Monday, November 2, 2009
I Never Went to (any of the) Yankee Stadium
Back on Lakewood Avenue in Schenectady, NY, one of the neighborhood dads took some of the kids to Yankee Stadium on a yearly basis, but it always seemed to be when my family was traveling during Dad's time off. I have to believe Yankee Stadium is "all that" in its 3rd incarnation, because let's face it, you SHOULD be able to get a real palace for a billion and large change. (Congrats in advance for what I expect will be a championship in the new stadium's first year.)
While only briefly mentioning that I'll stand by my prediction of a six game Series with Jeter or A-Rod as MVP (oh my, out on a limb with those guys!) I had a little flashback about karma last night watching several batters foul pitches off. There are a couple types of fouls: those that are grounded outside the lines, some that squib into the dirt around home, long drives that drift off, pop ups, and then those hissing ones that come when the batter undercuts a fastball. I only made it to one Charlotte Knights baseball game this summer, and karma wound up looking like the lattermost foul.
Our group had just over 100 people in it and minor league ticket prices are very family friendly, so its a terrific event, one I should/will definitely take advantage of more, even if Charlotte is a heckuva long way from ever getting that team relocated from Ft. Mill to downtown.
So it gets to be the top of the seventh, and someone not in our group *finally* makes it to the game, and I should clarify that we're on the first base line about half way up the lower stands. Believe it or not, while there are PLENTY of seats to be had, this particular father makes a couple teenagers move so he, wife, daughter and two others can sit in exactly the seats he paid for. Sure didn't *seem* like it should be a priority if you're not arriving until the seventh, but he gets the seats.
Leaving a couple sodas and whatever with the wife and daughter, he leaves to get more of whatever is needed, and wouldn't you know it, less that five minutes after arriving, a wicked foul gets past the netting that only protects those directly behind the plate and homes in on those seats.
When I said 'hissing', I was two rows behind those people and I heard it coming. The daughter barely got her hand up and head half-ducked in time to avoid taking it square in the face, getting two dislocated fingers (and undoubtedly some heavy fear factor) from the deal. The ball blasts the soda she was holding, richochets hard off Mom's shoulder, continues off the left shoulder of another guy the row in front of me, and while we're all saying "wow! that was a smoking shot!" the ball bumps up against my sneaker. Being the truly good guy I am, I know karma will allow me to talk about how that jerk got his family blown up only if I give up the ball, which I do. "Would you like the ball as a souvenir?" I ask the teary and really shaken up girl, who uh-huhs me even if she probably hated baseball right then.
Now, I've told that story maybe twenty times since, but it never ceases to strike me as an unreal coincidence that the guy put his family there *right before* that missile came in. The only better story I have like that is going to a hockey game with the Junior Chamber of Commerce back in Albany, NY. They were shooting those t-shirts from a hand-cannon, and as I waited in the aisle in case the RiverRats mascot turned it our direction, I flashed on that Miller beer commercial where an old guy closes his eyes and sticks his glove up in hopes of catching a home run. The guy behind him snags the ball and drops it in the mitt, getting a manly chuck in the chest and beer tap from his buddy. Amazingly, that t-shirt smacked into my hand without me moving it an inch, and I immediately gave it to a girl whose birthday was the next day, even though it was actually MY birthday.
Nobody bought me a beer for that, and my baseline philosophy about those two incidents is, if there's no great difference between two choices, there is absolutely no reason to be anything less than gracious-cool about the options. Take those empty seats one row back; let the other guy into traffic when nobody is really going to get anywhere too quick anyway. And, when you get a clear cut vision about something like what happened with that hockey game, follow through on that feeling. At some point maybe karma comes back with thoughts about five or six particular numbers, but you will *always* have a story that makes you feel good when you tell it.
Glenn S.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
SPRINT Championship (almost) Foregone Conclusion, but Watch My Smoke
Having knocked out a bike ride of nearly 20 miles for the third time in a week, I pronounce myself ready for a sprint where Jimmy Johnson has no greater chance of denying me than all those going-left NASCAR guys have of stopping him from a fourth straight championship.
Okay, that's probably a specious statement, since Jimmy's Sprint season has been loaded with results and my sprint is predicated on writing a 50,000 word novel in thirty days, so let's just agree that we'll both hit the desired final wire around Thanksgiving and he'll get both plenty of attention and a butt-load more dinero for his achievement.
I kind of understand the scoring system for NASCAR's championship, but its somewhat telling that most calculations about the possibility of derailing Mr. Johnson's crowning revolve around "and he gets caught in a huge wreck at Talladega." While a DNF (did not finish) means no points and obviously those drivers closest to Johnson's total would make progress if they manage to avoid the wrecks that are legendary at Talladega, JJ has kept a remarkably 'clean' car all season. (FYI- the radically slanted super-speedway provides centrifigual force that keeps cars on the upper edge vs. usual higher-or-lower search for the best groove. Cars run in extended lines because when one gets out of what cyclists might call the peleton, its impossible to squeeze back in. The result is fast pacing, little passing, and when "something happens", it usually catches a whoooole LOT of people in the mess.) In fact, Johnson's last DNF *was* at Talladega in 2006--he was dueling for the lead with Dale Ernhardt, Jr. on the last lap and they both got taken out by Brian Vickers. It *could* happen, but with four races to go, you'd could get long odds that he'd suddenly get a real run of negatives and get caught in the points race, where he leads Mark Martin by 118, Jeff Gordon by 150, and the loveable, Burger King-eating Tony Stewart by 192.
Like everyone except Jimmy, I won't be winning a championship in November. I may not even watch much of that other major November championship, The World Series between the Phillies and Yankees, because keeping the pedal to the metal is the only way to get to the finish line on that 50K. I'm saving one Saturday off in order to catch some Charlotte Rugby Club action out at Skillbeck Athletic Grounds, and I'm expecting to make it to at least one HS football playoff game in the next three weeks. Other than that, and some 15-mile bike rides that take about an hour and add staying power to the physical demands one might not suspect are involved in the writing process (oh, and I guess that 'real job' thing will require some time and effort), I'm locked into this race till the end.
Predictions: Jimmy wins his Sprint championship by oh, 88 points over truly 'old boy' Martin without crashing at Talladega; the Yankees return to the top of the baseball heap in a thrilling six games with Mr. Clutch Derek Jeter or A-Rod (see ball, hit ball is working for you Alex!) the MVP; Independence HS makes it to the state finals, and I survive many, many hours alone with my computer before producing something I'll be equally proud about accomplishing, just about the time I scarf the last of any leftover turkey.
Glenn S.
Okay, that's probably a specious statement, since Jimmy's Sprint season has been loaded with results and my sprint is predicated on writing a 50,000 word novel in thirty days, so let's just agree that we'll both hit the desired final wire around Thanksgiving and he'll get both plenty of attention and a butt-load more dinero for his achievement.
I kind of understand the scoring system for NASCAR's championship, but its somewhat telling that most calculations about the possibility of derailing Mr. Johnson's crowning revolve around "and he gets caught in a huge wreck at Talladega." While a DNF (did not finish) means no points and obviously those drivers closest to Johnson's total would make progress if they manage to avoid the wrecks that are legendary at Talladega, JJ has kept a remarkably 'clean' car all season. (FYI- the radically slanted super-speedway provides centrifigual force that keeps cars on the upper edge vs. usual higher-or-lower search for the best groove. Cars run in extended lines because when one gets out of what cyclists might call the peleton, its impossible to squeeze back in. The result is fast pacing, little passing, and when "something happens", it usually catches a whoooole LOT of people in the mess.) In fact, Johnson's last DNF *was* at Talladega in 2006--he was dueling for the lead with Dale Ernhardt, Jr. on the last lap and they both got taken out by Brian Vickers. It *could* happen, but with four races to go, you'd could get long odds that he'd suddenly get a real run of negatives and get caught in the points race, where he leads Mark Martin by 118, Jeff Gordon by 150, and the loveable, Burger King-eating Tony Stewart by 192.
Like everyone except Jimmy, I won't be winning a championship in November. I may not even watch much of that other major November championship, The World Series between the Phillies and Yankees, because keeping the pedal to the metal is the only way to get to the finish line on that 50K. I'm saving one Saturday off in order to catch some Charlotte Rugby Club action out at Skillbeck Athletic Grounds, and I'm expecting to make it to at least one HS football playoff game in the next three weeks. Other than that, and some 15-mile bike rides that take about an hour and add staying power to the physical demands one might not suspect are involved in the writing process (oh, and I guess that 'real job' thing will require some time and effort), I'm locked into this race till the end.
Predictions: Jimmy wins his Sprint championship by oh, 88 points over truly 'old boy' Martin without crashing at Talladega; the Yankees return to the top of the baseball heap in a thrilling six games with Mr. Clutch Derek Jeter or A-Rod (see ball, hit ball is working for you Alex!) the MVP; Independence HS makes it to the state finals, and I survive many, many hours alone with my computer before producing something I'll be equally proud about accomplishing, just about the time I scarf the last of any leftover turkey.
Glenn S.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Glad I Saw the Game, But...
Watching Independence blow out to a 41-0 half-time lead (it was 27-0 before I got all the way in from the parking lot) and hold South Meck scoreless until 3:01 left in the third before having the reserves hold on for a 55-28 final tally isn't going to help me much in evaluating just how big a game the Butler-Independence shootout is going to be on November 6th. I got fully enlightened on that by the gentleman who was *very* ticked that even though he has obviously supported The Big I as completely as possible with "family packs" of tickets, he would be given no preference when tickets for that particular event went on sale.
That acknowledged "biggie" may well mark a changing of the guard in Mecklenburg high school football. While Butler has built a great rep, Big I has a fistful-plus of championship trophies to show anyone who thinks they rate being called the best. Langston Wertz Jr. (lwertz@charlotteobserver.com) has seen a lot more games than I and puts Butler ahead, and I wish his one man campaign to have the game played at 6000-seats-plus-great-scoreboard Providence High on Nov. 7th the best of luck. That he thinks the State selection committee will let them play Sat. and delay slotting the two teams for the playoffs even a few hours is probably a Quixotian quest.
Yes, the input of watching Anthony Carrothers go 16-25 for 288 yards and four TDs brought some perspective last Friday, and yes, I admit the first thought was, "You're kidding me, THAT is the QB?!" because he is probably 160 lbs. including his helmet and shoulder pads. The only time he looked like he had any size was when he tossed footballs on the sidelines to 2nd graders during halftime, the lucky students from a local elementary school gaining the privilege because of good behavior.
But when Carrothers throws it for real, you recognize he's a worthy heir to the lineage of excellence that has manned the position for many years at Big I. He has no problem making throws to the sidelines, and several went through receivers hands, probably because there was some real pace on them. On back-to-back throws he put it RIGHT ON the sideline flag from 50 yards out, getting a drop on the first and tough coverage knocking the second away. He snuck a screen pass in the mix for 17, then came an absolute bullet from 33 for the score that showed why he's for real. College scouts are reportedly looking at him, and while one has to wonder if the difference between high school and college linemen will allow for him to continue a la Chris Leak, here's hoping he gets a chance somewhere.
I recall young (yes he was, once upon a time) Bobby Bowden giving scholarships to something like 17 QBs when he took over at West Virginia, primarily because QBs are considered the best athletes and can be turned into players at almost any other position. That same scholarship story indicates Bobby gave all he had to out-of-staters, stating definitively that West Virginia didn't have anyone that rated a scholarship, which is why he didn't stay at WVU very long. You'd like to think Carrothers ability gets him such a shot as well.
Not that there's anything wrong with being "just" a really good player on a really good team. With all the hype about Butler's Christian LeMay, who I doubt I'll get to see this Friday because of commitments, one still wonders how good they are until teams that can really test them show up. LeMay's stats are relatively low yardage-wise, which you have to give their coach credit for. He is certainly super-accurate, going 9-11 for 177 and three TDs while Butler massacred Ardrey Kell 67-0, and playing just the first half shows restraint, even if receiver Anthony Short had 181 total yards and four touchdowns.
And people, if you haven't caught a HS football game in a while, do something about that, because the atmosphere will put you on the Memory Train. No, we might not *think* we were such silly teenagers, we definitely didn't have cell phones, but when the cheerleaders are shaking it and the dads in the stands are shouting encouragement to individual players for a hit, catch, block, or event of note, you can't help but remember "back in the day" yourself. I've got a baseline notion of what a top team and QB looks like now, but I also know teams like West Charlotte have massive O-lineman, and I didn't see that at Independence. Guess I will have to TIVO some of the college games and watch some playoff games in the near future to really know the deal.
Glenn S.
That acknowledged "biggie" may well mark a changing of the guard in Mecklenburg high school football. While Butler has built a great rep, Big I has a fistful-plus of championship trophies to show anyone who thinks they rate being called the best. Langston Wertz Jr. (lwertz@charlotteobserver.com) has seen a lot more games than I and puts Butler ahead, and I wish his one man campaign to have the game played at 6000-seats-plus-great-scoreboard Providence High on Nov. 7th the best of luck. That he thinks the State selection committee will let them play Sat. and delay slotting the two teams for the playoffs even a few hours is probably a Quixotian quest.
Yes, the input of watching Anthony Carrothers go 16-25 for 288 yards and four TDs brought some perspective last Friday, and yes, I admit the first thought was, "You're kidding me, THAT is the QB?!" because he is probably 160 lbs. including his helmet and shoulder pads. The only time he looked like he had any size was when he tossed footballs on the sidelines to 2nd graders during halftime, the lucky students from a local elementary school gaining the privilege because of good behavior.
