Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
While Leagues Punish Players, NHL Offenders Skate
Imagine if OJ Simpson was named head coach of the Buffalo Bills.
Or Ron Artest coach of the Indiana Pacers then spent the rest of his career as a revered legend in the Hoosier state.
Imagine Alan Iverson killing a teammate while violating the law and having him turned into a sympathetic character beloved by all.
Imagine Pacman Jones waiting for a receiver to be alone over the middle, nowhere near the ball, and delivering a head to head blow breaking his neck. Imagine Pacman being suspended for a season, which he never serves because of a work stoppage, and the league, decides, when play begins, to waive the suspension, because he has shown remorse.
Imagine if several NFL players were sentenced to jail and not only did the league do nothing about the problem, but the media mentioned nary a word.
Imagine Jose Offerman, if he had actually fulfilled his intention to injure and left his target with a Grade 3 concussion, becoming a color commentator for the Arizona Diamondbacks and doing cameos on ABC Family shows.
Imagine if Michael Vick was found guilty of the charges he is facing but he wasn’t suspended and his sentence was wrapped around the NFL schedule so he didn’t have to miss any games. And imagine the media didn’t care.
In what kind of twisted world would something like this occur? Only one: The National Hockey League.
While OJ Simpson will never be allowed on a coaching staff, as part of a team’s front office, or in the broadcast booth after being found innocent of killing his wife and another man (not that I believe the verdict was justice) Craig MacTavish, is the head coach of the Edmonton Oilers, despite being found guilty of killing a woman in 1984 while driving under the influence of alcohol. While MacTavish didn’t premeditate the murder of the mother of his children, he still killed a woman, was sentenced to jail, and is in a position no one would ever dream of bequeathing to Simpson.
When the day comes that Ron Artest passes from this earth, near the top of his obituary will be his storming into the stands in Detroit to use his fists to pummel a fan. Artest’s brutal display earned him a season long suspension and is baggage that he will carry through the rest of his life. Any post-career NBA work is as unlikely as snow in Barbados. On the day after Christmas in 1979 Boston Bruins winger Terry O’Reilly led a charge into the stands at Madison Square Garden to avenge teammate Stan Jonathan who had his stick taken by a fan and hit in the head with it. O’Reilly, with glove, and stick, began to pummel the fan. He received an eight game suspension, became Bruins coach, is a legend in Boston for his toughness, and was Happy Gilmore’s favorite hockey player.
While there is no evidence that any NBA player ever killed a teammate while breaking the law, Dany Heatly killed teammate Dan Snyder while driving to endanger on September 23, 2003. He was found guilty of vehicular homicide and received a suspended sentence. The NHL found no need to suspend him. This past year he was a first team all-star. The accident is barely mentioned. One has to wonder if Iverson, a player as talented in his sport as Heatly is in his, had killed a teammate driving recklessly, it would be forgotten so easily.
Again, we can only imagine Pacman Jones breaking the neck of an opponent on a play where neither was near the action. We don’t have to imagine that with Todd Bertuzzi who sucker punched Steve Moore and broke his neck. He was arrested for assault and causing serious bodily harm. He received probation for his actions. He was suspended for a season by the NHL, but the players were locked out that year, and when the gates were unlocked, Bertuzzi was graciously allowed inside. He was also chosen to play for Canada in the 2006 Olympics. If football becomes an Olympic sport in 2008 and Pacman is selected by the league to be on the team the media earthquake will make Peru look like a vibrating bed. And let’s not forget, he didn’t break another player’s neck.
With the arrests of Pacman, Tank Johnson, Michael Vick, Artest, and Stephen Jackson the NBA and NFL respectively took steps to suspend the offenders. In the NHL Alex Zhamnov plead guilty to DUI, Pete Worrell spent ten day in jail for DUI, and Sergi Fedorov was found guilty of impaired driving in 2002. All these actions could have led to the deaths of innocent individuals. The amount of games the NHL suspended the admitted criminals. Zero.
