When I walked into the living room, I heard the all-too-familiar sound—the clicking and flipping between sporting events, in this case, the Cal vs. Tennessee football game and the Red Sox. “How are the Sox doing?” I asked my clicker-clutching husband. He hesitated for a moment, mulling over his response. “Let’s just say there’s something very interesting going on.”
I looked up to see a skinny kid on the mound in the middle of a wind-up. The crowd cheered after the strike was called, our own Ex-Red Sox Kevin Millar caught looking. One batter later the commentators reviewed the status of the game, carefully choosing their words as the camera scanned the scoreboard of zeros across seven innings, pausing on the zero under the letter “H.” With the inning over, the scrawny-looking kid made his way back to the bench. The cameras followed the lonely soul, closing in on his focused, tense face before scanning the empty bench around him. Not a teammate in sight, not a word spoken.
It’s funny, this jinx thing. Grown men and women buy into it, this belief in the omnipotence of our actions and words. We believe that by saying “he has a no-hitter going,” we will somehow negatively alter the outcome of the game. So instead we say something like “no player has reached base as the result of the bat connecting with the ball” or “let’s just say there’s something interesting going on.” We believe if we knock on a wooden coffee table, sit in the same spot on the couch, and cross our fingers and toes, the outcome will be as we want it to be.
Though I’ve not watched many games this season, I’ve followed the Red Sox through scanning the sports pages and box scores. I knew it wasn’t going to last when we were 10 games up on the Yankees in early August, and I prepared myself for the usual late summer collapse. When the lead shrunk to 4 and then bounced back to 8, I thought maybe something different was going to happen this year, that the Sox might—dare I say it?—finally win the division. But then the Yankees sweep in the Bronx reduced the lead to 5 and I got all negative again. A win at this juncture was, in my admittedly unprofessional opinion, crucial. This particular game, the game where words were carefully chosen, was a done-deal with the Sox up by 10 runs. Still, I was riveted. I matched the funny name (Clay Buchholz) to the new kid’s face and anxiously waited to see how it turned out.
It was at this point the unthinkable happened. “What are you doing?” I yelled when my husband inexplicably clicked back to the college football game after Buchholz took to the mound in the bottom of the eighth. My husband then relayed, in no uncertain terms, the critical nature of his action. “Trust me. It’s better if we don’t watch,” he said, before going on to explain how watching the game, like calling out the unspeakable, would be a jinx. Undeterred, I put my foot down. “That’s ridiculous. We’re not turning off the game,” I said. After a heated and somewhat testy discussion, we finally agreed that there would be no more clicking.
And so we watched history unfurl as the first-ever Red Sox rookie threw a no-hitter. Though we may sometimes think otherwise, we learned that fans can’t actually control the outcome of the game simply by watching it. We were, though, careful with our words, never once uttering “no hitter” until the final pitch when the last Oriole was caught looking. And then—and only then—did I uncross my fingers.
This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2007
Showing posts with label sports. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sports. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Summer Camp Notes
This summer, as in years past, we’ve stayed in touch with our son through e-mails and Bunk Notes, an online system that delivers notes to campers. Since my son is a Counselor Intern and this is his last year at camp, he’s been pretty good about writing back. He tends to report activities through numbers—Euro (European handball) goals scored, points and assists in basketball, soccer goals, the grand slam he hit over the center fielder’s head.
I was doing fine until his latest e-mail which left me completely confused. Referring to a Sixers draft pick my son noted, “He’s raw but has a chance to be real good, one of those 6’7”- 6’8” athletic swingmen.” Though I got the gist, I’d never heard of the player nor did I know what a swingman was. He continued, “I think the Celtics stole Big Baby. If he can keep himself from becoming another Tractor Trailer he could be really good.”
I was clueless, but curious. Who was this Big Baby character and why did my son think the Celtics stole him? The next day while scanning the sports page, I saw a photo of the Celtics second-round draft pick Glen Davis, the mysterious “Big Baby.” He is 6’9” and weighs between 289 – 295 lbs. Okay, so I got the “Big” part of the nickname, but I still don’t get the “Baby” part.
My husband explained he’d been sharing sports news in the Bunk Notes he’d written to our son. In addition to requesting my son’s feedback on the NBA draft, he wrote about how it was “a joke” that Pat Burrell, barely hitting .200, is the highest paid player on the Phillies ($15 million) while Ryan Howard is only making $350,000. He went on to report Ken Griffey is getting really hot (21 homers) and is hitting close to .300 before adding, “He has 584 homeruns so I don’t think he has any chance of catching Barry which is too bad because he never juiced.”
After reading my husband’s Bunk Notes, I went back and read one of mine. I’d told my son that the new lawnmower was much better than the old broken one and that I’d weeded the garden and gone for a run in Moose Hill. I went on to report I’d watched “Finding Nemo,” saying it was “so cute.” I detailed the dish I’d had while out to dinner with friends—salmon and shrimp with veggies and chunky mashed potatoes—because it was something I thought my son would have liked. I suppose when compared to my husband’s astute commentary on the NBA draft, player compensation discrepancies and the injustice of steroid use, my Bunk Note was pretty pathetic.
My e-mails were even worse. I sent one with “warning: annoying note alert” in the subject heading to give my son a heads-up about its contents. “Please remember to check your tick bite,” I wrote. (My daughter was on antibiotics after a tick bite, so I was understandably concerned). And then, “How’s your high school summer reading coming along?” I realize bringing up school work was pretty weak, but waiting to read all four required books until the last week of summer was a recipe for disaster. So far, my son has tolerated my notes just fine. “I’m a little behind on my summer reading but I’ll catch up next week,” he wrote. He reassured me that the tick-bitten area was fine, and, sensing my concern, kindly suggested I call him if I’m really worried. (I didn’t.)
Though my Bunk Notes are not exactly exciting, on some level I’m sure my son still appreciates them. There is, though, one thing I’ve mastered. No matter how dull my notes are, I always end them well. “Miss you and love you lots. Love, Mom.”