But when Carrothers throws it for real, you recognize he's a worthy heir to the lineage of excellence that has manned the position for many years at Big I. He has no problem making throws to the sidelines, and several went through receivers hands, probably because there was some real pace on them. On back-to-back throws he put it RIGHT ON the sideline flag from 50 yards out, getting a drop on the first and tough coverage knocking the second away. He snuck a screen pass in the mix for 17, then came an absolute bullet from 33 for the score that showed why he's for real. College scouts are reportedly looking at him, and while one has to wonder if the difference between high school and college linemen will allow for him to continue a la Chris Leak, here's hoping he gets a chance somewhere.
I recall young (yes he was, once upon a time) Bobby Bowden giving scholarships to something like 17 QBs when he took over at West Virginia, primarily because QBs are considered the best athletes and can be turned into players at almost any other position. That same scholarship story indicates Bobby gave all he had to out-of-staters, stating definitively that West Virginia didn't have anyone that rated a scholarship, which is why he didn't stay at WVU very long. You'd like to think Carrothers ability gets him such a shot as well.
Not that there's anything wrong with being "just" a really good player on a really good team. With all the hype about Butler's Christian LeMay, who I doubt I'll get to see this Friday because of commitments, one still wonders how good they are until teams that can really test them show up. LeMay's stats are relatively low yardage-wise, which you have to give their coach credit for. He is certainly super-accurate, going 9-11 for 177 and three TDs while Butler massacred Ardrey Kell 67-0, and playing just the first half shows restraint, even if receiver Anthony Short had 181 total yards and four touchdowns.
And people, if you haven't caught a HS football game in a while, do something about that, because the atmosphere will put you on the Memory Train. No, we might not *think* we were such silly teenagers, we definitely didn't have cell phones, but when the cheerleaders are shaking it and the dads in the stands are shouting encouragement to individual players for a hit, catch, block, or event of note, you can't help but remember "back in the day" yourself. I've got a baseline notion of what a top team and QB looks like now, but I also know teams like West Charlotte have massive O-lineman, and I didn't see that at Independence. Guess I will have to TIVO some of the college games and watch some playoff games in the near future to really know the deal.
Glenn S.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
"The Only Thing America Likes Better Than a Hero...
...is a fallen hero" is how a particular negative line often goes, and yeah, we seem to like pointing out when some individual or team proves to be more human-slash-fallible than we had believed. Right now a lot of people are looking at the Dallas Cowboys, they of the $1.2 billion stadium with its mega-huge-even-by-Texas-standards TV screen and will-Bum's-kid-get-the-boot? type record after barely finishing off pitiful Kansas City in overtime on Sunday. You can read the controversy about Tony Romo's foibles as a QB or the fact they haven't won a playoff game since 1996 and get the gist of how human they have become.
Me, I'm committed to going to the Independence HS game on Friday, and yes, its because they are looking less like human steamrollers and more like high school kids than most people in the Charlotte area can recall.
In 2007 Independence lost to Cincinatti's Elder HS, ending a 109-game winning streak, then lost a second time to Butler. In 2008 their seven year run as State 4-AA champions ended, and while they are undefeated (8-0) this year, it took an interception late in the game to barely pull out a win over Providence HS 31-27 their last time out. Heck, Butler is ranked ahead of them both in the local Sweet 16 and at the State and national levels, but thats going to get sorted out in the most definitive way on November 6th when the two programs collide at Butler. It seems legit to see how Big I responds after a nail-biter against "ordinary" opposition before watching a REALLY big game, and I'm actually excited about attending my first high school game since, well, maybe the early 80s.
Football, in case you didn't actually know this, is a VERY big deal in the South, and it's impressive that teams like Independence actually travel to someplace like Cincinatti, or that Charlotte Catholic traveled to play-beat a Florida team, Jupiter Christian, that owned the states longest win streak (32 games) 37-25 last week. As much as I appreciate the rifle-armed QBs the college game currently showcases (and Colt McCoy is my pick for the best), I'm looking forward to seeing what a well-regarded recruit like Anthony Carrothers or Butler's Christian LeMay can do. LeMay went 11-14 for 182 yards and three TDs against East Meck last week, but I went to an East Meck (now 3-4) practice and wasn't impressed with their sluggishness. It's been suggested that Butler-Independence play at Providence HS in order to utilize the biggest on-campus stadium in the area and its not Texas-sized but still terrific video scoreboard screen. Games of this caliber have usually been held at Memorial Stadium on the CPCC campus, but its under construction now.
Just an extra note about another local football game: wasn't that just the most unexpectedly good comeback victory you'd want to see, having the Panthers, now 1-3, come back from down 17-2 to win against the Redskins? And speaking of fallen heroes, how about the idea of linebacker Jon Beason semi-calling out Julius Peppers on a radio show last Thursday about his lack of production? I'm glad they gave Thomas Davis the safety vs. Peppers, but at least the big man's name was uttered on several occasions. Beason spoke true, and if it rattled some people, so be it. Americans also like to see 'heroes' kick some tail instead of perform under the radar. Even if he's more of an anti-hero, you can put a check mark next to 'responded in clutch' for Rickie Williams of the Dolphins in that respect. Their win over the Jets was another gut-check win. Even if I still can't believe the 'Fins didn't pick the franchise QB that Matt Ryan is proving to be in Atlanta, congrats to Williams and Chad Henne for doing the deed when given their chances.
Glenn S.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Purity of an Underdog's Effort
Having just watched the Twins survive a bases loaded top of the 12th against Detroit and then score to put themselves into an unlikely playoff against the mighty Yankees, I'm probably one of a thousand or so writers wondering what comes next. Will the proverbial gas tank be empty of emotion and/or effort when they step into the magnificent $1.5 billion structure that is Yankee Stadium (and yes, like the 'Marvelous' that Marvin Hagler saw before his name so frequently that he finally added it legally, the price tag for the House that Steinbrenner built will surely always be there), or will they believe they are *Destined* and continue over-achieving?
It's so true that America loves its underdogs, beginning with the rag-tag conglomeration that was the Continental Army challenging the highly favored British Empire to da Bums of Brooklyn, celebrated in every WWII flick as the dying kid's deepest wish to see win the Series before he died, to Lake Placid's 'Miracle on Ice' victory over the Russians and well, Kurt Schilling's bloody sock and the Red Sox finally beating the Yankees in the clutch and then winning a Series for the first time in longer than most humans live on this planet, we cherish watching sports for exactly this sort of impossible scaling of the heights.
If you've ever been on the mind-bending winning side of the equation, its simply something that can be withdrawn from the Memory Bank when things aren't going at all well and provides an emergency transfusion of air back into your cajone holder, or conversely, be placed alongside circumstances that are exceptionally favorable--say, discovering those silver dollars Grandpa gave you way back when you were five are worth like $50,000--and be delighted just how crazy good that feeling overpowers whatever is second. Having previously overcome that small-market-team-beats-the-odds mountain before (Kirbo and Jack Morris defeating the dominant Braves) maybe this Twins version isn't that same category though...
Finding the Rochester Institute of Technology game program from 1979 when I was coaching the Brockport State girls hockey club as a college senior revived my own underdog memories, and since I was actually searching boxes trying to find 2005 and 2006 state tax returns, such a diversion was welcome.
'The Game' was actually against Ithaca College, which had beaten us 3-1 a week earlier at Brockport, getting an empty net goal with :02 after we'd done a textbook job of keeping the puck in their zone for over a minute and peppering their goalie with 6-7 quality shots. Going to play them at Lynah Arena on the Cornell campus was about Big Time Payback, a truly amazing attitude for a club team with **ONLY TEN PLAYERS** going against a varsity team of 20 identically outfitted players. Their coach noted "some of your girls don't have cages on their helmets" in our pre-game meeting and that cages were mandatory for ECAC teams, which was true, but we were a CLUB team (one step above 'interest group') and intramural helmets was the best we could do.
Actually, our goalie (Judy Dufresne) represented our single best chance of winning, and my only rule as a coach was that NOBODY be allowed close enough to put ice shavings on her back when she covered up pucks. Judy was wearing a purple-gold LA Kings jersey while the other girls wore green, including four cold, wet, stinking jerseys that I'd borrowed after the men's varsity practice the previous afternoon and tossed into an equipment bag. When one of the girls commented about those aspects I only said, "Put it on, we gotta tape a number on it." I'd borrowed some other equipment (sticks and shin pads) early that Saturday morning, and believe me, guys knocking on doors at 8:30 are NOT the most welcome people in college. I guess I should be grateful that the "venerable" VW bus I got from someone never made it off the campus because the gears were shot--if they'd failed on the hilly terrain around Ithaca or even on the three hour drive there, we'd *really* have been in deep poop.
It was funny LATER, but when I arrived at the athletic complex to pick everyone up, hearing that "Barbie's sick!" was a killer notion, because Barb Hain, *maybe* 5-feet of energetic enthusiasm, was one of three key players. Barb went from playing field hockey to hockey to lacrosse and was an awesome combination of quick and fast--she got past you, chances of catching her were slim. I originally recruited her during a foosball game. While we had to stop several times en route for her to puke, it turned out to just be 'Freshman Flu', also called a hangover. Because Ithaca didn't 100% clear the ice time with the Cornell men's JV, our game started over an hour late, and Barb recovered enough to score two goals and skate like a demon the entire game.
In fact, four girls scored two each as we whipped the Blue Bombers 8-2, and I swear my feet never touched the ice going over to say "nice game" to their coach. Linda Wilcox, who had been a four year starter for Ithaca (and still struck fear into players who remembered her hits in practice) had two and was truly a coach on the ice while playing a ton of multiple shifts; she could only play for us because while her eligibility was used up, we weren't ECAC varsity.
That my brother Steve, who played JV hoops and did crew at Cornell as a freshman, knew I was coming and brought my folks, aunt, uncle, and nephew to the game before they went to see his game counts huge in the scheme of remembering. Mom mentioned that "all the girls have enormous rear ends", clueless about hockey padding and what my being a coach meant in any Bigger Picture. I was super cool in my three piece suit and polyester print shirt, snapping open the gate as we rotated nine players through three-15 minute periods... The girls thought it was hilarious that the Ithaca players got interviewed for local TV after we'd laid such a beating on them.
It was below zero driving back to Brockport, and it was a good thing we had extra blankets to wrap up in and a little herb to keep the post-game 'high' going strong. Barb got drilled in a men's hockey class shortly after that game (I'm sure the guy was proud to have finally caught up to her), and Judy, also playing in a men's game to stay sharp, popped a blood vessel behind her eye and missed our last game, another 6-1 loss to RIT. 'Space Cadet' Jeanette soaked a soft cast from a Tues. volleyball injury off, and the ankle was so heavily taped she could barely get her foot into the skate. I got a great lesson in life while telling a teary female, who felt she'd let the team down because several barely moving shots scored (she didnt tell us she couldn't see s**t in the mask) and wanted to just leave, thanks for trying to take Judy's goalie duties but your buddies still need you to stay and play defense. As a team and athletes we had nothing left to give, so that Ithaca game was the best memory I'll ever expect to have--they absolutely played better than I can give myself credit for coaching. Hell, I put 'Head Coach Womens Ice Hockey Team' on my resume for five years after graduation simply because of my respect for what they had accomplished that particular afternoon.
I might add that I contacted the Charlotte Checkers ECHL team about a chance to strap on the goalie pads yesterday too. We'll see how that desire to maybe have Chubby the mascot take some shots at me 30 years after my last intramural game comes along in the next couple weeks. I'm willing to sign a bunch of CYA (cover your ass) paperwork to make it come true, and I *do* have a job with medical coverage just in case...
It's so true that America loves its underdogs, beginning with the rag-tag conglomeration that was the Continental Army challenging the highly favored British Empire to da Bums of Brooklyn, celebrated in every WWII flick as the dying kid's deepest wish to see win the Series before he died, to Lake Placid's 'Miracle on Ice' victory over the Russians and well, Kurt Schilling's bloody sock and the Red Sox finally beating the Yankees in the clutch and then winning a Series for the first time in longer than most humans live on this planet, we cherish watching sports for exactly this sort of impossible scaling of the heights.
If you've ever been on the mind-bending winning side of the equation, its simply something that can be withdrawn from the Memory Bank when things aren't going at all well and provides an emergency transfusion of air back into your cajone holder, or conversely, be placed alongside circumstances that are exceptionally favorable--say, discovering those silver dollars Grandpa gave you way back when you were five are worth like $50,000--and be delighted just how crazy good that feeling overpowers whatever is second. Having previously overcome that small-market-team-beats-the-odds mountain before (Kirbo and Jack Morris defeating the dominant Braves) maybe this Twins version isn't that same category though...
Finding the Rochester Institute of Technology game program from 1979 when I was coaching the Brockport State girls hockey club as a college senior revived my own underdog memories, and since I was actually searching boxes trying to find 2005 and 2006 state tax returns, such a diversion was welcome.
'The Game' was actually against Ithaca College, which had beaten us 3-1 a week earlier at Brockport, getting an empty net goal with :02 after we'd done a textbook job of keeping the puck in their zone for over a minute and peppering their goalie with 6-7 quality shots. Going to play them at Lynah Arena on the Cornell campus was about Big Time Payback, a truly amazing attitude for a club team with **ONLY TEN PLAYERS** going against a varsity team of 20 identically outfitted players. Their coach noted "some of your girls don't have cages on their helmets" in our pre-game meeting and that cages were mandatory for ECAC teams, which was true, but we were a CLUB team (one step above 'interest group') and intramural helmets was the best we could do.
