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.

For The Home Team

If you didn't grow up a sports fan, it's tough to understand the mindset, the obsession, the unparalleled devotion one can have towards a certain team. Questions on the efficacy of "rooting" for and espousing a collective "we" attitude towards a team seem inane. Obviously, you didn't hit the homerun or catch the pass or bury the jumper. But there's a misapprehension there. No one ever said we did those things. I don't believe I did those things, literally or figuratively. But my team did, our team did. And understanding the idea of a team is crucial towards this "sports fan" attitude.

I'm a Red Sox fan. We're a whole different psychological study. For 162 days and nights from April to September, I live and breathe the Red Sox. Follow the box scores. Question pitching changes, pitches themselves, the idea behind swinging with a 3-0 count and read countless articles filled with inane drivel about my team. I know a great deal about the Red Sox, and I don't even live in Boston. If I did, it would be much, much worse.

But back to this collective "we" in regards to rooting for the home team. The idea behind a team is a group of players pointed towards a goal of achieving some significant accomplishment within their respective sport. For the Royals, and let's be honest, it's not losing 100 games. For the Red Sox, it's winning the World Series. Where the "we" comes in is that we want the team to reach this goal. We share the same end. So we follow our team, extolling the decisions in the win and letting go vitriols in the loss. In this we become a part of the make-up of the team, in a very small sense, an honorary member. We may not be hitting or catching or scoring, but we're rooting for all of it. And that gives us a stake in it -- a dog in the fight. We devote a proportional amount of time and support -- sometimes too much-- and so we have every right to exclaim "we" won.

There's more to being a part of a team than being physically on the team. If you've ever lived in Boston, or spent a decent amount of time there, it's fascinating to watch how much the city -- for good or for bad-- hinges on the fate of the Sox. It hovers over every conversation, news of the team fills every sports page and radio broadcast. The city is the team and the team is the city. We do, unfortunately, a little more than "root, root, root" -- we obsess. But that's neither here nor there to this discussion.

A few weeks ago Ohio State opened their season against some awful team. I went out to grab a bite to eat near the stadium just around kickoff. There was a palpable excitement. Even in the people bringing groceries to their car, you could see it their eyes. It reminded me of Boston. A lot. Of course, CFB fans are stupid because achieving the ultimate goal never rests fully in their team's performance on the field. But I can at least sympathize and come alongside them in their passion -- however foolishly unfounded it is.

But I digress. Back to my point: Go Red Sox.

On Playing Catch

There's a lot that can be said about playing catch. From infancy we are prodded to catch things. If you're a boy, that develops from stuffed plush-toys to baseballs and softballs, footballs and basketballs, and, for some, fish. I've had my own version of catch my brother and I used to play. And it wasn't because regular catch was boring, sometimes a steak just needs a little A1 sauce.

There have been more than a few memorable scenes on television and on the silver screen that involved the playing of catch. Most notably, an entire movie was based around the singular concept of playing catch with Dad. So I don't think I can do much better in romanticizing the particulars on a whole.

But recently my Dad, brother and I played catch in the same street we'd played catch in for years. In front of my Nana's house. Aside from being older, and battling severe tendinitis in my throwing arm, this was not much different. My father, remember I'm 27, was still holding his glove in certain locations, begging me to hit it. Throughout childhood, this was how I learned to aim my throws. Dad wouldn't even move his glove if I was going to miss. And when I did, I had to shag the ball down. Proudly I tell you, this time, I hit the target every time. Thanks, Dad.

A slight addition to this game was the presence of old gloves. Not worn-out discarded remnants of our childhood. Remnants of generations passed. Gloves that looked more like gloves. Leather padding, a small pocket. Gloves that made you feel like playing baseball was like being in the fields, or working in yard, or in woodshop. Gloves that made you feel like you were working with your hands.