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)
I was doing fine until his latest e-mail which left me completely confused. Referring to a Sixers draft pick my son noted, “He’s raw but has a chance to be real good, one of those 6’7”- 6’8” athletic swingmen.” Though I got the gist, I’d never heard of the player nor did I know what a swingman was. He continued, “I think the Celtics stole Big Baby. If he can keep himself from becoming another Tractor Trailer he could be really good.”
I was clueless, but curious. Who was this Big Baby character and why did my son think the Celtics stole him? The next day while scanning the sports page, I saw a photo of the Celtics second-round draft pick Glen Davis, the mysterious “Big Baby.” He is 6’9” and weighs between 289 – 295 lbs. Okay, so I got the “Big” part of the nickname, but I still don’t get the “Baby” part.
My husband explained he’d been sharing sports news in the Bunk Notes he’d written to our son. In addition to requesting my son’s feedback on the NBA draft, he wrote about how it was “a joke” that Pat Burrell, barely hitting .200, is the highest paid player on the Phillies ($15 million) while Ryan Howard is only making $350,000. He went on to report Ken Griffey is getting really hot (21 homers) and is hitting close to .300 before adding, “He has 584 homeruns so I don’t think he has any chance of catching Barry which is too bad because he never juiced.”
After reading my husband’s Bunk Notes, I went back and read one of mine. I’d told my son that the new lawnmower was much better than the old broken one and that I’d weeded the garden and gone for a run in Moose Hill. I went on to report I’d watched “Finding Nemo,” saying it was “so cute.” I detailed the dish I’d had while out to dinner with friends—salmon and shrimp with veggies and chunky mashed potatoes—because it was something I thought my son would have liked. I suppose when compared to my husband’s astute commentary on the NBA draft, player compensation discrepancies and the injustice of steroid use, my Bunk Note was pretty pathetic.
My e-mails were even worse. I sent one with “warning: annoying note alert” in the subject heading to give my son a heads-up about its contents. “Please remember to check your tick bite,” I wrote. (My daughter was on antibiotics after a tick bite, so I was understandably concerned). And then, “How’s your high school summer reading coming along?” I realize bringing up school work was pretty weak, but waiting to read all four required books until the last week of summer was a recipe for disaster. So far, my son has tolerated my notes just fine. “I’m a little behind on my summer reading but I’ll catch up next week,” he wrote. He reassured me that the tick-bitten area was fine, and, sensing my concern, kindly suggested I call him if I’m really worried. (I didn’t.)
Though my Bunk Notes are not exactly exciting, on some level I’m sure my son still appreciates them. There is, though, one thing I’ve mastered. No matter how dull my notes are, I always end them well. “Miss you and love you lots. Love, Mom.”
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)
Monday, April 2, 2007
A Too-Quiet Summer
Summers tend to be more relaxed, less hectic, quieter. This is the case in our home, especially this year with our son at overnight camp for the summer. I’ve noticed lots of changes. Trips to the grocery store have been simpler—less frequent, with far fewer items to purchase. Cooking, too, has been a breeze. And there are long stretches when I can hear the ‘quiet sounds’ of crickets, birds, even the gently blowing wind. As much as I welcome the reduced shopping and cooking load, and savor the quiet moments, I’m feeling a bit out of sorts without our son. Yes, things are quite different around here without him.
It’s been weeks since I’ve bought things like Boar’s Head Cajun turkey breast and sub rolls, Gatorade and Gushers. I can’t remember the last time I bought double-stuff Oreos or Restaurant-style salsa and Tostitos. And while we’ve had a carton or two of ice cream in the freezer over the past few weeks, there has been no cookie dough ice cream purchased in a very long time.
In addition to different grocery purchases, things just seem to last longer. I haven’t had to run out between grocery-shopping trips for a gallon of milk or carton of orange juice. There has been no dwindling of our Ovaltine supply. Dinners have been different too. I haven’t once made shrimp-meat combo tacos or grilled chicken wings with special spicy sauce. I haven’t, as times in the past, made two different spaghetti sauces to cover everyone’s tastes, nor have I cooked my son’s favorite “good kind” of pasta—the expensive brand with the squiggles.
And there’s another thing about life in our house these days. It is just so, what’s the word?—Quiet. Too quiet. I miss the drone of all those ESPN shows—Mike & Mike in the Morning, Around the Horn, Pardon the Interruption, Stump the Schwab—and all the other sounds of TV sports. I miss the piercing screams drifting from the basement following a clutch play on Madden Xbox 360. I miss the basketball bouncing on the driveway, the tap of the Whiffle ball in the backyard. I miss the horde of boys rushing in and out of our house, raiding our refrigerator, going through our cases of bottled water, leaving muddy tracks on the kitchen floor (and the door open behind them). I miss the sounds of their arguments—who fouled who, who was safe, and who was out.
Getting news from camp helps. This summer, our son has been a top-notch communicator, bordering on prolific. Clearly, having access to e-mail has made writing home far less painful for him. We’re getting real news this year, unlike in past years when we were lucky if we got a four-line note, three lines of which were requests to send things (i.e. home-baked chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Swedish fish, another can of tennis balls).
This year we’re hearing about all kinds of activities like waterskiing and knee-boarding. We’re hearing about the drives, points and assists in basketball, the catches and runs in softball, the goals in Euro (European handball). We’re hearing about the tennis matches, including the 6 foot 3 inch opponent who hit winners up the line. We’re getting word of the late-night 5 on 5 basketball games in the Rec Hall. We’re not just hearing about the soccer goals, we’re hearing about the left foot finish off a cross, and the one kicked in the corner from 16 yards away. Basically, we’re getting a complete play-by-play analysis of all his league sports, up to and including final scores. This is quality reporting right up there with ESPN.
Given our son’s particularly fine palate, we’re also hearing about the non-camp food treats—the pizza, the Caribbean jerk and teriyaki sauces on spare ribs, steak, shrimp, calamari, and mahi-mahi (from a special trip to a real-food restaurant.) I’m sure our son is taking mental notes to share with us upon his return, with suggestions on sauces and spices to enhance future home-cooked meals.