Actually, our goalie (Judy Dufresne) represented our single best chance of winning, and my only rule as a coach was that NOBODY be allowed close enough to put ice shavings on her back when she covered up pucks. Judy was wearing a purple-gold LA Kings jersey while the other girls wore green, including four cold, wet, stinking jerseys that I'd borrowed after the men's varsity practice the previous afternoon and tossed into an equipment bag. When one of the girls commented about those aspects I only said, "Put it on, we gotta tape a number on it." I'd borrowed some other equipment (sticks and shin pads) early that Saturday morning, and believe me, guys knocking on doors at 8:30 are NOT the most welcome people in college. I guess I should be grateful that the "venerable" VW bus I got from someone never made it off the campus because the gears were shot--if they'd failed on the hilly terrain around Ithaca or even on the three hour drive there, we'd *really* have been in deep poop.
It was funny LATER, but when I arrived at the athletic complex to pick everyone up, hearing that "Barbie's sick!" was a killer notion, because Barb Hain, *maybe* 5-feet of energetic enthusiasm, was one of three key players. Barb went from playing field hockey to hockey to lacrosse and was an awesome combination of quick and fast--she got past you, chances of catching her were slim. I originally recruited her during a foosball game. While we had to stop several times en route for her to puke, it turned out to just be 'Freshman Flu', also called a hangover. Because Ithaca didn't 100% clear the ice time with the Cornell men's JV, our game started over an hour late, and Barb recovered enough to score two goals and skate like a demon the entire game.
In fact, four girls scored two each as we whipped the Blue Bombers 8-2, and I swear my feet never touched the ice going over to say "nice game" to their coach. Linda Wilcox, who had been a four year starter for Ithaca (and still struck fear into players who remembered her hits in practice) had two and was truly a coach on the ice while playing a ton of multiple shifts; she could only play for us because while her eligibility was used up, we weren't ECAC varsity.
That my brother Steve, who played JV hoops and did crew at Cornell as a freshman, knew I was coming and brought my folks, aunt, uncle, and nephew to the game before they went to see his game counts huge in the scheme of remembering. Mom mentioned that "all the girls have enormous rear ends", clueless about hockey padding and what my being a coach meant in any Bigger Picture. I was super cool in my three piece suit and polyester print shirt, snapping open the gate as we rotated nine players through three-15 minute periods... The girls thought it was hilarious that the Ithaca players got interviewed for local TV after we'd laid such a beating on them.
It was below zero driving back to Brockport, and it was a good thing we had extra blankets to wrap up in and a little herb to keep the post-game 'high' going strong. Barb got drilled in a men's hockey class shortly after that game (I'm sure the guy was proud to have finally caught up to her), and Judy, also playing in a men's game to stay sharp, popped a blood vessel behind her eye and missed our last game, another 6-1 loss to RIT. 'Space Cadet' Jeanette soaked a soft cast from a Tues. volleyball injury off, and the ankle was so heavily taped she could barely get her foot into the skate. I got a great lesson in life while telling a teary female, who felt she'd let the team down because several barely moving shots scored (she didnt tell us she couldn't see s**t in the mask) and wanted to just leave, thanks for trying to take Judy's goalie duties but your buddies still need you to stay and play defense. As a team and athletes we had nothing left to give, so that Ithaca game was the best memory I'll ever expect to have--they absolutely played better than I can give myself credit for coaching. Hell, I put 'Head Coach Womens Ice Hockey Team' on my resume for five years after graduation simply because of my respect for what they had accomplished that particular afternoon.
I might add that I contacted the Charlotte Checkers ECHL team about a chance to strap on the goalie pads yesterday too. We'll see how that desire to maybe have Chubby the mascot take some shots at me 30 years after my last intramural game comes along in the next couple weeks. I'm willing to sign a bunch of CYA (cover your ass) paperwork to make it come true, and I *do* have a job with medical coverage just in case...
Monday, September 28, 2009
No Rugby, No Taunting, No Bitchin' About BCS Bids
I've got a bunch of thoughts going, and while my initial one this past misty and cool Saturday morning was just how perfect it would have been to watch (participation is not really an option) some ruggers put a lick on each other, my opinion about potential Bowl Championship Series bids is not going to change between now and the beginning of January, so I'll lay it out there now.
If you are a team like Univ. of South Florida (which put a beating on Florida State in Tallahasee), Utah, or Boise State, and you've previously complained about not getting the proper respect for your program when major bowl bids (meaning Orange, Sugar, Fiesta, Rose) went out, this is your year to put up or shut up.
After last weeks dynamic games, and at the risk of trivializing what our troops in Afghanistan and Iraq face far too often, a couple bombs went off in college football Saturday, and LOTS of teams now have an opportunity that might not have existed before. Read the comments of ANY pollster, and outside of the top three of Florida-Alabama-Texas, its a total crap shoot about where one places teams moving up or down the ladder. Boise State is at #5, and they now control their own fate--no crying if you lose and voters think you were lucky to get considered. Now North Carolina, that's another story--I have to believe the 2 points received after a disheartening (but not out of character) 24-7 loss to Georgia Tech put them at 3-1 were from a local writer. For the record, and relative to last weeks comment about my USF-grad brother, he can't stop telling people how WE beat Bowden's Boys...
Taunting is something that gets called periodically at both the professional and collegiate level, and while I'm usually willing to let some 19-year old put on the dog a little after an electrifying run or game-breaking play against a special team before 90,000 or similar circumstances, there was an incident here is Charlotte recently that showed how such examples often get copied. Near the end of what was a hard-fought game between Providence Day and Concord First Assembly on Sept. 18, CFA intercepted a Providence pass and ran in it for the sealing TD. At the end of the run, the player essentially showed the ball to a chasing opponent, who punched him in the back and precipitated a bench clearing brawl; Thursday the NC Independent Schools Athletic Association suspended both coaches (the highly regarded Bruce Hardin of Providence, former Carolina Panther safety Mike Minter of First Assembly) from this past week's game.
The rationale was that *someone* had to be held accountable, and the ideals of sportsmanship had to be upheld. I offer a split opinion, and I look to the Oregon-Boise St. brawl that started the current college season for obvious similarities. The Oregon player who sucker-punched the Boise player was suspended for the year, a harsh but realistic punishment under the circumstances. This HS game though, well, there was an article in the Charlotte Observer about how the Providence Day players apologized to their coach at their Saturday morning meeting because they recognized how their actions reflected on him, and while I didn't see anything from Mike Minter about punishing the original taunter, I believe justice was done over a heat-of-the-moment incident. Suspending the coaches, I guess its legitimate, but I am seldom in favor of putting the blame on anyone but the specific parties, meaning those two players whose actions began things.
As for rugby, it wouldn't have made a difference if I'd had the day off because the top local group, Charlotte Rugby Club (see www.charlotterugby.com ) was in Washington, DC, where the First and Second XV both registered victories. I do have exceptionally fond memories of being a Schenectady Red and having at it in weather like Saturday's in the Upstate (NY) Rugby Union. I played for 12 seasons, beginning on the wing and ending my career as a flyhalf (most would equate it with quarterback, though scrumhalfs might argue), but watching while quaffing a few will hopefully be a possibility in the near future.
Coincidentially, that aspect of my athletic career ended in the Fall of 1986. I lacked what might be called a 'good foot' as a flyhalf; most can thump a long punt in their sleep. Having been *starved* for ball at the wing (and even after moving to outside center) for years because of constantly kicking flyhalfs however, I promised my 'B' side backs that we would be running the ball religiously and letting other teams worry about tackling us. It worked well--we were 5-1-1 before my final injury (and may I warn any/all readers to *NEVER* get into a discussion about injuries with a rugger. Not going to belabor the point, just don't!)
I guess the other team figured out I wasn't going to cause them any strategic problems by kicking, because late in the first half, as I turned to spin the ball out, I saw ALL the opposing backs already across the imaginary line behind their teams scrum and charging hard at those I intended to pass to. Like a good option QB I kept the ball and cut into the area away from those otherwise occupied forwards and...I swear I could hear something like that "ahhh-ah-ahh!' chorus of angels you always get in the movies when something religiously special is happening. I know the sun was shining brighter and the grass was *definitely* greener as I took off into territory almost totally without others. It was probably 40 yards to the goalline, and about 5 yards out the fullback finally arrived, but I planted on my left, let him flail past me, then, having locked out a troublesome knee (I was using an inadequate neophrene sleeve) backward, I hobbled the remaining distance and planted the ball between the posts, scoring to end my career.
Limping to the sidelines, I told someone to go in, my knee was finished. "Quit being such a pussy Shorks," came the reply, "there's only like 15 seconds left in the half." If you've ever participated, you know the attitude.
It should be noted that Charlotte fields three sides (the 3rd XV are called the Socialites and play essentially 'friendlies') and while their First XV is designated a Super League team since 2006, they have added youth, high school and U-19s into their organization this year.
Ahhh, rugby memories! The Knickerbockers (Albany, NY) were essentially a Super League team in the Northeast, and my Reds nemesis. I still have a championship hat from the 1981 Upstate Tournament where we beat them in a 'B' side match in the semi-finals, shutting them out until the final play of the game, when one of our players punched a Knick who was holding him, right in front of a referee.
Here's the point for anyone who gets into a situation like those Providence players:
You always play hard, and as angry as the Providence team might have been about the taunting, my team had lost 13 STRAIGHT TIMES to the Knicks--can you imagine how we would have felt if we hadn't won that game on the second overtime penalty kick? No great memory of two entire days of outstanding defense in that tournament, that swaggering knowledge of having done the deed that carries on for *years*. We knew that getting a try or even a couple penalty kick points meant we'd win because our guys (and yes, some "rugby whores", guys we gave jerseys to and became Reds for the day) were absolutely STIFFING people. All that would have become nothing, because baby, if you get ejected or suspended, you ain't in the game at all!
Glenn S.
If you are a team like Univ. of South Florida (which put a beating on Florida State in Tallahasee), Utah, or Boise State, and you've previously complained about not getting the proper respect for your program when major bowl bids (meaning Orange, Sugar, Fiesta, Rose) went out, this is your year to put up or shut up.
After last weeks dynamic games, and at the risk of trivializing what our troops in Afghanistan and Iraq face far too often, a couple bombs went off in college football Saturday, and LOTS of teams now have an opportunity that might not have existed before. Read the comments of ANY pollster, and outside of the top three of Florida-Alabama-Texas, its a total crap shoot about where one places teams moving up or down the ladder. Boise State is at #5, and they now control their own fate--no crying if you lose and voters think you were lucky to get considered. Now North Carolina, that's another story--I have to believe the 2 points received after a disheartening (but not out of character) 24-7 loss to Georgia Tech put them at 3-1 were from a local writer. For the record, and relative to last weeks comment about my USF-grad brother, he can't stop telling people how WE beat Bowden's Boys...
Taunting is something that gets called periodically at both the professional and collegiate level, and while I'm usually willing to let some 19-year old put on the dog a little after an electrifying run or game-breaking play against a special team before 90,000 or similar circumstances, there was an incident here is Charlotte recently that showed how such examples often get copied. Near the end of what was a hard-fought game between Providence Day and Concord First Assembly on Sept. 18, CFA intercepted a Providence pass and ran in it for the sealing TD. At the end of the run, the player essentially showed the ball to a chasing opponent, who punched him in the back and precipitated a bench clearing brawl; Thursday the NC Independent Schools Athletic Association suspended both coaches (the highly regarded Bruce Hardin of Providence, former Carolina Panther safety Mike Minter of First Assembly) from this past week's game.
The rationale was that *someone* had to be held accountable, and the ideals of sportsmanship had to be upheld. I offer a split opinion, and I look to the Oregon-Boise St. brawl that started the current college season for obvious similarities. The Oregon player who sucker-punched the Boise player was suspended for the year, a harsh but realistic punishment under the circumstances. This HS game though, well, there was an article in the Charlotte Observer about how the Providence Day players apologized to their coach at their Saturday morning meeting because they recognized how their actions reflected on him, and while I didn't see anything from Mike Minter about punishing the original taunter, I believe justice was done over a heat-of-the-moment incident. Suspending the coaches, I guess its legitimate, but I am seldom in favor of putting the blame on anyone but the specific parties, meaning those two players whose actions began things.
As for rugby, it wouldn't have made a difference if I'd had the day off because the top local group, Charlotte Rugby Club (see www.charlotterugby.com ) was in Washington, DC, where the First and Second XV both registered victories. I do have exceptionally fond memories of being a Schenectady Red and having at it in weather like Saturday's in the Upstate (NY) Rugby Union. I played for 12 seasons, beginning on the wing and ending my career as a flyhalf (most would equate it with quarterback, though scrumhalfs might argue), but watching while quaffing a few will hopefully be a possibility in the near future.
Coincidentially, that aspect of my athletic career ended in the Fall of 1986. I lacked what might be called a 'good foot' as a flyhalf; most can thump a long punt in their sleep. Having been *starved* for ball at the wing (and even after moving to outside center) for years because of constantly kicking flyhalfs however, I promised my 'B' side backs that we would be running the ball religiously and letting other teams worry about tackling us. It worked well--we were 5-1-1 before my final injury (and may I warn any/all readers to *NEVER* get into a discussion about injuries with a rugger. Not going to belabor the point, just don't!)
I guess the other team figured out I wasn't going to cause them any strategic problems by kicking, because late in the first half, as I turned to spin the ball out, I saw ALL the opposing backs already across the imaginary line behind their teams scrum and charging hard at those I intended to pass to. Like a good option QB I kept the ball and cut into the area away from those otherwise occupied forwards and...I swear I could hear something like that "ahhh-ah-ahh!' chorus of angels you always get in the movies when something religiously special is happening. I know the sun was shining brighter and the grass was *definitely* greener as I took off into territory almost totally without others. It was probably 40 yards to the goalline, and about 5 yards out the fullback finally arrived, but I planted on my left, let him flail past me, then, having locked out a troublesome knee (I was using an inadequate neophrene sleeve) backward, I hobbled the remaining distance and planted the ball between the posts, scoring to end my career.
