Showing posts with label playing sports. Show all posts
Showing posts with label playing sports. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 02, 2013

NFL Pick 'Em: Week 4 Results

Who's Your Daddy? 

I accepted the task of keeping the weekly score of our NFL Pick 'Em Challenge, and I committed to providing a weekly post with each week's score, but because we started in the middle of government fiscal year-end throes, I couldn’t find the time to write my usual pithy words on the previous week's games.  Well, since my so-called "representatives" in Congress believe in their hearts that their argument to see who has the biggest dick is what the American people asked for, and since it's also in my best interests to put me out of work to salve our budget woes (while they keep their paychecks), it seems that I have time to write something--at least for this week.  I hope this doesn't become a habit!  :-(

Here are the results for Week 4:

  - Tom:  12
   -  Rick:  10
   -  Mike: 10
   -  AA: 9
   -  Zeb: 9
   -  BK: 8                                                                 
   -  RJ: 6
   -  George: 6

The overall 4-week standings:

   -  Mike:  40 wins
    -   Tom:  39 wins
    -   Zeb:  37 wins
    -   BK:  36 wins
    -   Rick:  35 wins
    -   AA:  34 wins
    -   George:  34 wins
    -   RJ:  33 wins

I'm not a sports prognosticator (as you can tell from my W-L record above), but notwithstanding the pure "suckyness" of the NFC Least (Washington, Dallas, New York, and Philadelphia), the rest of the League seems to have latched on to a degree of parity.  With some of the usual suspects still holding the high ground (New Orleans, New England, Indianapolis, Seattle), they are joined by a few upstarts (Detroit, Miami, and Kansas City).  Other perennial 1st-placers seem to need their "Geritol" (Green Bay, Baltimore, Pittsburg(h), Houston, and Atlanta). 

Did I mention the NFC Least?  No?  Good, because they SUCK! With the entire conference winning a total of just four games (that's "4" as in:  quatro, vier, quate, shi, 四,quattro,  четыре), we'll let Dallas (2-2) believe they're just kicking some serious ass!!!

If I get my job back, I promise not to be so wordy in future posts, and will give you just the facts, ma'am, just the facts!

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

COLLEGE SPORTS AND MONEY (Part 1)

At the risk of repeating myself (and boring you in the process--again), here's how I'd solve the NCAA's "pay-'em-to-play" problem:

    1.  I would dissolve all college sports scholarships.

    2.  I'd allow all colleges to "hire" their athletes and treat them as paid employees. 

    3.  There would be no academic or scholastic requirement for this position; their classification would be "employee-athlete" vice "student-athlete."

    4.  The schools would only "pay" the athletes a sufficient sum as a stipend; the schools would house and feed these employees on campus, as part of their compensation package, but to keep them on campus for the purpose of training, practice, and managing their conduct during the season.

    5.  The employee-athlete would play for four (4) years only.  This is purely for athletic, mental, and physical development in preparation for a potential professional career.

    6.  Any potential residual income that could be earned by the employee-athlete in the form of merchandizing, paid speeches, honorariums, sponsorship, would be due and owing to the employee-athlete, but shared by the school (50/50) and held in interest-bearing trust.

    7.  After four years, the contract between the employee-athlete and the school terminates, automatically.  Any potential revenue directly related to the on-field/court/rink exploits of the employee-athlete after the 4-year term, belongs to the athlete (100%). 

    8.  All money, held in trust, will remain in an interest-earning account and will be used to fund a full college education if the athlete is unable to obtain a professional sports contract, and wishes to pursue a degree-bearing education.  Otherwise, all money is due and payable to the athlete immediately upon termination of the contract.

    9.  If, at that time, the athlete is good enough to turn professional, off he goes--God bless him.

    10.  After two years, the athlete no longer has any viable prospects for a professional contract, and he now wishes to pursue a legitimate college education, the money held in trust will be used to fund that education.  If the athlete's total in-trust account assets are less than one half (1/2) of the total cost of four year's worth of tuition, room, board, books, and fees for the schools for which he was engaged as an employee-athlete, then school will fund 1/2 of the total cost of a four-year education, with the athlete funding 1/2 through whatever sources are available to him (personal assets, scholarships, grants, loans, etc.).

