The ABC's of a Very Nats Weekend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.