Limping to the sidelines, I told someone to go in, my knee was finished. "Quit being such a pussy Shorks," came the reply, "there's only like 15 seconds left in the half." If you've ever participated, you know the attitude.
It should be noted that Charlotte fields three sides (the 3rd XV are called the Socialites and play essentially 'friendlies') and while their First XV is designated a Super League team since 2006, they have added youth, high school and U-19s into their organization this year.
Ahhh, rugby memories! The Knickerbockers (Albany, NY) were essentially a Super League team in the Northeast, and my Reds nemesis. I still have a championship hat from the 1981 Upstate Tournament where we beat them in a 'B' side match in the semi-finals, shutting them out until the final play of the game, when one of our players punched a Knick who was holding him, right in front of a referee.
Here's the point for anyone who gets into a situation like those Providence players:
You always play hard, and as angry as the Providence team might have been about the taunting, my team had lost 13 STRAIGHT TIMES to the Knicks--can you imagine how we would have felt if we hadn't won that game on the second overtime penalty kick? No great memory of two entire days of outstanding defense in that tournament, that swaggering knowledge of having done the deed that carries on for *years*. We knew that getting a try or even a couple penalty kick points meant we'd win because our guys (and yes, some "rugby whores", guys we gave jerseys to and became Reds for the day) were absolutely STIFFING people. All that would have become nothing, because baby, if you get ejected or suspended, you ain't in the game at all!
Glenn S.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Just Like the Old Days
I'm going to a sports bar to watch this Sunday's NFL games, but that's not *exactly* what I mean about the old days. It's also not about Panther QB Jake Delhomme's unreasonably poor performance as the hometown guys coughed up *SEVEN* turnovers while getting thumped in their home opener by the Eagles, looking like an expansion team instead of 12-4 division champs.
"The old days" is about watching college football until my eyes are ready to bleed, and even if I had to work Saturday afternoon, multiple pre- and post-game highlights shows filled me in on all the extraordinary events. Thankfully I don't have to get up and change the channel like in the OLD old days, but from the stunningly great Boise St.-Fresno St. slugfest in 100 degree heat Friday night through the straight-ahead comments by Georgia's Joe Cox after throwing five TDs in a 52-41 win over Arkansas (and yes, watching Auburn's 'D' hold off West-by-God Virginia), I was a happy camper. Cox, who announcers mentioned never lost a game in high school, is a local Charlotte product, part of that Independence juggernaut that won 7 state titles in a row, and while he is going to be compared to recently departed #1 overall NFL pick Matt Stafford, I'd bet its going to continue being a favorable comparison. For a guy who couldn't have gotten a lot of 'mike time' as a collegiate QB, Cox is an exceptionally polished performer there as well, no umms and ya' knows at all.
If you saw the Fresno-Boise game Friday night, or the enthusiasm of an absolutely drenched crowd that stayed for the Auburn-WV game despite a torrential downpour and PA announcements about lightening and staying "at your own risk", THAT is what's most charming about the collegiate game. While a lot of those players will only fulfill themselves at this level, they are busting it for glory while they can.
I can't immediately recall the players, but one RB for Fresno scored three times on 60 yard-plus runs, and a Boise back had HUGE runs on consecutive possessions, one off a simple check off pass that he took 70-plus, outrunning the angles the defense tried to use, the second something that looked like a practice run against the scout team--nobody around him coming back to the right until waaay late on a 65-yarder. That the Fresno QB took some *sick* hits, one on a scramble where you KNEW that the defender who crunched him but stayed down was feeling it too, another where the defensive end *launched* himself over a blocker and crash landed on the shoulders of that Bulldog quarterback, thats worth watching. The announcers mentioned that 'launching' deal would have drawn a fine in the NFL, but the wow! factor is what I appreciate, and having several games going, every one of them hard-core action and roaring "those are our boys!"crowds, thats better than the NFL any old day.
Notre Dame *finally* beating Michigan State in South Bend after 6 losses in a row? You're darn right about being happy for your players Charlie Weis, and just maybe the alumni will get off your back for a week because of it. USC losing, AGAIN, to a Pac-10 opponent on the road? I loved Pete Carroll's classy analysis about being glad for a former assistant because victories like that mean a lot to rebuilding programs, "but I hate that it happened" because it will turn the Trojans season into a real scramble, thats goooood stuff. Texas Tech and Texas going at it after the ohmygod! finale of last year? Three cheers for Colt McCoy for sure, but doesn't it amaze you that those Tech receivers never seem to drop passes that are frequently stuck into some incredibly tight spaces? Florida's Tim Tebow going without a TD pass for the first time in 31 games, but messing with Tennessee's mouthy Lane Kifflin (wasn't that Tim putting him in a headlock?) before the game and, helmet off and sincere as heck, telling the 'Gators around him how things were going to go from some point in the game forward, that's what is sooo good about watching college football.
My brother Mike cheers for the Univ. of South Florida, which has come a very long way since it began a Division I program, because they didn't even have football when he graduated in 1981. He still pastes a USF logo on his truck and talks in terms of 'we' when conversing about the Bulls, as in, "We play Miami and Florida St. this year, and we play Florida next year." He about lost it two years ago when USF made it to #2 in the country (actually, they were undefeated through middle of their schedule and LOTS of major teams got beat when *they* got to #2), even bought the special pay for view package in order to watch them play Rutgers, who beat them fairly handily. They've lost every time he's seen them actually, including a bowl game vs. NC State here in Charlotte--I wonder if he'd stop watching them for the good of the program...
I missed calling my Uncle Frank about the Gators-Vols game, something I did every year until he died two years ago. He wasn't always confident about Florida winning, having been disappointed for many years when the team would climb high in the polls and then blow up, and of course, Tennessee had Peyton Manning for several of those years. That game meant something to me though; even if I didn't always send a Christmas card, I knew Uncle Frank was going to be watching, and even a few minutes on the phone meant we were connected.
That's the biggest difference between watching college ball and whatever I see watching the Panthers this afternoon--you root for the institution and The Boys who are currently there because those team colors are painted on your heart. Uncle Frank was Orange & Blue all the way through, and I'm thankful to have one of his bobble-head Gators watching me write. Of course I'll cheer for the local guys wherever I wind up today, but next week I will again watch late college games as long as I can keep my eyes open.
Glenn S.
"The old days" is about watching college football until my eyes are ready to bleed, and even if I had to work Saturday afternoon, multiple pre- and post-game highlights shows filled me in on all the extraordinary events. Thankfully I don't have to get up and change the channel like in the OLD old days, but from the stunningly great Boise St.-Fresno St. slugfest in 100 degree heat Friday night through the straight-ahead comments by Georgia's Joe Cox after throwing five TDs in a 52-41 win over Arkansas (and yes, watching Auburn's 'D' hold off West-by-God Virginia), I was a happy camper. Cox, who announcers mentioned never lost a game in high school, is a local Charlotte product, part of that Independence juggernaut that won 7 state titles in a row, and while he is going to be compared to recently departed #1 overall NFL pick Matt Stafford, I'd bet its going to continue being a favorable comparison. For a guy who couldn't have gotten a lot of 'mike time' as a collegiate QB, Cox is an exceptionally polished performer there as well, no umms and ya' knows at all.
If you saw the Fresno-Boise game Friday night, or the enthusiasm of an absolutely drenched crowd that stayed for the Auburn-WV game despite a torrential downpour and PA announcements about lightening and staying "at your own risk", THAT is what's most charming about the collegiate game. While a lot of those players will only fulfill themselves at this level, they are busting it for glory while they can.
I can't immediately recall the players, but one RB for Fresno scored three times on 60 yard-plus runs, and a Boise back had HUGE runs on consecutive possessions, one off a simple check off pass that he took 70-plus, outrunning the angles the defense tried to use, the second something that looked like a practice run against the scout team--nobody around him coming back to the right until waaay late on a 65-yarder. That the Fresno QB took some *sick* hits, one on a scramble where you KNEW that the defender who crunched him but stayed down was feeling it too, another where the defensive end *launched* himself over a blocker and crash landed on the shoulders of that Bulldog quarterback, thats worth watching. The announcers mentioned that 'launching' deal would have drawn a fine in the NFL, but the wow! factor is what I appreciate, and having several games going, every one of them hard-core action and roaring "those are our boys!"crowds, thats better than the NFL any old day.
Notre Dame *finally* beating Michigan State in South Bend after 6 losses in a row? You're darn right about being happy for your players Charlie Weis, and just maybe the alumni will get off your back for a week because of it. USC losing, AGAIN, to a Pac-10 opponent on the road? I loved Pete Carroll's classy analysis about being glad for a former assistant because victories like that mean a lot to rebuilding programs, "but I hate that it happened" because it will turn the Trojans season into a real scramble, thats goooood stuff. Texas Tech and Texas going at it after the ohmygod! finale of last year? Three cheers for Colt McCoy for sure, but doesn't it amaze you that those Tech receivers never seem to drop passes that are frequently stuck into some incredibly tight spaces? Florida's Tim Tebow going without a TD pass for the first time in 31 games, but messing with Tennessee's mouthy Lane Kifflin (wasn't that Tim putting him in a headlock?) before the game and, helmet off and sincere as heck, telling the 'Gators around him how things were going to go from some point in the game forward, that's what is sooo good about watching college football.
My brother Mike cheers for the Univ. of South Florida, which has come a very long way since it began a Division I program, because they didn't even have football when he graduated in 1981. He still pastes a USF logo on his truck and talks in terms of 'we' when conversing about the Bulls, as in, "We play Miami and Florida St. this year, and we play Florida next year." He about lost it two years ago when USF made it to #2 in the country (actually, they were undefeated through middle of their schedule and LOTS of major teams got beat when *they* got to #2), even bought the special pay for view package in order to watch them play Rutgers, who beat them fairly handily. They've lost every time he's seen them actually, including a bowl game vs. NC State here in Charlotte--I wonder if he'd stop watching them for the good of the program...
I missed calling my Uncle Frank about the Gators-Vols game, something I did every year until he died two years ago. He wasn't always confident about Florida winning, having been disappointed for many years when the team would climb high in the polls and then blow up, and of course, Tennessee had Peyton Manning for several of those years. That game meant something to me though; even if I didn't always send a Christmas card, I knew Uncle Frank was going to be watching, and even a few minutes on the phone meant we were connected.
That's the biggest difference between watching college ball and whatever I see watching the Panthers this afternoon--you root for the institution and The Boys who are currently there because those team colors are painted on your heart. Uncle Frank was Orange & Blue all the way through, and I'm thankful to have one of his bobble-head Gators watching me write. Of course I'll cheer for the local guys wherever I wind up today, but next week I will again watch late college games as long as I can keep my eyes open.
Glenn S.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Umpiring Softball was Muuuuch Easier
Without belaboring the Serena Williams situation TOO much, because I believe she is starting on the right path to having this judged as "one of those things that sometimes happens", I'd like to put a few situations I ran into as a softball umpire out there for consideration.
There are four or five particularly relevant moments that come to mind, and up front, arc or slow-pitch softball is MILES away from hard-core NBA, NFL or even tennis tournament umpiring. When you do leagues, you *almost* become friends with the players; the greatest compliment I ever got was the player who said, "I hate the way you call the high strike, but you call it the same all the time." That's essentially what both umpires and refs of any station should be shooting for, because there is NO doubt that players will always want to question your basic fairness if you deviate slightly either direction for or against us or them. You see an NBA ref that seems to be explaining things with a coach while watching a free throw, well, sometimes you have to invest some explanation time vs. just saying, "I made the call."
The most profound and closest-to-the-Serena type moment involved 'Mongito' in Tampa, FL. After having been called out by the plate umpire on a ball barely above dirt level, he pounded his bat on the ground leaving the batters box and half-shouted, "Jesus!" in frustration. That ump, a *very* straight-laced and religious person, immediately ejected him from the game for swearing, a fact Mongito's teammates let him know about just as immediately, and all HELL broke loose. I seem to recall at least three players restraining their 5'0" captain, but then the ump declared the game OVER and I *knew* the shit had hit the fan.
For the sake of accuracy, Mongito's team was Hispanic, and I was thankful that my buddy Ivan was able to explain that yes, the furious Mongito could put up $50 to protest the team's forfeit, but I really couldn't say anything about what the other ump had done.
Example two is simple: one of the players used the N-word while complaining about his ejection by my fellow 'blue'. The runner came around third on a hit to center, the throw was great even if the catcher moved a little up the line, and when the runner plowed into him, the ejection was automatic--the rule is you *have* to slide. The fact that one team was all black mattered less than the all-white team having only nine players; the rule was you couldn't play with eight, so the ejection ended the game. The fact I was holding back a guy who was VERY thick in the chest and ready to go with the player over his use of that particular word is the opposite situation of the Serena case: the large, angry, black person happened to be the umpire. The point is, you see someone with that kind of fire in their eyes, you have every reason to be afraid.
Situation #3--Long fly ball, actually out of bounds (but no fence) is caught in left field, and runner at second tags and goes. The throw to third hits a light pole and *richocets* into center field. Not knowing the ground rules, I call time and go find the complex supervisor, who tells me its runners advance ONE BASE. Wearing topsiders and a tank top, I'd fill in for the game during a tournament with a pretty decent competitive reputation. Whether it was the informal attire vs. my usual 3-patch blue shirt, shorts and cleats that failed to engender respect, I don't know, but even after explaining the ground rules, that team, and one female in particular, kept after that call constantly for was seemed like forever. Finally I took a couple steps towards their dugout and said, "I hear ONE MORE WORD about it from *anyone* and SHE goes!" Amazing the power you feel being right, and they didn't test me.