This year, we get to take our son out of camp on visiting day. We’ll probably take a trip to a north shore beach. Though we won’t be doing any knee-boarding (I think you get pulled by a motor boat for that), we’ll bring the boogie boards and keep our fingers crossed for some decent waves. And we’ll be sure to treat him (and us) to a delicious non-camp meal, like those famous fried clams and onion rings at Woodman’s in Essex, topped off with some homemade cookie dough ice cream (for him). Yes, that sounds like an excellent plan.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
It’s been weeks since I’ve bought things like Boar’s Head Cajun turkey breast and sub rolls, Gatorade and Gushers. I can’t remember the last time I bought double-stuff Oreos or Restaurant-style salsa and Tostitos. And while we’ve had a carton or two of ice cream in the freezer over the past few weeks, there has been no cookie dough ice cream purchased in a very long time.
In addition to different grocery purchases, things just seem to last longer. I haven’t had to run out between grocery-shopping trips for a gallon of milk or carton of orange juice. There has been no dwindling of our Ovaltine supply. Dinners have been different too. I haven’t once made shrimp-meat combo tacos or grilled chicken wings with special spicy sauce. I haven’t, as times in the past, made two different spaghetti sauces to cover everyone’s tastes, nor have I cooked my son’s favorite “good kind” of pasta—the expensive brand with the squiggles.
And there’s another thing about life in our house these days. It is just so, what’s the word?—Quiet. Too quiet. I miss the drone of all those ESPN shows—Mike & Mike in the Morning, Around the Horn, Pardon the Interruption, Stump the Schwab—and all the other sounds of TV sports. I miss the piercing screams drifting from the basement following a clutch play on Madden Xbox 360. I miss the basketball bouncing on the driveway, the tap of the Whiffle ball in the backyard. I miss the horde of boys rushing in and out of our house, raiding our refrigerator, going through our cases of bottled water, leaving muddy tracks on the kitchen floor (and the door open behind them). I miss the sounds of their arguments—who fouled who, who was safe, and who was out.
Getting news from camp helps. This summer, our son has been a top-notch communicator, bordering on prolific. Clearly, having access to e-mail has made writing home far less painful for him. We’re getting real news this year, unlike in past years when we were lucky if we got a four-line note, three lines of which were requests to send things (i.e. home-baked chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Swedish fish, another can of tennis balls).
This year we’re hearing about all kinds of activities like waterskiing and knee-boarding. We’re hearing about the drives, points and assists in basketball, the catches and runs in softball, the goals in Euro (European handball). We’re hearing about the tennis matches, including the 6 foot 3 inch opponent who hit winners up the line. We’re getting word of the late-night 5 on 5 basketball games in the Rec Hall. We’re not just hearing about the soccer goals, we’re hearing about the left foot finish off a cross, and the one kicked in the corner from 16 yards away. Basically, we’re getting a complete play-by-play analysis of all his league sports, up to and including final scores. This is quality reporting right up there with ESPN.
Given our son’s particularly fine palate, we’re also hearing about the non-camp food treats—the pizza, the Caribbean jerk and teriyaki sauces on spare ribs, steak, shrimp, calamari, and mahi-mahi (from a special trip to a real-food restaurant.) I’m sure our son is taking mental notes to share with us upon his return, with suggestions on sauces and spices to enhance future home-cooked meals.
This year, we get to take our son out of camp on visiting day. We’ll probably take a trip to a north shore beach. Though we won’t be doing any knee-boarding (I think you get pulled by a motor boat for that), we’ll bring the boogie boards and keep our fingers crossed for some decent waves. And we’ll be sure to treat him (and us) to a delicious non-camp meal, like those famous fried clams and onion rings at Woodman’s in Essex, topped off with some homemade cookie dough ice cream (for him). Yes, that sounds like an excellent plan.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
Friday, March 30, 2007
Pondering March Madness Picks
This year I did something I’ve never done before. I filled out my very own March Madness brackets. The picking of winners in the NCAA tournament has been a ritual in my home for as long as I can remember. As in years past, my husband and son pondered—no, painstakingly labored—over their picks, considering things like player and coach quality, tournament history statistics and testimony from columnists and ESPN commentators before printing out on their web-site generated brackets form. Their picks were chosen with the wisdom and meticulous care only the most compulsive college basketball fans possess. I, on the other hand, did something only slightly more sophisticated than eanie meanie minie mo before scribbling my picks on the newspaper brackets sheet.
The one bit of information I paid attention to were the seeds, the ratings between 1 and 16 assigned to teams in each region based on records and schedules. I stubbornly ignored the advice of the handicapping help sidebar, information that included statistics and tournament history to supposedly help pick the winners. I paid no attention to things like the top 25 teams by region, nor did I check last year’s tournament record that showed the Big East with more bids, first round wins and a higher winning percentage than the Big 12 or Pac 10.
I ignored information about the Final Four berths and national titles from the past twenty years. And I skipped over the seeds of hope section that revealed the not-so-surprising news that #1 seeds had a winning percentage of almost 80% as compared to a 0% winning record for the #16 seeds. No, these things I looked at only afterwards in a useless attempt to understand what my husband and son deem critical to the successful pick process.
Though I wasn’t as knowledgeable as the men in my family, I took the whole thing quite seriously. I wanted to take some risks—to show some guts, so to speak—so I chose a few upsets in the first round. My heart played somewhat into the process as I picked my childhood hometown teams to go far—Georgetown to the Elite Eight and Maryland to the Final Four. My other Final Four picks included Pittsburgh, Texas and Louisville, this last pick made because—and this is one thing I know—Rick Pitino is a great college coach.
Sentiment also played into my pick for the overall tournament winner. One of the few players I’d heard of was A.J. Abrams, a guard for the Texas Longhorns, and for reasons that might seem both silly and obvious, I was rooting for him. For this namesake reason—in addition to the presence of freshman phenomenon Kevin Durant—Texas was my choice to win it all.