They were gloves from my grandfather's childhood. From the 1930s and 40s. And there's only a few ways to catch a ball with these gloves. Which, through trial and error that involved shagging passed balls, my brother and I quickly figured out. Even the "hot-dogging" that comes so easy with 21st century mitts, was nearly impossible. All you could do was use two hands and squeeze the ball when you felt contact. Sometimes it stung. Sometimes it smarted. But there's has yet to be a better way to catch a pop fly than running underneath it and feeling it fall into your leather-bound hand.

Much like an author prefers pen and paper to Microsoft Word, I, the baseball player, prefer to catch a ball this way, with this glove. Even the baseball was "old-world" quality. Not wound as tight. A little deadened. Worn out covering.

We played catch like, for generations, fathers and sons have played catch. And I think, even if we had used our oiled-up, rope bound and car-run-over broken in mitts, not much would have changed about that experience.

Still... There's a lot to be said for an original manuscript.

I Blame Myself

I have everything to do with this funk the Red Sox are in. It's all my fault. For the first time all season I have failed to watch a game in the past two weeks. And in the past two weeks they have faltered. It is utterly my fault.

But in my defense, I've been busy with life. With moving, working and school -- but mainly moving. So I've not been able to catch any games. I apologize and must admit I don't see my ways amending anytime soon so I hope they can pull themselves out of this funk, lest I have to pull a Tiger Town. Seems like last night was a good start.

And on the subject of sports, something near and dear to me, did anyone catch the NBA Finals? I watch it only out of obligation to those who no longer play. For Larry, Magic, MJ. And the Spurs looked great. They're a good basketball team. The Cavs looked terrible. Is there a more inept coach than Mike Brown? I think he's still confused over why running a high pick for LeBron didn't work when the man picking was defended by Tim Duncan. Really, I think he's just confused. Clearly he didn't know how to coach a basketball team. What a miserable Finals. I think I might watch an old Celtics game on DVD to inspire my love for the game again.

Also, it's the weekend of the U.S. Open. One of my favorite golf tournaments. Immaculate courses that are ridiculously difficult. Nothing better than a round over par. At least I can relate to the the golfers in this tournament.

Otherwise it's a been an incredibly trying week. Very little sleep. And you know you're tired when you find yourself switching from Bob Dylan's "Stuck In The Middle With You" to Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry" and singing seamlessly between the two.

I think I'll go to Boston...

Here's To You, Mr. Robinson

There are times when I am proud to be an athlete. Proud to have stepped foot on the field of competition. Proud to have fought hard in victory, and harder in defeat. There are times when moments transcend sports. Transcend the hardwood, the hash marks, the blue lines, the fairways, the foul lines. They are few. Perhaps a handful at best. Today the greatest of them is remembered and honored.

There are three things I cherish most about baseball. Running a dead sprint to center field to take my position while the other team bats. Reading the batter a split second before he connects. And Jackie Robinson.

At ballparks all around Major League Baseball today you will see tributes.

"Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes."

You will see his number. You may even want to take a moment and read his story. His struggle. How good he was in spite of it. The passion he played with. The love for a game that did not love him back.

"Stroll around The Grounds until you feel at home."

One man representing so much. Carrying so much on his shoulders, but fitting it all in his glove.

"And here's to you, Mr. Robinson,
Baseball loves you more than you will know.
God bless you, please Mr. Robinson.
Heaven holds a place for those who play."

My Turn(ey)

Even with the arrival of the baby, I did manage to make my 2007 NCAA Tournament picks. I even submitted them into the office pool in the nick of time. And so far, not too bad. I asked Isaac for help, and he had little to give honestly, but together we picked and watched the games this past weekend. So a couple of thoughts first.

1. Greg Oden is a thug. That was a dirty, intentional foul and OSU should've lost the game.

2. Mike Barnes (Texas Coach) is an idiot. How do you not call a timeout when your team is getting trampled by a 17-3 run? How? And how do you fail to post up your best player on smaller guards? Forget that, try getting him the ball period. Kevin Durant got the ball twice during that USC run. Ugh...so upset at this outcome.

3. Going into the 2nd round I had 14 winners to pick out of a possible 16 games. I was 13 of 13 heading into the Texas game. I had Texas. I had Texas winning it all. I hate Rick Barnes. Complete moron. I finished with 13 of 16 winners picked and in 13th place overall in the office pool.