Friday, September 06, 2013

Does My Team Suck That Bad?




This is some of the funniest crap I've ever read about the Redskins.  But the funniest thing is--IT'S ALL TRUE, SCREAMINGLY TRUE!

The following are selected sound bites from "Deadspin's" "Why Your Team Sucks: 2013"





1.  YOUR QUARTERBACK:  Robert Griffin III, who has all the athleticism of Cam Newton and none of the durability.

     Only the Redskins could fuck this up. Only the Redskins could draft such a brilliant young talent, let him get slaughtered on a rec softball league-quality playing surface, and then spend the entire offseason passive aggressively sniping with both him and his doctor. RGIII is the most exciting player in football, yet he is exceptionally fragile, unsurprisingly pigheaded, and is flanked by WTA-quality stage parents. The Redskins—who suck at public relations more than any company has sucked at anything—have mishandled Griffin to the point where I'm now excited for him to finally lose it and tweet out "FUCK SHANNY" and then delete the tweet five seconds later.

     Redskins fans worship RGIII the way a stalker worships a woman he's about to stab to death. They love him so much that they get SO VERY ANGRY when RGIII does something to disappoint them, like accepting gifts from fans on his wedding registry. WE LOVE YOU RGIII BUT NOW YOU MUST DIE FOR NOT BEING PERFECT. WE SHALL WEAR YOUR SKIN AT NIGHT. If I were RGIII, I would be terrified.

2.  THE 18 WORST REDSKINS EVER:   

     a.  Snyder. More Crown Royal, Mr. Snyder?

     b.  Albert Haynesworth. The best part was that everyone knew he would tank the second he got paid, and yet the Skins couldn't WAIT to fly him in.

     c-f.  Bruce Smith/Deion Sanders/Jeff George/Mark Carrier. I miss the days of Snyder openly trying to buy a championship and then failing miserably.

     g.  Michael Westbrook

     h.  Malcolm Kelly. It's amazing how many teams have whiffed on wideouts in the second round. Drafting a wideout in the second round is like putting your hand in a coffee grinder.

     i-k.  Jim Zorn/Norv Turner/Steve Spurrier

     l.  Taylor Jacobs

     m.  Desmond Howard

     n.  Josh Morgan. That's some clutch taunting, right there.

     o.  Heath Shuler

    p.  Dana Stubblefield

     q.  Adam Archuleta. Say his name to any Skins fan and they will drive off a highway ramp.

     r.  Danny Wuerffel. Once upon a time, there existed a LESS talented Tim Tebow.

3.  FAN MAIL:
 
"Remember that one kid in school who was popular only because he had money and nobody ACTUALLY enjoyed spending more than 30 seconds in his presence? And everyone was just about to wash their hands of him completely but then his folks got him a Camaro for his 16th birthday? And then everyone wanted to hang out with him again, right up until the point where he wrapped the Camaro around a telephone pole, at which point everyone felt justified in just writing him off as a complete dipshit for good?  The Redskins are that kid and Robert Griffin III is our Camaro."
 
"FedEx Field is a super dump. It's the reason you stay home to watch games in HD on your couch. Getting in and out of the place is a disaster that will take you hours. It's a giant corporate shit hole that ends up half full of Eagles or Cowboys fans even when they aren't fucking playing there. The 400 section is a nightmare level filled with drunken brawls, usually among Redskins fans. The field is the biggest embarrassment in the NFL. It looks like a fucking mine field. Snyder will spend a fortune on players (usually shitty) but probably not even $10 on the awful grounds crew this team has. We wait decades to get a franchise QB and our own fucking field helps injure him. Perfect."
 
"The team's pass defense was 30th in the league so they finally cut DeAngelo Hall. To replace him they bring in - DeAngelo Hall!"
 
"All the bad things ever written and said about this stadium are understatements. It is the anti-stadium."

"If Dan Snyder was drowning in the Anacostia River, I'd throw him a cinder block."