While it seems obvious that Jose Offerman’s career came to an end Wednesday night when he charged the mound with his bat in Bridgeport Ct. with the intent to do bodily harm, Bruin Marty McSorely used his stick on Donald Brashear leaving him with a grade 3 concussion. McSorely was suspended for the rest of the season, but was welcomed back the following year, except his skill level had deteriorated, which kept him out of the game. He bounced back to become a commentator for Fox Sports and the San Jose Sharks, and recently played himself on the ABC family network show Greek. Does anyone imagine they will be hearing the words “Welcome to Game 3 of the NLCS, I am Joe Buck with my analyst Jose Offerman, who you can see Monday night on a brand new Hannah Montana?”
And while Michael Vick awaits a punishment he justly deserves Toronto Maple Leaf winger Mark Bell, who last Labor Day, while intoxicated, rear ended a vehicle leaving the driver injured in San Jose, was sentenced to prison for the infraction, the time to be served in the league’s off-season. Imagine the wringing of hands and outrage of the media if Vick receives a similar deal.
So, while the NAACP supports Vick and other black athletes charged with crimes, and white people shake their heads in disbelief at their knee jerk response to helping a fellow black man, remember the above named white athletes who committed crimes that led to severe injuries or death of innocent people, and were allowed back into the NHL, without nary of word from the mostly white media, and understand that those Vick supporters see this, and wonder how much trouble the Falcons quarterback would be facing if he was a Thrasher defenseman.
There has long been a hypocrisy about the media’s coverage of the NHL. The NHL reporters are white men raised by middle class parents reporting on young white men raised by middle class parents who share the same culture, listen to the same music, were raised the same way. You will often see members of the media say how much they enjoy being in NHL locker rooms and the polite way they are treated. This is code for no boom boxes blasting Hispanic or Hip hop music, no threatening posies protecting the stars, no hard to decipher slang.
But if you are looking for some justice it is this: While the NHL and the media covering it turns a blind eye to the crimes committed by its players, the three major sports in America quickly acts to suspend its lawbreakers, and the media covering them dissect every aspect of their crimes, those three leagues are thriving, and the NHL is dying.
And one is left wondering, has the average fan, from Terry O’Reilly’s assaulting fans, to the unpunished assaults on it’s players, to the special treatment given the players sentenced to prison, become tired of watching a sport that won’t police itself.
Maybe if the NHL and the media covering it want it to become a major sport again, they can start weeding out the bad apples instead of welcoming them back. If it wants to be a major league then perhaps the NHL should start acting like one.
Or Ron Artest coach of the Indiana Pacers then spent the rest of his career as a revered legend in the Hoosier state.
Imagine Alan Iverson killing a teammate while violating the law and having him turned into a sympathetic character beloved by all.
Imagine Pacman Jones waiting for a receiver to be alone over the middle, nowhere near the ball, and delivering a head to head blow breaking his neck. Imagine Pacman being suspended for a season, which he never serves because of a work stoppage, and the league, decides, when play begins, to waive the suspension, because he has shown remorse.
Imagine if several NFL players were sentenced to jail and not only did the league do nothing about the problem, but the media mentioned nary a word.
Imagine Jose Offerman, if he had actually fulfilled his intention to injure and left his target with a Grade 3 concussion, becoming a color commentator for the Arizona Diamondbacks and doing cameos on ABC Family shows.
Imagine if Michael Vick was found guilty of the charges he is facing but he wasn’t suspended and his sentence was wrapped around the NFL schedule so he didn’t have to miss any games. And imagine the media didn’t care.
In what kind of twisted world would something like this occur? Only one: The National Hockey League.