4. I still have an outside shot at winning the office pool. But OSU must lose. But I've been rooting for that all along. I despise the buckeyes. They should've lost Saturday (but ended up winning the best game of the tournament so far. Go figure). How Isaac slept through my screaming and yelling during this game is also beyond me.

5. I'll miss Gus Johnson. A fantastic announcer. I get chills thinking about his call of the OSU game and the UCLA game from last year. Great play-by-play guy. Why CBS isn't letting him continue is beyond me.

My picks for the final four are intact, well, except for Texas. I have Florida, UCLA, Texas A&M and had Texas. I'm leading a couple of online groups but we'll see. Without my National Champion, I don't stand much of a chance. Can't say I've heard of anyone winning without having the eventual champion.

The Mourning After

How do I write about my despair. How do I put into words this abject sadness that fights to consume me over this cup of coffee. For most of last night and as I awoke this morning, I thought of all the plays we could have run differently. How Reche could've caught the ball. How if Evans had broken a tackle and scampered inside the 20 with 24 seconds to play. If Brady had gone to the sidelines instead of over the middle. How a non-pass interference call on Reche and a bogus roughing-the-passer call on Banta-Cain could have sealed it for us (Seriously. I hit my dog harder than Tulla hit Peyton. Not saying we would've of stopped them, but that type of a call cannot be made in those situations. Also, how is that the announcers mentioned it only once? It was arguably the biggest play of the game getting the Colts to the 11 instead of the at the 20?).

Then it occurs to me...all this "we" stuff. It's not like I had any control over what was happening. Despite not shaving, despite wearing the same clothes every Sunday through the playoffs, despite eating only certain foods, there was nothing I could have done to control the outcome of the game. Of course, this realization lead to complete helplessness for a short-time. Why is it that sports fans put themselves through it? I have no answers, not this morning. On October 28, 2004 I had answers for you. On February 3, 2002 I had answers for you. This morning, I have nothing.

On the morning after the Mets won the '86 World Series, I remember it was my mother who told me as I woke up and scurried into the kitchen. I remember the same feeling then, as a six-year-old, that I have now. Then, as a baseball player, I pondered in my head whether I should want to play for the Mets when I got older -- because they were the champs. Then it occurred to me that I couldn't do that because the Red Sox needed me.

Do the Patriots need me? Probably not. Though I've got pretty good hands. They don't need me in any physical, emotional or metaphysical sense. I don't have those delusions. What I've surmised is that being a sports fan is like riding a roller coaster. There's the waiting in line, anticipation as the cars climb to the top, and then the up-and-down-topsy-turvy ride to the end. Sometimes the end is less than satisfying. Sometimes it's over at just the right moment. Either way, you usually enjoy the ride and want to do it again.

I enjoyed the ride. And I want to do it again. Also, don't misunderstand me either, this entry is not cathartic in any way. I'm still upset. But in anticipation of next year's ride, maybe I should lay off the ice cream and chips.

Some Musings

Thoroughly enjoying the new John Mayer CD "Continuum". Fantastic, really. Easy on the ears, great lyrics and more than a few songs with a groove. One of my favorites, like everyone elses, is "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room". Also, a big fan of "Gravity". And bonus points to Mayer's imperative inside of the album jacket: "If your listening to this with an instrument on your lap: get to work, and deep in it. We all need you."

Finished my third book in two weeks, all by Nick Hornby. High Fidelity was by far his best of the books. Of course, I'd seen the movie already -- also a very good flick.

Next book is The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage by Paul Elie. It interweaves the life of four, 1940s and 50s Catholic writers (The so-called Lost Generation): Dorothy Day, Walker Percy, Thomas Merton, and, one of my all-time favorites, Flannery O'Connor. The book examines their struggles with religion and art and discusses their approaches to writing. Thus far, I'm very intrigued.

So this friend of mine, the one who's blog I named, changed the name of his blog. No. I'm not bitter. Not at all. Though, I must admit, his new name, very strong. Meets the criteria. Check it out.

