Coach? Huh? Huh?”

Twenty years later…

“Whew… thank God I have a week to recover before we play again. Where’s my Advil?”

Walk The Line

2007-04-23T07:41:00.000-05:00

Sure, it’s absurd. Crazy maybe. But is there any other recourse?

Barry Bonds, one of baseball’s purported greats, has tarnished the game more than any other player on the road to The Record. When he surpassed Mark McGwire in homeruns and bicep size, we cared for a millisecond. The Mark-and-Sammy Show had captivated our attention a few years before, so the new homerun race was a bit of a yawn. But now we’re taking notice because he stands on the verge of breaking the record of all records. Two names were synonymous with the career homerun record – Ruth and Aaron. Babe and Hank may have had their foibles, but they were pure players. There were no injections, no creams, just pure bat-on-ball heroics. Barry Bonds passed the Babe last year and now he’s 15 away from the Hammer. No player deserves less.

For all of the arguments about the nebulous rules Major League Baseball had in place during the heyday of steroids, there’s one simple truth: they all knew performance enhancing drugs were wrong, even if they weren’t illegal. When I’m at the ballpark, I don’t care if the first baseman gets drunk after every game. I don’t care if the catcher has a mistress in every city. And I don’t care if the left fielder placed a few side bets. What I care about is that nothing taints the sanctity of baseball. Mess with the muscle and might and you’re messing with the game itself.

Barry Bonds doesn’t deserve to be enshrined in the Hall of Fame. He doesn’t deserve the uniform on his back. And he certainly doesn’t deserve to hold The Record. But is there any way to stop this potential upheaval? There is. Call it a gentleman’s agreement between players, managers, and fans. When Bonds steps to the plate, pitch him outside, not for fear of a shot to the stands, but to keep the statisticians from scribbling in an at-bat. No at-bats, no hits. No hits, no homeruns. No homeruns, no record, and Bonds pays for his crimes. What better way to punish Bonds than to frustrate him at the one thing he was always able to do? We all knew you could hit, Barry, but you didn’t need to jack them into the stratosphere for us to remember you.

Time is running out. Pitchers, when Bonds comes to the plate, walk him. Managers, even if his walk loads the bases, and some phenom who grew up idolizing Bonds is poised in the on-deck circle, give him a base. Fans, don’t float your boats in the Cove waiting for Barry’s next bomb. He’s not going to retire in shame. Bud Selig can’t banish him. But keep him from swinging that bat with his oversized arms and his inflated ego, and Barry will be nothing more than an asterisk in a very sad period in our nation’s pastime.

Sure, it may not be practical. It may be ridiculous. But on that long, lonely walk to first, with the air filled with boos and chants, make Barry Bonds realize he should have walked the line.

Let The Rivalry Begin

2007-04-20T07:42:00.000-05:00

The time has come once again to renew the rivalry, and in honor of the first match-up of the season between the Red Sox and the Yankees, here are some reasons to root for them, root against them, or finally find the time to practice that recorder you put down in the third grade.

In no particular order...

Top 4 Reasons To Root Against The Yankees

1. You taught Jason Varitek everything he knows about fighting, Miyagi-san.

2. Jason Giambi borrowed your deodorant.

3. Derek Jeter put a dead frog in your sleeping bag during a slumber party.

4. A-Rod used the Revlon long-lasting sampler on his lips and then put it back.

Top 4 Reasons To Root Against The Red Sox

1. Even your mother won't pay you $50 million just to talk to you.

2. Curt Schilling was your roommate and he never washed his socks.

3. You really like Derek Jeter’s Driven.

4. The “Cowboy This" tattoo seemed like a good idea at the time.

Top 4 Reasons To Root Against Both Teams

1. You’re from the West Coast and you just want ESPN to show the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, OC, California, USA, Earth, Milky Way.

2. The gyroball is making you very, very, sleeeeepyyyy…

3. You’re Aaron ****ing Boone, for God’s sake, almighty hero of Game 7, and you’re now a pinch hitter for the Marlins.

4. Wait, there are other teams?

Top 4 Reasons Not To Give A Damn About This Stupid Rivalry

1. Andre Agassi smacked you in the face with a tennis racket.

2. You’re just Manny being Manny.

3. You’re sitting in a Sperm Donors Anonymous Meeting with Tom Brady and Kevin Federline.

4. You just saved a bunch of money on your car insurance.

A Band-Aid For The Heart

2007-04-18T20:54:00.000-05:00

It’s hard to comprehend that the worst of events happen on days that start off just like any other day. It seems there would have to be some clue, some foreboding, but there’s not. On Monday, alarm clocks went off for 32 people just like they had the Friday before. These people got dressed, ate breakfast, and brushed their teeth just like we all did. But then in the blink of an eye, everything changed and 32 lives were snuffed out. Now a collegiate community must struggle with unspeakable grief while a nation mourns with them, suppressing the knowledge that this could have happened anywhere to any of us on any normal morning.