The final situation, home team down by one in the sixth. Base umpire calls first batter out when he's safe, the second, an obvious make-up, safe when he's soooo out, which causes the entire infield to jump on him. He calls time, asks if he blew it that bad, to which I saw Oh yeah! His only out is to ask for my help by saying he was blocked on the call, something that should NEVER happen on a play at first. I call the runner out, they get a run anyway. Bottom of next inning, batter hits a towering fly to right field, where the outfielder is playing him like he is King Kong. While he runs in and takes the ball on a short hop and pegs it to second, the batter never gives up, slides into second with a bang-bang play. The other ump, who'd drifted towards the outfield on the fly ball, turns around AND SHRUGS HIS SHOULDERS! He didn't have a call on the play. I saw it, call the runner out, he goes as ballistic as Serena, uses the right (or wrong) combination of words and I toss him.
I don't know why the foot fault call couldn't have been reviewed. The technology was certainly available for any other service or line call, and while I personally feel Serena wasn't going to beat Clijster's that night in any case, if she could say, "You've got to be F--king KIDDING me! Put that crappy call on the Jumbotron!" like McEnroe would have, things *might* not have escalated to the point they did.
As an umpire we had a saying: "The only guy you can count on out there is the one dressed like you." While it was a brutal time to make a call like that lines judge did, the chair umpire HAD to back her, especially in light of the frightening spectacle Serena screaming like that provided. You might say, like I did about Mongito and his team being bounced, "Hoooooo-ly SHIT!" at which side you have to stick with. Truthfully, I've turned to other people at tennis tournaments and said, "What game is she watching?" and at the end of the whole affair, you can see why they put instant replay into football and yes, instituted the 'Mac-Cam' in tennis. Two looks at the instant replay could have spared everyone a lot of grief.
And for sure, umpiring softball is definitely easier, even when I did a medium-pitch league and called like 10 walks on this one pitcher who kept complaining about my strike zone, and then I found out he was freaking *blind* in one of HIS eyes...
Glenn S.
There are four or five particularly relevant moments that come to mind, and up front, arc or slow-pitch softball is MILES away from hard-core NBA, NFL or even tennis tournament umpiring. When you do leagues, you *almost* become friends with the players; the greatest compliment I ever got was the player who said, "I hate the way you call the high strike, but you call it the same all the time." That's essentially what both umpires and refs of any station should be shooting for, because there is NO doubt that players will always want to question your basic fairness if you deviate slightly either direction for or against us or them. You see an NBA ref that seems to be explaining things with a coach while watching a free throw, well, sometimes you have to invest some explanation time vs. just saying, "I made the call."
The most profound and closest-to-the-Serena type moment involved 'Mongito' in Tampa, FL. After having been called out by the plate umpire on a ball barely above dirt level, he pounded his bat on the ground leaving the batters box and half-shouted, "Jesus!" in frustration. That ump, a *very* straight-laced and religious person, immediately ejected him from the game for swearing, a fact Mongito's teammates let him know about just as immediately, and all HELL broke loose. I seem to recall at least three players restraining their 5'0" captain, but then the ump declared the game OVER and I *knew* the shit had hit the fan.
For the sake of accuracy, Mongito's team was Hispanic, and I was thankful that my buddy Ivan was able to explain that yes, the furious Mongito could put up $50 to protest the team's forfeit, but I really couldn't say anything about what the other ump had done.
Example two is simple: one of the players used the N-word while complaining about his ejection by my fellow 'blue'. The runner came around third on a hit to center, the throw was great even if the catcher moved a little up the line, and when the runner plowed into him, the ejection was automatic--the rule is you *have* to slide. The fact that one team was all black mattered less than the all-white team having only nine players; the rule was you couldn't play with eight, so the ejection ended the game. The fact I was holding back a guy who was VERY thick in the chest and ready to go with the player over his use of that particular word is the opposite situation of the Serena case: the large, angry, black person happened to be the umpire. The point is, you see someone with that kind of fire in their eyes, you have every reason to be afraid.
Situation #3--Long fly ball, actually out of bounds (but no fence) is caught in left field, and runner at second tags and goes. The throw to third hits a light pole and *richocets* into center field. Not knowing the ground rules, I call time and go find the complex supervisor, who tells me its runners advance ONE BASE. Wearing topsiders and a tank top, I'd fill in for the game during a tournament with a pretty decent competitive reputation. Whether it was the informal attire vs. my usual 3-patch blue shirt, shorts and cleats that failed to engender respect, I don't know, but even after explaining the ground rules, that team, and one female in particular, kept after that call constantly for was seemed like forever. Finally I took a couple steps towards their dugout and said, "I hear ONE MORE WORD about it from *anyone* and SHE goes!" Amazing the power you feel being right, and they didn't test me.
The final situation, home team down by one in the sixth. Base umpire calls first batter out when he's safe, the second, an obvious make-up, safe when he's soooo out, which causes the entire infield to jump on him. He calls time, asks if he blew it that bad, to which I saw Oh yeah! His only out is to ask for my help by saying he was blocked on the call, something that should NEVER happen on a play at first. I call the runner out, they get a run anyway. Bottom of next inning, batter hits a towering fly to right field, where the outfielder is playing him like he is King Kong. While he runs in and takes the ball on a short hop and pegs it to second, the batter never gives up, slides into second with a bang-bang play. The other ump, who'd drifted towards the outfield on the fly ball, turns around AND SHRUGS HIS SHOULDERS! He didn't have a call on the play. I saw it, call the runner out, he goes as ballistic as Serena, uses the right (or wrong) combination of words and I toss him.
I don't know why the foot fault call couldn't have been reviewed. The technology was certainly available for any other service or line call, and while I personally feel Serena wasn't going to beat Clijster's that night in any case, if she could say, "You've got to be F--king KIDDING me! Put that crappy call on the Jumbotron!" like McEnroe would have, things *might* not have escalated to the point they did.
As an umpire we had a saying: "The only guy you can count on out there is the one dressed like you." While it was a brutal time to make a call like that lines judge did, the chair umpire HAD to back her, especially in light of the frightening spectacle Serena screaming like that provided. You might say, like I did about Mongito and his team being bounced, "Hoooooo-ly SHIT!" at which side you have to stick with. Truthfully, I've turned to other people at tennis tournaments and said, "What game is she watching?" and at the end of the whole affair, you can see why they put instant replay into football and yes, instituted the 'Mac-Cam' in tennis. Two looks at the instant replay could have spared everyone a lot of grief.
And for sure, umpiring softball is definitely easier, even when I did a medium-pitch league and called like 10 walks on this one pitcher who kept complaining about my strike zone, and then I found out he was freaking *blind* in one of HIS eyes...
Glenn S.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Opposite Ends of the Spectrum
Unbelievable as it was to see, Serena Williams *did* do and say all those outrageously bad things that ended her US Open match with Kim Clijsters, and nothing about it being a terrible foot fault call or the subsequent penalty point that ended things can overcome my dismay about the situation. For someone who is almost always a rock mentally and physically to go off in as public a display as Serena did is kind of unthinkable, close to that moment that Woody Hayes belted a Clemson football player for intercepting a pass that sealed a loss for Ohio State many years ago.
That long ago event is still stuck in my memory banks, and I have a feeling Serena's abusive acts are going to stay with me quite a while too. Soooo out of character, because the Williams sisters have done an exceptional job of being quality competitors and people. While its obvious they are Afro-American ladies, that does zero to change my opinions about them as athletes, which is all about positives--they achieve the level of game that made Chris Evert or Martina or Steffi great in the minds of those who care about tennis. Whether you give their father credit for putting steel into them that allowed extreme calm or awareness so they wouldn't be overtly controversial, resulting in careers relatively free of finger pointing, they've weathered some career ups and downs. At one point it seemed they would totally dominate the sport with their speed and power, but they've always been diplomatic at all points. That Serena was obtuse and somewhat evasive during the post match press conference, I am just flat out stunned about the whole affair.
That the unranked and inspired Clijsters will be playing in the finals is a boon to all actually. You can't see her slugging away, doing those incredible full splits to get to balls impossibly deep in a corner (ask Venus Wiliams) and not think she would be a terrific champion. Coming back to the level she's attained after retiring and having children, that is an exceptional feat. Kudos to 17 year old Melanie Oudin for her run during the tournament too, you expect to see more of her in the future.
The other end of the spectrum from Serena came from Michigan's freshman QB Tate Forcier, who had a terrific game and wound up throwing the winning TD pass against Notre Dame with 11 seconds to go. When they stuck a microphone in front of him immediately after that 38-34 barnburner, he was thrilled about everything, but said he hadn't been at all nervous, even with 105,000 people hanging on every play. He even calmly assessed Notre Dame coach Charlie Weis' throwing two incomplete passes so Michigan got the ball back on a punt and allowed time for their last successful drive with, "those (two) time outs came in handy," a straight up observation that 1000 sports pundits will question Weis about for quite a while into the future.
Really people, let's admit that its muuuuch easier to hide whatever might be going on inside your helmet or guts when there are 85 other guys milling around, when you can sit on the sidelines and work things out regarding your specific role in a TEAM operation vs. being sweatily alone. Forcier was of 23-33 for 240 yards and a couple TDs, plus he ran for 70 yards, including 31 for a TD on a QB keeper after faking the jock off a Notre Dame player, but he didn't have to try covering Notre Dame's wide outs, who had a great afternoon in their own right. If you're up against the wall with someone who represents a human backboard, is taking your best shots and feeding them to you time after time, the immediacy of not knowing how the heck you do enough things 'righter' can certainly put you on edge.
If you've ever had a "friendly" game of *anything* go truly sour because your opponent pulled something noxious, perhaps having some 6'3" dipshit slam a spike into your girlfriend's face in a backyard BBQ volleyball match, maybe you can understand the difference. I would certainly have a HUGE problem with having a foot fault called at that point in a match, but I'd like to think as a professional that I could do better than lose an important match by threatening a lines judge. McEnroe might be the standard bearer for such personal pyrotechnics--I mentioned in my previous blog about seing him hold up a Seniors tour game for almost ten minutes while asking the umpire to overrule a service call--but he seemed to be able to channel that aggression remarkably well afterwards.
We cheer those youngsters (Matt Barkley of USC was similarly calm during an amazing 14-play, 84 yard, almost 6 1/2 minutes final drive against Ohio State, but with a shower of "Praise Gods!" and "It was amazings!" for the microphones afterwards) who produce in the clutch. We'll see if Forcier and Barkley are as gracious when they lose several close games and some fans question their size or mental capacity or whatever. Right now, I expect Serena will do some public apologizing for her actions; she'll look at the tapes of her press conference and admit her answers were lousy compared to the gravity of what she'd done. She didn't have any leeway for recovery from that meltdown, and while its easy to be an armchair quarterback and ask what Weis was doing throwing passes vs. running the clock out, she was 100% responsible, and I expect she'll work on fixing this blast to her reputation.
Glenn S.
That long ago event is still stuck in my memory banks, and I have a feeling Serena's abusive acts are going to stay with me quite a while too. Soooo out of character, because the Williams sisters have done an exceptional job of being quality competitors and people. While its obvious they are Afro-American ladies, that does zero to change my opinions about them as athletes, which is all about positives--they achieve the level of game that made Chris Evert or Martina or Steffi great in the minds of those who care about tennis. Whether you give their father credit for putting steel into them that allowed extreme calm or awareness so they wouldn't be overtly controversial, resulting in careers relatively free of finger pointing, they've weathered some career ups and downs. At one point it seemed they would totally dominate the sport with their speed and power, but they've always been diplomatic at all points. That Serena was obtuse and somewhat evasive during the post match press conference, I am just flat out stunned about the whole affair.
That the unranked and inspired Clijsters will be playing in the finals is a boon to all actually. You can't see her slugging away, doing those incredible full splits to get to balls impossibly deep in a corner (ask Venus Wiliams) and not think she would be a terrific champion. Coming back to the level she's attained after retiring and having children, that is an exceptional feat. Kudos to 17 year old Melanie Oudin for her run during the tournament too, you expect to see more of her in the future.
The other end of the spectrum from Serena came from Michigan's freshman QB Tate Forcier, who had a terrific game and wound up throwing the winning TD pass against Notre Dame with 11 seconds to go. When they stuck a microphone in front of him immediately after that 38-34 barnburner, he was thrilled about everything, but said he hadn't been at all nervous, even with 105,000 people hanging on every play. He even calmly assessed Notre Dame coach Charlie Weis' throwing two incomplete passes so Michigan got the ball back on a punt and allowed time for their last successful drive with, "those (two) time outs came in handy," a straight up observation that 1000 sports pundits will question Weis about for quite a while into the future.
Really people, let's admit that its muuuuch easier to hide whatever might be going on inside your helmet or guts when there are 85 other guys milling around, when you can sit on the sidelines and work things out regarding your specific role in a TEAM operation vs. being sweatily alone. Forcier was of 23-33 for 240 yards and a couple TDs, plus he ran for 70 yards, including 31 for a TD on a QB keeper after faking the jock off a Notre Dame player, but he didn't have to try covering Notre Dame's wide outs, who had a great afternoon in their own right. If you're up against the wall with someone who represents a human backboard, is taking your best shots and feeding them to you time after time, the immediacy of not knowing how the heck you do enough things 'righter' can certainly put you on edge.