"RGIII's knee will no doubt collapse into itself, creating a black hole and ending all life on Earth as we know it."

"Rex Grossman is still somehow on the roster."

"Go up to Northern Virginia and ask anyone to name their favorite player from the past 10 years and the answer is ALWAYS Chris Cooley."

"I love my dog. She's really great and I'd do anything for her. I'd also put her in a burlap bag and beat her with a brick if it meant not seeing any more fucking wide receiver screens to Santana Moss for a two yard loss."

"In 2007 I snagged the Eagles game from my father's season tickets to bring a college friend from Philly. Two drunk morons decided they'd had enough arguing over Joe Gibbs's play calling, stood up and started some aggravated jawing. Sitting directly behind one, who sat behind the other, we had a front row view as the Redskins fan in the higher row, pushing three bills, decided to spear tackle the other, much skinnier, Redskins fan. They flew into the row below and broke off the plastic seat on impact before their wrestling crashed them down into the next row, crushing the people beneath them and scattering those nearby. After fighting down a few more rows of the upper deck, they landed on another drunk Redskins fan who, instead of getting out of the way, joined in. The melee, which began in the 15th row, turned into one of those cartoon fights where you only see fists sticking out of a tangle of bodies, eventually reaching the bottom of the section where a half dozen security guards showed up and restrained everyone.  Immediately after the fight began, McNabb tossed a screen pass to Brian Westbrook that resulted in a scrambling 57-yard touchdown run that put the Eagles up by one with three minutes left. I only saw a split second of the play as the stadium noise caused me to look up from the fight long enough to acknowledge the Redskins were blowing the game. The Eagles would go on to score another touchdown and win 33-25.  This was also the last game Sean Taylor (SEAN TAYLOR!!!!!!!11) played."

Saturday, May 11, 2013

HAIL TO THE WASHINGTON #@*!*%



Here’s my view on this “Redskins” controversy.

First, I’m torn because I absolutely agree that the term “redskin” is pejorative.  To use the analogy, I wouldn’t want to support a professional team named the “Washington Sambos.”  However, there’s a reality to this story that’s not being talked about much. 

First, I think there is a degree of disingenuousness and hypocrisy by Native Americans, and by other American “minorities,” particularly by African Americans.  I have no doubt that over time—as soon as the first “pale face” spoke the words “red skin”—that it became a slur against Native Americans.  I wonder…when Native Americans first learned English, was the term “white man” used innocuously, or did it soon have a “racial” bite?  I’ll bet that in those early days of American colonialism and settling the “wild, wild west,” calling Native American Indians “redskins” didn’t exactly have the same context (at first) as when American culture referred to Asians as “yellow,” or Hispanics as “brown,” or how in the antebellum South, “blacks” was used equally negative to describe Americans of African descent.  But it is a fact that many Native American Indian tribes used face paint for many purposes—religious, celebrations, and in war.  Many cultures around the world use body paint for similar reasons, but early American settlers in the west, who first encountered hostile Indian tribes, would naturally (in ignorance or fear) refer to their painted attackers as “red-skinned.”  Is that were the word comes from?  Did that quickly become a slur in the lexicon of the white man?  Of course.  I’m not trying to argue that Native Americans brought this on themselves, I’m just saying the term has a basis in historical fact.  And while it definitely falls squarely in the same class as “nigger,” “kike,” “chink,” “slope,” “spick,” “honky,” “cracker,” or any other racial slur, I see “redskin” a little differently.

Second, I bristle at my African American friends who join the argument against the Washington Redskins logo, while justifying the proliferation of the word “nigga” as a term of endearment.  And don’t feed me this bullshit that “nigga” is DIFFERENT from “nigger.”  Some Blacks wholly embrace the term “nigga,” and the entertainment industry has made its use extremely profitable for both hip hop artists, and their white producers, agents, and sponsors.  I won’t even go into how much Hollywood enriches itself by the financial exploitation of all of these terms SOLELY for their pejorative connotation!