In the wake of tragedy like this, sports are trivial. It seems disrespectful to care about scores and rankings when everything is falling apart. Sports are a part of normalcy, and it seems like nothing will ever be normal again.

But there is a healing power in sports. It’s their very normalcy that helps people go on. They act as a bridge between an innocent yesterday and an uncertain future because they are a constant. After September 11th, baseball and football provided an escape, something to focus on when the tragedy seemed too big to fathom. There were smiles and chatter about homeruns or touchdowns and it didn’t matter how fleeting those smiles were or how the chatter always led back to the real-life nightmare. For a few minutes during that fateful autumn, sports were like band-aids on broken hearts.

Virginia Tech is known for sports. Whether you’re a fan of the Hokies or not, you can’t help but respect their tenacity, their pride, and the spirit of competition that thrives in Blacksburg. And it’s that same spirit that will be a blessing to the community as a whole as they face the unthinkable. Five teams will compete on behalf of Virginia Tech this weekend, in memory of those who died and in honor of those who live. Their tradition of athletic excellence will provide an escape, a focus, a chance to rise together as one. And in those normal moments when students, faculty, families, and fans are rooting for the home team, there will be some healing.

Yes, they’re just games, but sometimes those games are small reasons to put one sad foot in front of the other.

A Few Words

2007-04-17T07:41:00.000-05:00

I’ve never said this before. The sense of rivalry was always too great. But today, all of that is in a far away place, inconsequential and meaningless in light of what has happened. I’ve never spoken these words, but I will now.

I’m rooting for you, Virginia Tech… and praying for you.

Testing The Mettle

2007-04-15T22:25:00.000-05:00

In the sport of running, the brain is the toughest competitor. Pushing yourself through the pain for just one more step, then two, then ten to get to the finish line can be the ultimate test of your mettle. No one will criticize you if you don’t fight just a little harder because there are many who never take up the challenge, but by far the worst disappointment is your own if you give up.

When my alarm went off at 6:10 a.m. on Sunday morning and I heard buckets of water pouring from the roof, the last thing I wanted to do was run a 5K. I had agreed to do the race with a group of friends even though I have an aversion to any distance running over 50 yards. The good cause and the free t-shirt are usually good motivators for me to do these things, but with a nor’easter slamming the city, there was a split second when not even the kids we were running for and what would become my 32nd sleeping t-shirt were enough to make me want to face the elements. Nevertheless, my friends and I persevered and made our way down to Hains Point.

The minute we stepped out of the car, we were soaked. The rain rushed at us sideways and the wind was searing. To our right, the Anacostia River lapped over the sidewalk in short bursts, reminding us that this was no passing storm. We considered collecting our goodie bags and heading straight to brunch, but we had gotten up at the crack of dawn for a good cause, so we made our way to the starting line.

As I was running, I thought about the men and women who would be running the Boston Marathon today and what drives them to press on no matter what the conditions. It takes something special to push your body to the brink and there’s a unique satisfaction that comes from testing your own limits. For 45 minutes, I walked more than I ran and had no grand delusions that I could ever include myself in the same class as these elite athletes, but for a split second as I was chugging towards the finish line, I understood the value of competing against yourself because sometimes you end up surprised by what you can do.

Daddy's Little Girl

2007-04-12T23:19:00.000-05:00

Dear Mr. Micelli,

I hope this finds you and Angela doing well. With the advent of Clorox Disposable Wipes and the Swiffer WetJet, I’m sure you find yourself with a lot of time on your hands to enjoy the simple things in life. It’s a shame that the St. Louis Cardinals didn’t invite you back for the World Series celebration, being one of their most moderately-talented pitchers in the 70’s and all, but I’m sure they’ll lift that restraining order soon.

I’m writing to you today to express a concern about your dear daughter. As you know, Samantha has grown into an attractive, young woman and she is clearly the product of a devoted father and stepmother. She has inherited your devotion to baseball and has done her best to make pitchers feel good about their game. She has gleaned from Angela’s business sense and has decided to market her own line of clothing that will rid the world of wardrobe malfunctions once and for all. Her altruistic spirit is really something to be proud of.

However, I fear that she may not be able to handle the fame and fortune that will surely follow this ingenious undertaking. I can’t wait to sit down in those jeans with the rhinestones embedded in the back pockets and I know this dress will be a real hit at my friend’s wedding, but millions of women just like me will be clamoring for this couture and I just wonder if Samantha will be able handle the success.

Rest assured though… I will tell all of my friends not to overwhelm Samantha with their orders so that she has time to absorb the magnitude of her venture.

My aunt sends her best to Mona and Jonathan.

Sincerely,

M. Rossini

P.S. Billy thanks you for the Carl Pavano autograph. Unfortunately, it hasn’t done very well on E-Bay.

The Glorious Future

2007-04-12T18:23:00.000-05:00

NBC and CBS have made their decision. They did not pander to the almighty buck by keeping one of their cash cows, Don Imus, on the air. Instead they stared sexism in the face and made the tough call. Well done. This is going to usher in a glorious new era of change, and as a female athlete and fan, I can’t wait…

• to watch the 2008 Women’s NCAA Tournament on network television when CBS activates its rights to broadcast the women’s games as well as the men’s.