If you don't watch Scrubs, shame on you. Last night's episode was classic. Any song where you can combine diverticulitis and barium enemas (been there, done that. Sorry. TMI.) is instantly a classic. And what's wrong with hearing singing in your head?

This English Football team thing may have been a bad idea. One of the teams I picked, Newcastle, got drubbed on national television Wednesday at home, against a lower seeded team. Oh...and there's now accusations of racism against the team.

No predictions on the big game Sunday. Rest assured however, that I am in full superstition mode...even down to the way I shave.

I'm Getting Old

It dawned on me last night after a game of basketball that I'm getting old. I say this because when I got home both of my knees were sore. Now, I've not ever had a history of knee problems -- not in both knees. In college I partially tore my left knee MCL in a rather embarrassing incident:

I was playing softball and launched a ball to the deepest part of right field. With my blazing speed I was able to get all the way around third before the ball had even reached the cut-off man. So, trotting into home, I decided to make a rather emphatic statement. I stomped my left leg down on the plate. My leg locked and my knee popped. I rolled all the way to the backstop. The crowd went from cheering to silence to laughter. Adding insult to injury, the doctor later told me I had a partial tear which I've never had fixed.

So my left knee occasionally bothers me during basketball or football or soccer games -- but it's manageable. Now my right knee is also acting up in the much the same way. So either I now have knee problems or I've gained too much weight and my knees can't support my weight (this is less likely cause I'm only 165lbs).

The conclusion: I'm getting old.

OHSAA

I've been out of town since Thursday -- thus no blog updates. This weekend was the annual Ohio State High School Football Playoffs. It's held at the Pro Football Hall of Fame and our TV station airs every game live across the state and so I was sent up to help with broadcasts. Three 15 hr. days and nights of going out wear you down and then to come back and work a full day in Columbus...well...I'm languished at the moment. Though, this game was unbelievable!

If you've never been to the Pro Football Hall of Fame -- you haven't missed much. Maybe I'm just not a maudlin football fan. I don't know. It doesn't strike me. Not like Cooperstown would.

The bust room is sublime (and Dad, that pic I sent you was of John Hannah's face, not Abraham Lincoln. Question: Why would I send you a pic of Abraham Lincoln's bust?).Other than that, there's not much to see. But certainly, check it out if you love to see pictures, old helmets, cleats and jock straps the players wore. Then it's worth it.

Yes. I did touch Tom Brady's jersey. That was cool -- and there's a section devoted to their 21-game win streak, too. But I touched Tom's game jersey. Oh. And if you were wondering...I had nothing to do with this...but it's freaking hilarious!

It's Kind Of A Big Deal

You may have heard about this football game being played this weekend? If not -- shame on you.

I am not a college football fan -- for a number of reasons that don't need to be mentioned in this post. I have no allegiances to any college football program like I do the for Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins and Celtics. But I am a sports fan -- a passionate sports fan. Plus I live in Columbus -- in the heart of Buckeye country.

So why am I wearing Maize and Blue today? Two reasons:

1) As mentioned before, I hate college football. Hate it. But being a sports fan I grew up watching this rivalry. From Desmond Howard's Heisman pose to Charles Woodson's INT, I watched the Michigan-OSU game every year. And every year, I pulled for Michigan -- with, perhaps on a season level, the exception of maybe the Woodson year -- I was a fan of the Bobby Hoying/Terry Glenn/Eddie George era. Such things happen in lieu of zeal (GRE word!) for college football. But, I have been and will continue to be a Michigan fan. If, only, because of my favorite athlete Tom Brady (have you heard about my Man Crush on Mr. Brady) -- and despite the allegiance of my most hated, yet respected, athlete Derek Jeter.

2) It annoys the crap out of everyone I work with.

Now objectively I think OSU will win by 14 points at least. For my job's sake (I'm producing the news in Columbus on Saturday night) I want OSU to win and make life easier (hey, it's the weekend!).

But: Go Maize and Blue!