Out To The Ballgame

Just came across this asinine survey on SI.com of the best ballparks in the country. I immediately figured to see either Fenway or Yankee Stadium up there as #1. "At least in the top 5" I consented before I clicked on the article -- knowing I'd get worked up with the results. And sure enough I'm worked up. Fenway was 21st; Yankee Stadium 20th. Several of the categories used to tabulate this result are just plain stupid. 

Food: What are we rating here? An evening out for dinner and a show? Did you order the blue cheese on the side of your hot wings and it was put on it? Was the hot dog too small for the bun? Seriously, when you go to McDonalds don't expect Spago. Or do and be disappointed. Just realize you're an idiot for doing so. And realize this is an idiotic way to rate a ballpark.

Team Quality: I can see the argument that this brings about. Who's going to go see a bad team play. But how does this affect the ballpark rating? See Hamlet performed by puppets at the Globe. Think it trite. But you're still at the Globe.

Hospitality: Huh? Like, "I really appreciated how other fans took time to flush the toilet before I entered the stall" hospitality? Seriously? I can use another metaphor here, but the bottom line is how does this affect the ballpark?

Promotions: Here's a metaphor: this is the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Well, second dumbest. The dumbest thing I've heard is "Here's a metaphor: this is the dumbest thing I've ever heard." Obviously, that's not a metaphor. 

Traffic: So does the team with poor team quality have higher traffic scores and vice versa? 

For the legitimate categories, Tradition and Fan I.Q., two things that make the simple and large event of attending a baseball game worth doing, Fenway, Yankee Stadium, Wrigley, all ranking high. And I'm not sure what atmosphere means and why the Sox were so low. Nothing beats Landsdowne street pre- and post-game. Also: completely inhospitable as well. 

The Indians at the top I don't deny. That's a great, great place to watch a game. But I deny it based on these stupid categories. Seattle? Really? It's top 10. I've been there. Pittsburgh? On Bobble Head day it was fun, maybe Top 20. My Dad hates the White Sox Stadium so I'm deferring to him there. Great American in Cincinnati is the WORST place to watch baseball. The old Riverfront was much better. 

Anyway, if you're going to rank ballparks, be intelligible and obvious. Use common sense. Don't try and unhinge the system. Fenway, Yankee Stadium (which they are despicably tearing down), Wrigley, Dodger Stadium, Pac Bell, Cleveland/Jacobs Field/Progressive.

Take your food and promotions and "please" and "thank you", I'm watching baseball.

On The Death Of Sports Journalism

There's been some uproar on the Internets today about bloggers and sports journalism. Most of it unfounded. Most of it true. How bloggers distort and dumb-down sports journalism with their ridiculous accusations and opinions and at-the-same-time-lack-of-access. But that point is not for here; I am unequipped at the argument.

What remains the demarcation point for this is the "education" of those bloggers. Have they even read W.C. Heinz? Admittedly, I had not. But, being the erudite Internets searcher I am, I quickly "Googled" him and just as quickly read "Death of a Race Horse"-- apparently his seminal work. And... It. Is. Good. Very. Very. Good. No one writes like that these days -- not daily sports "journalists" anyway. Not journalists for the most part.

One can argue if this is an unfortunate occurrence. A product of our growing curiosity for facts and not the "story". When the story is the facts and the facts are the story, is there much room for notions on the weather? On the murmurs of onlookers? Probably not. But truthfully, how many of these pieces could you read? Sometimes I just want the box score, the injury report, the statement on the game. Sometimes I just want bloviated nonsense to put sports in perspective. And sometimes I want "Death of a Race Horse" to put sports in perspective.

But what I want (aside from "dog and a beer"; obligatory reference there)... what I want is good writing. And that's the issue. Good. Writing. Death of a Race Horse is that. Most of what is sports journalism and/or blogging, is not that.

The thing of it is: Sports, however bad her commentators may be or however good they may be, sports is good writing.

On The Goings On Before My 28th Birthday

There have been a series of unfortunate events that procured themselves into my life before my 28th birthday. A series of events so horrible, I cannot see as how anything worse could have befallen another human soul.

-- There were 2200+ winners of the Roll Up The Rim promotion at the two Tim Horton's I frequent. I purchased 15 cups of coffee, did not win once. Meanwhile, the Mrs. has won 14 out of the last 15 times in the Mt. Dew promotion.

-- I broke my hand. True, it was my own stupid fault. But if a man cuts off his own foot is he not pityable?

-- I could not nor can I play sports for the next four weeks, and who knows beyond that. Ever try and play golf with a busted hand? And softball's out of the question 'cause it's my glove hand.

-- On my birthday I endured a fever pushing 102, severe exhaustion and a really sore sore throat. Over the course of 48 hrs, I slept for 30+.

-- Ripped three contact lenses. Ripped lenses in the previous 16 years: 2. And ripped my 4th this morning.

-- Rising costs of fuel.

-- The Red Sox dropped 4 straight.

To balance this out, there have been an equally meritorious series of events that may or may not have canceled the following out.

-- Isaac called me Dude.