While OJ Simpson will never be allowed on a coaching staff, as part of a team’s front office, or in the broadcast booth after being found innocent of killing his wife and another man (not that I believe the verdict was justice) Craig MacTavish, is the head coach of the Edmonton Oilers, despite being found guilty of killing a woman in 1984 while driving under the influence of alcohol. While MacTavish didn’t premeditate the murder of the mother of his children, he still killed a woman, was sentenced to jail, and is in a position no one would ever dream of bequeathing to Simpson.
When the day comes that Ron Artest passes from this earth, near the top of his obituary will be his storming into the stands in Detroit to use his fists to pummel a fan. Artest’s brutal display earned him a season long suspension and is baggage that he will carry through the rest of his life. Any post-career NBA work is as unlikely as snow in Barbados. On the day after Christmas in 1979 Boston Bruins winger Terry O’Reilly led a charge into the stands at Madison Square Garden to avenge teammate Stan Jonathan who had his stick taken by a fan and hit in the head with it. O’Reilly, with glove, and stick, began to pummel the fan. He received an eight game suspension, became Bruins coach, is a legend in Boston for his toughness, and was Happy Gilmore’s favorite hockey player.
While there is no evidence that any NBA player ever killed a teammate while breaking the law, Dany Heatly killed teammate Dan Snyder while driving to endanger on September 23, 2003. He was found guilty of vehicular homicide and received a suspended sentence. The NHL found no need to suspend him. This past year he was a first team all-star. The accident is barely mentioned. One has to wonder if Iverson, a player as talented in his sport as Heatly is in his, had killed a teammate driving recklessly, it would be forgotten so easily.
Again, we can only imagine Pacman Jones breaking the neck of an opponent on a play where neither was near the action. We don’t have to imagine that with Todd Bertuzzi who sucker punched Steve Moore and broke his neck. He was arrested for assault and causing serious bodily harm. He received probation for his actions. He was suspended for a season by the NHL, but the players were locked out that year, and when the gates were unlocked, Bertuzzi was graciously allowed inside. He was also chosen to play for Canada in the 2006 Olympics. If football becomes an Olympic sport in 2008 and Pacman is selected by the league to be on the team the media earthquake will make Peru look like a vibrating bed. And let’s not forget, he didn’t break another player’s neck.
With the arrests of Pacman, Tank Johnson, Michael Vick, Artest, and Stephen Jackson the NBA and NFL respectively took steps to suspend the offenders. In the NHL Alex Zhamnov plead guilty to DUI, Pete Worrell spent ten day in jail for DUI, and Sergi Fedorov was found guilty of impaired driving in 2002. All these actions could have led to the deaths of innocent individuals. The amount of games the NHL suspended the admitted criminals. Zero.
While it seems obvious that Jose Offerman’s career came to an end Wednesday night when he charged the mound with his bat in Bridgeport Ct. with the intent to do bodily harm, Bruin Marty McSorely used his stick on Donald Brashear leaving him with a grade 3 concussion. McSorely was suspended for the rest of the season, but was welcomed back the following year, except his skill level had deteriorated, which kept him out of the game. He bounced back to become a commentator for Fox Sports and the San Jose Sharks, and recently played himself on the ABC family network show Greek. Does anyone imagine they will be hearing the words “Welcome to Game 3 of the NLCS, I am Joe Buck with my analyst Jose Offerman, who you can see Monday night on a brand new Hannah Montana?”
And while Michael Vick awaits a punishment he justly deserves Toronto Maple Leaf winger Mark Bell, who last Labor Day, while intoxicated, rear ended a vehicle leaving the driver injured in San Jose, was sentenced to prison for the infraction, the time to be served in the league’s off-season. Imagine the wringing of hands and outrage of the media if Vick receives a similar deal.
So, while the NAACP supports Vick and other black athletes charged with crimes, and white people shake their heads in disbelief at their knee jerk response to helping a fellow black man, remember the above named white athletes who committed crimes that led to severe injuries or death of innocent people, and were allowed back into the NHL, without nary of word from the mostly white media, and understand that those Vick supporters see this, and wonder how much trouble the Falcons quarterback would be facing if he was a Thrasher defenseman.
