Uncomfortably Numb

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

And that’s what we’ve got now.

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

Bigger, badder, and more bizarre.

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

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

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

Gracious Hosts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lonely At The Top

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

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

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

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

Cribbage*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Class Act

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

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

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

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

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

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