This morning I peeked at the standings for the first time in a while. Now, don't get me wrong: I know exactly how many games back (six) the Yankees are of the Red Sox. And how many games up (three) the Yankees are in the Wild Card race. It's just that I haven't lately taken a global view of the baseball season. So what did I learn? I learned that the Devil Rays have already been eliminated and that the Royals' magic number for elimination is 1. I learned that the longest winning streak (five games) in the majors now belongs to the Washington Nationals; their magic number for elimination is eight. I think the most surprising thing I learned is something that shouldn't be that surprising at all: most teams in baseball have played 140 games. That means--follow my genius-like thinking here--that there are only 22 games left in the season.
The end of the season is just around the corner. Then the real season begins: the playoffs.
But that's not what I really want to talk about today.
No, today I want to talk about the first day of school. Today Sam and Owen each had their first day of school. Yesterday, Sam had a play date with one of his friends. They went for a bike ride and when they came back, the friend had a talk with Owen about who Owen's favorite baseball team is. The friend, wearing a red Papelbon t-shirt, had clearly already made his choice.
This conversation happened outside in our front yard, not far from where I'm typing this right now. And just across the street, I can see some yellow and orange leaves encroaching upon the greenery of my neighbor's huge maple tree. In other words, fall is upon us. But the question posed by a seven-year-old to a four-year-old on the last official day of summer vacation actually took me back to the one of the first warm days of 2007, Easter Sunday. That day, I was enjoying the warm air that an April Easter can sometimes bring to New England as well as some family time with Sam and Owen and my college-age neice who was visiting from Boston. We had an Easter egg hunt in the morning and then settled into a post-sugar-buzz lethargy in the late morning. I should say that the adults were a little lethargic; the kids were anything but.
In an effort to restore a little sanity to the house, I sent Sam and OWen outside to play. They did so, happily, and peace was restored. And then a few minutes later, I noticed that I couldn't hear any play-like noise outside. I looked out of all of the windows, and didn't see any children related to me playing in the yard. I did see an Easter basket that hadn't been prepared by me or my wife, or the Easter Bunny for that matter, sitting in the grass next to our neighbor's yard, and a couple of candy wrappers marking a kind of a trail towards our neighbor's front door.
I walked outside, went across the grass and knocked on my neighbor's door.
"Do you have any strange children here, by any chance?"
"No, but we have two nice ones here," she said.
There they were, Sam and Owen, sitting on the couch next to my neighbor's brother. On his lap was a photo album full of pictures of baseball and baseball cards.
"I hope you don't mind," he said. "I'm showing them some of my Red Sox things. I don't know if you're a Red Sox fan or not, but I figured I'd try to get to your kids while they're young."
My first thought was one of outrage. I mean, here it is, Easter Sunday--the holiest day of the year in Chritiandom--and my neighbor is trying to convert my kids to his weird religion. How would they feel if I kidnapped their dog (they don't have any children) and somehow had it unlearn it's housebreaking?
Okay, not the same thing.
But what if I went door-to-door, say, and tried to convince people to give up their most strongly held beliefs and instead embrace whatever it is that I hold dear. Perhaps I'd even print up some literature to leave behind for those who couldn't be convinced in a minute or two.
You get the picture.
Sam and Owen didn't mind at all. The extra Easter basket, carefully prepared by our neighbor, was just another mother lode of chocolate and jelly beans and Easter-themed Red Sox swag. It was just more stuff.
But I thought about this attempt at conversion (I didn't tell my neighbor that I'd kind of given up the fight about whom my kids would root for) yesterday because Owen told Sam's friend that he hates the Red Sox.
He did use the word hate, and I don't like the fact that he said that. Call me prudish or old-fashioned or what have you, but I've been fighting this battle lately because Sam, seven years old and feeling his oats, has been saying hate as a way to declare a bit of linguistic independence, I suspect. And his younger brother, in the throes of hero-worship for his older brother, has picked up the habit, too.
"How can he hate the Red Sox?" Sam's friend asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I guess Owen's just a fair-weather fan."
A couple of weeks ago, we took a short family vacation to Lake George. A couple of days before our trip, we received in the mail the membership kits for Red Sox Kid Nation. These kits included a lunch box with a picture of Jonathan Papelbon on it, an official Red Sox Kid Nation hat, temporary tattoos and a number of other items. I gave the kits to Sam and Owen just before we got into the car for the two-and-a-half hour drive to Lake George; I figured it might be good for a few minutes of distraction. And just a few minutes is what I got. After they opened the lunch boxes, put on their caps, and leafed through the various papers inside, they immediately latched onto the tattoos. My kids couldn't understand why I couldn't put a gothic red "B" tattoo on their faces while driving 70+ miles per hour on the highway. You can guess what I had to do pretty soon after we pulled into our motel.
On our last day of vacation, we went in search of a souvenir in the shops in Lake George Village that line the lake front. After looking at the very best Lake George Village has to offer in terms of two-for-one t-shirts with various incarnations of Lake George emblazoned on them, we scored at a store that had some t-shirts done up to look like baseball jerseys. Sam and Owen got the same shirts: a blue t-shirt with the familiar NY logo on front and a number 13 and Rodriguez on the back. This meant that for the next several days--yes, the t-shirts proved just as difficult to remove as the temporary tattoos--Sam and Owen, but especially Owen, went around with a Red Sox tattoo on his face and a Yankees t-shirt on his body. It reminded me of that scene in Full Metal Jacket where Matthew Modine is inspected and the inspecting officer questions why he has a peace medallion around his neck and "born to kill" written on his helmet. "I guess it reflects the duality of man, sir" Modine explained.
Owen couldn't care less what his fashion statement reflected. He was happy. What was interesting to watch is how people around him, almost all of them adults, reacted to what they saw. More than one tried to explain to Owen how he can't root for both the Yankees and the Red Sox. With only 22 games left in Owen's first full season as a baseball fan, he can name virtually all of the players on the Red Sox and many of the players on the Yankees. With the help of baseball cards, he also knows players on many other teams. In fact, I'd be hard-pressed to name more players than he can. But Owen at this stage is not a fan of a particular team, which is why he can accurately say that he "hates" the Red Sox. He is instead a fan of baseball. Just this afternoon he spent more than an hour in the yard, by himself, playing baseball with a mitt, a tennis ball, a batting helmet, bat, and pitchback. No one else was allowed in the yard because the whole thing was being used for his field. He likes everything about baseball, from the umpires--which he calls "vampires," to the locker room to, of course, Big Papi. He's happy when anyone makes a good play, hits a home run, or scores. What I'm wondering is how long such innocent fandom can last, with all of the pressure out there to choose sides. And, of course, soon after you've chosen sides, the pressure comes to not just root for your team, but to actively root against--to "hate"--the other team and everything about it. And that hate, unfortunately, can become real hate all too often.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The Choice
I like it when I wake up on Monday mornings and remember that the day before, Tiger Woods won a major. I don't know why his victories in major championships give me such a feeling of satisfaction, but they do. When he wins a major, it's like predictability and order have been restored to the universe, if only briefly.
There are a lot of reasons why I could root against Tiger Woods. The way he marches around a golf course like an automaton at times, devoid of emotion. How he has become his own corporation and brand, with clever marketing campaigns that build upon his remarkable skill and bring him many more times more money than his winnings on the golf course do. That he has been groomed for success his entire life and that he's been able to put that plan into action. That he has a plan at all. That he's so perfect. The list goes on and on. But I don't dislike Tiger. I root for Tiger. And I like it when he wins. I think one reason why I like Tiger Woods is because he respects Jack Nicklaus and Nicklaus was, and still may be, my favorite golfer. Nicklaus was the guy my father talked about when it came to golf, and while I was too young or not yet born for much of Nicklaus' career, I was a stone's throw from Baltusrol in 1980 when he won the U.S. Open. In my memories, I can hear the roars from the crowd, even though there is no way I could have, being five miles or so away at the time.
I guess I root for Tiger because I like the guy.
I guess I'm realizing that who we root for is kind of like who we fall in love with or lust after, and just as chemical and largely inexplicable.
How else to explain my love of Phil Rizzuto?
Phil Rizzuto died yesterday. Depending upon which report in the press you might have read, he was either 89 or 90 years old. He won 9 World Series with the Yankees in the 1950's, and he won the Most Valuable Player award in 1950. Ted Williams said that Rizzuto was the difference between all of those Yankees Championships and the Red Sox's maddening runners-up finishes. In other words, Rizzuto had a good life.
I smiled a couple of times as I read the various newspaper accounts of Rizzuto's life because I was reminded of all of the time I spent as a kid listening to Scooter cover all of those Yankees games. I'd forgotten what it was like to listen to Rizzuto, with his constant commemorations of birthdays and anniversaries, his references to his wife, Cora, and his signature calls of "Holy Cow" and "huckleberry," as in, "he's such a huckleberry." While covering the action on the field, he would often get lost in his stories, so much so that on his scorecard he'd often write down "ww", which stood for, "wasn't watching." And he would often famously forget who was on the field. Once when covering a game, he watched a hard foul ball go into the Yankee dugout. "Boy," he exclaimed, "I hope that's not (Ron) Guidry in the way." Frank Messer, Rizzuto's broadcast partner at the time, told Rizzuto that Guidry was on the mound, and not in the dugout at all. "You know, Frank, you're right?" Rizzuto replied, completely unashamed.
He was the polar opposite of so many of the broadcasters we suffer through today, the experts who know so much about the game that they'll even tell you what players are thinking while they play.