It wasn’t until I’d finished my picks that I realized I’d failed to have any # 1 seeds make it beyond the Sweet Sixteen. Not too smart in retrospect, a scenario that would no doubt leave bracketology experts snickering and shuddering and shaking their heads. But I’d scribbled my picks in ink, so that was that.
So how have I fared so far? The good news is that eleven of my picks made it to the Sweet Sixteen. The bad news? Three of my Final Four picks were knocked out, including Texas. Though my picks were admittedly pathetic, it was fun following it all, rooting for teams that, with a mere stroke of a pen, became “mine.” And I will definitely fill out my brackets next near, though only after analyzing every last tournament trend, record and statistic from the beginning of time.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)
The one bit of information I paid attention to were the seeds, the ratings between 1 and 16 assigned to teams in each region based on records and schedules. I stubbornly ignored the advice of the handicapping help sidebar, information that included statistics and tournament history to supposedly help pick the winners. I paid no attention to things like the top 25 teams by region, nor did I check last year’s tournament record that showed the Big East with more bids, first round wins and a higher winning percentage than the Big 12 or Pac 10.
I ignored information about the Final Four berths and national titles from the past twenty years. And I skipped over the seeds of hope section that revealed the not-so-surprising news that #1 seeds had a winning percentage of almost 80% as compared to a 0% winning record for the #16 seeds. No, these things I looked at only afterwards in a useless attempt to understand what my husband and son deem critical to the successful pick process.
Though I wasn’t as knowledgeable as the men in my family, I took the whole thing quite seriously. I wanted to take some risks—to show some guts, so to speak—so I chose a few upsets in the first round. My heart played somewhat into the process as I picked my childhood hometown teams to go far—Georgetown to the Elite Eight and Maryland to the Final Four. My other Final Four picks included Pittsburgh, Texas and Louisville, this last pick made because—and this is one thing I know—Rick Pitino is a great college coach.
Sentiment also played into my pick for the overall tournament winner. One of the few players I’d heard of was A.J. Abrams, a guard for the Texas Longhorns, and for reasons that might seem both silly and obvious, I was rooting for him. For this namesake reason—in addition to the presence of freshman phenomenon Kevin Durant—Texas was my choice to win it all.
It wasn’t until I’d finished my picks that I realized I’d failed to have any # 1 seeds make it beyond the Sweet Sixteen. Not too smart in retrospect, a scenario that would no doubt leave bracketology experts snickering and shuddering and shaking their heads. But I’d scribbled my picks in ink, so that was that.
So how have I fared so far? The good news is that eleven of my picks made it to the Sweet Sixteen. The bad news? Three of my Final Four picks were knocked out, including Texas. Though my picks were admittedly pathetic, it was fun following it all, rooting for teams that, with a mere stroke of a pen, became “mine.” And I will definitely fill out my brackets next near, though only after analyzing every last tournament trend, record and statistic from the beginning of time.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)
Sunday, March 18, 2007
A Beautiful Beyond-Basketball Story
Basketball is a huge topic of discussion in my house these days. It is, after all, the beginning of March Madness when the top college teams battle it out for the National Championship. My husband and son will soon be feverishly working on their brackets, making picks, predicting upsets. As always, I'll root for my alma mater, Boston College, as well as an assortment of likely-win favorites and underdogs. Nothing, though, not even a major upset like a #20 seed knocking off Duke or U-Conn will move me as much as the story about the kid from the little town outside Rochester, New York.
For those who may have been in hibernation, the story is about Jason McElwain, the 5 foot 6 inch Greece Athena high school student who has autism. For the past two years as basketball team manager, Jason has been an enthusiastic supporter - keeping statistics, handing out towels, fetching water bottles, encouraging his teammates. He never missed a practice, made all but one game. For the last home game of the regular season, Coach Jim Johnson decided to give Jason, a senior, a chance to feel what it was like to sit on the bench wearing a uniform instead of his usual white shirt and black tie.
With four minutes left, Coach Johnson sent Jason into the game, hoping he might somehow get a basket, make a memory. After missing his first two shots, Jason got unbelievably hot, hitting a 3-pointer, and then another and another and another. In four minutes, he'd drained six 3-pointers and scored 20 points, tying a school record. His final shot, a nothing-but-net NBA distance 3-pointer swished through as time expired. The crowd went crazy, storming onto the court, surrounding him in a wild frenzy, as they whooped and cheered. It was a moment of pure magic.
There is so much to like about this story it is hard to know where to begin. With all the problems I've both witnessed and read about in youth sports these days - coaches yelling and berating, parents whining and interfering, fans complaining about calls-here was a refreshing example of the polar opposite. This story is a life lesson for coaches, teammates, fans and communities on how to do things right.
Here is a coach who showed compassion, giving a dedicated hard-working kid a chance at a dream. Here are players enthusiastically supporting their teammate/manager who they fondly refer to as 'J-Mac.' Here are fans - on both sides of the court - cheering, encouraging. And here is a kid, against all odds, achieving what he never dreamed possible.
The other part of this story goes back in time. Like many communities, the Greece Athena school system had been struggling with how to best serve kids with special needs. Six years ago, the school district was cited by the state of New York for not doing enough for kids with disabilities. Special needs students in this now progressive district are an integral part of the schools. The integration is so entrenched that at first the team didn't understand what all the fuss was about.
"Jason is so much a part of us and our program that we kind of forgot he was autistic," one teammate said. There is a lesson here for all communities - both large and small - about creating opportunity, embracing difference.
I missed the report when it was first broadcast, learning about it later from my husband and son who'd caught it on ESPN. When I finally saw it, I watched in awe and wonder. Like many people, I was completely overcome. It wasn't so much that this kid was making these amazing shots. It was the reaction of his teammates and the crowd that was so touching. It was the fans yelling and waving signs with Jason's picture when he stepped onto the court. It was the hooting and howling and jumping and screaming, over and over, longer and louder after each basket. It was the complete and unequivocal support for the "little guy."
After my son and I finished watching the report for a second time, I struggled to describe the feeling. My son turned to me and said, "It kind of gives you chills." Yes, that is it. That is exactly what it does.