(Quick quiz:  Do you know what an “apple” is?  It’s a Native American slur used against other Native Americans to describe a person who’s “red” on the outside, but “white” on the inside.  Hmmmm…)

When the NCAA declared that all member schools had to change their mascots and team names that evoked these racially divisive terms (“Chiefs,” “Redmen,” “Braves,” “Warriors,” “Illini,” etc.), they gave a pass to Notre Dame (the “Irish”) and especially to the Florida State “Seminoles,” who still proudly (and legally) display their painted-face Indian head logo.  The Seminole Nation is split on this topic—Oklahoma Seminoles hate it, while Florida Seminoles profit from it!  Yes, the word “redskin” is bad, but what’s to be said of 30,000 Atlanta Braves “fans” when they break out into that incessant tomahawk chop thing—are they as racist as Dan Schneider and his 90K singing fans when the team scores a touchdown?

When the Redskins moved from Boston (the “Boston Braves”), the wife of the owner (George Preston Marshall) wrote the lyrics to its now iconic fight song:

Hail to the Redskins!
Hail Victory!
Braves on the Warpath!
Fight for old D.C.!
Run or pass and score -- we want a lot more!
Beat 'em, Swamp 'em,
Touchdown! -- Let the points soar!
Fight on, fight on 'Til you have won
Sons of Wash-ing-ton. Rah!, Rah!, Rah!
Hail to the Redskins!
Hail Victory!
Braves on the Warpath!
Fight for old D.C.!

But the original lyrics were (in CAPS):

Hail to the Redskins!
Hail Victory!
Braves on the Warpath!
Fight for old DIXIE!
Run or pass and score -- we want a lot more!
SCALP 'EM, SWAMP 'EM -- WE WILL TAKE 'EM BIG SCORE
READ 'EM, WEEP 'EM, TOUCHDOWN - WE WANT HEAP MORE
Fight on, Fight on -- 'Till you have won
Sons of Wash-ing-ton. Rah!, Rah!, Rah!
Hail to the Redskins!
Hail Victory!
Braves on the Warpath!
Fight for old DIXIE!

Did she write those words to openly demean Indians?  Did she use the term “redskin” in the same (racist) context as if the team were named the “Washington Sambos?”

Hail to the Sambos!
Hail Victory!
Coons on the Warpath!
Fight for old Dixie!
Run or pass and score -- we want a lot more!
Shuffle on a-long then mop the den floor.
Slave on, Slave on ‘till you are done
Shiftless, la-zy bums!  Rah!, Rah!, Rah!

What sense does that make?  None, and I argue that while the term “redskin” is certainly offensive (then and now), to argue that the Washington Redskins football club IS racist and the organization’s intent is to perpetuate racism, is just a plainly stupid argument.  (I mean, when was the last time, outside of Hollywood, that you heard anyone, ever, seriously refer to a Native American as a “redskin” in that context?  In 1938, it was just a mascot and had no more cultural meaning to the team than a “pirate” meant to Oakland or Pittsburgh.  But today, 2013, it’s a business—BIG business (take a look at how much money the NCAA makes on the sale of school logos).  The Redskin logo means billions in revenue to Dan Schneider, NBC, FedEx, and Landover, MD, just as that blood-thirsty, murderous pirate means jobs (and profits) to Oakland and Pittsburg.  Sure, Dan Schneider could have said he’d never change the name without capitalizing the word “never,” but by saying it that way, he’s putting all of us on notice that he’s not going to be pushed around, and from a business perspective I don’t blame him for the stance he’s taken.  (I think you’re a crappy owner, Danny, but I’m on your side on this issue!)  If the Redskins change their name, will I continue to support the team—hail to the...(uh, hell to the yeah)!  But I disagree with this particular “PC” snit.  The argument is out of context and is being personalized. 

And I’ll say this--I’ll bet you cash money that while they’re pissed off over this “redskin” thing, there are probably more than a few Native American Indians who bop their heads and sing along (openly) to Kanye’s hook:  “Now I ain't sayin' she a gold digger, but she ain't messin' with no broke niggas!”