• for the CBS-owned WFAN to air the 2008 Women’s NCAA Tournament on the radio, which it did not do this year, not even the Rutgers games.

• for NBC Sports to change the main page of its website to remove their only reference to women's athletics being “Cheerleader of the Week.”

• to see both media giants writhing with jealousy because ABC acquired the broadcast rights to the 2007 Women’s World Cup in September and they didn’t.

Gives you chills, doesn’t it?

What’s that, you say? Nobody watches women’s sports? Not exciting enough? No money in it? Well, gee, isn’t that just a little bit sexist?

This is your new world, NBC and CBS. Time to put your money where your mouth is.

The Headlines

2007-04-12T08:11:00.000-05:00

The Rutgers women’s basketball team did not deserve to be the butt of cruel, prejudicial jokes, but the players also do not deserve to be synonymous with the fall of Imus.

Don Imus’ commentary has always been extreme, but the response to his insensitive comments last week has been equally so. Imus should have been punished. His commentary needed to be checked. However, his dismissal from MSNBC is not the answer. It’s an extreme solution to problems that are often fought on extreme levels. The need for healing is great nationwide, but the only way to do it is by dialing back the battering ram of media and engaging all sides in even-keeled discussions.

It’s a double-edged sword. Keep Imus on the air and racism and sexism persist. Take him off the air and racism and sexism still persist. Something needs to change, but Imus’ firing is not going to do it. What will be the follow-up? Who’s going to start the dialogue of change? There are a lot of people stepping up to vilify Imus, but who’s stepping up to formulate the lesson we should take from all of this? Who will help us move forward?

Bueller?

Sadly, Rutgers still ends up on the losing side in all of this. The team will never be rid of this shadow, which they did nothing to instigate and nothing to perpetuate. The situation should not have been overlooked by any means, but it snowballed and now every broadcast or every column about a Rutgers game or a Rutgers player for the next several years will always include this sad footnote.

And this is an unfortunate chapter for women’s athletics as well. Female athletes finally make the front page, but it has nothing to do with a championship victory or an amazing tournament run. They've come so far and achieved so much, but this is not how female athletes want to make headlines.

By The Numbers

2007-04-11T07:20:00.000-05:00

3. 9. 23. 13. 99. 42.

No, it’s not a string of lottery numbers.

Dale Earnhardt. Mia Hamm. Michael Jordan. Dan Marino. Wayne Gretzky. Jackie Robinson.

Numbers and sports go hand in hand. They serve a practical purpose, helping officials, coaches, participants, and fans know who’s playing at any given moment, but they’re also imbued with much greater meaning than telling who’s on first and what’s on second. Players are attached to those numerals they wear on the backs of their jerseys, and they all have their own stories to tell about how those random digits came to be the defining symbol of their efforts, abilities, superstitions, and careers.

My own story is simple. I chose 12 because I was 12 when I first started playing organized sports. At the time, I didn’t have any major feelings about numbers. I knew them only as fractions and square roots, so when pressed for a choice, my age seemed to be the best solution. I still hadn’t bonded with 12 when the next season rolled around, but because I had been the only one to wear that uniform so far, I chose 12 again. From that point on, I was hooked. I was 12 whenever I could get it, and when I had to wear 6 and 24, I rationalized by multiplying and dividing to get to my beloved digit.

Players at all levels have different reasons, both logical and ludicrous, for choosing their digits, but each player respects how important the numbers are. Fans follow suit, wearing the numerals just as proudly, whether it’s a father sporting the number of his daughter or a diehard walking around in a replica jersey. The numbers embody something special, something that is hard to put into words, something that is often ethereal when it comes to honoring legends. Who hasn’t seen a simple sticker of the number 3, red and slanted to the right, and not thought of Dale Earnhardt? Isn’t the number 23 synonymous with Michael Jordan? The numbers are arbitrary, but the career achievements they represent are not.

On Sunday, baseball players from every major league team will don the number 42 for the first time in ten years to honor Jackie Robinson, the athlete and the pioneer. There are a lot of things that will be done to commemorate this momentous date. Scores of inspiring interviews, articles, and vignettes will be produced, but there is a beauty in the simplicity of 42. Whether it’s sewn onto the backs of ballplayers’ shirts or scribbled on the inside brim of a fan’s cap, a number is worth a thousand words.

So on Sunday, simply remember 42.

And if you play the lottery with those numbers at the top, remember where you got them.

Laughter's Not Always The Best Medicine

2007-04-09T23:46:00.000-05:00

The punishment for Don Imus has been handed down, but he’s not the only one who should bear the brunt of the responsibility. He’s like that guy at the cocktail party who tells an inappropriate joke but everyone laughs because they’re either uncomfortable or worse yet, they think it’s funny. Who’s to blame? Imus is a public figure with a huge forum, so he should continue to be held accountable for his actions, but so should all of his listeners. He never would have said what he did if he thought it wouldn’t get a laugh.