This March Madness season, I'll be watching and cheering through the Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight, Final Four and Championship game. As in year's past, I'll go crazy over Duke and Gonzaga, U-Conn and Kentucky.
There will no doubt be buzzer-beaters and upsets, overtime games and amazing thrills. But there will never be a moment like the four-minute miracle in Greece, N.Y. Not the kind that leaves you breathless, stirred. Not the kind that takes you away to another place. Not the kind that leaves you trembling - in a good way - with incredible chills.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)
For those who may have been in hibernation, the story is about Jason McElwain, the 5 foot 6 inch Greece Athena high school student who has autism. For the past two years as basketball team manager, Jason has been an enthusiastic supporter - keeping statistics, handing out towels, fetching water bottles, encouraging his teammates. He never missed a practice, made all but one game. For the last home game of the regular season, Coach Jim Johnson decided to give Jason, a senior, a chance to feel what it was like to sit on the bench wearing a uniform instead of his usual white shirt and black tie.
With four minutes left, Coach Johnson sent Jason into the game, hoping he might somehow get a basket, make a memory. After missing his first two shots, Jason got unbelievably hot, hitting a 3-pointer, and then another and another and another. In four minutes, he'd drained six 3-pointers and scored 20 points, tying a school record. His final shot, a nothing-but-net NBA distance 3-pointer swished through as time expired. The crowd went crazy, storming onto the court, surrounding him in a wild frenzy, as they whooped and cheered. It was a moment of pure magic.
There is so much to like about this story it is hard to know where to begin. With all the problems I've both witnessed and read about in youth sports these days - coaches yelling and berating, parents whining and interfering, fans complaining about calls-here was a refreshing example of the polar opposite. This story is a life lesson for coaches, teammates, fans and communities on how to do things right.
Here is a coach who showed compassion, giving a dedicated hard-working kid a chance at a dream. Here are players enthusiastically supporting their teammate/manager who they fondly refer to as 'J-Mac.' Here are fans - on both sides of the court - cheering, encouraging. And here is a kid, against all odds, achieving what he never dreamed possible.
The other part of this story goes back in time. Like many communities, the Greece Athena school system had been struggling with how to best serve kids with special needs. Six years ago, the school district was cited by the state of New York for not doing enough for kids with disabilities. Special needs students in this now progressive district are an integral part of the schools. The integration is so entrenched that at first the team didn't understand what all the fuss was about.
"Jason is so much a part of us and our program that we kind of forgot he was autistic," one teammate said. There is a lesson here for all communities - both large and small - about creating opportunity, embracing difference.
I missed the report when it was first broadcast, learning about it later from my husband and son who'd caught it on ESPN. When I finally saw it, I watched in awe and wonder. Like many people, I was completely overcome. It wasn't so much that this kid was making these amazing shots. It was the reaction of his teammates and the crowd that was so touching. It was the fans yelling and waving signs with Jason's picture when he stepped onto the court. It was the hooting and howling and jumping and screaming, over and over, longer and louder after each basket. It was the complete and unequivocal support for the "little guy."
After my son and I finished watching the report for a second time, I struggled to describe the feeling. My son turned to me and said, "It kind of gives you chills." Yes, that is it. That is exactly what it does.
This March Madness season, I'll be watching and cheering through the Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight, Final Four and Championship game. As in year's past, I'll go crazy over Duke and Gonzaga, U-Conn and Kentucky.
There will no doubt be buzzer-beaters and upsets, overtime games and amazing thrills. But there will never be a moment like the four-minute miracle in Greece, N.Y. Not the kind that leaves you breathless, stirred. Not the kind that takes you away to another place. Not the kind that leaves you trembling - in a good way - with incredible chills.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)
Monday, January 8, 2007
The Sox in the Drawer
It's fitting, the rain we had for days and days upon end. The steady, dreary drips are a perfect match for my mood. I feel lost, empty and just plain strange sitting on the sidelines in the middle of October.
The blow is only slightly eased with reminders of how high a hurdle it was for our Red Sox this year. Trying to win a championship without Pedro and a healthy Schilling is like trying to pick up a coin without your thumb and index finger. Challenging indeed - even with our should-be-MVP Ortiz.
In spite of the pitching problems, the Sox were sitting pretty up until the last week of the season. But when they lost first place to the Yankees and played a meaningless final game, the thrill was all but gone. There would be no dramatic one game play-off to determine the division winner.
Though the Sox and Yankees would share the same record, New York's edge in head-to-head division match-ups assured the Yankees of yet another division title. The Red Sox fell fast and furious, swept clean in the wildcard contest by the other colored Sox. And then something even stranger happened. The Yankees fell. With no team to root passionately for, or against, I have pretty much lost interest in baseball. Like picking through half-eaten chocolates at the bottom of the box, there's nothing left worth bothering about.
So what's a dejected Red Sox fan to do at a time like this? I've tried to deal with the disappointment by going back in time, pulling out memorabilia from that magical season just one year ago. I reveled in the headlines; "Hello, World Series," "On Top of the World," "Finally," and the simple but powerfully effective, "We Won."
I flipped through the pages of "Sports Illustrated" (both regular and commemorative issues), at the cover photo of Damon, Ortiz, Pedro and Schilling holding the flag-filled Championship trophy below the "New Era" headline.
I chuckled at the "Joy of Sox" scrawled across the cover of "Time." I read all about the greatest comeback in baseball history, about the church bells ringing and car horns blowing, about the personal accounts of regular fans who popped corks from dusty champagne bottles and toasted the improbable victory in memory of long-lost fathers and grandfathers.
I smiled as I looked at my favorite congratulatory message, the one with the Red Sox celebrating below a scoreboard that read: "Boston 1; Odds 0."
I drifted one final time back to the moment when Foulke tossed the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz (remember him?), to the men-boys frolicking in ecstasy on the mound. And then I put the newspaper clippings and photographs safely away.
The funny thing is, though I feel let-down, I am not crushed. Though disappointed, I am far from devastated. I suppose when you've had the ultimate sundae, the one with three scoops of ice cream smothered in hot fudge, covered in sprinkles, and topped with whipped cream and a cherry, you can't help but be satisfied.