I’m just sayin’.  Okay:  Flame on!


Thursday, October 04, 2012

DC Not A "Sports Town?!?" Says Who??

 
On any given day, at any hour, you will normally find my radio tuned to NPR (National Public Radio)--I'm getting older and crankier, and I don't have patience for a lot of commercial hoisted blabbering. However, I tuned to my local sports jock station (WJFK 106.7 FM - "The Fan") early Wednesday morning to see if I could catch some talk about "Teddy," of the Washington Nationals' "Racing Presidents," who finally won a race after seven years of 5th inning racing for the Nats. However, what I got was a blast of commentary about an article written by Michael Wilbon (ESPN) trashing Washington, DC, as either being a "terrible" sports town, or not being a sports town at all!

When I came home from work that evening, my radio was blowing up with talk about Wilbon. I didn't listen too intently, figuring it'd blow off. But a day later (today) The FAN is still talking about it and it's really got Lavar Arrington back up. Well tonight, I listened, and I'm damn hot about Wilbon's comments.
By him calling my hometown a "terrible" sports town, I want to run out and kick him straight in the eggs! By the time I got MY back up, ready to zing out this blog post, I was ready to dig into a lot of statistical details to show "him" how dead wrong he is. But I decided not to do that--it wouldn't make any difference. So, being true to my handle ("DC Homer"), here's what I have to say about Wilbon's comments: Opinions are like assholes--everybody's got one, and they usually stink. Although he gets
paid pretty nicely for his 2-minute drill flatulance, I think he's a terrible sportscaster (if that's what you call it). Okay--I'm done throwing aspersions.

Washington, DC, is a unique city in this great nation of ours, but that uniqueness doesn't make our sports franchises stand out from any other town. But I think it's wholly unfair to blast DC as being a terrible sports town, presumably because we have a lot of transient residents. But if you look at it--seriously--every one of the "major" NFL markets that most folks will absolutely declare ARE "great" sports towns (Dallas, New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Chicago, Boston, Filthadelphia)--they, too, are "transient" cities. Neither their populations nor their fan bases are 100% born and raised in that town. No sir. It's clear to me that Wilbon's definition of a "sports" town is based solely on the number (and recent) championships they've won. But so what!?! Just because the Yankees have won a bunch of World Series, that makes the whole of New York City a "sports town?" NYC could easily have NOT won those championships, but would that still make NYC a sports town because it's a BIG town?

So, exactly what defines a "sports town?" Let's break it down:

     - A large number of professional championships?
     - A city with a professional franchise from each major sport?
     - A large city?
     - A small % of transient residents who root for teams other than the home team?
     - A large number of colleges with (a lot) of D-I championships?

How many of those towns I mentioned above have all of those characteristics? Ummmm....let's see.....NONE! Cities like Boston and New York are rare. In fact, I'd say they are probably the only true "sports towns" by Wilbon's definition. Who follows hockey in Dallas? LA can't keep an NFL team, having lost it four times! How many Lombardi Trophies reside in Philly? Montreal has won 23 Stanley Cups--the closest contender is Toronto with 13 (Boston only has 6). Does that make Montreal or Toronto "sports towns?"

HELL NO! I've been to Dallas, and there are a LOT of Redskins fans there, also a lot of Raiders fans, and Broncos fans! This holds true for any major city, even "minor" cities! Washington, DC, is a great place to live--even with the traffic (no one's going to tell me DC traffic is worse than New York, Boston, LA, Atlanta, Chicago, or even Dallas--it's not). DC has all of the major sports teams, and is surrounded by a lot of great colleges, who produce a BUNCH of professional athletes! The high school sports programs here are top rate, and everywhere you look you see DC residents engaged in all kinds of sports--name one sport that you won't see played in the DC area on a regular basis?? Wanna challenge DC to some bacci ball or lawn darts?
Bring it, sumbitch!

Michael Wilbon: EAT MY SHORTS, and go back to whatever "sports town" you came from! You spend years jocking Michael Jordan to get where you are just so you can trash my hometown? Oh, and I heard, that with Fruit of the Loom waistband elastic still stuck between his teeth, Wilbon has backed off on his "terrile" comment, now saying: It's a pretty good sports town.but not great..."