I’m not defending Imus and I’m not vilifying his listeners, but we’re all guilty of believing stereotypes, harboring misconceptions, and chuckling at the expense of various groups, so there’s plenty of fault to go around.

It’s unfortunate that all of this has to come in the wake of a stellar season in which a group of talented, inspiring, young women achieved extraordinary feats of athleticism, but maybe all of this ugliness will make people see that we haven’t come as far as we would like to believe.

In The Name of The Babe, The Mick, and The Splendid Splinter…

2007-04-09T07:18:00.000-05:00

In the past week, I’ve spent more than 12 hours at major league baseball parks, not to mention at least 6 more watching games at home on television. Let’s add the time spent watching shows, reading articles, or just plain talking baseball, and I’d probably end up with 2 or 3 more. For those of you keeping score at your desk, that’s over 20 hours of baseball in a single week, almost a full day, without so much as a blink of an eye. So if I’m able to sit through all of that, then why is it that I fidgeted my way through one 90-minute Easter Sunday Mass?

When you think about it, going to church is a lot like going to a baseball game. The main players are wearing colorful uniforms. Ushers hand you a program when you walk in, and you have to stand in line waiting for food and alcohol. The organ is loud, and the singers are off-key. Young and old, there are people from all walks of life with clothes ranging from shabby to prim. It helps if you know the lingo, rules, and rituals, but you can still get something out of it if you don’t. The seats are uncomfortable, and you may end up with an obstructed view. Both are a little boring at times, so it can be tough to pay attention. It’s hard to walk through the door without shelling out a little dough, and going to Communion is a little like the 7th inning stretch. Plus there’s usually a whole lot of prayin’ going on.

I was brought up with two religions, Catholicism and sports, more specifically the church of baseball, and while I know that I’m not the first to ever compare faith in a higher power and faith in a game, this is the first time I’ve ever recognized the similarities for myself. And the more I thought about how complete my worship of sports is, the more I realized that much of what we feel about these games is handed down to us and taught to us in much the same way as religion. We believe in the spirit and the hope our teams possess, and even though it may be years, decades, or lifetimes without seeing the rewards for our faith, we would never trade our devotion or experience.

Sometimes I think I should be a little more faithful to my actual religion… after all, it would be hard to walk into a confessional and spin my attendance at three baseball games in a week, but my absence from Palm Sunday Mass. But it couldn’t hurt them to spice things up a little bit. Maybe if members of the congregation started the wave while wearing t-shirts with the names of their favorite saints, I might be a little more inclined to attend on a regular basis. Maybe if there was a mid-Mass game like “Test your IQ” with prizes, it might up the excitement factor. And seriously, wouldn't it be great if the lector introduced the priest just once by saying, “Now pinch hitting for Jesus… !”

I'm just saying... these are options.

Ignorance on the A.M. Dial

2007-04-06T08:42:00.000-05:00

Growing up in the Tri-state area, I came to know Don Imus as the king of A.M. radio. Supported by his band of merry men, Imus would provide commentary and cut-ups about anything you could imagine. His humor was irreverent, but he always seemed to fall just short of the line of impropriety. That is, until now.

On Wednesday, Imus mentioned he had watched part of the championship game between Tennessee and Rutgers and then he and his cronies threw out a string of racist, sexist, and insensitive comments to describe the Scarlet Knights. I’m not going to repeat the derogatory term used for the African-American members of the team because that just perpetuates the slight. I will say that to degrade a group of players, who had been fighting to stay alive as an upstart team, a group who exemplified the core values of athleticism, by using a stereotypical slur is like bursting their bubble with a sledgehammer. By far, the use of the racist description is the worst part of this incident, but it’s also the most obvious affront, the easiest to address and the easiest to rebuke.

The dialogue between Imus and his men was offensive on other levels as well. They referred to the Rutgers players as “hos” and then went on to compare them to the Toronto Raptors with one correcting the other that they looked more like the Grizzlies. For all of the progress that Title IX has provided, women’s sports are still struggling to surpass judgments on appearance. To compare the Scarlet Knights not only to whores, but also to NBA players was to undermine their hard-fought bid for the title. Imus went on to say that the Tennessee team was “cute,” which also undercuts their achievement and is annoying in its own right, but put up against the Rutgers comments, he’s implying that it was okay for the Tennessee team to be competitive on the court because they were feminine enough. I guess make-up, bows, and perfect ponytails make women’s sports palatable. Appearance is not a part of sports, but somehow it always sneaks into the conversation whenever we’re talking about female athletes.