I got that chance to meet Phil Rizzuto once. I was in Newark Airport waiting on a flight to Chicago for a party for my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary when I spotted the Scooter. I'm not a big celebrity stalker or autograph guy, but I asked him for his autograph. There was just something about the fact that he was a Jersey guy (at the time, at least) and that I'd listened to him so much on television, I had to approach him. Plus, Phil Rizzuto had always reminded me of my own grandfather, also a diminutive gentleman of Italian descent with a shock of white hair, a broad smile, and a booming voice. Mr. Rizzuto couldn't have been more warm and genuine. He asked me where I was going, and I told him where I was going and why. I didn't have the nerve to ask him to wish my grandparents a happy anniversary on his broadcast, which would have been fitting because he was heading to Chicago himself to cover the Yankees-White Sox game that night, but I like to think that he did. And it wouldn't surprise me if he did, indeed, wish Paul and Eleanor his best.
Rizzuto was one of the good guys. I can't imagine that there are many people around who would dispute that. Sure, some people might disagree, but no one would really actively dispute that the Scooter was a good guy. And when it comes to people in sports these days, it's getting harder and harder to figure out who the good guys are. I was going to spend a little time talking about Barry Bonds, but now I just don't see the point.
As a father, I spend a lot of energy trying to make sure that my kids make good choices. I understand, of course, that my performance can legitimately be called into question at this point in light of the fact that I'm writing about having to root for the Red Sox, but that merely serves to illustrate my point: the really hard part is when you have to sit back and let your kids make their own choices and see what happens. Right now, Sam and Owen simply love baseball. Owen especially will watch just about any baseball game that's on television, from the Little League World Series to Minor League baseball to the Sox. Sam roots for the Red Sox because his friends do (right, bad choice: giving in to peer pressure and all) and because he likes to stick it to his old man. Sam and Owen's devotion to baseball has paid off so far in the sense that they can now name every player on the Red Sox, but what's still hanging out there is The Choice, the one (of many) that I'm worrying about: who will they choose as their Favorite Player?
I can't guide them in this choice. I can try to force them to watch Tiger Woods on television, but so far the sentiment among my boys is that team sports take precedence over individual sports when it comes to rooting interests. I can also tell them stories about Phil Rizzuto, like when he described his experience of getting a facial and explained how they "rub your eyeballs," but they don't know who Phil Rizzuto was and frankly they don't care.
And here's where I can see some benefit from this experiment so far. By putting my knee-jerk hatred of the Sox on hold, at least for the time being, I've been able to learn the players in kind of the same way that Sam and owen are, without preconceptions. And, I can say that there are Red Sox players that I actually like (though I'll save that for a later entry.)
So as I await for The Choice, I imagine it frought with pitfalls in the form of trades, free agency, and off-the-field jerkdom. And in true Boy Scout fashion, I'll hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Kind of like when we get to the time when I'll have to worry about their first crushes. But at least then, I won't have to spend a lot of money on hats and personalized jerseys.
There are a lot of reasons why I could root against Tiger Woods. The way he marches around a golf course like an automaton at times, devoid of emotion. How he has become his own corporation and brand, with clever marketing campaigns that build upon his remarkable skill and bring him many more times more money than his winnings on the golf course do. That he has been groomed for success his entire life and that he's been able to put that plan into action. That he has a plan at all. That he's so perfect. The list goes on and on. But I don't dislike Tiger. I root for Tiger. And I like it when he wins. I think one reason why I like Tiger Woods is because he respects Jack Nicklaus and Nicklaus was, and still may be, my favorite golfer. Nicklaus was the guy my father talked about when it came to golf, and while I was too young or not yet born for much of Nicklaus' career, I was a stone's throw from Baltusrol in 1980 when he won the U.S. Open. In my memories, I can hear the roars from the crowd, even though there is no way I could have, being five miles or so away at the time.
I guess I root for Tiger because I like the guy.
I guess I'm realizing that who we root for is kind of like who we fall in love with or lust after, and just as chemical and largely inexplicable.
How else to explain my love of Phil Rizzuto?
Phil Rizzuto died yesterday. Depending upon which report in the press you might have read, he was either 89 or 90 years old. He won 9 World Series with the Yankees in the 1950's, and he won the Most Valuable Player award in 1950. Ted Williams said that Rizzuto was the difference between all of those Yankees Championships and the Red Sox's maddening runners-up finishes. In other words, Rizzuto had a good life.
I smiled a couple of times as I read the various newspaper accounts of Rizzuto's life because I was reminded of all of the time I spent as a kid listening to Scooter cover all of those Yankees games. I'd forgotten what it was like to listen to Rizzuto, with his constant commemorations of birthdays and anniversaries, his references to his wife, Cora, and his signature calls of "Holy Cow" and "huckleberry," as in, "he's such a huckleberry." While covering the action on the field, he would often get lost in his stories, so much so that on his scorecard he'd often write down "ww", which stood for, "wasn't watching." And he would often famously forget who was on the field. Once when covering a game, he watched a hard foul ball go into the Yankee dugout. "Boy," he exclaimed, "I hope that's not (Ron) Guidry in the way." Frank Messer, Rizzuto's broadcast partner at the time, told Rizzuto that Guidry was on the mound, and not in the dugout at all. "You know, Frank, you're right?" Rizzuto replied, completely unashamed.
He was the polar opposite of so many of the broadcasters we suffer through today, the experts who know so much about the game that they'll even tell you what players are thinking while they play.
I got that chance to meet Phil Rizzuto once. I was in Newark Airport waiting on a flight to Chicago for a party for my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary when I spotted the Scooter. I'm not a big celebrity stalker or autograph guy, but I asked him for his autograph. There was just something about the fact that he was a Jersey guy (at the time, at least) and that I'd listened to him so much on television, I had to approach him. Plus, Phil Rizzuto had always reminded me of my own grandfather, also a diminutive gentleman of Italian descent with a shock of white hair, a broad smile, and a booming voice. Mr. Rizzuto couldn't have been more warm and genuine. He asked me where I was going, and I told him where I was going and why. I didn't have the nerve to ask him to wish my grandparents a happy anniversary on his broadcast, which would have been fitting because he was heading to Chicago himself to cover the Yankees-White Sox game that night, but I like to think that he did. And it wouldn't surprise me if he did, indeed, wish Paul and Eleanor his best.
Rizzuto was one of the good guys. I can't imagine that there are many people around who would dispute that. Sure, some people might disagree, but no one would really actively dispute that the Scooter was a good guy. And when it comes to people in sports these days, it's getting harder and harder to figure out who the good guys are. I was going to spend a little time talking about Barry Bonds, but now I just don't see the point.
As a father, I spend a lot of energy trying to make sure that my kids make good choices. I understand, of course, that my performance can legitimately be called into question at this point in light of the fact that I'm writing about having to root for the Red Sox, but that merely serves to illustrate my point: the really hard part is when you have to sit back and let your kids make their own choices and see what happens. Right now, Sam and Owen simply love baseball. Owen especially will watch just about any baseball game that's on television, from the Little League World Series to Minor League baseball to the Sox. Sam roots for the Red Sox because his friends do (right, bad choice: giving in to peer pressure and all) and because he likes to stick it to his old man. Sam and Owen's devotion to baseball has paid off so far in the sense that they can now name every player on the Red Sox, but what's still hanging out there is The Choice, the one (of many) that I'm worrying about: who will they choose as their Favorite Player?
I can't guide them in this choice. I can try to force them to watch Tiger Woods on television, but so far the sentiment among my boys is that team sports take precedence over individual sports when it comes to rooting interests. I can also tell them stories about Phil Rizzuto, like when he described his experience of getting a facial and explained how they "rub your eyeballs," but they don't know who Phil Rizzuto was and frankly they don't care.
And here's where I can see some benefit from this experiment so far. By putting my knee-jerk hatred of the Sox on hold, at least for the time being, I've been able to learn the players in kind of the same way that Sam and owen are, without preconceptions. And, I can say that there are Red Sox players that I actually like (though I'll save that for a later entry.)
So as I await for The Choice, I imagine it frought with pitfalls in the form of trades, free agency, and off-the-field jerkdom. And in true Boy Scout fashion, I'll hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Kind of like when we get to the time when I'll have to worry about their first crushes. But at least then, I won't have to spend a lot of money on hats and personalized jerseys.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thoughts from the Windy City
I've spent the past few days in Chicago staying at the Amalfi Hotel, where my room overlooks Harry Caray's Chicago Restaurant. We're officially a few days into summer and the Cubs are in town. One of the people I'm here to work with--who lives near Wrigley Field--told me that he heard the biggest roar he's heard in years the other night when the Cubs came back to win a game in the ninth. Right now they're riding a six-game winning streak.
The White Sox won last night after rallying in the eighth.
A couple of things I've noticed being on the road. First of all, I find it almost impossible to completely cut myself off from the sporting world. I don't say this because I'm some kind of a super fan; in fact, I just had to check the standings to see how the Cubs and the White Sox are doing this year. I say this as a person who just goes about his normal routine. Yesterday for lunch, I stopped by a pub for a burger and was served by a bartender wearing a Cubs t-shirt. She paused in mid-conversation with me to give some kind-hearted grief to another patron who had the audacity to suggest that the Cubs were going to lose their next game. And of course, there were four televisions on in the bar, with sports on each of them. The USA Today paper that gets delivered to my hotel room every morning has sports highlights on the front page, as do the news websites that I glance at when the meetings grow boring and stale. I know it's not a huge revelation, but sports is all around us. Let's face it: if it weren't for sports, would Harry Caray's name be used to brand a restaurant chain?
