If my loyal readers haven't noticed already, it's been awhile since I last posted and I fear it may be awhile before I will again. It's not that I don't have a plethora of sports-related things to write about (the Red Sox World Series Championship being one of them, of course), but another writing project has usurped my attention for the time-being.
Please be sure to check back in after the holidays for some fresh new columns on HerSportsPov!
Thanks for your support!
I’m not going to write about the Red Sox. No stars, no scores, no hyperbole. There are already a million words out there describing every facet of their game. They don’t need me to add to the mix. But I do want to write about being a Red Sox fan.
As I was just walking back from Starbucks in my Red Sox sweatshirt, a woman stopped me and said, “Excuse me, can you tell me what happened in the game last night?” There was an eagerness in her eyes as I told her what had unfolded in Colorado. When I was done, she graciously thanked me and went on her way.
Yesterday there was a grizzled old man who passed by me in the check-out line. I was wearing one of my many Red Sox t-shirts, and as he walked by me, he said, “Nice shirt.” I turned to see who had made the comment, and as he continued to another register, I recognized the Boston cap on his head.
I was on my way home with the very groceries I had just purchased when my neighbor pointed out my shirt. We’ve never spoken before, but he asked me what I thought about the Ortiz-Youkilis-Lowell conundrum in a National League park. We may never speak again, but we had that moment.
And how about the boyfriend decked out in Sox gear who walked out of the Kelly Clarkson concert on the arm of his girlfriend. I too was wearing my gear, and we gave each other a simple nod of the head and said, “Go Sox.”
Then there are those who don’t care quite so much about the game, but love the people who do. My Mom has grown to love baseball because of me, but even she has her limits sometimes. Nevertheless, she told me that 30 minutes after she had decided to call it an evening, she asked my Dad to get up and check the score to see what was going on. She’s becoming a full-fledged Sox junkie!
There’s our "work mom,” the one who watches out for all of us from 9-5 every day. She text messages me after almost every game and is as superstitious as I am about what to do, wear, and say when watching the Sox.
Even my best friend, the Yankee fan, who will audibly express how much she loathes the Red Sox every chance she gets, respects my devotion and is the one responsible for giving me the Beckett jersey I treasure so dearly.
And of course, there's Izzie, Dusty, Meaks, Nuwanda, Sully, and Karch... those who have gathered with me at our local watering holes, at Fenway, at Camden, all to watch the Sox together. Plus Kino, Chase, Bay, and Expo who may not love the Sox, but love baseball enough to watch the Sox with us.
Red Sox Nation is not a cadre of obnoxious fans seeking to run roughshod over every other team. It’s a family… a family of fans and a family of those who love the fans.
I’m proud of the Red Sox. I’m excited about the season they’ve given us. But most of all I’m thankful for the memories my Red Sox family and I have had over the past six months. It’s been a ride to remember.
Barry Bonds. Floyd Landis. Jason Giambi. The list goes on, but the names are untouchable. These athletes exist in another realm apart from us, so when the accusations of their steroid use started flying, it was easy to have a sense of detachment.
But now Marion Jones.
I don’t follow track and field except once every four years, but inexplicably, I feel betrayed because she really seemed like one of us.
Exactly eight years ago, in October 1999, I was visiting Atlanta with my volleyball team for a tournament. I knew that I would play the last game of my collegiate career in that city, but just when it would happen depended on how far our young team could go. Even as the only senior among sophomores and freshmen, I felt we could go the distance with our strength, determination, and pure gutsiness. What we lacked in consistency, we made up for in spirit. It was a fine group of athletes, young women I was proud to be among.
The pressure of that tournament was palpable, but we pushed it out of our minds with a trip to Lenox Square Mall to do some shopping. My friend and I veered off from the group for a moment and went into Guess to check out the latest fashions. We were standing among the racks at the front of the store when we spotted two women near the wall. Something seemed very familiar about one of the women. She was tall, athletic, and cheery. I was certain I had seen her before. Then she turned, and I noticed a distinguishing characteristic. It was the tooth. Then I realized it was Marion Jones. I nudged my friend and both of us were floored. Here we were standing in the presence of a world-class athlete, a runner destined for greatness less than a year later in Sydney. We were just two lowly volleyball players from a small Division III college in Virginia, staring at one of the best competitors on the planet. We weren’t even fit to hold her sneakers.