There’s one other point about this incident that is perhaps the most hurtful. The young women who took the court for Rutgers are really just a group of college kids, looking to have fun in a sport they love on the national stage. These aren’t professional athletes. These are 18-22 year-olds who have fragile psyches and who don’t have a full comprehension of the real world that waits for them. If an adult were the recipient of comments like these, it’d be easier to just let them roll of the back and call it ignorance. For a kid who has just had the greatest ride of her life, it’s like a punch to the gut. During March Madness, it’s hard not to think of all of these athletes as professionals because of the hype, but they’re still just kids playing a game we just happen to pay attention to.

I’ve never heard of Don Imus being a truly mean-spirited man. He does tremendous things for charity, loves his family, and just tries to make people laugh when they’re sitting in traffic in the morning. But this went well past what can be considered acceptable boundaries of humor, and chalking it up to a joke doesn’t make the situation any better. He and his crew should apologize.

So congratulations, Rutgers. You gave fans a March to remember, and hopefully you’ll be able to forget the ugliness that followed. And since you’re in the Tri-state area, stay away from the A.M. dial.

The Perfect Date

2007-04-04T20:36:00.000-05:00

We live in a world where text messaging and instant messaging are not only acceptable forms of communication, but seem to be the norm. A phone call or an e-mail are almost archaic when it comes to getting to know someone. But in spite of the new-fangled ways to meet romantic partners in crime, people still tend to fall back on the traditional dinner to really hash out their similarities and differences. But staring at a potential prospect from across the table, measuring the silences and counting the pauses, is hardly the best way to find out if the person is compatible. You sit there in the light glow of a loud restaurant, thinking more about whether the remnants of the meal you spent more time deliberating over than most leaders spend over peace treaties are visible when you smile. The tag of the new shirt you bought for the occasion is scratching your neck and you’re praying that the air conditioning comes back on so that you’re not sweating about the fact that you ate too much bread and might release a belch that would put many men to shame. You feel you’re maintaining too much eye contact, scared that your dinner date might think you’re planning the second birthday party of your future child when really you’re afraid to look away lest you seem disinterested. The baby crying in the corner and the tray of plates that just clattered to the floor in the kitchen batter your eardrums and block out any of the words this stranger is mouthing just three feet from you. By the end of the date, you know name, rank, and serial number, but little else because all you can recollect is that you were bloated, distracted, self-conscious, and uncomfortable. But never fear because there is the perfect alternative to that heartburn-inducing date and you can find it at the ballpark.

Attire is usually the first concern of any girl who is prepping for a date. That new shirt needs a new pair of pants, but the matching shoes are scuffed and that other earring is no where to be found. There are phone-a-friends and Gallup polls to determine the best color combinations, and Tim Gunn himself could have given you his approval, but you’re still going to walk out the door feeling like you just rummaged through the dressing room at Filene’s Basement. But if you’re heading to the ballpark, you’ve got no such worries! Jeans or shorts, t-shirt or tank-top, sandals or flip-flops. The more casual you are, the more the cuteness factor soars. Add a hat, and you’re the perfect fan. Of course, it bears mentioning that team attire is preferable, and that does not include pink, but as long as you’re not wearing heels and a shirt you borrowed from a hooker, you’ll be good to go in less time than it takes the pitcher to walk to the mound.

Food choices can lead to a lot of angst on a date. If you order the salad, will your date think you’re either A.) a vegetarian, B.) being considerate of the bill, or C.) allergic to everything else. Order the messiest ribs you can find and you’re just a glutton for punishment because not only are you going Dutch, but you’ll also most likely end up with stock in moist-towelettes. You really can never win, but tell the friendliest Aramark staff member that you want a dog, nachos, and a Coke and you’re off scott-free. Sure, there’s the potential for an errant squirt from a mustard packet or a dollop of faux cheese landing on your jeans, but that’s not unheard of at a baseball game, so you can just go on eating and cheering. Watch that au jus trickle into your lap at a fancy restaurant and you might as well ask for your half of the check.

If you’re on a first date, you met the lucky winner somehow. Whether it was online, in line, or through a friend, chances are there has been a modicum of conversation, but you probably haven’t gotten to that embarrassing accident you had in the second grade. That’s not really the kind of thing that pops up when you’re leaning across the tea light, praying your hair doesn’t ignite. But when you’re sitting ten rows up in the cheap seats, and you see the goofy teenager with Dippin’ Dots trip up the stairs, cue the funny anecdote that will make you both chuckle and help to find out where this stranger is really coming from. At a baseball game, conversation starters are everywhere, and God forbid you find yourself with nothing to talk about… just talk about the people around you and watch the game. There’s nothing worse than a lull in a dinner date, but there’s always something to see or poke fun of at the ballpark.

I would venture to say that the baseball game is the perfect date for all different levels of sports fans. Even if the only thing you know about baseball is that the pants are tight, it’s still a great venue to get to know someone. However, if you know the names of Pete Rose’s bookies and can provide the average number of times Bobby Cox picks his nose in a single Braves game, then chances are you’re looking for a fellow sports fan to share those tender moments and there’s no better place to weed them out than at the stadium. Cheering too much? Heckling too little? Questioning the scoreboard? Reaching for a Diet Coke? Then see your way to the turn-styles and leave your promotional giveaway behind for the true fans.