There has long been a hypocrisy about the media’s coverage of the NHL. The NHL reporters are white men raised by middle class parents reporting on young white men raised by middle class parents who share the same culture, listen to the same music, were raised the same way. You will often see members of the media say how much they enjoy being in NHL locker rooms and the polite way they are treated. This is code for no boom boxes blasting Hispanic or Hip hop music, no threatening posies protecting the stars, no hard to decipher slang.
But if you are looking for some justice it is this: While the NHL and the media covering it turns a blind eye to the crimes committed by its players, the three major sports in America quickly acts to suspend its lawbreakers, and the media covering them dissect every aspect of their crimes, those three leagues are thriving, and the NHL is dying.
And one is left wondering, has the average fan, from Terry O’Reilly’s assaulting fans, to the unpunished assaults on it’s players, to the special treatment given the players sentenced to prison, become tired of watching a sport that won’t police itself.
Maybe if the NHL and the media covering it want it to become a major sport again, they can start weeding out the bad apples instead of welcoming them back. If it wants to be a major league then perhaps the NHL should start acting like one.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
Little League not just for kids and that may not be a bad thing
First published at Big Dave on sports
15 years ago, when Little League was the center of my life, a magical land was never spoken of above a whisper, for it represented a season’s hopes and dreams. That magical land was Williamsport.
There was never a reason to mention the “Little League World Series” that took place in that sleepy town each August. It was always “Do you think we can get to Williamsport?”
We came close once, in 1992, when I was a too young President of our local Little League, where, at that time, your all-star team was expected to make it to the state tournament’s final weekend. Twice in the two decades before the league came within one out of winning the State Tournament only to see their opponents capture a walk off victory.
The league had an unofficial college of coaches. While the league champion’s coaches would have the official title, at all star time they would step aside for the veteran coaches with experience. If they balked, then the President would use the power of his office to insure the tradition was maintained.
But I was never one for tradition. I drew the wrath of several people because I used to let the players have pick up games on the field after league contests had ended. I tried to remind everyone that it was for the kids.
The league also had a different color that year. I was working in the housing projects then, and got the league to pay the entry fee for a handful of players, two of whom, both black, were elected to the all-star team, one looked 12 going on 16, and the other was a speedy centerfielder.
When the first all-star practice was called, the coaches insisted they would not take any outside help, and I was asked to use my royal powers to force them aside. I refused, saying they had won the league and had the right to choose who helped them.
The members of the league who objected to the coaches did have a point. They weren’t the best “baseball men.” In fact I convinced them once to spend the night in the batting cages while I had a couple of friends work on hitting the cut off man and base running.
Also they weren’t the most disciplined team. Those words that got a coach and player in hot water when they were aired over ESPN last season were regular visitors in our dugout. Most of all they enjoyed having fun, a band of idiots playing baseball in New England a dozen years before it was to go national.
But, when the double elimination district series started it seemed that the naysayers were correct. They won their first two games, and then lost badly, putting them in the dreaded losers bracket.
In the first inning of their next game they fell behind by eight runs, thanks to the long lost father of the starting pitcher, who not only surprised him by coming to the game, but also decided to give him not needed advice leaving him such a mess he couldn’t record an out.
The game took on a surreal feel from that point, as we slowly started to rally. The field was across the street from a church, and as a bride and her bridesmaids scurried past the backstop dressed in white, some magic seemed to rub off on the boys. They won the game when our relief pitcher, one of those roly-poly home run hitting types, managed the only inside the park homerun of his career, as the outfielder stood over the ball claiming it was under the fence and he could not get it. As our rotund little pitcher huffed around the bases the umpire made a leisurely jaunt to the outfield, and ruled the ball in play, just as the batter reached home, and cried out for oxygen.
