A truly Once-In-A-Lifetime occurrence

This blog is, on occasion, known to indulge in a little hyperbole. Terms like Earth-shattering or Once-in-a-lifetime may get used a little too often than is probably warranted. This is often the case with most people who write about sports. Males are commonly sports fans AND supreme sentimentalists. They can get caught up in the moment and can lack perspective at moments of extreme excitement.

This is not one of those times.

Yesterday afternoon Brooks Conrad, a 30 year-old career minor leaguer hit a walk-off, pinch-hit, against all-odds, Grand Slam with the Atlanta Braves down three runs in the bottom of the ninth. In the 130 year recorded history of baseball, this has happened only one other time. On July 8, 1950, as the Korean War was just beginning, Jack Phillips hit the first pinch-hit, walk-off Grand Slam (with the Pirates down three) in history.Phillips would finish his MLB career with only nine home runs, Conrad now has five.

Only twenty three men have ever hit a walk-off, Grand Slams with their team down three. Babe Ruth has. Bobby Thomson has. Roberto Clemente? Yup. The last one to do it was Adam Dunn, who is actually paid to hit the ball out of the ballpark, and do little else. And now Brooks Conrad has joined that list, as totally improbable and unlikely as it is. He has even joined a more exclusive list.

More men have walked on the moon than have done what Brooks Litchfield Conrad was able to do on Monday. More sitting Presidents have been assassinated than have hit pinch-hit, walk-off, Grand Slams with their team down three. With the last (and only other) having happened in 1950, it is safe to say this is a once in a lifetime occurrence.

This Braves season has had it’s fair share on hyperbolic moments already. Jason Heyward hit a three-run home run in his first major league swing. A couple weeks later, they got no-hit but Ubaldo Jimenez. There has definitely been no shortage of moments to get caught up in with the Braves this season.

The Romance Post, part 1 of....1?

I have recently been charged with the challenge--in an attempt to drive or readership (and/or writership) by appealing to a wider audience--to post a blog about Romance. This is funny/sad/terrifying/insulting probably for a wide variety of reasons. The utmost of which must be the irony that, as someone who blogs in my spare time (read: blogger), how much could I really know on the subject?

Well...as it turns out...shockingly...very little.

But not to be discouraged! I firmly believe that nobody else really does either (except for perhaps old, wise people, but chances are they are not doing any blogging any time soon, so you are sort of stuck with me). Someone has either been in a lot of relationships, which means they failed a lot and clearly cannot be trusted, or they have been in very few relationships and therefore have no credible experience. Face it, no one can really be an expert on the subject of romance/love. (Yes I realize all I did to give myself credibility is destroy the credibility of any dissension, but that is what politicians always do, and they are getting voted for, so I figure it works.)

As it turns out, I always have some experience writing on the subject. My first ever piece of writing out of high school was actually an entrance essay to the University of Georgia addressing the simple question, "What is Love?" (The other choice was something about the impact of Martin Luther King, Jr. that really restricted my ability to MAKE UP WHATEVER I WANTED TO SAY.) I proceeded to use about 500 words describing my love for the Atlanta Braves and Cleveland Browns and a few other events/inanimate objects. At the time I was convinced my idea was SO original SO refreshing and clever that I would already be thrown on the Dean's List just for existing (my 2.8 high school GPA be damned). As fate would have it, I was denied admission to UGA very quickly.

I am actually less of a writer and more of an observational humorist. I write (often cynical) stories about things I see during the course of the day. Again, I hold out hope that this gives me an advantage as, having worked at a Quizno's for two years, I have direct knowledge of a wide realm of love/happiness and loneliness/sadness. As a sandwich shop employee, you quickly learn to loathe not only the uselessly in love couples who can't take their tongue out of each other's mouths long enough to order but also the callously depressed and lonely looking and sounding people planning to eat their bitterness away with a large Mesquite Chicken with extra Ranch.

(More irony: The reason I know the ends of the spectrum so well is probably because I inhabited both at some point or another while employed at Quizno's. I only got the job there because my girlfriend would insist on eating there at least four times of week, so I pleaded with the manager to employee me so I could get some of my money so I could continue to keep her happy by feeding her endless bowls of Broccoli Cheese soup. This delicate life cycle sustained itself only momentarily.