Another thing I've noticed here in Chicago is the different attitude the people have towards their local sports teams. As everyone knows, the Cubs haven't come close to a World Series title in years, and even though they're on a six-game winning streak, they're still below .500 on the season. Yet, I haven't heard anyone complaining about how they're doing. Of course, a true Yankees fan would tell you how that attitude plays a big role in the losing: if you expect to lose, you're going to lose. That sentiment can certainly be applied to Red Sox fans. But I'm not saying that everyone is happy here in the heartland. Yesterday at lunch, for instance, I read through the sports section of the Chicago Sun-Times and read one columnist who was looking forward to the time when the Cubs won't be owned by the Tribune corporation anymore, seeing as how their incompetence has only served to extend the already interminable wait for a championship. And at the airport, I heard some typical fan disgruntlement regarding poor management of the relief pitchers and disbelief that one guy's slump can last so long. So, the criticism, fair or not, is there. What's not there is the venom that goes along with that criticism that is so common in Red Sox Nation. If a Cubs fan is like Eeyore, just waiting for the black cloud to pour down rain, then Red Sox fans are like the compulsive gambler who craves the high of winning but deep-down inside expects to lose, and when the losing begins, he'll be the first to mock himself and those around him with the most bitter phrase he can think of: I Told You So.
My neighbor, when I told him that I was going to try and root for the Red Sox asked the perfect rhetorical question: Why would anyone want to root for the Red Sox. Turns out he was just the first person to say that to me.
So, as the baseball season advances towards July 4th, it's safe to say that I have not been completely successful in embracing the Sox. The other night, for instance, when the Red Sox lost to the Mariners in the 11th, I have to admit to feeling satisfied and elated rather than bitter. But I have made some progress, if I can call it that. Most importantly, perhaps, I've managed to convince Sam and Owen that I'm rooting for the Red Sox. Is it right to lie to my children? I don't know. All I know is that a large part of fatherhood, I've found out, is becoming adept at managing the world of parental half-truths and strategically withheld information. We do it for their comfort; we do it for our own sanity.
The White Sox won last night after rallying in the eighth.
A couple of things I've noticed being on the road. First of all, I find it almost impossible to completely cut myself off from the sporting world. I don't say this because I'm some kind of a super fan; in fact, I just had to check the standings to see how the Cubs and the White Sox are doing this year. I say this as a person who just goes about his normal routine. Yesterday for lunch, I stopped by a pub for a burger and was served by a bartender wearing a Cubs t-shirt. She paused in mid-conversation with me to give some kind-hearted grief to another patron who had the audacity to suggest that the Cubs were going to lose their next game. And of course, there were four televisions on in the bar, with sports on each of them. The USA Today paper that gets delivered to my hotel room every morning has sports highlights on the front page, as do the news websites that I glance at when the meetings grow boring and stale. I know it's not a huge revelation, but sports is all around us. Let's face it: if it weren't for sports, would Harry Caray's name be used to brand a restaurant chain?
Another thing I've noticed here in Chicago is the different attitude the people have towards their local sports teams. As everyone knows, the Cubs haven't come close to a World Series title in years, and even though they're on a six-game winning streak, they're still below .500 on the season. Yet, I haven't heard anyone complaining about how they're doing. Of course, a true Yankees fan would tell you how that attitude plays a big role in the losing: if you expect to lose, you're going to lose. That sentiment can certainly be applied to Red Sox fans. But I'm not saying that everyone is happy here in the heartland. Yesterday at lunch, for instance, I read through the sports section of the Chicago Sun-Times and read one columnist who was looking forward to the time when the Cubs won't be owned by the Tribune corporation anymore, seeing as how their incompetence has only served to extend the already interminable wait for a championship. And at the airport, I heard some typical fan disgruntlement regarding poor management of the relief pitchers and disbelief that one guy's slump can last so long. So, the criticism, fair or not, is there. What's not there is the venom that goes along with that criticism that is so common in Red Sox Nation. If a Cubs fan is like Eeyore, just waiting for the black cloud to pour down rain, then Red Sox fans are like the compulsive gambler who craves the high of winning but deep-down inside expects to lose, and when the losing begins, he'll be the first to mock himself and those around him with the most bitter phrase he can think of: I Told You So.
My neighbor, when I told him that I was going to try and root for the Red Sox asked the perfect rhetorical question: Why would anyone want to root for the Red Sox. Turns out he was just the first person to say that to me.
So, as the baseball season advances towards July 4th, it's safe to say that I have not been completely successful in embracing the Sox. The other night, for instance, when the Red Sox lost to the Mariners in the 11th, I have to admit to feeling satisfied and elated rather than bitter. But I have made some progress, if I can call it that. Most importantly, perhaps, I've managed to convince Sam and Owen that I'm rooting for the Red Sox. Is it right to lie to my children? I don't know. All I know is that a large part of fatherhood, I've found out, is becoming adept at managing the world of parental half-truths and strategically withheld information. We do it for their comfort; we do it for our own sanity.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
It's In the Blood
I gave blood last night. I give blood every few months because I've found it's just about the easiest way I can help other people while not inconveniencing myself too much, which is the true motivation for charity, after all.
Kidding.
Often during the summer months, the blood supply drops to critical levels. There is usually a reluctance on the part of most people to give blood at any time of the year, but during the summer, when there are so many other things to do, it becomes even harder to find donors. That's why, in addition to the signs the Red Cross posted all over town announcing the blood drive and explaining that there is a critical need, this particular drive had special gifts for all donors: Red Sox t-shirts.
Sam, now a proud graduate of first grade, saw the signs around town and began lobbying to go to the blood drive. I've taken him when I've donated blood in the past because I think it's good for him to see that donating blood isn't a big deal. He now knows that giving blood doesn't really hurt, that the people who take the blood are generally friendly, and that there's always cookies and juice when you're done.
Since it's been more than 56 days since I've given blood, and since both of my sons are now hooked on the Red Sox, I decided to take both Sam and Owen with me while I donated a pint.
Giving blood is a fairly formal procedure which befits the serious purpose, I suppose. You walk in and the first thing the greeter has you do is read a big poster on the wall that outlines the dozen or so reasons why you can't give blood. Once you've read through that list and decided to press on, you're handed a packet of laminated sheets of paper that repeat some of the same things that were on the poster, but also add many, many more things to the list, such as recent tattoos, coming into contact with someone else's blood, taking certain medications, and spending any time in prison. I'll be honest here and say that even though it was only yesterday, I don't remember everything, because there are so many questions and because I find it hard to concentrate when I have two kids hanging all over me and when I've just been asked if I've ever had sex with a man for money, even once.
Anyway, once you make it through the questions, the medical portion of the donation begins. First, your blood pressure is taken. Next, the nurse takes your pulse and temperature. Finally, the nurse uses a special device to stick your finger hard enough to draw blood. The idea here is to get enough blood onto a pipette so that it can then be dropped into a solution of copper sulfate. If the drop of blood sinks within 15 seconds, your iron level is satisfactory for giving blood. And then you're ready to lay down on one of the folding beds and give blood.
I mentioned that giving blood is a fairly serious procedure. I suppose blood is always serious business, and things get even more serious when there are a lot of people in white coats walking around. Add to this the fact that we were in a hotel ballroom, which meant that the place was big enough for everyone to have plenty of room to sit far apart from one another, and that the acoustics were not great for light conversation. This meant that the mostly solitary process of giving blood was kind of magnified. Let's face it, blood drives are not really places to be sociable. You're in a big room with strangers, you're about to be stuck by a big needle, and the only things running through your mind are, "God, I hope I don't faint when I'm done," and "I wonder how many of these people lied when they answered those questions about all of those crazy diseases and risky behaviors?" You pass the time waiting for your turn on the cot by wondering why the people who walked out before making it as far as you have couldn't donate today.
But it seems that the Red Sox are the one thing that can break through all of this tension and formality. First of all, it seems that the idea of free Red sox tickets proved to be intriguing enough to bring people to the blood drive. Then, when I was reading though the first packet of material, I overheard one of the workers explaining to one of the "customers" that one of the other workers was Doug Mirabelli's cousin, though the worker had not yet been successful in bringing Mirabelli to one of the blood drive events. The Sox, it seems, was the only topic of conversation that wasn't related to blood, allergies, and other health issues. Of course, the prize for most people who gave blood was a Red sox t-shirt. Honestly, that's why I was there. Not that I am ready yet to actually wear a Red Sox t-shirt, but to get one for my kids. Nevermind how one t-shirt would satisfy two young baseball fans; I was taking things one step at a time.
Owen was the one most interested in the t-shirt. At every step of the process, he asked, "Now can we get the t-shirt?" I explained to him each time that we wouldn't get the t-shirt until after I'd given blood. You can imagine how confused he got after the iron test when we still didn't get a t-shirt.
I guess the newness of the situation kept Owen's frustration at bay, but there was no way that was going to last indefinitely. Once Daddy got poked in the arm with a needle and blood began filling the bag beneath the table, Sam and Owen decided to take matters into their own hands. One minute, I was concentrating on squeezing the rubber ball in my hand every few seconds as I listened to Sam explain to Owen how the blood had to fill the bag, and the next minute, Sam and Owen had disappeared. Then they were back at my side, each holding an adult XL t-shirt.
"Can we put these on?" Sam asked.
"Sure," I said. "Go ahead."
Once the shirts were on, the game of imaginary baseball began. "I'm Big Papi," Owen declared. He then took a big swing with his imaginary bat and began running the imaginary bases. Sam, playing the role of wise and protective older brother, shook his head at his little brother's antics. Then he looked at me and pointed one finger at the side of his head and made a circular motion: the international sign for "he's crazy." But then he leapt off of the chair and ran over to Owen to correct some transgression of the rules and before I knew it, they were both playing.
The nurse came over and began untangling me from the needle and tubes. "Did you see the game last night?" She asked.