This began a streak like what carried the Red Sox in ’04 and Chi-Sox in ’05. They went from the gang that couldn’t throw straight to the gang that couldn’t lose, even when their starting shortstop, at a pool party to celebrate winning the district, fell off the deck and broke his arm.
There was another game they should have lost, just before the state final four, when they were down by one with two out and nobody on in the bottom of the sixth. The backup first baseman, who would go on to be drafted by the Rockies as a pitcher, signing with the University of Alabama, and be on the cover of Baseball America with Rick Ankiel before arm problems forced him from the game, hit a ball deep over the center field fence to push the game into extra innings, and another day.
They won the game the next day. The field where they had played this game was the same park where the state tournament would be held, hidden in the unspoken darkness at the edge of town, of which no local would admit knowledge. Our group got so lost going to the field that we almost had to forfeit. That night, fresh with the thrill of winning, I wrote a column for the local paper, criticizing the field and the state tournament organizers for having the tournament in a small town with a field tucked away in its woods.
After the story ran a friend of mine from the paper called and said that the people in that town weren’t happy, and in fact, were going to kill me if I went to the state finals.
When I arrived for the first game I noticed that they had blown up my picture from the column and had made it into a wanted poster. Luckily I had grown out my hair, a promise not to cut it until the team lost, and no one recognized me, even though I was asked several times if I had seen the rat bastard.
The black kid from the projects, the one who looked 15, started the semi-final game. At 5 feet 9 inches, with huge muscles, and a menacing stare, he was someone most 12 year olds had never faced. We had his teammates spread the word of how many players he had hit that season (a lot) so the batters were bailing out with each pitch. Somehow his control was perfect that day, and the win came easy, putting us in the state finals.
Our opponents at the state finals had beaten us in the championship game once before, with the same coaching staff, and during their practice before the game they ran crisp drills. Our players lay on the grass, threw water on one another, chased eachother around the field, and said words that didn’t belong in the bible. An opposing coach came over to watch and went back to his field saying they had nothing to worry about.
I on the other hand had plenty to worry about. Our coaches had decided in the state finals to start a couple of kids who hadn’t played much. In the state finals. “Told you,” one of the old time coaches snickered. “It’s their team,” I said then went behind the dugout to try and slit my wrist with a blunt rock.
I don’t remember much about the state final. Our roly-poly pitcher didn’t make it out of the first and we went back to the kid who gave up eight runs in his last start. His father had gone back to whatever hole he had crawled out of, the kid pitched lights out, we rallied, stuffed a late inning comeback, then the final out was recorded, we had won the state championship and did the dance of joy.
At the banquet that night I was outed. I did apologize, and when I accepted the trophy I talked about how no one believed this team could win, how our own league turned their backs on us, and how I wasn’t going to the Regionals to lose.
We went to the Regionals and we lost. Quickly.
Today in Bristol Ct players sleep in nice dorms. Then they slept in a school, on cots, all in the same room, with their coaches, in the sweltering July heat, with clogged toilets with no one to fix them, health violations everywhere, and every little league official within earshot claiming everything was fine.
After their first loss we planned to sneak the kids to a hotel so they could relax and use the pool. This was a major rule violation but we were willing to take the chance. Each team had an “Aunt” and “Uncle” assigned to them who, not quite the kindly people they were made out to be, were spies. We told “Uncle Al” we were going to practice, but my young 15 year old looking friend from the projects whispered to him “We’re really going to the hotel pool Uncle Al, don’t tell anybody.” Well, it was that day that he learned a valuable lesson, “don’t trust whitey,” as we were immediately narced out. But we still managed to get to the hotel with a plan no less risky than The Great Escape.
Our act of civil disobedience may have cost us some calls the next day, everyone involved in the tournament was happy to be rid of us. The kids didn’t play well either, just as happy to go home. They spent nine months of the year sleeping in a classroom they didn’t want to do it during their vacation.