Some may shudder at the thought of spending four hours at a baseball game with someone you barely know. It can seem like an eternity if the conversation sours and the pitchers are dueling, but would you rather be counting the crumbs on the table of some swanky restaurant? Probably not.

Plus you never know… it could happen… you may end up wishing for extra innings.

Got any thoughts? Have you had a great baseball date? Have you blocked out the memory of a bad one? Or would you rather split the atom than go on a date at the ballpark? Post a comment and let us know!

Night and Day

2007-04-03T23:11:00.000-05:00

Walking into RFK Stadium the night after Opening Day was like having your alarm go off in the middle of a wonderful dream. Opening Day was a picture perfect afternoon for baseball in Washington, DC. Forty-thousand fans decked out in red, full of hope for a new season and full of faith in the Nationals. But on Tuesday night, you’d be lucky if you could hit a fan in red with one of those t-shirt launchers. And find a fan with an ounce of hope for 2007? You’d have an easier time asking Washingtonians to check their Blackberries at the gates. It was 9:02 pm, almost two hours after the first pitch, when the fans suddenly noticed there was a game going on thanks to Dmitri Young’s RBI walk. There was a little spark when Brian Schneider drove in a run with a sacrifice fly, but the attention spans were sucked right back out of the stadium as soon Ryan Church fouled out to the catcher.

What happened to all of the optimism from Opening Day? What happened to all of the optimism from two years ago when we were given the gift of a franchise? There were a lot of other cities vying for the Expos, but we got them and it’s time we stop taking them for granted, for better or for worse. We expect the Nationals to win, but the Nationals expect us to root for the home team. If they finish the season in last place, we can blame the management, coaches, players, and mascots, but we better shoulder a share of that blame as well. We all come to RFK with our old baseball allegiances, but we need to stop seeing the Nationals as a means to see our other teams play. We need to support the Nationals and give them a chance, and if that doesn’t work, then we need remember the nightmare that was a Washington without baseball.

It Ain't Over 'Til...

2007-04-02T23:44:00.000-05:00

All through the land, there is quiet. The wrinkled brackets are marked with points, circles, x’s, and lines in red. The guy who chose his picks based on the average shoe sizes of the players is counting his winnings in his cubicle while the woman next to him balls up her compare-and-contrast worksheet and angrily hooks it into the wastebasket. When the boss walks by, he mistakes the silence for productivity, when in reality, the post-basketball malaise has set in. The madness is over… or is it?

Florida and Ohio State delivered a decent game. Hard-fought, well-played, though not classic. The Gators own the repeat, and Greg Oden can focus on the draft. The world will spin on for another year. But there’s another game still to be played, featuring a dynasty and an upstart. Pat Summit’s Lady Vols and C. Vivian Stringer’s Scarlet Knights, a number 1 seed and a number 4 seed respectively, will meet in a game that half as many viewers will watch on a network people have to pay for in order to be crowned the champions. Yet both teams are sure to stage a David and Goliath battle that will be worth a water-cooler conversation, if in fact anyone at the water-cooler tunes in.

Basketball is still basketball. The sizes and speeds may differ in the men’s and women’s games, but both generate an electricity in striving towards the same, simple goal which is to get the ball in the basket.

This is the very goal that gets America’s hearts racing every spring and to miss the grand finale in Cleveland on Tuesday night would be true madness.

Thoughts and Thanks

2007-04-02T23:39:00.000-05:00

On HerSportsPOV’s opening day, I received many wonderful comments and insights, both written to me personally and posted on the site. There’s one message I’d like to mention in particular, and that came from one of my male friends who wrote three long paragraphs to my personal e-mail account to talk about pink hats as a major marketing tool, the management of the Nationals, and the District as a city of fair-weather fans. He brought up many good points that I look forward to debating with him, but there was one line that troubled me. He wrote, “Women (you are not included in this generalization) do not follow sports, period.” I know that on one hand, he was complimenting me by acknowledging my passion for sports as the exception to the rule, but why is this the rule? Furthermore, in suggesting that being a woman and being passionate about sports are mutually exclusive, he undermined any woman who does not fall in line with perceived stereotypes. In saying this, however, he also verbalized the statement I’m trying to prove wrong. My hypothesis is that women do follow sports, and judging from many of the people I heard from, I believe this is true.

I don’t mean to pick on my friend because I understand where he was coming from and what he was saying, and to be honest, I’d actually like to thank him for responding in such great detail. Yes, he was reading the columns of a pal, but it went beyond that because in taking the time to construct his own rebuttal, he proved the point that you can talk sports with a woman.

I’d also like to thank Sydney Trent, the author of “The Gal of Summer,” which I referenced on Monday. In an online chat on The Washington Post’s website, she posted my comment that included a link to HerSportsPOV.

Most of all, I’d like to thank everyone who visited HerSportsPOV on its first day. I hope you’ll make this site a part of every week.