At least for a while.
So it's time to tuck the championship dream away in the drawer - away, but not too far back. With no curse left to bear, it's easier to let it go. And as every devoted Red Sox fan knows, there's always next year.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2005)
The blow is only slightly eased with reminders of how high a hurdle it was for our Red Sox this year. Trying to win a championship without Pedro and a healthy Schilling is like trying to pick up a coin without your thumb and index finger. Challenging indeed - even with our should-be-MVP Ortiz.
In spite of the pitching problems, the Sox were sitting pretty up until the last week of the season. But when they lost first place to the Yankees and played a meaningless final game, the thrill was all but gone. There would be no dramatic one game play-off to determine the division winner.
Though the Sox and Yankees would share the same record, New York's edge in head-to-head division match-ups assured the Yankees of yet another division title. The Red Sox fell fast and furious, swept clean in the wildcard contest by the other colored Sox. And then something even stranger happened. The Yankees fell. With no team to root passionately for, or against, I have pretty much lost interest in baseball. Like picking through half-eaten chocolates at the bottom of the box, there's nothing left worth bothering about.
So what's a dejected Red Sox fan to do at a time like this? I've tried to deal with the disappointment by going back in time, pulling out memorabilia from that magical season just one year ago. I reveled in the headlines; "Hello, World Series," "On Top of the World," "Finally," and the simple but powerfully effective, "We Won."
I flipped through the pages of "Sports Illustrated" (both regular and commemorative issues), at the cover photo of Damon, Ortiz, Pedro and Schilling holding the flag-filled Championship trophy below the "New Era" headline.
I chuckled at the "Joy of Sox" scrawled across the cover of "Time." I read all about the greatest comeback in baseball history, about the church bells ringing and car horns blowing, about the personal accounts of regular fans who popped corks from dusty champagne bottles and toasted the improbable victory in memory of long-lost fathers and grandfathers.
I smiled as I looked at my favorite congratulatory message, the one with the Red Sox celebrating below a scoreboard that read: "Boston 1; Odds 0."
I drifted one final time back to the moment when Foulke tossed the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz (remember him?), to the men-boys frolicking in ecstasy on the mound. And then I put the newspaper clippings and photographs safely away.
The funny thing is, though I feel let-down, I am not crushed. Though disappointed, I am far from devastated. I suppose when you've had the ultimate sundae, the one with three scoops of ice cream smothered in hot fudge, covered in sprinkles, and topped with whipped cream and a cherry, you can't help but be satisfied.
At least for a while.
So it's time to tuck the championship dream away in the drawer - away, but not too far back. With no curse left to bear, it's easier to let it go. And as every devoted Red Sox fan knows, there's always next year.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2005)
Saturday, January 6, 2007
Pardon Me While I Turn on Sports Talk
I did something the other week I thought I’d never do. Though far from outrageous, it was, for me, somewhat out of character. I watched “Pardon the Interruption” all by myself. Now for those non-obsessed sports fans who may not be familiar with it, “Pardon the Interruption,” or PTI as it is fondly called, is an ESPN sports talk show.
The show is a favorite of my son’s, one I’ve “watched” many times, glancing up every now and then from a book or newspaper. Though I’m no sports-talk connoisseur, I prefer it to “Around the Horn,” an irritatingly loud ESPN show that pits battling sports journalists against one another.
In my half-watching state, I’ve noticed some things about PTI that I have to admit I like. The rapport between Washington Post columnists-hosts Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon is fantastic. They are the national counterparts to our own Ken Berman and Jan Goldstein of Sharon cable SportsNuts fame. The format is lively, unique. The show is an interesting mix of run-downs, interviews, picks and pans. It keeps things going, with its varied format and clock ticking down the list of intriguing topics. They toss in an interview, take a brief break for ESPN sports news, and return for the finale, the “Big Finish,” a one minute sprint on ten topics, complete with lively music and a buzzer at the end. Even non-die-hard sports fans will agree this is a darn good show.
Though I’ve always enjoyed the bits I catch in between reading, the night I watched PTI solo was entirely accidental. I’d just returned from dropping my son and teammate off at basketball practice, had started dinner, and was looking to kill some time before heading back to pick them up. When I clicked on the television, ESPN came on. This is the case 99% of the time I turn on the TV. “Pardon the Interruption” was already in progress. I started to change the channel, but was overcome with an inexplicable desire to hear about sports stuff. I was completely pulled in by the hosts. These are two incredibly sharp, likeable guys who have interesting things to say. And though they often disagree, they do so in a way that is respectful, and most importantly, hugely entertaining.
On this particular night, the “rundown list” included topics such as Duke, Jets, Knicks, Goose, Penguins, McGwire and Vick. Though I wasn’t sure what Goose was all about, I thought it was funny how it came right before Penguins. I’ve been following the amazing year of Duke’s J.J. Redick, and I was curious what they had to say about McGwire. I’ve listened to my son ‘talk sports’ enough to know that Michael Vick’s younger brother has gotten into a heap of trouble, being kicked off Virginia Tech’s football team for viciously stepping on a player’s leg, and recently being caught brandishing a handgun. Curious, I watched and listed as Tony and Michael went down the list.
The first interview that night was with Carolina Panther Steve Smith, who responded to the trash-talk directed at him from a Bears player. Though Smith’s name was somewhat familiar to me, I couldn’t have placed his team, and I’d not heard about the trash-talk incident. There was, though, something amusing about it all, with the headline “Do Pros Care About Yapping?” listed at the bottom of the screen, and talk about being “dissed and disrespected.”
From what I could see, this Steve Smith guy handled himself like a pro, refusing to give in to requests to yap back at the Bears, even when the hosts promised to put Smith’s picture on the station wall in exchange for a nasty comeback. Smith then described his favorite end zone celebrations, including the snow-less snow angel, baby-wiping the football, and the Mr. September, so-called due to his provocative laying-down-on-his-side-in-the-end-zone pose. Yes this is mindless, meaningless, not-important-to-the-world stuff. But it sure is entertaining.