"What game?" I said. She looked at me for a second like I had two heads, but then she must have realized that I'd just given blood and might be a bit woozy and took a measure of pity on me. "The Red Sox game," she said. "Big Papi hit another one. They're looking good."
I read once that everyone talks about the weather because it's one of the few things in life that affects everyone. The same can be said of the Red Sox in New England. Whether you like them or hate them, the Red Sox affect you, if only because they affect everyone around you.
As Owen and Sam continued their game, I went over to the cookies and juice table to recover. I looked into the faces of the other donors to see if my kids' antics were bothering anyone. I didn't see anyone glaring, but I did see quite a few smiles. And while I'm biased because I am the Dad, I think it was good way to break the tension in the room.
That's the closest I've come to wearing a Red Sox t-shirt, or any other type of paraphenalia. I asked Owen when I got home if I could wear my t-shirt, and he told me that Sam was wearing mine. You can guess what Sam told me when I asked him the same question.
They wore those shirts to bed that night and put them on again after school the next day when they went to visit their grandmother. The shirts were so big, it looked as if they were wearing graduation gowns. In a sense, I guess they were, because with those t-shirts, the ante has been upped, I'm afraid. Now everything will have to be Red Sox and the next shirts will have to be real jerseys with a player's name on the back.
See what happens when you try to do something nice like give blood? It comes back to haunt you in ways you can never predict.
When we got home after the blood drive, Carrie asked Owen if he had fun. "I like giving blood," he said. "From you," pointing to me.
I liked giving blood, he said. From you.
.
Kidding.
Often during the summer months, the blood supply drops to critical levels. There is usually a reluctance on the part of most people to give blood at any time of the year, but during the summer, when there are so many other things to do, it becomes even harder to find donors. That's why, in addition to the signs the Red Cross posted all over town announcing the blood drive and explaining that there is a critical need, this particular drive had special gifts for all donors: Red Sox t-shirts.
Sam, now a proud graduate of first grade, saw the signs around town and began lobbying to go to the blood drive. I've taken him when I've donated blood in the past because I think it's good for him to see that donating blood isn't a big deal. He now knows that giving blood doesn't really hurt, that the people who take the blood are generally friendly, and that there's always cookies and juice when you're done.
Since it's been more than 56 days since I've given blood, and since both of my sons are now hooked on the Red Sox, I decided to take both Sam and Owen with me while I donated a pint.
Giving blood is a fairly formal procedure which befits the serious purpose, I suppose. You walk in and the first thing the greeter has you do is read a big poster on the wall that outlines the dozen or so reasons why you can't give blood. Once you've read through that list and decided to press on, you're handed a packet of laminated sheets of paper that repeat some of the same things that were on the poster, but also add many, many more things to the list, such as recent tattoos, coming into contact with someone else's blood, taking certain medications, and spending any time in prison. I'll be honest here and say that even though it was only yesterday, I don't remember everything, because there are so many questions and because I find it hard to concentrate when I have two kids hanging all over me and when I've just been asked if I've ever had sex with a man for money, even once.
Anyway, once you make it through the questions, the medical portion of the donation begins. First, your blood pressure is taken. Next, the nurse takes your pulse and temperature. Finally, the nurse uses a special device to stick your finger hard enough to draw blood. The idea here is to get enough blood onto a pipette so that it can then be dropped into a solution of copper sulfate. If the drop of blood sinks within 15 seconds, your iron level is satisfactory for giving blood. And then you're ready to lay down on one of the folding beds and give blood.
I mentioned that giving blood is a fairly serious procedure. I suppose blood is always serious business, and things get even more serious when there are a lot of people in white coats walking around. Add to this the fact that we were in a hotel ballroom, which meant that the place was big enough for everyone to have plenty of room to sit far apart from one another, and that the acoustics were not great for light conversation. This meant that the mostly solitary process of giving blood was kind of magnified. Let's face it, blood drives are not really places to be sociable. You're in a big room with strangers, you're about to be stuck by a big needle, and the only things running through your mind are, "God, I hope I don't faint when I'm done," and "I wonder how many of these people lied when they answered those questions about all of those crazy diseases and risky behaviors?" You pass the time waiting for your turn on the cot by wondering why the people who walked out before making it as far as you have couldn't donate today.
But it seems that the Red Sox are the one thing that can break through all of this tension and formality. First of all, it seems that the idea of free Red sox tickets proved to be intriguing enough to bring people to the blood drive. Then, when I was reading though the first packet of material, I overheard one of the workers explaining to one of the "customers" that one of the other workers was Doug Mirabelli's cousin, though the worker had not yet been successful in bringing Mirabelli to one of the blood drive events. The Sox, it seems, was the only topic of conversation that wasn't related to blood, allergies, and other health issues. Of course, the prize for most people who gave blood was a Red sox t-shirt. Honestly, that's why I was there. Not that I am ready yet to actually wear a Red Sox t-shirt, but to get one for my kids. Nevermind how one t-shirt would satisfy two young baseball fans; I was taking things one step at a time.
Owen was the one most interested in the t-shirt. At every step of the process, he asked, "Now can we get the t-shirt?" I explained to him each time that we wouldn't get the t-shirt until after I'd given blood. You can imagine how confused he got after the iron test when we still didn't get a t-shirt.
I guess the newness of the situation kept Owen's frustration at bay, but there was no way that was going to last indefinitely. Once Daddy got poked in the arm with a needle and blood began filling the bag beneath the table, Sam and Owen decided to take matters into their own hands. One minute, I was concentrating on squeezing the rubber ball in my hand every few seconds as I listened to Sam explain to Owen how the blood had to fill the bag, and the next minute, Sam and Owen had disappeared. Then they were back at my side, each holding an adult XL t-shirt.
"Can we put these on?" Sam asked.
"Sure," I said. "Go ahead."
Once the shirts were on, the game of imaginary baseball began. "I'm Big Papi," Owen declared. He then took a big swing with his imaginary bat and began running the imaginary bases. Sam, playing the role of wise and protective older brother, shook his head at his little brother's antics. Then he looked at me and pointed one finger at the side of his head and made a circular motion: the international sign for "he's crazy." But then he leapt off of the chair and ran over to Owen to correct some transgression of the rules and before I knew it, they were both playing.
The nurse came over and began untangling me from the needle and tubes. "Did you see the game last night?" She asked.
"What game?" I said. She looked at me for a second like I had two heads, but then she must have realized that I'd just given blood and might be a bit woozy and took a measure of pity on me. "The Red Sox game," she said. "Big Papi hit another one. They're looking good."
I read once that everyone talks about the weather because it's one of the few things in life that affects everyone. The same can be said of the Red Sox in New England. Whether you like them or hate them, the Red Sox affect you, if only because they affect everyone around you.
As Owen and Sam continued their game, I went over to the cookies and juice table to recover. I looked into the faces of the other donors to see if my kids' antics were bothering anyone. I didn't see anyone glaring, but I did see quite a few smiles. And while I'm biased because I am the Dad, I think it was good way to break the tension in the room.
That's the closest I've come to wearing a Red Sox t-shirt, or any other type of paraphenalia. I asked Owen when I got home if I could wear my t-shirt, and he told me that Sam was wearing mine. You can guess what Sam told me when I asked him the same question.
They wore those shirts to bed that night and put them on again after school the next day when they went to visit their grandmother. The shirts were so big, it looked as if they were wearing graduation gowns. In a sense, I guess they were, because with those t-shirts, the ante has been upped, I'm afraid. Now everything will have to be Red Sox and the next shirts will have to be real jerseys with a player's name on the back.
See what happens when you try to do something nice like give blood? It comes back to haunt you in ways you can never predict.
When we got home after the blood drive, Carrie asked Owen if he had fun. "I like giving blood," he said. "From you," pointing to me.
I liked giving blood, he said. From you.
.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Marketing, CVS, and the NBA
I'm in
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Calling Dustin Pedroia
The other day, as I dropped the kids off at school, I was walking down the hallway when I heard one second grader say to another second grader, "Did you know that there's an actual GUY named Ripken?"
I knew exactly what they were talking about. Here in Northampton, we have Little League and Cal Ripken League when it comes to baseball. And now, as the flowers are in bloom and the weather has finally become seasonable, all of the leagues are in full swing, pun fully intended. For the younger kids, baseball means t-ball. Owen had his first game a few weeks ago, and on the way to the game, he and his brother had a philosophical debate in the backseat about whether T-Ball is, in fact, baseball. His older brother, full of Farm League hubris, insisted that T-Ball is not baseball, mainly because there is no pitching and no catcher sitting behind the plate. Owen, not entirely sure since he was on his way to his first game, gamely and loudly disagreed, just to be disagreeable.
In the middle of Owen's first game, as he stood on third base, he turned to me and his brother and declared loudly enough for every parent in attendance to hear: "Dad! T-Ball IS baseball!"
Cross that philosophcial conundrum off the list; the question has been answered.
While the organized baseball leagues are great, as is true with many things when the kids are seven and four, the vast majority of baseball in my family happens in the back yard. We have one of those Pitchback nets, a dozen or more safety baseballs, a couple of plastic balls of various sizes and shapes, and numerous bats. We also have landmarks, like an old stump and a sandbox, and backyard detritus, like empty flower pots, that act as bases. The organization is admittedly pretty loose, just as is the line between a "practice" hit, i.e. a weak grounder back to the pither, and a "real" hit, i.e., one that flies over the pitcher's head.
One thing that doesn't vary much is who Sam and Owen choose to be when they're batting: Big Papi, Daiske, and "Tek," Jason Varitek.