Tradition and Transience

2007-04-02T07:39:00.000-05:00

Today Washington, DC, will host an Opening Day game for the first time in over 30 years, but as Matt Swenson of The Washington Post’s Express noted in the March 23rd edition, very few people have been talking about it. Too many people are looking towards 2008 when the new stadium will be completed rather than waiting to see what the team can accomplish in its last year at RFK. But the problem is not that the District buzz is less, but rather that it will never be the same as it is in New York and Boston, as Swenson mentions, simply because Nats’ fans are different. In many ways, they are very similar to their Opening Day opponents, the underappreciated, much-mocked Florida Marlins.

The Florida Marlins have been the butt of jokes for 15 years. From the moment they took the field in bright teal hats to the year they bought their championship, from the infamous firesale that followed to their second such dumping after another ring. The Marlins may not have established themselves as a team to reckon with in spite of their victories, but they have certainly put themselves on the map as the marquis team to be talked about in ways good, bad, and embarrassing. It’s a shame, really, because the Marlins have always had a lot going for them, but they’ve never been able to develop a diehard fan base. Rings, rookies of the year, no-hitters… none of it has held the attention span of South Floridians for longer than it takes a sunburn to fade. The reason? Transience. The Marlins are the victims of a mobile society. Few people who live in South Florida hail from there originally, and if they do, they’re no more than second generation. They bring their baseball allegiances along with their Brooklyn and Boston accents. Any town with a winning team eventually catches the fever, and the Marlins have been embraced by the residents of the isthmus every once in a while, but for many people who were raised with the likes of Mantle, Williams, and Robinson, they just can’t throw out that dusty old ballcap in favor of a new teal model.

The same problem that has plagued the Marlins could end up being the Nats’ biggest crisis. Washington, DC, is a city composed of people from other places. Like Miami, the District does boast a population whose family trees mirror the evolution of a city, but they are also joined by a large number of people who move in and out of the District with each shift in government. The city was addicted to the Nationals in 2005, but it was part novelty, part opportunity… opportunity, that is, to see everyone’s favorite teams from other cities. The Marlins bring the Mets, Dodgers, and Giants to town, along with an occasional visit from the Yankees or Red Sox. The Nats do the exact same thing for Washington, and in the 15 years since the Marlins threw their first pitch, little has changed, so the hope for the District is circumspect at best.

So when the Nats and Marlins meet on Opening Day this afternoon, two strong teams will meet to carry on the tradition of baseball, with neither club owning the support they deserve. As it turns out, it’s easy for people to move from place to place, but much harder for them to disown their baseball roots.

The Rebuttal

2007-04-02T06:45:00.000-05:00

I was getting ready to drive to Philadelphia when my phone buzzed with a text message at 8:32 on Saturday morning: “You MUST look at the cover of The Washington Post Magazine.” Being neither a subscriber nor a fan of buying the Sunday paper a day early, I wondered what my friend Kino found so riveting that it needed my attention right away. Then there was a second text message from him: “A woman who knows nothing about baseball, and could not care less, sets out to make herself a fan in a single season.” My curiosity was piqued, so I scrounged up a dollar and some change and walked up the street to Starbucks. I was so eager to read the magazine that I handed the money over to the barista as quickly as possible and was barely out the door before I started ripping open that yellow plastic to reach the magazine that was on top. And then I saw it… the pink glove on an outstretched arm above a field of regular-looking, leather models. I cringed, and I felt the color rise to my face. I tucked the magazine back in the folds of the paper and stormed back to my house. I tried to read bits and pieces of the article on my way to Philly, but I could only get through a few paragraphs before my blood pressure would spike and I’d have to put it down. Clearly it was something I would have to save until later when I had something throwable within reach.

For those readers not in the Washington, DC, metropolitan area, Sydney Trent’s cover story, entitled "The Gal of Summer" and deemed “The Experiment” chronicles her mission to become a baseball fan, particularly a Washington Nationals fan, in one season. Starting with Spring Training 2006 and ending on the second to last game of the year, Trent immersed herself in the facts, figures, and fantasy world that is baseball so that she could have a greater understanding of the sport that so captivated her husband and many of those around her. In one way, I admire Trent’s experiment because it’s certainly not a short one. Eight months of the year are consumed with baseball, so to jump into that ocean willingly is a feat many non-fans would shy away from. Furthermore, it would have been much easier to crack the fan base of a team that has already achieved a modicum of success, but instead she chose to follow the Nationals, a team that is trying to move past the shadows of its recent history while at the same time trying to make a new city fall in love with them. Trent took up that challenge, and I respect that. As a female baseball fan though, I don’t agree with many of the statements she made. Ultimately this is a personal story of how Trent perceived baseball and how she strived to change that perception. My problem lies in people thinking that Trent’s perceptions are somehow the norm for all women.