The hosts then moved into a role play, where each took turns holding a photograph-mask in front of his face, pretending to be, among other players, Sean Taylor (the Redskin who was ejected from a playoff game for spitting at an opponent) and Mark McGwire, responding to questions about whether his possible, but unproven, steroid use would keep him out of the Hall of Fame.
They cut away to ESPN for a quick sports update before returning for another interview, this time with Boomer Esiason—I’d surely heard of him—who relayed his playoff picks, as well as “key players” and “X-factors” (i.e. crowd noise, turnovers, rainy Seattle weather) that would likely contribute to game outcomes.
At this point, I was anxiously eyeing the clock. I knew it was time for me to return to my carpool duty, but I really didn’t want to miss the end of the show when the hosts take exactly one minute giving quick opinions on a long list of topics. It didn’t seem possible they’d make it through all of them, but as always they did. These guys are amazing. As soon as the buzzer sounded, I grabbed my coat and headed out the door.
I got there in the nick of time, pulling up just as my son and his friend were walking out of the gym. Somehow, though, I think I’d be forgiven if I’d been a few minutes late. My son, of course, would certainly understand my desperate need to watch the “Big Finish” right to the very end.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)
The show is a favorite of my son’s, one I’ve “watched” many times, glancing up every now and then from a book or newspaper. Though I’m no sports-talk connoisseur, I prefer it to “Around the Horn,” an irritatingly loud ESPN show that pits battling sports journalists against one another.
In my half-watching state, I’ve noticed some things about PTI that I have to admit I like. The rapport between Washington Post columnists-hosts Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon is fantastic. They are the national counterparts to our own Ken Berman and Jan Goldstein of Sharon cable SportsNuts fame. The format is lively, unique. The show is an interesting mix of run-downs, interviews, picks and pans. It keeps things going, with its varied format and clock ticking down the list of intriguing topics. They toss in an interview, take a brief break for ESPN sports news, and return for the finale, the “Big Finish,” a one minute sprint on ten topics, complete with lively music and a buzzer at the end. Even non-die-hard sports fans will agree this is a darn good show.
Though I’ve always enjoyed the bits I catch in between reading, the night I watched PTI solo was entirely accidental. I’d just returned from dropping my son and teammate off at basketball practice, had started dinner, and was looking to kill some time before heading back to pick them up. When I clicked on the television, ESPN came on. This is the case 99% of the time I turn on the TV. “Pardon the Interruption” was already in progress. I started to change the channel, but was overcome with an inexplicable desire to hear about sports stuff. I was completely pulled in by the hosts. These are two incredibly sharp, likeable guys who have interesting things to say. And though they often disagree, they do so in a way that is respectful, and most importantly, hugely entertaining.
On this particular night, the “rundown list” included topics such as Duke, Jets, Knicks, Goose, Penguins, McGwire and Vick. Though I wasn’t sure what Goose was all about, I thought it was funny how it came right before Penguins. I’ve been following the amazing year of Duke’s J.J. Redick, and I was curious what they had to say about McGwire. I’ve listened to my son ‘talk sports’ enough to know that Michael Vick’s younger brother has gotten into a heap of trouble, being kicked off Virginia Tech’s football team for viciously stepping on a player’s leg, and recently being caught brandishing a handgun. Curious, I watched and listed as Tony and Michael went down the list.
The first interview that night was with Carolina Panther Steve Smith, who responded to the trash-talk directed at him from a Bears player. Though Smith’s name was somewhat familiar to me, I couldn’t have placed his team, and I’d not heard about the trash-talk incident. There was, though, something amusing about it all, with the headline “Do Pros Care About Yapping?” listed at the bottom of the screen, and talk about being “dissed and disrespected.”
From what I could see, this Steve Smith guy handled himself like a pro, refusing to give in to requests to yap back at the Bears, even when the hosts promised to put Smith’s picture on the station wall in exchange for a nasty comeback. Smith then described his favorite end zone celebrations, including the snow-less snow angel, baby-wiping the football, and the Mr. September, so-called due to his provocative laying-down-on-his-side-in-the-end-zone pose. Yes this is mindless, meaningless, not-important-to-the-world stuff. But it sure is entertaining.
The hosts then moved into a role play, where each took turns holding a photograph-mask in front of his face, pretending to be, among other players, Sean Taylor (the Redskin who was ejected from a playoff game for spitting at an opponent) and Mark McGwire, responding to questions about whether his possible, but unproven, steroid use would keep him out of the Hall of Fame.
They cut away to ESPN for a quick sports update before returning for another interview, this time with Boomer Esiason—I’d surely heard of him—who relayed his playoff picks, as well as “key players” and “X-factors” (i.e. crowd noise, turnovers, rainy Seattle weather) that would likely contribute to game outcomes.
At this point, I was anxiously eyeing the clock. I knew it was time for me to return to my carpool duty, but I really didn’t want to miss the end of the show when the hosts take exactly one minute giving quick opinions on a long list of topics. It didn’t seem possible they’d make it through all of them, but as always they did. These guys are amazing. As soon as the buzzer sounded, I grabbed my coat and headed out the door.
I got there in the nick of time, pulling up just as my son and his friend were walking out of the gym. Somehow, though, I think I’d be forgiven if I’d been a few minutes late. My son, of course, would certainly understand my desperate need to watch the “Big Finish” right to the very end.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)
Friday, January 5, 2007
Guys and Sports
As a New Englander living in the land of the three-time champion Patriots, it is impossible to ignore that football season is upon us. And in my home, the all-day cheers blaring from the TV are a sure sign that fall is here.
This past weekend, I heard my husband call out as he scrolled through the Comcast Cable guide, "Great, I can switch between the Michigan-Notre Dame and BC-Army games. And then the Red Sox are on at 1:30. My day is set." It reminded me of a time last year, when my husband and son announced they were watching four things at once - the Pats, the Red Sox, USC and the Olympics-before adding, "And you're not allowed to complain about the clicking."