If you've ever had a "friendly" game of *anything* go truly sour because your opponent pulled something noxious, perhaps having some 6'3" dipshit slam a spike into your girlfriend's face in a backyard BBQ volleyball match, maybe you can understand the difference. I would certainly have a HUGE problem with having a foot fault called at that point in a match, but I'd like to think as a professional that I could do better than lose an important match by threatening a lines judge. McEnroe might be the standard bearer for such personal pyrotechnics--I mentioned in my previous blog about seing him hold up a Seniors tour game for almost ten minutes while asking the umpire to overrule a service call--but he seemed to be able to channel that aggression remarkably well afterwards.
We cheer those youngsters (Matt Barkley of USC was similarly calm during an amazing 14-play, 84 yard, almost 6 1/2 minutes final drive against Ohio State, but with a shower of "Praise Gods!" and "It was amazings!" for the microphones afterwards) who produce in the clutch. We'll see if Forcier and Barkley are as gracious when they lose several close games and some fans question their size or mental capacity or whatever. Right now, I expect Serena will do some public apologizing for her actions; she'll look at the tapes of her press conference and admit her answers were lousy compared to the gravity of what she'd done. She didn't have any leeway for recovery from that meltdown, and while its easy to be an armchair quarterback and ask what Weis was doing throwing passes vs. running the clock out, she was 100% responsible, and I expect she'll work on fixing this blast to her reputation.
Glenn S.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Wall-banging Tennis and Breezeplay Championships
Inspired by some great tennis at the US Open (sorry again Andy R.) I got out my antique Prince Titanium Longbody and whacked a half hour worth of tennis balls against a good section of wall down the street. It sure is comforting to know I can still put serves where I want to and crank a two-handed backhand with that good topspin, and just maybe I'll try hitting with a real person in the near future. Tennis, like cycling, is a life sport I really enjoy, even if its by myself.
One thing for sure, I expect the gentlemen who will be strutting what they still have during the Breezeplay Championships at The Palisades Sept. 24-27 will be a little more worth catching in person. Pete Sampras will be attending this year, and as a volunteer I've had an excellent time watching a lot of good tennis at this seniors event, tucked away on the border of North-South Carolina near Lake Wylie and a decent chunk of driving from Charlotte. My Good Time judging criteria is "Would I pay for this if I wasn't working?" and yes, despite the somewhat inconvenient location, the Tim Wilkinson Signature Sports Complex has provided terrific socializing and entertaining clay court tennis. The crowds don't seem to have been deterred by the distance, even when there was that ghastly gas crunch and rain year three, and thats all Jim Currier, who organized this Outback supported seniors tour, could ask for.
While its not the intensity of a US Open or Wimbledon, this tournament provides an intimate showcase for why people still like to attend live events, even if there's no instant replay and the bathrooms are in a trailer (a very nice trailer though). Stadium seating makes every seat (approx. 3000) a good one, allowing for player interaction with the crowd and each other to be heard and enjoyed. Anyone who saw John McEnroe hold up proceedings over a bad service call knows these guys aren't just going through the motions either. I drove Mac's long time agent from the airport the first year, and he said Mr. McEnroe still cares about things being done right; if you saw John, shirt tail out and still wearing long pants, hitting serves to Djocovic on Labor Day, you get the idea he still stays sharp. On that particular service point, John was rightfully insistent that, after the umpire finally agreed a ball mark was long, it shouldn't be "play the point over" (Mac had blocked the ball into the net, expecting a long call), it should be 2nd serve. Yes, the man cares.
Two particular moments about volunteering there really bring the focus in sharp. Driving an ailing but game Aaron Krickstein back to the hotel, I got both an analysis of my game ("If you hit your strokes with depth and consistency like you say, have a pretty strong serve and move it around, you're probably a 4.0; being able to hit 12-15 in a row, that might be the difference from being a 3.5") and the chance to ask a real sportswriters question I'd had for about 20 years.
"This young man, should he some day be at Centre Court at Wimbledon, will never have as much pressure on him as he's facing right now," was a TV commentator's acutely honest assessment of a seemingly out of control situation, a Davis Cup match with drumming and blood-curdling screaming between points being a central and significant fact. When I asked Aaron about it, he just nodded and said, "Paraguay, 1987."
"Brutal situation" was the believable introduction to Krickstein's recollection. "There's no doubt those guys were cheating like hell during the entire tie. Don't get me wrong, they played some good tennis, like (a player) who was ranked like #156 and played his ASS off, and Jaime Yzaga was tough on clay, but it was an unreal atmosphere. Lots of s**t was going on, judges were calling foot faults like nothing you've seen, and the Swedish officiating crew sure wasn't going to do anything about protesting calls.
"Jimmy Arias had lost his reverse singles earlier, so it was 2-2, mine would be the Davis Cup deciding match. I knew we were in trouble early on when one of my shots goes wide and a line judge jumped in the air yelling HOORAY! There are like six Americans in the stands, including my Dad and the trainer, and EVERY POINT the place goes physically nuts." His bottom line memory: "It wasn't actually the worst thing in the world to have lost and gotten out of there, safely on the bus, and back to our hotel." Listening to the pride he has in his tennis school business-family life, then hearing straight-up how one particularly intense semi-shared situation actually felt for a top-caliber athlete, that's an unpaid benefit to helping out on interesting events.
The second moment came as an usher. After catching a terrific overtime match with Serge Brugerra and Jim Currier, I saw Pat Cash (who is scheduled to play this year too) and McEnroe play a superb match, primarily because, after getting waxed in the first set, Cash started chasing down everything thrown at him, serving well, being a pro who cared about his play-reputation.
I'd seated a girl-brother down close, 2nd row behind Cash's bench, because nobody had come for the seats through the earlier match, so why not give impressionable youngsters the best possible experience, right? At the end of his second set comeback, after chasing McEnroe's shot cross-court and running out of bounds, Cash grabs a headband from his bag and throws it right at the girl's face. She instinctively ducked, the guy behind her got a high quality souvenir, but post-match they were thankful, personally thrilled with the near miss. That, the two guys who wanted to give me a $5 handshake (I declined) after putting them in the first section instead of the packed bleachers so they got an A-1 view of that Brugerra-Currier match, and talking to the young family in the first row of those bleachers, the little girl staying calm if tired through a late match while the boy scored a signed ball from Cash, those are quality moments. Such experiences cost nothing and are the central reason I'll continue volunteering for this tournament.
So far, InsideOut Sports and Entertainment (Currier's organization) has slugged nothing but winners here in Charlotte, and while I may have wasted Krickstein's analysis by not getting into a league where I could work on that consistency, I *do* have an intro with an on-line date who is a tennis instructor, so just maybe I can give up pounding that wall soon.
Glenn S.
One thing for sure, I expect the gentlemen who will be strutting what they still have during the Breezeplay Championships at The Palisades Sept. 24-27 will be a little more worth catching in person. Pete Sampras will be attending this year, and as a volunteer I've had an excellent time watching a lot of good tennis at this seniors event, tucked away on the border of North-South Carolina near Lake Wylie and a decent chunk of driving from Charlotte. My Good Time judging criteria is "Would I pay for this if I wasn't working?" and yes, despite the somewhat inconvenient location, the Tim Wilkinson Signature Sports Complex has provided terrific socializing and entertaining clay court tennis. The crowds don't seem to have been deterred by the distance, even when there was that ghastly gas crunch and rain year three, and thats all Jim Currier, who organized this Outback supported seniors tour, could ask for.
While its not the intensity of a US Open or Wimbledon, this tournament provides an intimate showcase for why people still like to attend live events, even if there's no instant replay and the bathrooms are in a trailer (a very nice trailer though). Stadium seating makes every seat (approx. 3000) a good one, allowing for player interaction with the crowd and each other to be heard and enjoyed. Anyone who saw John McEnroe hold up proceedings over a bad service call knows these guys aren't just going through the motions either. I drove Mac's long time agent from the airport the first year, and he said Mr. McEnroe still cares about things being done right; if you saw John, shirt tail out and still wearing long pants, hitting serves to Djocovic on Labor Day, you get the idea he still stays sharp. On that particular service point, John was rightfully insistent that, after the umpire finally agreed a ball mark was long, it shouldn't be "play the point over" (Mac had blocked the ball into the net, expecting a long call), it should be 2nd serve. Yes, the man cares.
Two particular moments about volunteering there really bring the focus in sharp. Driving an ailing but game Aaron Krickstein back to the hotel, I got both an analysis of my game ("If you hit your strokes with depth and consistency like you say, have a pretty strong serve and move it around, you're probably a 4.0; being able to hit 12-15 in a row, that might be the difference from being a 3.5") and the chance to ask a real sportswriters question I'd had for about 20 years.
"This young man, should he some day be at Centre Court at Wimbledon, will never have as much pressure on him as he's facing right now," was a TV commentator's acutely honest assessment of a seemingly out of control situation, a Davis Cup match with drumming and blood-curdling screaming between points being a central and significant fact. When I asked Aaron about it, he just nodded and said, "Paraguay, 1987."
"Brutal situation" was the believable introduction to Krickstein's recollection. "There's no doubt those guys were cheating like hell during the entire tie. Don't get me wrong, they played some good tennis, like (a player) who was ranked like #156 and played his ASS off, and Jaime Yzaga was tough on clay, but it was an unreal atmosphere. Lots of s**t was going on, judges were calling foot faults like nothing you've seen, and the Swedish officiating crew sure wasn't going to do anything about protesting calls.
"Jimmy Arias had lost his reverse singles earlier, so it was 2-2, mine would be the Davis Cup deciding match. I knew we were in trouble early on when one of my shots goes wide and a line judge jumped in the air yelling HOORAY! There are like six Americans in the stands, including my Dad and the trainer, and EVERY POINT the place goes physically nuts." His bottom line memory: "It wasn't actually the worst thing in the world to have lost and gotten out of there, safely on the bus, and back to our hotel." Listening to the pride he has in his tennis school business-family life, then hearing straight-up how one particularly intense semi-shared situation actually felt for a top-caliber athlete, that's an unpaid benefit to helping out on interesting events.
The second moment came as an usher. After catching a terrific overtime match with Serge Brugerra and Jim Currier, I saw Pat Cash (who is scheduled to play this year too) and McEnroe play a superb match, primarily because, after getting waxed in the first set, Cash started chasing down everything thrown at him, serving well, being a pro who cared about his play-reputation.
I'd seated a girl-brother down close, 2nd row behind Cash's bench, because nobody had come for the seats through the earlier match, so why not give impressionable youngsters the best possible experience, right? At the end of his second set comeback, after chasing McEnroe's shot cross-court and running out of bounds, Cash grabs a headband from his bag and throws it right at the girl's face. She instinctively ducked, the guy behind her got a high quality souvenir, but post-match they were thankful, personally thrilled with the near miss. That, the two guys who wanted to give me a $5 handshake (I declined) after putting them in the first section instead of the packed bleachers so they got an A-1 view of that Brugerra-Currier match, and talking to the young family in the first row of those bleachers, the little girl staying calm if tired through a late match while the boy scored a signed ball from Cash, those are quality moments. Such experiences cost nothing and are the central reason I'll continue volunteering for this tournament.
So far, InsideOut Sports and Entertainment (Currier's organization) has slugged nothing but winners here in Charlotte, and while I may have wasted Krickstein's analysis by not getting into a league where I could work on that consistency, I *do* have an intro with an on-line date who is a tennis instructor, so just maybe I can give up pounding that wall soon.
Glenn S.
Friday, September 4, 2009
MS Ride Still a Challenge, but...
The North Carolina version of the National Multiple Sclerosis biking-for-fundraising event is now called the BB&T Tour to Tanglewood, and while I wish everyone a safe and successful ($1.2 million is the goal) ride up there in the Triad-Piedmont the weekend of Sept. 26-27, I won't be participating.
It's not about trying to get $400 in contributions from friends, family, co-workers during trying economic times or that maybe I can't push my 52-year old body like I used to. Nope, simple fact is, the challenge is gone, and whether I should be willing to put my healthy self in service to others might be a legitimate question. Legit but no, sorry, I want the fun and challenge I remember when this ride was was called the MS 150 Bike to the Beach.
I've done that ride four times, and in 2006, after busting it pretty well (avg. 21mph) while drafting a couple tandem riders, I was having one of those joyous gatherings the MS 150 put on for lunch when an ambulance went back down the course, and everyone wondered how bad some rider had gotten hurt. It turned out a girl (my apologies for not remembering her name--it turned out her family actually attended the same church as me) was killed, the only fatality the ride had ever sustained. While the family told everyone concerned that she wouldn't have wanted to cause the event any problems, things changed beginning the next year. When it became two-75 mile loops around Myrtle Beach vs. the glory of riding alllll the way across the state, and I'd have to foot the expenses of driving across the state and two days in a hotel because I couldn't just get up early and drive to the starting line, that kind of took the romance out of it. Pardon me for saying this, but it seemed to have become JUST about the money.
Personally, starting the ride in Rockingham and ending Day One in Florence--although that last year it was a memorable stop in Darlington--wading into the ocean briefly, having a deserved couple cold ones at the end before napping on a bus ride back (bikes were shipped in moving vans), then finishing a contemplative drive back to Charlotte as the sun set, was a great weekend. I felt I'd achieved something, and it was kind of secondary that I'd also benefitted those who were less physically fortunate by doing the fundraising.
That last year was special, including the fact that the team I'd done some Sunday morning training with (the Mojos, who provided a *great* spread of food and beverages, including escargot and petite chocolate desserts!) won both People's Choice and Judges Award for best jersey, and *I* was the ONLY team rider around to accept because everyone else left for the hotel. There was actually the purity of "slapping the wall" in semi-sympatico with those NASCAR drivers because they let us ride around the track at the end. Finding out the local high school wasn't an option for sleeping accomodations was an unkind surprise, one that multiplied when, despite what they told us about having diligently *attempted* to kill the fire ants in the nearby camping area, those ants were still pretty active, even if not swarming. I eventually got about two hours sleep by moving to the tarmac and sacking out under one of the massage tents, thankful for the breeze of two large fans, the heck with those up-real-late guys still guzzling at the beer truck and watching the Tennessee game. It was 88 miles the second day, and I felt great almost all the way because its *supposed* to be a challenge, and I'd done the training to deserve it being easier.