I won’t deny that women experience baseball, or any sport, differently from men. Trent’s quote from Dick Ebersol is right on the money. He said that women “ ‘want an attachment, a rooting interest.’ ” Bottom line, women want backstory. Perhaps it’s part of that maternal instinct to care and nurture; perhaps it’s because women seem to be more detail-oriented whereas men look for the big picture. Whatever it is, women view sports through a different lens. However, that’s only one aspect of our experience with the game. It’s not all about the warm and fuzzy feelings; it’s also about competition and performance. Last year, I bought a Ryan Zimmerman t-shirt. I vividly remember reading an article in The Washington Post in January 2006 about Zimmerman and his family, with a particular focus on his mother who suffers from Multiple Sclerosis. It tugged at my heartstrings because Zimmerman is clearly a young man who cares deeply for his family, and that appealed to me. I realized he was someone I could really root for. That said, there was another reason I liked Zimmerman. He’s a good baseball player. I was there when he hit the walk-off homer against the Marlins on the 4th of July last year. He’s actually more than good. He’s sensational, a franchise player, and that’s why I like sporting his jersey around town, not because he’s an all-around swell guy. I know lots of guys like that, but none whose last name I’d slap on the back of a t-shirt. I wear his number 11 because he’s a strong competitor in the game I love. Women may enjoy forming an attachment to athletes, but the raw, physical dynamics of the game still capture our attention as much as it does with male fans.

Elsewhere in her article, Trent discusses her husband’s use of the rally cap, a widely-held superstition that has been credited with many a comeback. She writes, “I’m finding these particular male rituals are rather, well, cute.” With one statement, she not only set up baseball fandom to be a giant fraternity, but also minimized the precious superstitions of the game by calling them “cute.” In terms of the former, we can all agree that professional baseball is a game played by men. There have been one or two young women who have cracked the enclave by playing minor league ball, but overall, it’s a man’s game. However, being a baseball fan is not, and the ritual of the rally cap or any other superstition is not limited to men and men alone. My own attire and any potential or existing jinxes (i.e. my refusal to wear a new Red Sox t-shirt for the rest of 2006 after I attended their September loss at Camden Yards) are regular topics of conversation in my house. I’m a level-headed person who balances her checkbook down to the penny, but I can look you dead in the eye and say these rituals, these superstitions, these traditions are real. And what’s more? They’re fun. These little quirks only add to the spirit and the experience of being at the ballpark, so they are neither “cute,” nor exclusively male.

Though I don’t agree with much in Trent’s article, what incensed me the most probably had little to do with her and more to do with The Washington Post’s decision to place a woman’s arm with a pink glove on the front, while printing the title of the magazine in a brilliant shade of the same color. Pink has its place in the world, but it does not belong in sports, and I resent its rampant use as the defining symbol of women’s involvement. This sentiment reached its peak when I saw a pink White Sox World Series cap enshrined in a glass case in Cooperstown. My problem with the hat was not so much the color, as much as the fact that owners, marketers, designers, and any of the powers-that-be think it’s the only way to get women interested in sports. Just throw out some pastels and we’ll come a-runnin’. It doesn’t work that way. When it became popular for men to get manicures, did the technicians whip out blue files and blue nail clippers? Somehow I doubt it. Using pink as the go-to color for anything sports related makes women look shallow and ignorant, as if we’re not capable of wearing the appropriate team colors, but women are capable of seeing much more in sports than color coordination.

Perhaps the most stunning line of all in Trent’s story was, “I know plenty of female sports fans, but I don’t know one who gets truly bent out of shape after a lost game.” I read that line after I returned from Philadelphia, where incidentally I had gone to see the Red Sox versus the Phillies in the final spring training game. My friend Izzie and I sat 22 rows from the field, in cute, women’s cut, Sox gear… i.e. no pink… cheering for our team, so you can certainly imagine why I would have been stymied reading that line after road-tripping specifically to see baseball. Trent followed up her statement, admitting, “But maybe they do.” You better believe they do. There are female fans like my friend and I who jump up when a player homers and those like us who wallow in a funk the day after a grueling loss. There are women who have a symbiotic relationship with their teams and to assume that they don’t exist is short-sighted.

Just as my frustration was reaching a high, it dawned on me. As easily as Trent could say that she doesn’t know any women who get upset after a team loses, I was on the verge of making an equally sweeping remark, saying that I don’t believe there are women who don’t care about sports. Having grown up playing and watching sports, I find this hard to fathom, but I know they are out there. Maybe I’m a bit of a baseball snob to assume that everyone gets the game, loves the game, and feels the game the same way that I do, and that if they don’t, then there’s something wrong with them. So after vowing to write a rebuttal to set the record straight on how women truly feel about the game, I realized that ultimately it was just another personal story of one woman’s perception of baseball and that perception is mine.

Both Sydney Trent and I are coming from different ends of the spectrum, and while there’s nothing wrong with either, I want people to know that both sides exist. I still stand by my repudiation of the color pink in sports, saying that it undermines female fans and the female population as a whole and I still don’t appreciate the condescension in describing the trappings of the game, but I can appreciate one very important fact, which is that every woman is entitled to her own sports point of view.