Today I see the players occasionally. I saw the black pitcher one day leaving the courthouse. He had been arrested for assault and battery. A friend of his had attacked him for no reason and he had fought back. After the fight he found out it was because his attacker had just found out that our semi-final winning pitcher was his baby’s Daddy. “Hey Ted I’ve got a kid,” he said through his fat lip.
Another lives in my basement. It’s not like that. I’m married to his mother. He just left for the Stan Musial World Series in Houston, still chasing the dream.
I watch the games on ESPN, seeing children play with an enthusiasm never matched by their elders. For them it is the thrill of their lives; for now. But ahead of them are other triumphs. Even greater sports victories, college, marriage, their own children.
For the adults watching, their own triumphs are harder to see, slowly fading in the rear view mirror. Their child getting the game winning hit, or recording the last strikeout; seeing the expression on their faces, that is the closest they can come to the triumphs of their youth. I still believe it’s about the kids, but it means more to the adults.
So I have any advice to the parents and coaches in the magical land of Williamsport today: enjoy it. It will be over before you know it, and those boys on the field will be men in the blink of an eye.
But don’t fret, grandparents are welcome at Williamsport too.
15 years ago, when Little League was the center of my life, a magical land was never spoken of above a whisper, for it represented a season’s hopes and dreams. That magical land was Williamsport.
There was never a reason to mention the “Little League World Series” that took place in that sleepy town each August. It was always “Do you think we can get to Williamsport?”
We came close once, in 1992, when I was a too young President of our local Little League, where, at that time, your all-star team was expected to make it to the state tournament’s final weekend. Twice in the two decades before the league came within one out of winning the State Tournament only to see their opponents capture a walk off victory.
The league had an unofficial college of coaches. While the league champion’s coaches would have the official title, at all star time they would step aside for the veteran coaches with experience. If they balked, then the President would use the power of his office to insure the tradition was maintained.
But I was never one for tradition. I drew the wrath of several people because I used to let the players have pick up games on the field after league contests had ended. I tried to remind everyone that it was for the kids.
The league also had a different color that year. I was working in the housing projects then, and got the league to pay the entry fee for a handful of players, two of whom, both black, were elected to the all-star team, one looked 12 going on 16, and the other was a speedy centerfielder.
When the first all-star practice was called, the coaches insisted they would not take any outside help, and I was asked to use my royal powers to force them aside. I refused, saying they had won the league and had the right to choose who helped them.
The members of the league who objected to the coaches did have a point. They weren’t the best “baseball men.” In fact I convinced them once to spend the night in the batting cages while I had a couple of friends work on hitting the cut off man and base running.
Also they weren’t the most disciplined team. Those words that got a coach and player in hot water when they were aired over ESPN last season were regular visitors in our dugout. Most of all they enjoyed having fun, a band of idiots playing baseball in New England a dozen years before it was to go national.
But, when the double elimination district series started it seemed that the naysayers were correct. They won their first two games, and then lost badly, putting them in the dreaded losers bracket.
In the first inning of their next game they fell behind by eight runs, thanks to the long lost father of the starting pitcher, who not only surprised him by coming to the game, but also decided to give him not needed advice leaving him such a mess he couldn’t record an out.
The game took on a surreal feel from that point, as we slowly started to rally. The field was across the street from a church, and as a bride and her bridesmaids scurried past the backstop dressed in white, some magic seemed to rub off on the boys. They won the game when our relief pitcher, one of those roly-poly home run hitting types, managed the only inside the park homerun of his career, as the outfielder stood over the ball claiming it was under the fence and he could not get it. As our rotund little pitcher huffed around the bases the umpire made a leisurely jaunt to the outfield, and ruled the ball in play, just as the batter reached home, and cried out for oxygen.
This began a streak like what carried the Red Sox in ’04 and Chi-Sox in ’05. They went from the gang that couldn’t throw straight to the gang that couldn’t lose, even when their starting shortstop, at a pool party to celebrate winning the district, fell off the deck and broke his arm.