The Red Sox have invaded my back yard.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, I tried to prepare myself--on an intellectual level, anyway--for the various ways my attempt to root for the Red Sox would move me from my comfort zone, which is going through life comfortable in my hatred for the Red Sox. As I dreamed up this experiment, I was okay with the idea of my children rooting for the Red Sox as a team. I didn't anticipate their rooting interest taking such a personal turn. Now, looking back on it, I should have known that this would happen. But when I was a kid, I didn't spend a lot of time pretending to be the popular athletes of my day. Sure, I may have pumped my arm like Joe Morgan, he of the Big Red Machine (I know you know what the Big Red Machine is, and that I didn't really have to say that Joe Morgan was on the Big Red Machine, but I just felt like writing, the Big Red Machine) but that was about it. I was more interested in playing the game than I was in pretending to be someone else while I played.
Yes, I know: times have changed.
And with this increased awareness of the Red Sox players, I've had to become more aware as well, so that I can answer all of the questions. It wasn't until the other day, when Sam asked me who plays second base for the Red Sox, and I dutifully answered "Dustin Pedroia" within earshot of my Yankee-fan wife, that I realized that I'm being sucked in deeper myself. "Wow," she said. "I would never have been able to answer that question."
There's just something in the New England psyche that makes it almost impossible to not know at least a few Red Sox players. Even Owen, at four, knows enough to pretend to be Big Papi when he bats. And I have to admit that I like the inherent innocence and optimism that comes along with this awareness when it's in children. It's hero worship in a pure form, totally free cynicism or suspicion. I lost that a long time ago, and that's why the challenge I've laid out for myself is so difficult: I can't just root for a player or a team without considering all of the baggage--my baggage, too--that goes along with that choice. I mean, I understand that I'll have to watch Fever Pitch at some point, for instance, and I am NOT looking forward to that. Let's face it: I'm forty years old, and I've lost my sense of wonder.
And it's that wonder that I heard when I heard that second grader exclaim to his friend that there actually used to be a Cal Ripken.
I knew exactly what they were talking about. Here in Northampton, we have Little League and Cal Ripken League when it comes to baseball. And now, as the flowers are in bloom and the weather has finally become seasonable, all of the leagues are in full swing, pun fully intended. For the younger kids, baseball means t-ball. Owen had his first game a few weeks ago, and on the way to the game, he and his brother had a philosophical debate in the backseat about whether T-Ball is, in fact, baseball. His older brother, full of Farm League hubris, insisted that T-Ball is not baseball, mainly because there is no pitching and no catcher sitting behind the plate. Owen, not entirely sure since he was on his way to his first game, gamely and loudly disagreed, just to be disagreeable.
In the middle of Owen's first game, as he stood on third base, he turned to me and his brother and declared loudly enough for every parent in attendance to hear: "Dad! T-Ball IS baseball!"
Cross that philosophcial conundrum off the list; the question has been answered.
While the organized baseball leagues are great, as is true with many things when the kids are seven and four, the vast majority of baseball in my family happens in the back yard. We have one of those Pitchback nets, a dozen or more safety baseballs, a couple of plastic balls of various sizes and shapes, and numerous bats. We also have landmarks, like an old stump and a sandbox, and backyard detritus, like empty flower pots, that act as bases. The organization is admittedly pretty loose, just as is the line between a "practice" hit, i.e. a weak grounder back to the pither, and a "real" hit, i.e., one that flies over the pitcher's head.
One thing that doesn't vary much is who Sam and Owen choose to be when they're batting: Big Papi, Daiske, and "Tek," Jason Varitek.
The Red Sox have invaded my back yard.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, I tried to prepare myself--on an intellectual level, anyway--for the various ways my attempt to root for the Red Sox would move me from my comfort zone, which is going through life comfortable in my hatred for the Red Sox. As I dreamed up this experiment, I was okay with the idea of my children rooting for the Red Sox as a team. I didn't anticipate their rooting interest taking such a personal turn. Now, looking back on it, I should have known that this would happen. But when I was a kid, I didn't spend a lot of time pretending to be the popular athletes of my day. Sure, I may have pumped my arm like Joe Morgan, he of the Big Red Machine (I know you know what the Big Red Machine is, and that I didn't really have to say that Joe Morgan was on the Big Red Machine, but I just felt like writing, the Big Red Machine) but that was about it. I was more interested in playing the game than I was in pretending to be someone else while I played.
Yes, I know: times have changed.
And with this increased awareness of the Red Sox players, I've had to become more aware as well, so that I can answer all of the questions. It wasn't until the other day, when Sam asked me who plays second base for the Red Sox, and I dutifully answered "Dustin Pedroia" within earshot of my Yankee-fan wife, that I realized that I'm being sucked in deeper myself. "Wow," she said. "I would never have been able to answer that question."
There's just something in the New England psyche that makes it almost impossible to not know at least a few Red Sox players. Even Owen, at four, knows enough to pretend to be Big Papi when he bats. And I have to admit that I like the inherent innocence and optimism that comes along with this awareness when it's in children. It's hero worship in a pure form, totally free cynicism or suspicion. I lost that a long time ago, and that's why the challenge I've laid out for myself is so difficult: I can't just root for a player or a team without considering all of the baggage--my baggage, too--that goes along with that choice. I mean, I understand that I'll have to watch Fever Pitch at some point, for instance, and I am NOT looking forward to that. Let's face it: I'm forty years old, and I've lost my sense of wonder.
And it's that wonder that I heard when I heard that second grader exclaim to his friend that there actually used to be a Cal Ripken.
Monday, April 23, 2007
It's Not Enough to Win
Sunday was the first day of practice for Sam's Farm League team. This marks a shift in a baseball experience that had been defined by balls on tees, a strict hour time limit, and no score keeping. While this year there still won't be any scores kept, Farm League is decidedly more intense than what Sam's done previously; after all, this was his first baseball practice, ever.
His coach began the practice by having everyone introduce himself and state who his favorite player is. That caused a bit of a stir, because more than one of the kids said that it was too hard to pick one favorite player. So, the coach relented and everyone felt better about being able to name their three favorite players.
Not surprisingly, most of the kids named the same players: Big Papi, Alex Rodgriguez, Daiske Matsuzaka, etc. When it came time for Sam to answer, he said Big Papi, Dice-K, and Jason Varitek, which was a bit of a surprise. Of course, it also happened to be the same favorite players as the kid who went before him. So, I asked him afterwards why he mentioned Varitek, and he explained that he's always like Jason Varitek, and that he also likes A-Rod and Johnny Damon, because Damon used to be a member of the Red Sox.
I thought Sam's inclusion of Damon on the list was really interesting, since most people in Red Sox Nation have seemed to turn their backs on Damon for precisely the same reason that Sam has decided to embrace him. And I have to admire that innocence. He likes the players he hears about, the players his friends talk about and he hears about on the radio and TV. While he enjoyed the fact that the Sox swept the Yankees in their first series of the season, he's just as happy when A-Rod does well. In other words, he's missing that essential element that defines most Red Sox and Yankees fans: schadenfreude . In other words, while it's good when your team wins, it's better is your team can beat its bitterest rival. It's even better when your team beats its rival while doing something that's remarkable, like hitting four home runs in a row. And better still is when your team can beat its rival while at the same time humiliating a key player, as when the Sox beat Mariano Rivera in the first game of the series.
So I realized over the course of this first Red Sox-Yankees series of the season that shadenfreude is another reason why this project of mine is so difficult. I've spent years not just rooting for the Yankees, but rooting against the Red Sox, as a team and as a group of individuals. While I can see coming around to the point where I can root for some of the Sox as individuals, like Dice-K for instance, I've realized that it will take me longer to actively root against individuals on the Yankees, the ones I've been rooting for for so long. I have to face the fact that a lot of my reactions are so deeply ingrained that they're simply automatic, like when A-Rod his his second home run in the series opener, the one where Coco Crisp went over the wall in his attempt to catch it, and I found myself shouting, "Go, Go!" to the ball.
How does it get to that point?
His coach began the practice by having everyone introduce himself and state who his favorite player is. That caused a bit of a stir, because more than one of the kids said that it was too hard to pick one favorite player. So, the coach relented and everyone felt better about being able to name their three favorite players.
Not surprisingly, most of the kids named the same players: Big Papi, Alex Rodgriguez, Daiske Matsuzaka, etc. When it came time for Sam to answer, he said Big Papi, Dice-K, and Jason Varitek, which was a bit of a surprise. Of course, it also happened to be the same favorite players as the kid who went before him. So, I asked him afterwards why he mentioned Varitek, and he explained that he's always like Jason Varitek, and that he also likes A-Rod and Johnny Damon, because Damon used to be a member of the Red Sox.
I thought Sam's inclusion of Damon on the list was really interesting, since most people in Red Sox Nation have seemed to turn their backs on Damon for precisely the same reason that Sam has decided to embrace him. And I have to admire that innocence. He likes the players he hears about, the players his friends talk about and he hears about on the radio and TV. While he enjoyed the fact that the Sox swept the Yankees in their first series of the season, he's just as happy when A-Rod does well. In other words, he's missing that essential element that defines most Red Sox and Yankees fans: schadenfreude . In other words, while it's good when your team wins, it's better is your team can beat its bitterest rival. It's even better when your team beats its rival while doing something that's remarkable, like hitting four home runs in a row. And better still is when your team can beat its rival while at the same time humiliating a key player, as when the Sox beat Mariano Rivera in the first game of the series.
