Drums Along The Anacostia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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.