-- The Mrs. took absolute care of me during my illness and broken arm.

-- This.

-- This was my birthday present (without the people). Yes, I'm old now.

-- The Celtics won 66 games and took the first two of the first round of the playoffs.

-- Got my cast off.

Not a day passed were I didn't realize the relentless grace bestowed upon me and shown to me in my wife and my child. Even when I wanted to be depressed about breaking my arm, there was Isaac not paying it any attention or consideration. When I wanted to be frustrated or angry about circumstances well beyond my control, there was the Mrs to offer, with her smile and touch, perspective on all that is good. And when I was down on never winning a single, solitary thing in that stupid promotion, there, again, was the Mrs flaunting her talents as a twist off winner (Seriously though, it's uncanny how many stupid bottle caps we have scattered throughout the cars and house).

I'm 28 now. Recovering from injuries sustained through stupidity, normal passage of germs, and wounded pride at being unable to win my family (read: me) anything. I have my sense of humor intact. I have my awe at the world around me fully intact. I have people who love me. I have people to love. I have a God that cares infinitely about me.

Being 28 is the next logical step, the next in a coordinated series of progressions that aim to make me smarter, more mature, more loving, more caring and more of a man.

It's up to me to make the most of all of everything.

Pedant Coffee Drinking

I fully recognize it's the #1 thing White People Like. If it becomes a stereotype, then, as I say, stereotypes tend to be stereotypes for a reason. And I am your stereotypical young white person who likes coffee. I am now saddened by the recent Starbucks coffee release. For the most part, I could care less when Starbucks releases a new coffee. But when doing so replaces their Breakfast and House Blends, then I am distraught and must form an opinion if it is truly to be the #1 thing I like (#2 for me is assists. I love assists. When I don't make an assist I get mad and break bones.)

It's apropos that they're calling it Pike's Place. For those have not been to Seattle, Pike's Place is the fish market where they throw fish. There's other stuff there too, but for the most part that's the draw. It's the place where tourists go. Cultivated to the masses for their entertainment. Popularized and hyped. This new brew is much of the same. Tastes much like a popular tourist attraction. It should after all since patrons created it. It's a noon cup of coffee. Something warm to drink - but not very good. Very disappointing but not surprising and not worth the $1.85 for a grande. And this is replacing their very good Breakfast Blend and very decent House blend?

NOTE: I would opt for the Komodo Dragon brew if, at 6am, I didn't think of this movie and this character and the fact that referring to this cup of coffee makes me seem a little too ostentatious.

My name is Aaron. I am a coffee pedant.

But hey, it's one of the best parts of waking up (the not best part is actually having Folgers in your cup. That's just terrible coffee).

Gone Since November

Every weekend since November, either the Mrs or me have been working or out of town or had friends or family visiting. Since November. So it has been well nicer than nice to have two consecutive days at home as a family. 

It has been well nicer than nice.

Bob Dylan: How Does It Feel To Win A Pulitzer?

So perhaps you've seen the news: Bob Dylan received a special nod from the Pulitzer Prize committee. It's the first time the award has been given to a rock musician. As I read online yesterday, this is interesting given the anti-establishment bend of the genre. It's supposed to be revolting against these high class honors and what they mean. But truthfully, there is no one in the industry more deserving of the literary merit. No one else who's body of work can be considered with the great writers. Dylan is a great writer. Despite what you may think of his voice (the Mrs can't stomach it). Despite what you may think of his music. Dylan is and was lyrically the best. On par with the prosody of the best.

Now there are other musicians who's body of work could be considered deserving of the award. Neil Young comes to mind. But most notably is Bruce Springsteen. The Nebraska album alone is a lyrical collection of short stories. Tom Joad is another astonishing musical panoply of short fiction. If Dylan, I say, then Springsteen.

Anyone else I'm missing?

So Very Close

It would've been the first time I'd ever managed to pick the NCAA National Champion. If Memphis would've won. The stakes were higher for them but for me that was all that mattered. That and seeing the Dribble Drive Motion Offense in its glory. But alas, not even the latter was evidenced fully last night; I still stand by its overall effectiveness and superiority to the classical style of basketball because, at its simplest, it makes the game fun to play again. Organized streetball it's called. That's too simple a term though.

It was a good game, not a great one. Billy Packer continues to spout irreversible nonsense and continues to call every Finals of my lifetime. And I have still not picked the National Champion.

Like Father, Like Son: On A Broken Hand

Just like my boy, I've broken a bone. No, he didn't drop me down the stairs. Instead, I succumbed to my own stupidity while playing basketball. I'll leave it at that. Needless to say a broken hand makes life difficult. Taping up my arm at 6am to shower is no easy task. Neither is changing a diaper.

Isaac hasn't noticed. He's paid about as much attention to my injury as he did to his own. He still expects to chase me around the house, wrestle with me and have me give him baths. And while I have been considerably and understandably slowed at tasks around the house and notably at work, his perspective has gone a long way to solidify my own. I am not as adaptable as he was when he broke his leg, that experience is fresh in my mind: the energy and adaptability of a child is truly amazing.

May I be like my son.