Whatever!

In the words of Vincent (Vinny) LaGuardia "Bag of Donoughnuts" Gambini: "I'm through with DIS guy!"

Wednesday, May 09, 2012

Ironman St. George, Utah, May 5, 2012

Video Clip of Swim Conditions

I've gone through so many emotions since Saturday - sadness, disappointment, happiness, glad to be safe.  I was ready and confident to tackle the toughest Ironman race.  I definitely had done the training.  I was nervous the week prior to the race, but on race morning, I was calm and ready to go.  I swam out to the start line.  The water was very calm and temperate.  I couldn't wait for one of my favorite parts of the race - to hear the cannon fire, but something went wrong with the cannon and it took them a few minutes to get it to go off.  Maybe that was a sign of what was about to occur.

As soon as I found my swimming space and got settled in, the water started to get a little bouncy, and I felt my back getting sprayed with water. At first, I wondered if it had started to rain.  I stopped and looked behind me and saw huge swells and whitecaps.  The wind was blowing so hard that it was spraying the water.  I tried to keep swimming, but it was very difficult to maneuver.  By this point, I was on the back side of the reservoir, far from shore.  It seemed like swimmers were scattered everywhere.  I had to wait between swells to see where people were or where the buoys were.  The buoys were bouncing and being blown and tossed around.  Then I saw a boat plucking swimmers from the water, and there were already many swimmers on the boat.

I started to panic because of my previous experience of almost drowning in the ocean after being stuck in a rip current.  However, I remembered that one of the reasons that I almost drowned was because I panicked.  So I told myself to remain calm because that was the most important thing to do in this situation.  Additionally, I told myself that I had a wetsuit on and I was like a floating buoy.  My survival instincts definitely kicked in, and I did NOT want to get pulled out of the water.  I was determined to try to make it through.  I tried swimming as best as I could, but I had to stop often and just do the breast stroke.  I took in quite a few gulps of water (at least it was fresh and pristine) and I also took in a lot of air.  I had to stop and let out some very long burps which actually put a little humor into the situation.

I thought I had been in the water forever, and I remember looking at my watch and saw that it was 7:50, so I still had plenty of time.  I also remember feeling my body sweating a lot.  I knew I was working very hard to swim in the four- and five-foot swells.  I also developed quite the muscle spasm in my left calf.  I was pretty much getting thrown around by the waves too, but I just kept telling myself to stay calm, stay calm, and let mother nature take its course.  I was very, very worried about Ted and Tony too.  I knew they were on shore at that moment freaking out at what was happening and worrying themselves sick about me. 

I knew the situation must be pretty bad at this point, but I had no idea how really horrific it was.  Also even if I wanted to get on a boat, there were none even close to me.  I did think of quitting a time or two, but I felt confident that I was going to be okay as long as I remained calm.  I didn't know if I would make the swim cut-off time, though.  I finally made it to the last buoy before making a left turn to swim towards the boat ramp.  When I turned and tried to swim, the current started sucking me out farther.  It was at this point that I was the most scared.  I kept swimming, but I was going nowhere.  I just hunkered down with determination to get to shore, and finally I touched the cement of the boat ramp.  All I wanted was to see Ted and Tony.  I couldn't find them anywhere.  I went into the change tent and asked the volunteers to find them.  They were yelling outside the tent "364!" "364!" but I didn't know if Ted heard them or not.  I never changed clothes so fast in my life, and I ran out of the tent and found them waiting for me.  I immediately began to cry when I saw them, but Ted helped me not to lose it by grabbing my hand and telling me "You're okay.  Don't give up the fight!"

Later he told me that he couldn't watch the swim anymore because the conditions were so horrible, and he was worried sick about me, that he might never see me again, so they went to stand by the change tent to wait for me to come out.  When he saw me he told me to stay in the fight because he could see that I just wanted to break down, and he wanted to break down too.