Or so we thought at the time...
We were really standing in the presence of a world-class cheater.
True athletes capitalize on their strengths and compensate for their weaknesses through training and techniques. They don’t try to inflate their abilities and obliterate their blind spots through unnatural methods like she did.
Marion Jones didn’t just betray her family, her friends, her followers, and her fans. She betrayed young female athletes everywhere. So few of us ever have the chance to compete on the national and international stages of the sports world, but Marion Jones was one of the chosen few and she took her opportunities and destroyed them.
The team I went to Atlanta with was not composed of 6’4” dynamos who could spike the ball on the 10-foot line, but we were real. Every point and every kill, every shank and every gaff were ours and ours alone to be proud of or ashamed of.
And the mistakes were as plentiful as the triumphs. On the very last play of our tournament and my career, I shanked a serve that I can still see slicing through the air when I close my eyes. I watched as it flew off my arms and slammed straight into the wall. It felt like hell, but at least it was pure, 100% me.
The pain is just beginning for Marion Jones, but perhaps the greatest loss of all won’t be the parts we read about in the paper or see on TV. She’ll feel it when she’s alone with her thoughts, when she finally knows the sting of having the title of “athlete” stripped from her. It’s an ache every competitor who has lied and cheated his or her way to fame, fortune, and glory should have to face.
When I look back at how I stood in awe of the woman we all knew would bring home the gold, I feel disgusted, yet perversely, I feel proud that she stood in our presence. If she had turned around that day, she would have looked into the eyes of true athletes.
I’ve never liked goodbyes. No matter how good the other end of the spectrum looks, I have a hard time letting go of the memories. Maybe it’s because I’m a sap. Maybe it’s because I’m a sucker for history. All I know I that when I walked out of RFK Stadium a week ago, I had a lump in my throat.
It caught me by surprise. Were my eyes really welling up because I’ll never see another baseball game at that concrete toilet bowl again?
Yeah, I guess they were.
RFK is no heaven, but believe it or not, there’s a lot to miss.
Like the gentleman whose sweet sax sounds used to greet me when I got off the Metro.
Like the sight of that behemoth as I rounded the corner.
Like the one place on the upper level that actually sold nachos.
Like the nachos and the lukewarm cheese.
Like the bathrooms where I would rush between innings.
Like the scoreboard you couldn’t always see.
Like the Redskins-colored seats.
Like the undulating shadows on a summer afternoon.
Like the crowd, both on those days when the house was full and on those when I could hear someone laugh across the park.
And there’s still so much that can’t be photographed. There’s the sweet and sour smell that permeates the corridors… the roar of the crowd when Teddy Roosevelt ambles out of the tunnel in right field and inevitably loses… the memories of spending weekends and weeknights with my parents, my friends, my co-workers, my dates, and even just myself. I’ve giggled in those stands and I’ve fought in those stands. I’ve thought about things in my life and I’ve escaped from those very same things.
Only a mile away from my house, RFK became like a second home and a haven for me over the past three years, and though the new Nationals Park will be a magnificent place, I think there will always be a little part of me that longs for the ugly beauty of RFK.
If only I had cable in my bedroom. Then I would have been able to watch the impossibly early broadcasts of the Women’s World Cup. I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t watched a single minute of live coverage, but I’m more ashamed that the only reason the World Cup has managed to break into the headlines is because of the catty dialogue coming from the locker room of the hometeam.
I don’t envy the position of any coach who must decide between the veteran and the phenom, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when the veteran’s experience is just a tick better than the phenom’s excellence.
Coach Greg Ryan thought he was making the right decision by starting Briana Scurry versus Brazil. He thought her past would prove more important than her present and she could lead her young teammates to the final. But by all accounts, her quickness and precision are waning, and she could not withstand the onslaught of a stronger Brazilian squad.
We’ll never know if Hope Solo could have done any better, but she has told everyone she would have. She chimed in to the dialogue that was already swirling around the decision, but she forgot one important adage, an adage that the youngest of athletes can recite by heart.
“There’s no ‘I’ in team.”
Critics said that Ryan’s decision to start Scurry over Solo might affect morale, and I’m sure that it did, but I would think loyalty to the whole team and its common goal would supersede loyalty to any one player. Loyalty has its place in sports, but this was not a situation that called for the rest of the team to turn in their jerseys in solidarity with Solo. Whether they agreed or not, they took the field with their other teammate, a teammate who still possesses immense talent and is still a member of the team for a reason.
