I'm Sorry, Alyssa Milano

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...