There was another game they should have lost, just before the state final four, when they were down by one with two out and nobody on in the bottom of the sixth. The backup first baseman, who would go on to be drafted by the Rockies as a pitcher, signing with the University of Alabama, and be on the cover of Baseball America with Rick Ankiel before arm problems forced him from the game, hit a ball deep over the center field fence to push the game into extra innings, and another day.
They won the game the next day. The field where they had played this game was the same park where the state tournament would be held, hidden in the unspoken darkness at the edge of town, of which no local would admit knowledge. Our group got so lost going to the field that we almost had to forfeit. That night, fresh with the thrill of winning, I wrote a column for the local paper, criticizing the field and the state tournament organizers for having the tournament in a small town with a field tucked away in its woods.
After the story ran a friend of mine from the paper called and said that the people in that town weren’t happy, and in fact, were going to kill me if I went to the state finals.
When I arrived for the first game I noticed that they had blown up my picture from the column and had made it into a wanted poster. Luckily I had grown out my hair, a promise not to cut it until the team lost, and no one recognized me, even though I was asked several times if I had seen the rat bastard.
The black kid from the projects, the one who looked 15, started the semi-final game. At 5 feet 9 inches, with huge muscles, and a menacing stare, he was someone most 12 year olds had never faced. We had his teammates spread the word of how many players he had hit that season (a lot) so the batters were bailing out with each pitch. Somehow his control was perfect that day, and the win came easy, putting us in the state finals.
Our opponents at the state finals had beaten us in the championship game once before, with the same coaching staff, and during their practice before the game they ran crisp drills. Our players lay on the grass, threw water on one another, chased eachother around the field, and said words that didn’t belong in the bible. An opposing coach came over to watch and went back to his field saying they had nothing to worry about.
I on the other hand had plenty to worry about. Our coaches had decided in the state finals to start a couple of kids who hadn’t played much. In the state finals. “Told you,” one of the old time coaches snickered. “It’s their team,” I said then went behind the dugout to try and slit my wrist with a blunt rock.
I don’t remember much about the state final. Our roly-poly pitcher didn’t make it out of the first and we went back to the kid who gave up eight runs in his last start. His father had gone back to whatever hole he had crawled out of, the kid pitched lights out, we rallied, stuffed a late inning comeback, then the final out was recorded, we had won the state championship and did the dance of joy.
At the banquet that night I was outed. I did apologize, and when I accepted the trophy I talked about how no one believed this team could win, how our own league turned their backs on us, and how I wasn’t going to the Regionals to lose.
We went to the Regionals and we lost. Quickly.
Today in Bristol Ct players sleep in nice dorms. Then they slept in a school, on cots, all in the same room, with their coaches, in the sweltering July heat, with clogged toilets with no one to fix them, health violations everywhere, and every little league official within earshot claiming everything was fine.
After their first loss we planned to sneak the kids to a hotel so they could relax and use the pool. This was a major rule violation but we were willing to take the chance. Each team had an “Aunt” and “Uncle” assigned to them who, not quite the kindly people they were made out to be, were spies. We told “Uncle Al” we were going to practice, but my young 15 year old looking friend from the projects whispered to him “We’re really going to the hotel pool Uncle Al, don’t tell anybody.” Well, it was that day that he learned a valuable lesson, “don’t trust whitey,” as we were immediately narced out. But we still managed to get to the hotel with a plan no less risky than The Great Escape.
Our act of civil disobedience may have cost us some calls the next day, everyone involved in the tournament was happy to be rid of us. The kids didn’t play well either, just as happy to go home. They spent nine months of the year sleeping in a classroom they didn’t want to do it during their vacation.
Today I see the players occasionally. I saw the black pitcher one day leaving the courthouse. He had been arrested for assault and battery. A friend of his had attacked him for no reason and he had fought back. After the fight he found out it was because his attacker had just found out that our semi-final winning pitcher was his baby’s Daddy. “Hey Ted I’ve got a kid,” he said through his fat lip.