I don’t believe that Solo meant to diminish the reputation of Scurry. I think her desire to win and her frustration at not being able to help her team do so clouded her judgment. In the end, it was a rookie mistake for her to speak out as vehemently as she did and that decision has cost her a role in the third place match versus Norway.
What happens with the National team from here on out waits to be seen. Whether Ryan, Solo, or Scurry return for the Olympics next summer will be hot topics, but for now there’s still one more match to be played in which the United States needs to rise above the fray.
Perhaps this is the time to follow the quiet example of the veteran.
We were playing on a beaten-up field just beyond 395 in Washington, DC. The basepaths were almost non-existent and every grounder had the potential to soar over a baseman’s head if it hit just the right pothole. The gnats zig-zagged through the air on that late summer evening, but none of us seemed to notice because there was business to be done.
As I guarded the runner on first in my peripheral vision, I looked over at our shortstop and third baseman. After three years of playing rec league softball, I had finally earned their trust. Though these guys had hearts of gold, they were not quick to believe that girls could be just as tough on the diamond as they were. But by playing the basics and then going that extra mile, I had finally proven myself worthy to be the recipient of their hardest throws.
As the next batter strode to the plate, I knew I would have to be vigilant for the double-play ball. When a chopper bounced through a gap in the infield, I rushed to the bag and readied myself. The runner raced towards me as I thrust out my glove hand toward my teammate. The throw was off-target, but I knew I could just about reach it while keeping my heel on the bag. Never one to back down during a softball game, I ignored the guy who had a good 60 pounds on me and focused on the ball. Both reached me at the same moment, but there was a tangle of arms and legs as he slid. I felt my body go off balance and there was nowhere else to break my fall. Without meaning to, I fell right on top of him. I was annoyed that I had fallen, but my main thought was that I had gotten him out. However, no one else agreed. Furious, I scrambled up and resumed my position.
Then from the sidelines, I heard it.
“Hey, Mike… you got to second base both ways!”
Baseball has long been used as an analogy in the world of dates and hook-ups, but just the other day I heard about what could possibly be the best use of the basepath metaphors. A friend told me about “Save 2nd Base,” an organization formed to raise awareness for and to combat breast cancer. The idea came from Kelly Rooney, a mother with breast cancer who didn’t lose her sense of humor even when it seemed there was so much else to lose. The t-shirt she designed became a rallying cry for her friends, family, and supporters, and though she lost her battle with cancer, her message and her humor carries on, inspiring millions of others in the fight.
My loyal readers have heard me rail against the evils of pink in the sports world, but this is the strongest exception I could ever imagine and I’d be proud to wear this pink baseball shirt anywhere.
If you’d like to find out more, visit Save 2nd Base.
After all, everyone wants to save 2nd base.
The Curse Reversed
I went to my last Red Sox game of the season on Sunday, and I’m relieved to say that I am no longer the living, breathing epitome of a black cat or a crack in the sidewalk. The Red Sox had gone 1-3 in games when I was rooting for them in person, but they squeaked by the Orioles with a 3-2 win in the blazing September sun at Camden Yards, thus breaking a streak that has caused me to have many a sleepless night.
There were some bursts of excitement on the field, but funny enough, the actual game ended up being the least noteworthy thing about this entire excursion.
Tailgate
The morning began with a tailgate in the parking lot underneath the highway outside Ravens Stadium or M&T Stadium or whatever.
Now I do not claim to know the art of the tailgate. I’ve eaten chicken salad out of the trunk of a car in the parking lot before a Maroon 5 concert. I joined a group of old Archives guards after a Redskins game and sampled some fine barbecue. I’ve even sat in the bed of a pick-up, with my hand shoved in a chip bag, marveling at the vim and vigor of the Barra Brava. But I’m no connoisseur of the tailgate.
With little schooling on the subject, I set out to organize the finest spread a wallet the week before pay-day could buy. The Red Sox and Orioles were set to take the field at 1:35, so our group settled on a breakfast tailgate, complete with bagels, donuts, and munchkins from that bastion of Yankee* ingenuity, Dunkin Donuts. Every bit of doughy goodness was sloshed down with generic orange juice, and suddenly we felt energized to accept our challenge as road representatives of the Nation.