I headed out onto the bike course, and I was just so happy to be out of that water.  I was in shock at what had happened, and I was so proud of myself for making it out.  I felt like Lieutenant Dan in Forest Gump when he was on the ship in the storm and was yelling at God!  I completed the swim in 1:51, which ended up being a great time after learning that hundreds were pulled out of the water, hundreds barely made the swim cut-off of 2:20, and many more swimmers did not make the swim cut-off.

I tried to switch my focus to the bike course. The head-winds were so strong that I was hardly moving. I just kept telling myself to keep going and hopefully the conditions would change once we got out of Hurricane (Yes, that's the name of the town outside of St. George where the reservoir is!)

Well, needless to say, the wind never let up.  No matter which way you turned, you got blown.  I had to hold on to my handlebars pretty tight.  When I got to mile 50, I started to think that this was pure craziness.  I was only averaging 12 to 13 miles an hour and I was going to be so close to the bike cut-off that this might not be worth it.  I pulled off to the side of the road and tried to think about what to do.  Also, for the first time ever, I had snuck my cell phone into my bike pouch and took it on the course with me.  I pulled it out and called Ted and told him that I was thinking about abandoning the race and to stand by to come and get me.  Then I got caught with my phone, but they let me put it away and ride on. So I rode to the next aid station and went into the porta-potty and called Luke (my coach).  I really wanted to talk to him and get his advice.  He helped me decide that abandoning the race was in my best interests. So I rode the course into town to mile 67 where they were stopping everyone at that point because we had not made the bike cut-off time to begin the second loop.  It was 2:15, and the cut-off time was 2:05.  Many of the riders were disappointed; some were teary-eyed.  I was happy it was over with and gladly turned in my chip!

I rode back to transition and called Ted to come and get me.  While I was waiting, my daughters called me to see if I was okay, and that is when I broke down and cried.  It wasn't so much that I was sad, but it finally hit me how scared I was in that water and how dangerous the conditions were.  It is really fortunate that no one was seriously injured or died that day.

I was mentally and physically fit to finish Ironman St. George, and I'm a little disappointed that I won't get another chance.  I've been sad, happy, and disappointed since Saturday afternoon, but by Monday afternoon, I felt happy and satisfied that I did make the right decision not to push myself to go on.  Every race is so different, and like I always say, "You never know what's going to happen on race day!"