Another lives in my basement. It’s not like that. I’m married to his mother. He just left for the Stan Musial World Series in Houston, still chasing the dream.
I watch the games on ESPN, seeing children play with an enthusiasm never matched by their elders. For them it is the thrill of their lives; for now. But ahead of them are other triumphs. Even greater sports victories, college, marriage, their own children.
For the adults watching, their own triumphs are harder to see, slowly fading in the rear view mirror. Their child getting the game winning hit, or recording the last strikeout; seeing the expression on their faces, that is the closest they can come to the triumphs of their youth. I still believe it’s about the kids, but it means more to the adults.
So I have any advice to the parents and coaches in the magical land of Williamsport today: enjoy it. It will be over before you know it, and those boys on the field will be men in the blink of an eye.
But don’t fret, grandparents are welcome at Williamsport too.
Jenna Bush engaged with help from Alberto Gonzalez
First published at pug bus
The White House announced Thursday that Jenna Bush is engaged to be married.
Jenna, 25, is marrying Henry Hager, who is in a Georgetown hospital recuperating from knee surgery. Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez and former chief of staff Andrew Card snuck into Hager’s recovery room and got the ailing and doped up Hager to propose to the less appealing Bush twin, and to sign a pre-nup leaving him, in case of divorce, with no rights to Jenna’s bush, assets, or asses.
Hager, a former aide of Karl Rove, who reportedly, can’t drive 55, was not considered a serious suitor to Jenna when they began their relationship, but when he graduated first in the Dark Arts from Rovewarts the family began to consider him a potential husband.
Hager’s father John Hager is the chairman of the Virginia Republican party. When asked it there was a connection the President answered. “Well, there’s no connection, I mean, the two aren’t connected, I don’t tell my daughter, my daughter, I whored her out so Fred Thompson could win the primary.”
When asked if this would be a White House wedding Jenna said she hoped so but was worried about the attendance. “Uncle Karl won’t be there,” she said, “or Aunt Harriet, or Uncle Donald, or Uncle Andy, or Uncle Ari, or Uncle Collin, of course being black, he probably wouldn’t have been invited anyway. Who knows how long Uncle Alberto will be here? Uncle Dick could go at any time. Maybe we’ll do it at city hall.”
The President said he was just happy that Jenna would be moving out of the East Wing basement so he could set up his fussball table.
The White House announced Thursday that Jenna Bush is engaged to be married.
Jenna, 25, is marrying Henry Hager, who is in a Georgetown hospital recuperating from knee surgery. Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez and former chief of staff Andrew Card snuck into Hager’s recovery room and got the ailing and doped up Hager to propose to the less appealing Bush twin, and to sign a pre-nup leaving him, in case of divorce, with no rights to Jenna’s bush, assets, or asses.
Hager, a former aide of Karl Rove, who reportedly, can’t drive 55, was not considered a serious suitor to Jenna when they began their relationship, but when he graduated first in the Dark Arts from Rovewarts the family began to consider him a potential husband.
Hager’s father John Hager is the chairman of the Virginia Republican party. When asked it there was a connection the President answered. “Well, there’s no connection, I mean, the two aren’t connected, I don’t tell my daughter, my daughter, I whored her out so Fred Thompson could win the primary.”
When asked if this would be a White House wedding Jenna said she hoped so but was worried about the attendance. “Uncle Karl won’t be there,” she said, “or Aunt Harriet, or Uncle Donald, or Uncle Andy, or Uncle Ari, or Uncle Collin, of course being black, he probably wouldn’t have been invited anyway. Who knows how long Uncle Alberto will be here? Uncle Dick could go at any time. Maybe we’ll do it at city hall.”
The President said he was just happy that Jenna would be moving out of the East Wing basement so he could set up his fussball table.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