The whole quadruple sports-fest thing got me thinking about men, boys and sports-viewing. Now don't get the wrong idea. I love sports. I appreciate the drama of baseball, the athleticism of basketball and the thrill of football as much as the next guy. It's just that, like most women, I take a different approach to watching and digesting sports than men and boys do. Though I rarely watch an entire game of anything, when I do watch, I prefer to focus on one game at a time.
I can appreciate a good play, and love a come-from-behind victory. I especially like to see the underdog get the win. Just because I don't continuously click between commercials, obsess over detailed nuances and value the toughness of a play doesn't mean I'm not a sports fan. To me, the sports viewing habits of the guys in my home are simply beyond my understanding.
Take football, for example. Men and boys focus on far more than which team is scoring touchdowns. They like to see wide receivers and quarterbacks intimidated with hard hits that "make them think about it." They value the fine art of end-zone celebrations (dance moves, football spins and spikes, cell phone calls, Sharpie signatures.) They admire those who play hurt and express disdain for those who don't. They love discussing all the outside-of-game antics such as player squabbles and contract disputes. And of course, they proudly recite every statistic imaginable on every player, including but not limited to QB rating, interceptions, rushing yards and sacks.
And it's the same with baseball. Guys like it when pitchers intimidate batters with brush-back pitches (even occasionally hit a batter) to "make him think about it." They appreciate players who charge the mound, and scorn those who don't run their hardest to first base. They love the bench-clearing brawls that lead to player suspensions. They obsess over trade talks, multi-million dollar contracts and the atmosphere in the club house.
They talk about things like "respect." And of course, they revel in reciting every statistic imaginable on every player, including but not limited to ERAs, RBIs, IPs, Ks, HRs, saves and slugging percentages.
Basketball is no different. Guys appreciate perfectly executed dunks that psych-out the other team and "show they're in charge." They look for boxing out underneath, preferably with fierce shoves and elbows. They like trash talk, icy glares. They appreciate the time-out called when an opponent steps up to the free-throw line to "make him think about it." They obsess over things like where Larry Brown and Phil Jackson will be coaching, and which team will get the #1 draft pick. And of course, they love rattling off every statistic imaginable, including but not limited to FG%, FT%, PPG, 3-point FG%.
There was plenty of non-game talk in hockey this past year with the season cancelled due to the lock out. In other years, guys wait on the edge of their seats for bench-clearing fights (preferably with gloves off). They look for brutal checking of opponents against the boards to "make them think about it." They relish every whack, thrash and slash with unbridled delight. And of course, they love rattling off every statistic imaginable, including but not limited to goals, assists and penalty minutes.
Golf is about the only sport I can think of where men and women agree on the key aspect of the game: shoot a lower score than your opponent while hitting a ball into a cup. Though guys might add that Tiger is going to jack a 350 foot drive to "make the others think about it."
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
This past weekend, I heard my husband call out as he scrolled through the Comcast Cable guide, "Great, I can switch between the Michigan-Notre Dame and BC-Army games. And then the Red Sox are on at 1:30. My day is set." It reminded me of a time last year, when my husband and son announced they were watching four things at once - the Pats, the Red Sox, USC and the Olympics-before adding, "And you're not allowed to complain about the clicking."
The whole quadruple sports-fest thing got me thinking about men, boys and sports-viewing. Now don't get the wrong idea. I love sports. I appreciate the drama of baseball, the athleticism of basketball and the thrill of football as much as the next guy. It's just that, like most women, I take a different approach to watching and digesting sports than men and boys do. Though I rarely watch an entire game of anything, when I do watch, I prefer to focus on one game at a time.
I can appreciate a good play, and love a come-from-behind victory. I especially like to see the underdog get the win. Just because I don't continuously click between commercials, obsess over detailed nuances and value the toughness of a play doesn't mean I'm not a sports fan. To me, the sports viewing habits of the guys in my home are simply beyond my understanding.
Take football, for example. Men and boys focus on far more than which team is scoring touchdowns. They like to see wide receivers and quarterbacks intimidated with hard hits that "make them think about it." They value the fine art of end-zone celebrations (dance moves, football spins and spikes, cell phone calls, Sharpie signatures.) They admire those who play hurt and express disdain for those who don't. They love discussing all the outside-of-game antics such as player squabbles and contract disputes. And of course, they proudly recite every statistic imaginable on every player, including but not limited to QB rating, interceptions, rushing yards and sacks.
And it's the same with baseball. Guys like it when pitchers intimidate batters with brush-back pitches (even occasionally hit a batter) to "make him think about it." They appreciate players who charge the mound, and scorn those who don't run their hardest to first base. They love the bench-clearing brawls that lead to player suspensions. They obsess over trade talks, multi-million dollar contracts and the atmosphere in the club house.
They talk about things like "respect." And of course, they revel in reciting every statistic imaginable on every player, including but not limited to ERAs, RBIs, IPs, Ks, HRs, saves and slugging percentages.
Basketball is no different. Guys appreciate perfectly executed dunks that psych-out the other team and "show they're in charge." They look for boxing out underneath, preferably with fierce shoves and elbows. They like trash talk, icy glares. They appreciate the time-out called when an opponent steps up to the free-throw line to "make him think about it." They obsess over things like where Larry Brown and Phil Jackson will be coaching, and which team will get the #1 draft pick. And of course, they love rattling off every statistic imaginable, including but not limited to FG%, FT%, PPG, 3-point FG%.
There was plenty of non-game talk in hockey this past year with the season cancelled due to the lock out. In other years, guys wait on the edge of their seats for bench-clearing fights (preferably with gloves off). They look for brutal checking of opponents against the boards to "make them think about it." They relish every whack, thrash and slash with unbridled delight. And of course, they love rattling off every statistic imaginable, including but not limited to goals, assists and penalty minutes.
Golf is about the only sport I can think of where men and women agree on the key aspect of the game: shoot a lower score than your opponent while hitting a ball into a cup. Though guys might add that Tiger is going to jack a 350 foot drive to "make the others think about it."
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
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