Riding across the state with several thousand people, checking out who I might vote as 'Best Buns', that was cool stuff. That there had been tens of thousands of riders and doubtless MILLIONS of miles riden before that unfortunate fatality was a testament to the state and local police and authorities who did everything possible to make the ride safe. Everyone cheerfully said, "Thank you sir!" as we passed cops, and talked amiably with all the volunteers that go into making such an operation work smoothly. Somehow going on a 90 mile-two day loop, even with options to take additional side loops to turn the ride into a 'century' (100 miler) doesn't seem to measure up. Maybe I'm the only guy that feels the thrill should be part of it, I dunno.
It might not be the greatest analogy, but while hitting a bucket of range balls yesterday, I sliced a 7-iron like I was Kevin Costner in 'Tin Cup' and zapped one of those ever-present geese right in the head. It went down flapping, all the other geese came crowding around to see what was wrong with 'Freddie' as I named the unfortunate one. At the turn I mentioned the conking to the snack bar lady and she said, "Oh, he's fine. He's blind in one eye, but he's eating and swimming no problem." While I might beg to differ about how being half-blind and "just fine" equate, I *know* those geese will still be on the range tomorrow, and I'm not giving up golf either. The point is, stuff happens, and maybe the event is safer now on a shorter, better controlled course. I just won't be there.
Glenn S.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
"Eagle Eye Fleegle" I'm Not
Periodically I try to test myself with something different sporting-wise. When I was turning forty I swam 100 yards against the national breaststroke champ just to see how close things might turn out (not that close). Earlier this year I took advantage of my brother's invitation to go skeet shooting, and while Heminway probably would have spit in disgust, I admit being fairly pleased with the results and encouragement I received from my nephews at dinner afterwards. I know my nephews Ian and Ryan certainly deserve any "Eagle Eye" monikers better than I, but hey, they shoot a LOT.
Qualifying things just a little, skeet has a semi-circular concrete pad with five stations and 'birds' come out of 'high' or 'low' houses to either side. The trickiest shots are when they come out together from opposite sides of course, but the speed (about 40 mph) and location are always consistent. Last month I got to test my skills at Rocky Creek in Richburg, SC, and this time it was sporting clays, a very big difference--a total of 12 stations with a muuuch wider range of situations. Those situations include 'rabbits' (targets that roll along the ground), 'report pairs', where the trapper releases the B target after hearing a first shot, and TRUE pairs meaning they come out together, do what you can about them before they land or get too far away. There are considerations like wind and background coloration that enter in as well, and that is an obvious difference between trained/young eyes and novice/definitely old eyes; I didn't even bother wasting shells shooting at a wooded station where, even after watching my nephew Ryan and brother Steve, I had no clue about the targets until I heard them land.
My biggest flaw isn't that I shoot left-eye, although that required borrowing a Baretta over-under so I didn't have shell casings eject across the front of my face. "You have to get on it sooner Uncle Glenn" Ryan offered after the first time; "Remember to move the barrel some to distribute the shot, its not a rifle!" Ian added, but some habits aren't easy to overcome. The safety factor, because this IS real lead, is easier to gain because you get made aware of every time you don't follow the rules, so you remember to 'break' the gun to carry it and don't turn towards people even if you're sure there's no live ammunition in the barrel.
Feeling good about an 'official' 39/100 was aided by the fact I powdered 4 of 6 'extra' ones at the final station when I used the shells I didn't use earlier. That I was so proud about knocking off 7/10 on the first station wasn't diminished when Steve smiled and said, "Yeah, you get a long time to see them, coming from across the field and then left-to-right, and its designed to get your confidence up early." I only got shut out (0/10) on one station, but if thats like putting a couple into the water and taking a drop en route to a snowman in golf, I've been there, done that.
As for those "eagle eye" nephews, if I wasn't overly impressed with Ryan when we shot because he 'only' had a 54, he proved that everyone can just have a bad day. He's got quite a reputation as a 'Rookie' shooter already, and he shot 73/72 on consecutive days while his 3-man team (So. Carolina champs) had a 387 at the World Shooting & Recreation Complex in Sparta, IL, good enough for 3rd place, just off second at 391. Ian, who is in the Sr. Advanced category, shot 83/87, with his team's 513/600 putting them 6th of 52 (first was 560).
I don't know that I'll ever get the opportunity to shoot at anything live, or that I'd want to put the effort into trying. A wildebeest or lion on safari? Fugidaboutit! although a camera might be a 'killer' shoot of another kind. I've heard an awful lot of stories about guys carefully waiting through cold and boring days to get a shot at a deer, turkeys are supposed to be WAY too smart for a guy like me to get, and ducks/geese, where you sit in a blind or field and if they see your face they just wheel away, thats not as fulfilling as even an hour worth of jump shooting in my book.
As a personal challenge though, I'm definitely for getting on the course again. At least I now have a 'baseline' score to judge things against.
Glenn S.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Heck of a Macho Weekend
It really doesn't get much better guy-wise than my Friday-Sunday run: two poker games, two football games, one cigar--with thanks to Mr. Luda for the Perdomo Patriarch that tied it all together.
The personal aspect of blogging came through big time after enjoying a steak & baked tater dinner and watching 'Casino Royale' after finishing Friday nights cigar, and whether you count watching the Denver-Chicago game and Daniel Craig stick it to the bad guy as super-macho sporty, the thoughts for the weekend came down to decisions and results.
The personal aspect of blogging came through big time after enjoying a steak & baked tater dinner and watching 'Casino Royale' after finishing Friday nights cigar, and whether you count watching the Denver-Chicago game and Daniel Craig stick it to the bad guy as super-macho sporty, the thoughts for the weekend came down to decisions and results.
Bottom line, my Hold 'em game Friday finished about like Bond's did before his re-buy; apologies for any confusion my use of a picture that is obviously from a winning situation might cause, its really just for effect. I actually invested my all in on a king high-four card flush, and when a $1000 bet (honest Mom, it was chips, not real cash!) didn't scare anyone out before the river, I wound up watching about three hours of poker before my ride was ready to leave. That's about what I spent on both the movie-football game Sunday and at the Panthers game Saturday vs. the Ravens, and while my rationalization is that I'd played the percentages and lost with honor (all I'd *really* needed was another king...), I'd be willing to bet *most* of the people who saw that game would have rather had a shot at the $7500 in the pot Friday or watched the Bond flick too.
Granted, the Panthers were a little under-manned going in (see 'four-flushed' situation above), and it *was* just an exhibition game, but until they scored early in the 4th quarter, there wasn't much to recommend about their effort offensively, and the defense made Ravens QB Joe Flacco look like a young Brett Favre, as he threw the ball to open targets all evening: 23-28 for about 250 yards through three quarters. Sitting upstairs you just knew how things were going to go, sort of like watching 'Casino Royale' the second or third time.
When I threw two greenies in and people didn't toss their cards, how could they have been staying with 1) a pair of jacks under and 2) an (also) busted flush pair of nines? The reality is they were *probably* thinking I was betting from position rather than actually having the goods, and that turned out fine for them. They apparently weren't worried about anything really big happening, even if I would have knocked both of them out and been a big chip leader--perhaps they assumed they'd previously seen everything I might try to pull on them. While it was only preseason, Coach Fox's "let's see if we can get our running game operating right" plan seemed like exactly the same deal for Baltimore. His decision was less about results (like maybe play the starters three quarters and generate some fan satisfaction with a win, they are now 0-3) and more about playing the hand. As a coach he has pushed the notion that less mistakes than the other guys wins ball games, and that worked out to a 12-4 record last year, even if we all know how things went after that.
Granted, the Panthers were a little under-manned going in (see 'four-flushed' situation above), and it *was* just an exhibition game, but until they scored early in the 4th quarter, there wasn't much to recommend about their effort offensively, and the defense made Ravens QB Joe Flacco look like a young Brett Favre, as he threw the ball to open targets all evening: 23-28 for about 250 yards through three quarters. Sitting upstairs you just knew how things were going to go, sort of like watching 'Casino Royale' the second or third time.
When I threw two greenies in and people didn't toss their cards, how could they have been staying with 1) a pair of jacks under and 2) an (also) busted flush pair of nines? The reality is they were *probably* thinking I was betting from position rather than actually having the goods, and that turned out fine for them. They apparently weren't worried about anything really big happening, even if I would have knocked both of them out and been a big chip leader--perhaps they assumed they'd previously seen everything I might try to pull on them. While it was only preseason, Coach Fox's "let's see if we can get our running game operating right" plan seemed like exactly the same deal for Baltimore. His decision was less about results (like maybe play the starters three quarters and generate some fan satisfaction with a win, they are now 0-3) and more about playing the hand. As a coach he has pushed the notion that less mistakes than the other guys wins ball games, and that worked out to a 12-4 record last year, even if we all know how things went after that.
Like myself and "the other guys" in that movie, everybody probably wins some hands along the way, and rookie running back Mike Goodsen had a nice run early on and decent stats overall for Carolina. It was a nice evening for a game, but even with a 17-13 final count, there really wasn't any doubt how things were going to turn out, just like it wouldn't be much of a movie if Bond didn't come back and win.
Like my game and Sunday night, Saturday's game was mostly three hours of "just watching", and I'm really not going to start dogging the Panthers based on a preseason loss. In the Big Picture, getting to a game definitely contributed to a well-rounded guy weekend. Of course, it might have been a *real* (daaammmmmn straight!) great weekend if that cigar had signaled two more victories and a lot less "just watching."
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
CARE ABOUT LOUSY FREE THROW SHOOTING
If you're the wife or girlfriend of a muscle-head, surfer or biker of any strain, genuine geek-consumer of electronics or (chortle) a soccer player, you'll be spared the dramatic evaluation "I sucked, again" regarding that deeply personal male concern called lousy free throw shooting. It's not going to break any Guy Codes to possibly clue you ladies about this smaller than the bedroom (but potentially related) stroke problem either. In fact, you might consider this info relative to 'Five Minute Great Abs!' because you'll feel show-offy smooth and quietly better, reacting with understated coolness while providing support the guy won't question.
"It just felt weird coming off my hand" is an evaluation that obviously means Mr. Gym Rat is feeling vulnerable. Ladies, when we're riding the testosterone train, returning triumphant and wanting to regale everyone about dynamic drives and rainbow jumpers, all you have to do is accept the three-beer kisses and sweaty manliness and nod. Hopefully your poor shooter isn't a REAL whiner when things aren't going so good.
Bottom line, we hoopsters, and I certainly include myself here, believe free throw shooting is elementally linked to a Universal Cookie Jar-type reward system. Do well at the charity stripe, somehow earn, no *deserve* goodies, from successful dates to free football tickets to new jobs. While I haven't actually had that new job offer drop into the equation after recently re-discovering effective shooting techniques during a just-sneakers-and-shorts-lets-get-this-right-again session, that doesn't mean I don't feel its due me.
Fifteen feet, up and in is the simple reality. Especially with any 'small white guard' tag attached, making free throws was integral to playing during all formative years. Those extra points are supposedly gravy, playing with house money, a piece of cake, punishing opponents for hacking the wrong guy. All kidding aside, foul shooting is a legitimate point of pride and extremely fair way of judging oneself 'better'--its really not JUST foul shooting.
Free throw stooting is at a premium in '21', Rochester, and often while picking teams--miss early and obviously you don't play. I got traded to the light shirt team for missing Monday night, I've had nights where I sat out three times. In '21', scoring a couple each turn, or (sweetness!) nailing eight consecutive shots to close another player out, means they get fewer chances to beat you. 'Rochester' features everyone-for-themselves play, where making baskets allows up to three unguarded foul shots. 7-8-9 extra points from there means less whacking heads with four other dudes for your scores. Miss your '21-plus-one' finale though, you go back to 15. Its safe to say that everybody has missed a couple at clutch time, and negative consequences usually follow. Do it a lot, it gets you pissed at yourself.
Truthfully, few guys are actually snake bite 80% shooters, not even me. I bust on Shaq, but I also cheer when he rips nine straight; Syracuse as a team traditionally sucks, and I have no use for that at all. FYI ladies--Joining your man in "I shoulda beat those guys twice BUT..." pity parties contributes less than a three-chardonnay lunch, and while reading this affords insight to YOU, neither you or his Momma can make foul shots for Sweet Cheeks.
Three things can be helpful in the overall scheme of things. First, anyone can ask just how lousy lousy was and listen; venting is gender neutral. Gym Rat lost some tight Rochesters again, or had to sit out a couple? Uhh-huh babe, or sorry to hear that bro is all you need to say, no problem keeping an eye on that new LOST episode or the EWT match either. Offering to shag misses for half an hour is exceptional, and guys, if your lady does this for you, let her know its Angel Face time. Its worth a beer when your bud does it, whatever she wants if she closes the lap top and works with you.
Should anyone know a guy with a blacksmith's touch though, here's a solid fix-it suggestion. The fact is, most high percentage shooters come to a check or stopping point before their release. Its less about rhythm or three bounces, more about flex the knees, bring the ball to eye or above head level and hold a moment, follow through motion with arms and fingertips vs. toss and stop immediately.
Just my little contribution to making this a better world.
Glenn S.