Chanting Is Not Cheerleading
I was in a bar with some of these same cohorts in crime on a night several weeks ago when one pal came up with a soccer-style chant for Jason Varitek. It was catchy, it had rhythm, it was the perfect cap to an evening during which many a Sam Adams brew had flowed.
We had yet to break it out in public though… that is until Sunday.
When the captain of the Red Sox stepped to the plate, a friend and I seized the opportunity to receive the stares of several fans around us. Not quite sure what to make of the chant emanating from left field, they looked at us like we had just dropped the top girl in the pyramid.
And then it dawned on me. Was I cheerleading at a baseball game?
Then faster than you can say, “Bring it on,” my mind said, “No, you’re chanting.” That’s different.
It is, isn’t it?
“Varitek! Varitek! Swing it, swing it! Not a check! Varitek! Varitek! Go on, go on, give ‘em heck!”
Right?
Detrol LA
My best friend once sent for literature in my name after watching one of those “Gotta go” commercials. She thought it would be hysterical because I have an active bladder. It was funny, but what isn’t quite so amusing is my penchant for missing the good stuff while going to the bathroom.
Let me preface this by saying that the gametime temperature was 93 degrees. We were sitting directly in the sun, and I was wearing a polyester jersey. Blinking was enough exertion to make me sweat, so the chances of my needing to use the ladies’ room at any point during the game were slim to none. Except in the 6th inning when I decided that my need for nachos and my belief that I should go to the bathroom just because I was in a 20 yard radius of a toilet prevailed.
I was just buttoning up my shorts when I heard the foghorns go off, signaling a Baltimore homerun. I was annoyed that they had hit the dinger, but even more irritated that I had missed it. The action had been limited thus far thanks to my boy Beckett’s commanding presence, so any bit of bingo for either side was something I wanted to see.
When I got back to my seat, I realized just how much I had missed, and the homerun was last on the list. Turns out, location is everything and the homerun landed three rows in front of us, which meant our seats had been on TV. The problem was that the ball was not caught on the fly. It didn’t ricochet or rattle around in an empty seat. Instead it slammed squarely into the face of a fan who made an ill-fated attempt to one-hand it while still cradling his souvenir beer. The EMTs were working to care for the man when I sat down, and I felt terrible about the scene before me. Izzie told me that I would not have wanted to see it, that the sound it made was awful, that a small child had actually burst into tears. But… and I’m ashamed to admit it… there’s a small part of me that’s a little bit jealous of my friends who saw it. I can still tell the story of what happened, but it’s still not quite as good as if I had seen it with my own eyes. I know that’s wrong, and I really do feel badly, but people who rubberneck in glass houses shouldn’t throw baseballs.
All in all, I blame my bladder. If I didn’t have an active bladder, I never would have decided to go just for the hell of it, and I would have been there to see a little piece of history unfold three rows in front of me.
Oh, who am I kidding? I still would have gotten up for the nachos.
Piece de Resistance
After Jonathan Papelbon had safely secured the game for Beckett, the Red Sox, and fans everywhere, our little group made its way out to the tunnel. The ladies in our bunch decided a pitstop was mandatory thanks to an unfortunate encounter with the port-o-potties in the parking lot earlier. As we pushed the door open and got in line, Izzie called my attention to the most magnificent sight I have seen since Lindsay Lohan’s last mugshot. There before us, sitting on top of a garbage can overflowing with dirty paper towels lay a pink hat. Our minds started swimming with possibilities as to how it got there. Did a boyfriend buy it for his girl and she was offended? Did the boyfriend give it to her as a gift, and they had some fight at the game and the purging of the hat was a symbol of the destruction of their relationship? Was it… eh, who knows, but what I do know is that there has never been a more appropriate home for a pink hat!
Is This Heaven?
When the sun’s rays stopped frying us and the game started to wind down, I looked up and noticed how beautiful the clouds were. I grabbed my camera and fired off a few shots before taking the one below. When I finally uploaded it, I couldn’t help but think of the question, “Is this heaven?”
It sure is. Good baseball, good friends, good times.
* Yankee: n. a native or inhabitant of New England; adj. of New England. Not to be confused with Yankees: n. members of baseball's Evil Empire.