Wednesday, November 02, 2011

Growing up baseball

I thought some of you might enjoy a little background bio to get a little insight into this particular blogger.  I'm 50 years old and was born the eldest of my generation, a fourth generation (at least) baseball fan.  I attended my first Red Sox game at Fenway with my grandparents in 1970, though it was a very rare treat since I grew up poor, rural and at least three hours from Boston.
But I had a baseball in my hand as a very young boy and was playing organized baseball (none of that t-ball crap) at the age of 5.  The following newspaper clipping is pretty contemporaneous.  I was probably 7 or 8, front row, 2nd from the left.
If there wasn't an organized game to play in, I'd usually be found trying to scrounge up a handful of local friends for a pickup game in the fields around my house.
Let me step sideways for a second and state that my grandfather was a very good player who taught me most of what I learned as a very young boy.  He played American Legion ball into his 40s and I played organized softball with him when he was in his 50s.  My mother was a fair player and two of her brothers were excellent players.  I went to a high school that was found in the 1860s and there's a cup in the trophy case that is awarded to the outstanding player from every senior class.  My grandfather, both uncles and my kid brother's names are all on that cup.  Alas, my name is not, much to my chagrin but that's a long story for another day.  Suffice to say  if I hadn't had a falling out with the coach and quit during my senior year, it would be.
If I couldn't scrounge up a pickup game, you could find me throwing myself flyballs, throwing the ball on the roof and catching it, hitting rocks into the field with an old bat or any number of other self-designed drills.  And you could usually find me on weekdays catching the Game of the Week on television, one of the few opportunities to watch games on TV back in those days, along with Red Sox games on the weekend.  Then the playoffs and World Series would be on TV, and I would be watching those games with great interest with my grandfather or my uncles or my mother, who still to this day is a huge fan.  During the season, I would almost daily be checking the box scores in the newspaper in the morning and at night I'd be listening to the game on the radio.
 Growing up in this little town of 700 people, farm league and little league teams were not well organized or instructed.  This town had one of each and I played on the farm league team through the age of eight, when my father decided his son (being the best player his age) was not going to play Little League here and I was given the opportunity to try out as a nine-year-old for a team in the neighboring town.  Now it was the town we would all go to junior high and high school in but very few kids from the two smaller towns in the district were able to play in their Little League, which had four teams, because they simply weren't good enough.  Well, not only was I good enough, I was good enough at 9 (unheard of even for kids who lived in that town) and I started (doubly unheard of).  The above picture is of yours truly playing in that league, probably 10 to 12 years old.  Notice the Carl Yastzemski stance, left foot back and the bat way too high; and yes, I wore number 8 and played left field.  I am right handed but most of the men in my family naturally swing from the left side, like Yaz.
This is a picture of that league's All Star team, which I was selected to as an 11 and 12 year old.  I'm in the back row, just left of center.
I hope this doesn't come across as bragging; I simply was the best player my age from about 5 to 17, when natural ability and constant, constant practice and drills were no longer enough, and size and strength came much more into play.
Anyway, after Little League, I played as a starter on the junior high team in the town my dad had moved to, a town twice the size of the one I had played Little League in and where they all laughed at me until I showed them.  Coming from that little town I couldn't possibly compete with them.  Well, here's the letter to prove it.
After starting there for two years, I moved back to my hometown and played junior high one more year as a 9th grader because back then my high school was for grades 10-12.
I then went out for the high school team as a 10th grader and not only made the team but was the starting right fielder, again something relatively rare.  That was probably the last year that I genuinely had fun playing.  The coach of that team had been the coach for 20 years or so, and he decided to retire after my sophomore year.  The new coach my junior year inherited a very talented team of seniors, who quickly "took over" the team.  Many of them had brothers who were sophomores.  What resulted was that instead of me becoming the starting left fielder (the previous left fielder having graduated), I had to fight and scratch for playing time in left and right, where I was the starter the previous year.  Despite hitting nearly .400, I was not an everyday starter.  The coach was always finding reasons to play sophomore brothers of seniors in those positions.  I hadn't planned on going down this road, sorry.   Anyway, despite that we had an excellent team and won the conference regular season.  In the first round of the State playoffs we encountered a junk throwing kid who kept us scoreless the whole game, a guy I knew I could hit had I not been sitting on the bench for the last game of my high school career.  The same coach came back the next year, and I would have started and done well but I just couldn't stand playing for the guy.  My only regret is that now I can't go back to my high school and see my name on that cup.
Left is my high school letter and I'll share another picture down below that was taken just before the State playoffs and was in my high school yearbook.  I'm in the back row, right of center.
I played in men's softball leagues in the summer between my junior and senior years, on a team with my grandfather, and then again the summer after my senior year before joining the Marines.  There were no American Legion teams in the area at that time.  The popular softball back here was called modified fast pitch.  It wasn't windmill fast pitch but more straight underhand fast pitch, as opposed to slow pitch.  I had fun and hit for a good average but I found I didn't have the power to be truly successful playing softball.  I did continue to play on office teams during a good part of the eight years I was in the Marines but it wasn't anything you could call highly competitive.  I think the highlight would be our team from the Camp Pendleton Legal Office playing in a Southern California tournament against other legal office teams.
I'm sure you've found that incredibly boring but hopefully a little charming and maybe sparks your own walk down memory lane.  I guess the only thing I left out is that I also played Babe Ruth baseball in the summers of my junior high years, 13-15 years old.  My father left the family when I was 11.  I taught my brother, who's six years younger, to play the game; and I was the little league coach in my little home town during the summers of my high school years.
To wrap up, I bowled (candlepin -- look it up) competitively through much of this same time and played football through most of my junior high and high school years but baseball always was and always will be the sport that's most in my heart.  I would encourage the other authors here to tell similar stories, if they have them.