So I realized over the course of this first Red Sox-Yankees series of the season that shadenfreude is another reason why this project of mine is so difficult. I've spent years not just rooting for the Yankees, but rooting against the Red Sox, as a team and as a group of individuals. While I can see coming around to the point where I can root for some of the Sox as individuals, like Dice-K for instance, I've realized that it will take me longer to actively root against individuals on the Yankees, the ones I've been rooting for for so long. I have to face the fact that a lot of my reactions are so deeply ingrained that they're simply automatic, like when A-Rod his his second home run in the series opener, the one where Coco Crisp went over the wall in his attempt to catch it, and I found myself shouting, "Go, Go!" to the ball.
How does it get to that point?
Friday, April 20, 2007
Yankees vs. Red Sox: Round 1
I spent most of this past week in Vancouver, which is about as far as you can go from New England and still get baseball updates in English. Ironically, while I was in Vancouver for a techno-centric conference, I was busy and couldn’t stay connected enough to the Internet to keep up with what was happening in the world of Major League Baseball. When I found the time at night to turn on the television, the time difference and the fact that I was in Canada meant that baseball updates weren’t that easy to find. I did hear about Dice-K’s heartbreaking loss against the Blue Jays, though; this made the news because the Blue Jays are Canada’s only baseball team.
Allow me to digress for a moment and say that Dice-K’s loss to Toronto made him likeable to me. Over the winter, before I decided to plunge into this ludicrous project, I tried to convince myself that Dice-K wasn’t that big a deal. But that was my way of trying to minimize what I really felt: for all that money, Dice-K should be a Yankee! After all, that’s what the Yankees do, isn’t it? In short, I was jealous. And then, all during Spring Training, I had to deal with the dissection of Dice-K’s every move, including various “news” stories about whether or not the “gyro-ball” is real, new, or just a lot of hype. In other words, I was rooting for Dice-K to fail.
And that reaction wasn’t something that had a lot of cognition or reason behind it; it was just what I felt. But then I reminded myself of what I’m trying to do here, to be able to root for the same team that my children do. And I watched Dice-K’s first game and tried to be objective. To be honest, I don’t know how objective I was. But I do know that I kept my thoughts to myself.
And then Dice-K lost a squeaker to a guy who almost no-hit the Sox. And then Dice-K lost a 2-1 game, even though he had 10 strikeouts. That last game kind of made him a tragic figure in my eyes, and I kind of like that. I mean, I can root for a guy like that, I guess. Now, I recognize that this is not the same as standing up and embracing Manny just for being Manny, but I look at it as a step in the right direction.
But tonight, my newly found and weak convictions face their biggest test, as the Yankees come to Fenway. I suppose it’s a good thing that I haven’t been exposed to any hype this week, because I don’t want the hype to color me more than I’ve chosen to color myself. But I did listen to the radio last night and the predictable predictions from the callers, like the guy who said that Boston’s going to win 57-0 on Saturday. Which I guess could still happen.
But back to Vancouver. That city is in the midst of Stanley Cup Playoff fever, with the Canucks in control in their series with the North Stars. However, I found it interesting that as I was heading to the airport, I heard some of the Vancouver morning DJ’s cautioning everyone that just because the Canucks are up 3 games to 1, there’s still plenty of time for them to blow it.
And then the Canucks went out and lost last night.
It seems that Vancouver hockey fans aren’t all that different from Boston Red Sox fans.
Allow me to digress for a moment and say that Dice-K’s loss to Toronto made him likeable to me. Over the winter, before I decided to plunge into this ludicrous project, I tried to convince myself that Dice-K wasn’t that big a deal. But that was my way of trying to minimize what I really felt: for all that money, Dice-K should be a Yankee! After all, that’s what the Yankees do, isn’t it? In short, I was jealous. And then, all during Spring Training, I had to deal with the dissection of Dice-K’s every move, including various “news” stories about whether or not the “gyro-ball” is real, new, or just a lot of hype. In other words, I was rooting for Dice-K to fail.
And that reaction wasn’t something that had a lot of cognition or reason behind it; it was just what I felt. But then I reminded myself of what I’m trying to do here, to be able to root for the same team that my children do. And I watched Dice-K’s first game and tried to be objective. To be honest, I don’t know how objective I was. But I do know that I kept my thoughts to myself.
And then Dice-K lost a squeaker to a guy who almost no-hit the Sox. And then Dice-K lost a 2-1 game, even though he had 10 strikeouts. That last game kind of made him a tragic figure in my eyes, and I kind of like that. I mean, I can root for a guy like that, I guess. Now, I recognize that this is not the same as standing up and embracing Manny just for being Manny, but I look at it as a step in the right direction.
But tonight, my newly found and weak convictions face their biggest test, as the Yankees come to Fenway. I suppose it’s a good thing that I haven’t been exposed to any hype this week, because I don’t want the hype to color me more than I’ve chosen to color myself. But I did listen to the radio last night and the predictable predictions from the callers, like the guy who said that Boston’s going to win 57-0 on Saturday. Which I guess could still happen.
But back to Vancouver. That city is in the midst of Stanley Cup Playoff fever, with the Canucks in control in their series with the North Stars. However, I found it interesting that as I was heading to the airport, I heard some of the Vancouver morning DJ’s cautioning everyone that just because the Canucks are up 3 games to 1, there’s still plenty of time for them to blow it.
And then the Canucks went out and lost last night.
It seems that Vancouver hockey fans aren’t all that different from Boston Red Sox fans.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Fans, the FAN, and the Easy Way Out
"Hey Dad," Sam said to me the other day out in the yard as he swung a baseball bat. "I'm Dice-K,"
We were outside--cold weather be damned!--taking advantage of the longer days to practice a little bit for the upcoming farm league and t-ball seasons. He was waiting his turn to bat and I was pitching to his younger brother.
"That's great," I said, not bothering to mention that Daisuke Matsuzaka won't be doing a lot of batting this year. But I have to admit that I like it when Sam invokes the names of current baseball players--and other players in other sports, too, mostly Boston or New England-types. I think this role-playing gives him confidence and allows him to be more forgiving of himself when he makes a mistake. If he misses a pitch, well, it was Dice-K's fault, not his. I also like the innocence inherent in the process: no concern at all about past steroid use, out-of-wedlock kids, bad attitudes, trade demands, or bad posses gone wild. Those are what grown-ups have to worry about, and talk about again and again and again, because all-too-often, when we talk about sports, we're talking about social ills and how the whole world's going to hell in a handbasket. And if you don't believe me, just turn on your radio and wait until Jerry from Boston or Markie from Dorcester calls in to tell you how things really work.
Can you tell that I've been listening to a lot of sports talk radio lately?
When I lived in New Jersey, I spent a lot of time listening to WFAN, the huge and powerful all-sports station that's been in the news lately because of what the ignoramus Don Imus said about the Rutgers women's basketball team. At any rate, the biggest show on The FAN is the Mike and the Mad Dog show, featuring Mike Francesa and Chris Russo. I spent many afternoons listening to these guys "debate" the issues with rabid callers who'd stay on hold for hours only to be ridiculed and hung up on if they dared to disagree with the hosts. I'll admit that more than once I picked up the phone to join the conversation when one of them said something that really pissed me off, but I always resisted out of the firm belief that when you actually call into a sports radio show, you've crossed the line that separates fan-who-can-function-in-the-real-world and fanatic.
Recently I've been listening to "Sportsradio 850 WEEI" , which is the Boston-based radio station that broadcasts the Red Sox and, when they're not doing that, hosts a seemingly endless parade of shows where people call in to talk about the Red Sox. Listening to the FAN, I would occasionally feel the impulse to call in and say something. Listening to WEEI, I'm now too terrified to even admit that I do listen to anyone because I might accidentally run into some of the people who regularly call in.
I mention this because the other day I was visiting a former co-worker--and lifelong Sox fan--and I explained how this year I was rooting for the Red Sox.
"Why would you want to do that?" Was his first reaction.
"why would you want to do that?" He asked again, after I told him that I was doing it so that I could root for the same team that my kids do.
His point was that nobody actually likes being a Sox fan, and that 1) choosing to become one reeks of insanity and 2) cheerily skipping down the yellow brick road of lifelong discontent (2004 was three years ago now, you know) is irresponsible parenting.
I also detected a slight tone of revulsion that I, a Yankees Fan, would sully the Sox by rooting for them. Or trying to root for them.
But I believe that that brief exchange was a big step in this project. Up until then, I've been very closed-mouth about this project, and that just won't do. It's easy to root loudly for the Dice-K in my back yard, but I've got to avoid taking the easy way this baseball season.
And who knows, maybe it will lead to eventually picking up the phone?
We were outside--cold weather be damned!--taking advantage of the longer days to practice a little bit for the upcoming farm league and t-ball seasons. He was waiting his turn to bat and I was pitching to his younger brother.
"That's great," I said, not bothering to mention that Daisuke Matsuzaka won't be doing a lot of batting this year. But I have to admit that I like it when Sam invokes the names of current baseball players--and other players in other sports, too, mostly Boston or New England-types. I think this role-playing gives him confidence and allows him to be more forgiving of himself when he makes a mistake. If he misses a pitch, well, it was Dice-K's fault, not his. I also like the innocence inherent in the process: no concern at all about past steroid use, out-of-wedlock kids, bad attitudes, trade demands, or bad posses gone wild. Those are what grown-ups have to worry about, and talk about again and again and again, because all-too-often, when we talk about sports, we're talking about social ills and how the whole world's going to hell in a handbasket. And if you don't believe me, just turn on your radio and wait until Jerry from Boston or Markie from Dorcester calls in to tell you how things really work.
Can you tell that I've been listening to a lot of sports talk radio lately?
