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.