"It just felt weird coming off my hand" is an evaluation that obviously means Mr. Gym Rat is feeling vulnerable. Ladies, when we're riding the testosterone train, returning triumphant and wanting to regale everyone about dynamic drives and rainbow jumpers, all you have to do is accept the three-beer kisses and sweaty manliness and nod. Hopefully your poor shooter isn't a REAL whiner when things aren't going so good.
Bottom line, we hoopsters, and I certainly include myself here, believe free throw shooting is elementally linked to a Universal Cookie Jar-type reward system. Do well at the charity stripe, somehow earn, no *deserve* goodies, from successful dates to free football tickets to new jobs. While I haven't actually had that new job offer drop into the equation after recently re-discovering effective shooting techniques during a just-sneakers-and-shorts-lets-get-this-right-again session, that doesn't mean I don't feel its due me.
Fifteen feet, up and in is the simple reality. Especially with any 'small white guard' tag attached, making free throws was integral to playing during all formative years. Those extra points are supposedly gravy, playing with house money, a piece of cake, punishing opponents for hacking the wrong guy. All kidding aside, foul shooting is a legitimate point of pride and extremely fair way of judging oneself 'better'--its really not JUST foul shooting.
Free throw stooting is at a premium in '21', Rochester, and often while picking teams--miss early and obviously you don't play. I got traded to the light shirt team for missing Monday night, I've had nights where I sat out three times. In '21', scoring a couple each turn, or (sweetness!) nailing eight consecutive shots to close another player out, means they get fewer chances to beat you. 'Rochester' features everyone-for-themselves play, where making baskets allows up to three unguarded foul shots. 7-8-9 extra points from there means less whacking heads with four other dudes for your scores. Miss your '21-plus-one' finale though, you go back to 15. Its safe to say that everybody has missed a couple at clutch time, and negative consequences usually follow. Do it a lot, it gets you pissed at yourself.
Truthfully, few guys are actually snake bite 80% shooters, not even me. I bust on Shaq, but I also cheer when he rips nine straight; Syracuse as a team traditionally sucks, and I have no use for that at all. FYI ladies--Joining your man in "I shoulda beat those guys twice BUT..." pity parties contributes less than a three-chardonnay lunch, and while reading this affords insight to YOU, neither you or his Momma can make foul shots for Sweet Cheeks.
Three things can be helpful in the overall scheme of things. First, anyone can ask just how lousy lousy was and listen; venting is gender neutral. Gym Rat lost some tight Rochesters again, or had to sit out a couple? Uhh-huh babe, or sorry to hear that bro is all you need to say, no problem keeping an eye on that new LOST episode or the EWT match either. Offering to shag misses for half an hour is exceptional, and guys, if your lady does this for you, let her know its Angel Face time. Its worth a beer when your bud does it, whatever she wants if she closes the lap top and works with you.
Should anyone know a guy with a blacksmith's touch though, here's a solid fix-it suggestion. The fact is, most high percentage shooters come to a check or stopping point before their release. Its less about rhythm or three bounces, more about flex the knees, bring the ball to eye or above head level and hold a moment, follow through motion with arms and fingertips vs. toss and stop immediately.
Just my little contribution to making this a better world.
Glenn S.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Back on Course is More Than About Golf
While my first blog involved golfing, you can anticipate my including a wide range of sports in this blogging. I'm grateful for the opportunity to be back on course in that respect, because after several years as a feature writer for ITS SPORTS! in Tampa, FL and then occasional pieces like a pre-season preview of the Charlotte Hornets basketball team (before they left town), I'd let that part go, focusing on business writing and, of course, my Great American Novel.There's a discipline to writing, the need to get things done in a concrete way, and the only way to accomplish that is rapping things out on a keyboard, the more often the better. Having read a few blogs over the years, my goal is to have relevant and readable thoughts vs. ramblings, more like a "real columnist" we traditionally read in the newspaper. I chose 'Baseline Shorks' as the title, not because of the baseball, basketball, or tennis connotation, but for the analytical meaning. 'Baseline' means "the actual or assumed situation or state of affairs used as a starting point in comparison or project exercises." Whatever the topic, you'll see a definite beginning point; yesterday I was going for a decent golf story arising from the negatives of a dead car stay-cation, and 'Shorks' is just the nickname I've always had.
With that in mind, I'll be taking various circumstances and putting my fairly personal stamp on them. At some point I might actually get into the nets (I was a collegiate hockey goalie) to let a Charlotte Checker, like maybe Chubby the mascot, take some shots at me. While I'm not expecting to be Hemingway about conveying exactly every gritty detail, I believe you'll get a taste of what goes on inside the mask and physically if I get that chance. I *do* know a three finger long piece of my left bicep is gone from taking a puck there way back in college. The rising slap shot, by a teammate in warmups! that caught me at the *very top* of that relatively flimsy chest protector--before anyone considered throat protectors--thats one of those moments you don't forget easily.
I'll be doing analysis of high school and college sports for sure, because especially with HS sports, there is a 'baseline' to be described there. I might not be able to tell you where former Independence HS and Florida QB Chris Leak is today, but checking in with that powerhouse program (7 consecutive 4A championships before losing in 2008 title game) might just reveal what it takes to be part of the very best. I'm sort of a hoops junkie, and while I can't reasonably expect to share in Duke's Cameron Craziness because I'm in the Carolinas, I promise you'll know whats coming with local and national darling Davidson now that Mr. Curry is in the NBA, about Charlotte/UNCC as it attempts to return from a disappointing season, maybe even Winthrop's and Johnson C. Smith's programs.
Carolina weather provides a plethora of outdoor opportunities as well, so I'll expect to discuss cycling, tennis, rugby, white water rafting (even if its an event vs. true sport), my still wonderful jump shot, and even skeet shooting. I'm looking forward to the sharing, and I hope to hear back from you along the way.
Glenn S.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Rule #1 About Vacations: Be Flexible
Yesterday morning I was finishing up nine holes of golf about the time I should have been watching the post parade and getting ready to invest in some fine horseflesh at Saratoga Racetrack in upstate New York. "Be flexible" is a terrific rule to remember about vacations, and that's especially true when your car dies 200 miles into a road trip.
While the $25 investment at The Divide couldn't possibly have paid off as well as my brother Dave's boxing an Appaloosa named 'Awesome Maria' (his daughter's name), it satisfied certain post-new-water-pump-I-never-even-used budget criteria. 'Bullitt' was a silver '96 Taurus that logged just under 162K miles and didn't really owe me anything at this point, but I guess being partially responsible for this article's inspiration still counts on the plus side.
This was only my second time golfing all year (sacrilege!), so I was obviously just knocking the rust off playing nine. Padrick Harrington's recent troubles with PGA officials on the subject notwithstanding, time isn't a hard core factor in golf, at least not with my "grip it and rip it" John Daly style. No twenty-three wig-wagging Sergio here! That said, and being determined to get SOME golf in during a week off, I was still cognizant about getting my rental from Roanoke to Charlotte-Douglas Airport by 2:15 or start facing late fees, so I skipped around a foursome that teed off just before me.
While I took extra time looking for balls sprayed left and right the first couple holes before settling down, and I admit rushing some shots like Pad did because its really poor etiquette for a single to hold up a foursome, this was my vacation, so I played two balls on many shots, rationalizing that accurate scoring was less a factor than enjoyment. And really, from stroke one I anticipated writing something profound about playing golf under a gorgeously sunny Carolina blue sky as compensation for a dead car and lost horse betting opportunities. I became concerned with a qualitative experience versus quantifying it if you get my drift, and its just a little tougher to do that while worrying about 7s or 'snowmen' on your scorecard.
Without doing the stroke-by-stroke, an analysis that I'm certain is what causes non-playing wives or girlfriends to HATE their man's golfing, it wouldn't be much of a column without describing some high points, right?
I didn't hit three good shots in a row (relatively speaking) until the 477 yard 5th, but despite that empowered feeling I get when my 5-wood is rolling and a good wedge that put me in position for a birdie, three-putting kills ANY amount of good shots. Having the line means *crap* when you hit it weak. I think "you miss 100% of putts that don't make it to the hole" is a truism; "Does your boyfriend play golf too?" always stings, even if you're saying it to yourself.
I didn't actually powder my drive on #6, but the GPS showed only 55 to the pin, and a 242 yard ball that hangs against brilliant blue gives you a feeling in the crotch that ALL golfers will empathize with. The 139 yard 7th was over water, but it provided a second chance to attempt the 7-iron I'd tugged slightly left on #3. I put one on, then hit a *nice* pitch from just off the green with my other ball to within six feet, a straight putt I nailed for a legit par.
At that point I felt the golf gods smiling on my quick nine. Being an athletic 5'10" and 195 lbs., nailing drives of 271 on #8 and 260 on the ninth were still the schizzle, because such pokes are infrequent for me--cue Tim the Toolman's ape-like grunts of joy. That last drive also started the ESPN commentator in my brain, distracting me into distributing wedges short-right-long, followed by two swipes with my putter from just outside the fringe that weren't close to overcoming the greens right tilt. My 16-17 foot come-backer dropped sweetly though, bringing the belief that IF I wasn't time squeezed about returning that rental, playing 18 would've gone pretty damn well.
'Jim Bob' and Rusty graciously allowed me to play along on the first hole I'd skipped, and after cranking a drive inside 100 yards and dropping a 9-iron on the green, there was an opportunity to tag an honest-to-God birdie on the day. I've always said anybody can read putts better than me, and putting less pace on that slight downhill putt with Jim Bob's "try it about 3 inches to the left" advice might've allowed it to curl in. Instead, I wound up with a three-putt bogey that blew the ending to a really good story.
Still, I enjoyed a great steak dinner and finished a car-less evening off with the contemplative smoking of a terrific La Gloria Cubana robusto, just like I would have at brother Dave's if I'd made it to Saratoga. Bottom line, as long as you've got a golf story to tell, it can't be all that bad a day.
As for flexibility, manaña is soon enough to worry about that transportation thing.
While the $25 investment at The Divide couldn't possibly have paid off as well as my brother Dave's boxing an Appaloosa named 'Awesome Maria' (his daughter's name), it satisfied certain post-new-water-pump-I-never-even-used budget criteria. 'Bullitt' was a silver '96 Taurus that logged just under 162K miles and didn't really owe me anything at this point, but I guess being partially responsible for this article's inspiration still counts on the plus side.
This was only my second time golfing all year (sacrilege!), so I was obviously just knocking the rust off playing nine. Padrick Harrington's recent troubles with PGA officials on the subject notwithstanding, time isn't a hard core factor in golf, at least not with my "grip it and rip it" John Daly style. No twenty-three wig-wagging Sergio here! That said, and being determined to get SOME golf in during a week off, I was still cognizant about getting my rental from Roanoke to Charlotte-Douglas Airport by 2:15 or start facing late fees, so I skipped around a foursome that teed off just before me.
While I took extra time looking for balls sprayed left and right the first couple holes before settling down, and I admit rushing some shots like Pad did because its really poor etiquette for a single to hold up a foursome, this was my vacation, so I played two balls on many shots, rationalizing that accurate scoring was less a factor than enjoyment. And really, from stroke one I anticipated writing something profound about playing golf under a gorgeously sunny Carolina blue sky as compensation for a dead car and lost horse betting opportunities. I became concerned with a qualitative experience versus quantifying it if you get my drift, and its just a little tougher to do that while worrying about 7s or 'snowmen' on your scorecard.
Without doing the stroke-by-stroke, an analysis that I'm certain is what causes non-playing wives or girlfriends to HATE their man's golfing, it wouldn't be much of a column without describing some high points, right?
I didn't hit three good shots in a row (relatively speaking) until the 477 yard 5th, but despite that empowered feeling I get when my 5-wood is rolling and a good wedge that put me in position for a birdie, three-putting kills ANY amount of good shots. Having the line means *crap* when you hit it weak. I think "you miss 100% of putts that don't make it to the hole" is a truism; "Does your boyfriend play golf too?" always stings, even if you're saying it to yourself.
I didn't actually powder my drive on #6, but the GPS showed only 55 to the pin, and a 242 yard ball that hangs against brilliant blue gives you a feeling in the crotch that ALL golfers will empathize with. The 139 yard 7th was over water, but it provided a second chance to attempt the 7-iron I'd tugged slightly left on #3. I put one on, then hit a *nice* pitch from just off the green with my other ball to within six feet, a straight putt I nailed for a legit par.
At that point I felt the golf gods smiling on my quick nine. Being an athletic 5'10" and 195 lbs., nailing drives of 271 on #8 and 260 on the ninth were still the schizzle, because such pokes are infrequent for me--cue Tim the Toolman's ape-like grunts of joy. That last drive also started the ESPN commentator in my brain, distracting me into distributing wedges short-right-long, followed by two swipes with my putter from just outside the fringe that weren't close to overcoming the greens right tilt. My 16-17 foot come-backer dropped sweetly though, bringing the belief that IF I wasn't time squeezed about returning that rental, playing 18 would've gone pretty damn well.
'Jim Bob' and Rusty graciously allowed me to play along on the first hole I'd skipped, and after cranking a drive inside 100 yards and dropping a 9-iron on the green, there was an opportunity to tag an honest-to-God birdie on the day. I've always said anybody can read putts better than me, and putting less pace on that slight downhill putt with Jim Bob's "try it about 3 inches to the left" advice might've allowed it to curl in. Instead, I wound up with a three-putt bogey that blew the ending to a really good story.
Still, I enjoyed a great steak dinner and finished a car-less evening off with the contemplative smoking of a terrific La Gloria Cubana robusto, just like I would have at brother Dave's if I'd made it to Saratoga. Bottom line, as long as you've got a golf story to tell, it can't be all that bad a day.
As for flexibility, manaña is soon enough to worry about that transportation thing.
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