When I lived in New Jersey, I spent a lot of time listening to WFAN, the huge and powerful all-sports station that's been in the news lately because of what the ignoramus Don Imus said about the Rutgers women's basketball team. At any rate, the biggest show on The FAN is the Mike and the Mad Dog show, featuring Mike Francesa and Chris Russo. I spent many afternoons listening to these guys "debate" the issues with rabid callers who'd stay on hold for hours only to be ridiculed and hung up on if they dared to disagree with the hosts. I'll admit that more than once I picked up the phone to join the conversation when one of them said something that really pissed me off, but I always resisted out of the firm belief that when you actually call into a sports radio show, you've crossed the line that separates fan-who-can-function-in-the-real-world and fanatic.
Recently I've been listening to "Sportsradio 850 WEEI" , which is the Boston-based radio station that broadcasts the Red Sox and, when they're not doing that, hosts a seemingly endless parade of shows where people call in to talk about the Red Sox. Listening to the FAN, I would occasionally feel the impulse to call in and say something. Listening to WEEI, I'm now too terrified to even admit that I do listen to anyone because I might accidentally run into some of the people who regularly call in.
I mention this because the other day I was visiting a former co-worker--and lifelong Sox fan--and I explained how this year I was rooting for the Red Sox.
"Why would you want to do that?" Was his first reaction.
"why would you want to do that?" He asked again, after I told him that I was doing it so that I could root for the same team that my kids do.
His point was that nobody actually likes being a Sox fan, and that 1) choosing to become one reeks of insanity and 2) cheerily skipping down the yellow brick road of lifelong discontent (2004 was three years ago now, you know) is irresponsible parenting.
I also detected a slight tone of revulsion that I, a Yankees Fan, would sully the Sox by rooting for them. Or trying to root for them.
But I believe that that brief exchange was a big step in this project. Up until then, I've been very closed-mouth about this project, and that just won't do. It's easy to root loudly for the Dice-K in my back yard, but I've got to avoid taking the easy way this baseball season.
And who knows, maybe it will lead to eventually picking up the phone?
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Game Two
I woke up this morning to the sound of hail pelting my roof. Throughout the rest of the day, a cold rain made an unseasonably cold day seem that much was. Not, not seem worse: it made it worse. So, baseball and its association with warm weather and soft summer nights was not on my mind today. Which is just as well, I guess. On Opening Day, the Sox lost 7-1 to the Kansas City Royals. Schilling had his worst outing in 10 years and a couple of base running gaffes acted like salt in the wounds.
I heard the same phrase over and over again yesterday, on talk radio, in the newspaper, and on various websites: "It's only the first game, BUT ..." and then a litany of complaints followed.
It's only the first game, but I don't know if I can take an extended period of negativity. Just think what will happen tomorrow night if Dice-K, the greatest rookie pitcher ever (apparently), gets roughed up.
Tonight they play the Royals again. We'll see what happens.
Sam was nonplussed by the Opening Day loss. "What was the score?" he asked. "Seven to one," I told him. "Oh," was his response.
Sometimes it's good that kids can keep things simple like that.
I heard the same phrase over and over again yesterday, on talk radio, in the newspaper, and on various websites: "It's only the first game, BUT ..." and then a litany of complaints followed.
It's only the first game, but I don't know if I can take an extended period of negativity. Just think what will happen tomorrow night if Dice-K, the greatest rookie pitcher ever (apparently), gets roughed up.
Tonight they play the Royals again. We'll see what happens.
Sam was nonplussed by the Opening Day loss. "What was the score?" he asked. "Seven to one," I told him. "Oh," was his response.
Sometimes it's good that kids can keep things simple like that.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Opening Day
Today is Opening Day, the first day of a 162-game (at least) season, and already I feel like I'm behind. I just found out last night, for instance, that there is a Red Sox Kid Nation, and I haven't even bought a Sox hat for myself, even though I was at a sporting goods store yesterday. Truth be told, however, I don't know if I'm ready to wear a Sox hat. It's on my list of things to do, but I'm not mentally prepared yet.
I suppose that today is also the official opening day of this little experiment of mine, though I hope that people will read the previous entries. I'm a little nervous about the whole thing, to be honest, because I don't know how it will all turn out and I don't know how people will react to my attempts to change my stripes. To overcome that, I'll just have to rely on the relentless optimism that always infuses Opening Day.
But I learned this morning that that optimism must be a function of age. I woke up before Sam this morning and got the sports section all ready for him, so that as soon as he came downstairs I could tell him what day it was.
"Look," I said when he woke up. "It's a picture of Curt Schilling. He's pitching today, on Opening Day. It's Opening Day, Sam!"
"Yeah," he said. "I know that." And he calmly turned on Spongebob Squarepants. No special Opening Day routine for that kid, apparently.
I suppose that today is also the official opening day of this little experiment of mine, though I hope that people will read the previous entries. I'm a little nervous about the whole thing, to be honest, because I don't know how it will all turn out and I don't know how people will react to my attempts to change my stripes. To overcome that, I'll just have to rely on the relentless optimism that always infuses Opening Day.
But I learned this morning that that optimism must be a function of age. I woke up before Sam this morning and got the sports section all ready for him, so that as soon as he came downstairs I could tell him what day it was.
"Look," I said when he woke up. "It's a picture of Curt Schilling. He's pitching today, on Opening Day. It's Opening Day, Sam!"
"Yeah," he said. "I know that." And he calmly turned on Spongebob Squarepants. No special Opening Day routine for that kid, apparently.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Breaking Camp and Heading North
Last night I told my older son, who's seven, that Monday is Opening Day. Then I had to clarify that it's Opening Day for Major League Baseball so that he wouldn't confuse it with opening day for his own baseball season, farm league, which is still a few weeks away. Which is fine, since basketball season ended just last week.
I haven't yet told my four-year-old, which is just as well considering that he's now obsessed with hockey. It's my fault, since I brought him to a coupld of late-season UMass-Amherst hockey games and he got hooked. I figure if I don't teach him how to skate, I can avoid the need to get up at ungodly hours to shuttle him over to the arena for some ice time or weekend-long road trips for tournaments and what not.
But that's a story for another day. We're here now to talk about the Red Sox.
I asked Sam, my older son, who he was going to root for this year. It was kind of like my last check before I plunge ahead with this project. Plus, I wanted to make sure that he was still a candidate for Red Sox Nation. Sure enough, he told me that he was going to root for the Olde Towne Team this year.
Then I did one final check: "Would it be good if I rooted for the Red Sox this year, too?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, nodding so vigorously that I could feel the breeze from the bill of the Red Sox cap he was wearing.
So that's it: I'm in. Come Monday, it will be no more dipping my toes in the wather and theorizing about what this whole thing will be like. Monday is Opening Day and I'll be watching the Sox as they take on Kansas City. And, gulp, I'll be rooting for the Sox.
To prepare for this, I've been listening to a lot of local sports talk radio. Now, I feel compelled to mention that my intent here is not to become a FINO--fan in name only--and use the pretense of rooting for the Sox as a way to show how dysfunctional Sox fans are. My goal is to have a bonding experience with my sons and to test the bounds of fandom, to boldly go where no Yankee fan has gone before, so to speak. I mean recovering Yankee fan, to be exact. That said, I am not far enough along in the program yet to completely avoid lapses into an anti-Red Sox mindset. So, take this for what it's worth. But apparently, based on what I've been hearing on the Radio, Dice-K is the best pitcher ever, but he hasn't pitched in the Major Leagues so we can't count on him. Papelbon is back in the bullpen, and he's probably the best closer in the league (can you hear me coughing at that one?) but he's coming off an injury and could be trouble. Francona is one of the best managers in the league, but if the team doesn't make the playoffs, he should be fired. And spending money like drunken sailors or George Steinbrenner is still wrong, but spending slightly less than the Yankees is good business.
Oh, and we still have to obsess about the Yankees.
In other words, Spring Training has been all about flights of fancy and optimism that are in severe danger of turning to pessimism come play ball time.
But of course, first there's Opening Day, when everyone's hope springs eternal...
Game on.
I haven't yet told my four-year-old, which is just as well considering that he's now obsessed with hockey. It's my fault, since I brought him to a coupld of late-season UMass-Amherst hockey games and he got hooked. I figure if I don't teach him how to skate, I can avoid the need to get up at ungodly hours to shuttle him over to the arena for some ice time or weekend-long road trips for tournaments and what not.
But that's a story for another day. We're here now to talk about the Red Sox.
I asked Sam, my older son, who he was going to root for this year. It was kind of like my last check before I plunge ahead with this project. Plus, I wanted to make sure that he was still a candidate for Red Sox Nation. Sure enough, he told me that he was going to root for the Olde Towne Team this year.
Then I did one final check: "Would it be good if I rooted for the Red Sox this year, too?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, nodding so vigorously that I could feel the breeze from the bill of the Red Sox cap he was wearing.
So that's it: I'm in. Come Monday, it will be no more dipping my toes in the wather and theorizing about what this whole thing will be like. Monday is Opening Day and I'll be watching the Sox as they take on Kansas City. And, gulp, I'll be rooting for the Sox.
To prepare for this, I've been listening to a lot of local sports talk radio. Now, I feel compelled to mention that my intent here is not to become a FINO--fan in name only--and use the pretense of rooting for the Sox as a way to show how dysfunctional Sox fans are. My goal is to have a bonding experience with my sons and to test the bounds of fandom, to boldly go where no Yankee fan has gone before, so to speak. I mean recovering Yankee fan, to be exact. That said, I am not far enough along in the program yet to completely avoid lapses into an anti-Red Sox mindset. So, take this for what it's worth. But apparently, based on what I've been hearing on the Radio, Dice-K is the best pitcher ever, but he hasn't pitched in the Major Leagues so we can't count on him. Papelbon is back in the bullpen, and he's probably the best closer in the league (can you hear me coughing at that one?) but he's coming off an injury and could be trouble. Francona is one of the best managers in the league, but if the team doesn't make the playoffs, he should be fired. And spending money like drunken sailors or George Steinbrenner is still wrong, but spending slightly less than the Yankees is good business.
Oh, and we still have to obsess about the Yankees.
In other words, Spring Training has been all about flights of fancy and optimism that are in severe danger of turning to pessimism come play ball time.
But of course, first there's Opening Day, when everyone's hope springs eternal...
Game on.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
This Is Hard
This is hard. Not building-a-deck or renovating-a- bathroom or rocket-science or listening-to-an-Amway-salesman hard, but hard nonetheless. I sit here in the early—and very, very unseasonably cold—days of March and read about Spring Training and the other baseballs goings on, the speculation about rookies and prospects and the ever-widening steroid scandal; and I have to remind myself not to root against the Red Sox and not to automatically feel a swell of pride when I read about something positive happening at Yankees camp. In some ways, I feel like I'm on a diet, but instead of having first to become conscious of and then second to begin to change, my eating habits, I have to become conscious of and then begin to change my cheering habits. So far, I'm getting pretty good at recognizing when I react to something, like the news that Daisuke Matsuzaka's first two outings in Spring Training have been tremendous. Normally, this would elicit an internal groan on my part, but I'm recognizing that reaction and doing what I can to at least quarantine it so that it doesn't poison the rest of my soul.
See, that's the hard part. And two things make it harder. The first is the fact that I can't explain this to Sam, how this whole fan-thing works and how I'm sacrificing something special to me for him. The second is the fact that fandom, or maybe fandemonium, is a difficult thing to get away from in this society. I'll give you one example that illustrates that: two weeks ago I was in
Granted, that story may do more to show the biases inherent in my thinking than anything else, but to me it demonstrates how pervasive sports are in our culture. They've become so pervasive that they've entered the realm previously occupied by the weather in that it's the only thing that everyone has in common.
So, like the dieter trying to pick the healthy path through the holiday party buffet table, I find myself taking baby steps towards fully embracing Red Sox fandom. For me, this seems like it's the only way this whole thing is going to work. But I ask you to be patient with me and take pity on me when necessary, because I'm new to all of this stuff and I have a lot of emotional baggage to deal with.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Welcome to Fandom
I'm sure that there would be a lot of happy pastors, priests, rabbis, imams and religious leaders whose names I don't know if more members of their flocks brought with them to their weekly services the passion that they reserve for their favorite sports teams. Of course, I don't mean to encourage face paint in houses of worship, and I certainly don't think that it would be a good idea to serve hot dogs or beer, the latter of which may be more responsible for our passion that we'd like to admit. On the other hand, they do serve wine in church.
But maybe it's better to keep religion and sports as separate as possible, though with seemingly every athlete these days thanking the Big Guy either explicitly or through on-field gestures that might be harder than it first appears.
At any rate, I'm sitting here thinking about religion and sports because I want to describe my indoctrination into the sports world and I can't do that without thinking about the very public and deeply significant milestones that one achieves as one grows older in faith. As a Catholic, I remember very clearly my First Communion (they told us to step on the diamonds on the floor as we walked up the aisles. This was the first I'd heard about there being diamonds and was excited to what I imagined to be hundreds of diamonds glittering on the floor. I was more than a little disappointed that there weren't, in fact, diamonds on the floor. The nuns were referring to the regular old linoleum squares on the floor), and my Confirmation (for a while after my confirmation, I used my confirmation name—Daniel, after my oldest brother—and my middle name—James—in that presumptuous way that only young teenagers can. This lasted until my mother saw a letter to a girlfriend that I'd put in the mail slot for the mailman to pick up. Instead of a full name in the return address, I wrote AJDS, which with my poor handwriting looked like AIDS. "Do you really have to write that on all of your letters?" my mother asked.) I got married in the Church and therefore had to do pre-Cana. (My then-future-wife and I moved into our house on a Friday and then got up early the next morning for an all-day, intensive pre-Cana program. Oh, and somehow on our first night in our new house, we got stuck dog-sitting for our new neighbors. "Don't worry," the owner said. "He's a puppy and he chews things, but only if they're left on the floor." We'd been in the house six hours—there was a lot of crap on the floor.)
Pre-Cana was interesting because we got to see the very public endings of more-than-a-couple of engagements. I guess they'd never had serious discussions about household chores before. But I digress.
The thing is, religion has got it down when it comes to marking milestones. The same can't be said for fandom. Sure, there are the same basic steps that we all go through with our kids, buying them that first team outfit, buying them the first hat. Watching that first game together. Going to that first game together. And while these are significant moments in the relationship between parent and child, they are not commemorated in the same way that, say, a child's thirteenth birthday is in Judaism. And I'm not suggesting that they should be commemorated that way, mind you, but it would make it easier when looking back to kind of point directly to the steps in the process you took to becoming a fan. Without those ceremony rich milestones, I'm left to guess a little bit here.
My first sports-related memory is when I was five or six years old. I'd just moved to
"What's your favorite baseball team," he asked. Not a surprising question, when you think about it. But I had no answer. Up until that moment, I can't remember sports—let alone professional sports—taking up any molecule of my brain matter. My oldest brother, who was 16 at the time, played football. And I think that my second-oldest brother wrestled and maybe played football, too. But that didn't really concern me, just like my riding my tricycle, or whatever it was I did to amuse myself back then, didn't really concern them. And our father wasn't the type of a guy who'd plop down in front of the television on the weekend to watch sports. And he certainly wasn't the type of a guy to make us watch sports with him if he were the type of a guy to sit down and watch sports. Now, it wasn't like my father wasn't into sports. He played football in high school and threw the put the shot as well. He was also an avid golfer. It's just that when I was growing up, he was much more likely to be puttering in the garage or working on his honey-do list than to be sitting and watching television. Plus, you have to keep in mind that this was the early 1970s, when black and white televisions were still being manufactured in the
So, not having a stock answer for my favorite team, I fell back on what I knew: a little geography. "Well," I replied. "I like
My new friend nodded sagely and flipped through his stack of baseball cards. Then you must like the Cubs, he said, showing me a particular card: A Bill Madlock 1975 card, from his days on the Cubs.
"Yeah," I said. "That's right." I would have said anything to not look foolish, but in reality, I had no idea who the guy was. But the important thing was, I had a team to root for, an identity when it came to being a fan. I had an answer for anyone who'd ever ask me from that point on.
"Let's go play baseball now, okay?" I think I said to John to move away from the subject of teams and cards and onto something I felt more comfortable with: playing sports.
A few days later, I told my father that I was a Cubs fan. He gave a hearty laugh, probably because he knew the brutal truth of what it meant—and means—to be a Cubs fan. Then he looked at me with a serious face. "I have some bad news about that," he said. "The Cubs have moved from
"They're not?" I asked.
"Nope," he said, barely able to contain his laughter at his own joke now. "Now they're called the
Friday, February 9, 2007
A Convert Speaks
I do not enter into this lightly. I understand how difficult it is for a forty-year-old to pick up new habits, especially when it concerns something that has been so fundamental over what I hope is not quite half-a-lifetime, that I was able to do it without thinking about it. That's the definition of a habit, of course, but it's also the hallmark of the blind faith approach that is at the heart of what being a fan is all about. And not just a fan of any team, but a fan of the New York Yankees, they of the 26 World Championships and the famous Yankee Stadium and the famous pinstripes and the famous deep pockets of their owner. In other words, a fan of the most successful and admired—and reviled—sports franchise in American history.
So I understand that the idea of changing who I root for will not be easy. Some might even say that it's impossible—and they may be right. But I'm going to give it a try. Over the course of the next year, I am going to root not for the New York Yankees, but for their most hated rival, the Boston Red Sox.
Notice the positive attitude there: not "I'm going to try," but "I'm going to root for" the Boston Red Sox. This blog will chronicle my attempts. I mean, it will chronicle my journey from Yankee confusion to Red Sox enlightenment.
Why, you are rightly asking, would anyone want to do such a thing? I am not doing this because I feel scorned or let down by the Yankees. I am doing this purely out of love and devotion to my children.
Being a parent means having to confront many of the items on that long list of things that you spent a lifetime saying you would never do. And I'm not even talking about those out-and-out gross tasks associated with diaper changing and toilet training. No, I mean the more theoretical aspects of being a parent, such as the firm declarations that my children will never watch television or drink soda.
Despite all of the compromise between belief and reality that seems to make up the bulk of parenting, one thing I thought I could count on was the fact that my sons would grow up being fans of the same sports teams that I root for. So imagine my horror when my older son began rooting loudly for the Red Sox. I knew that I had tempted the fates of fandom by moving my family from
At first I thought my older son's antics were just a phase. Then I thought it was just his way of teasing me, of sticking it to his old man. As he's become more aware of professional sports and spent more time with his classmates and fellow Red Sox fans, however, I'm beginning to see that this is no passing fancy. And he's surreptitiously worked to indoctrinate his younger brother, who told me recently, with pride, that he likes the Red Sox. "You," he said, his voice filled with more scorn than a four-year-old should be able to muster, "root for the Yankees."
So, in the spirit of the love that can only come with being a father, I've decided to make the biggest sacrifice since Abraham and Isaac and spend one year rooting for the Red Sox and document my experiences on this blog. In addition to exploring the experiences of fatherhood, I also hope to look at what it means to be a fan of a professional sports team today, when players are millionaires and don't seem to care for the average fan. I may also examine the question of how one becomes a fan these days, when most people interested in sports focus on "fantasy" leagues and not on teams. At the heart of the experiment, however, will be the experiences of a recovering Yankee fan trying to fit in in
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)