It certainly made things interesting post-break-up as I went from receiving bacon and eggs from my ex-girlfriend in bed to making her a small Turkey-Bacon-Guacamole on her lunch break. My only sweet vindication was going super light on the bacon AND guacamole and still continuing to charge her full price...ha!

Ok, I didn't charge her full price, but I still held incredible satisfaction knowing she was sitting, eating quietly yearning for a more full flavor of bacon and guacamole!)

At any rate, I will attempt to avoid making this series of posts too self-deprecating and auto-biographical. Although, not talking about myself usually proves pretty challenging.

To be continued...

The Case Against Skip

ESPN has often had trouble creating A.M. programming for it's sister station, ESPN2. I remember the days of morning exercise sessions, and later Cold Pizza, which has been repackaged and called First Take.

First Take as a show, is compelling enough. The interviews are usually interesting and the hosts Jay Crawford and Dana Jacobson work well in their spots and are pleasant enough for the morning. The biggest eye/ear sore in the First Take lineup is the loudly irritating and useless segment 1st and 10 (a failed holdover from Cold Pizza, minus the good-natured humor of Woody Paige).

1st and 10 is a segment that pits Cold Pizza and First Take regular Skip Bayless against a "guest" debater, which more often than not is someone of the opposite sex/race (this often plays out for plenty of uncomfortable, subtle, racism/sexism as Skip routinely takes the majority/white male side of the argument).

(It should be noted that this post is not trying to accuse Skip Bayless of being a racist or a sexist, it is impossible to know if his views expressed on the show are actually his or just an attempt to create conflict and create the segment more watchable.)

There is a term in the radio for the way Skip acts on a regular basis...it is simply called playing radio. This is done essentially to anger listeners into calling in and voicing their disagreement, all the while increasing the entertainment value for the listener. In radio this works when used sparingly because if the listener is in a constant state of being pissed off he or she will eventually just find something else to listen to.

Playing radio does not work on TV, as much as Skip would like. He just ends up arguing with the same three people every week with the same broken record arguments. Pardon the Interruption works because it is a unique idea handled by two level-headed and intelligent personalities that DEBATE both sides of an argument rather than an emotionally-charged squabble.

Luckily for Skip, there isn't too much concern for ratings on a midday sports-show segment, so his job is pretty much secure as long as he doesn't do anything stupid outside of the studio. The rest of us will just have to continue taking Tylenol or watching ESPNEWS run over and over and over...

A Dream For Steve

My sister sent me a link to this article describing Steven Tyler suddenly taking over a karaoke contest with his rendition of his own “I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing.” Later that night I had this dream:

I’m driving around a neighborhood that looks partly my own, but then also partly strange and off, such as is any familiar place that is duplicated in a dream. I find an unusual establishment and stumble into the odd bar looking for a brew late in a Tuesday evening. I am greeted by the warmth and stench of the smoke and alcohol from the bar and the smell of fried grease emanating from the kitchen. The place is largely empty, save for about a half dozen drunks participating in an oddly subdued and low key karaoke party opposite the bar.

I make my way the bar and order a beer and quietly share it with a few other patrons as we watch the muted basketball game on TV. We are all just sort of enjoying the inhibition-less singers as they perform their favorite love songs. After about thirty minutes I am well into my second beer and I hear the faint opening chords of Oh, Sherrie...I don’t look up, I just smile to myself soaking in the greatest love song ever written.

When the performer begins to sing—as no one else on this planet can—there is no reason for alarm, no need to jump or make the dozen immediate phone calls that are surely warranted by this once-in-a-lifetime situation. I simply sit quietly. My eyes never leave the beer in front of me, as my ears soak in the beautiful ballad.

After the song completed, I paid my tab and headed out, finding the singer on my way. It wasn’t hard to recognize him—I know his face well—though he is older now, even weary, but not necessarily sad; it is almost as if he is totally at peace. I simply walked up to him, shook his hand and offered, "Thanks," and the look in his eyes let me know that's all he needed, and I quickly shuffled out.

I hopped in my car and started the ignition. The radio sprang to life by was initially drowned out by the roar of the starting engine, as the pistons settled down the sound coming from the old car stereo speakers became more clear….”Should’ve been gone….”

And then, I woke up.

The one where we lament over Tiger's tragedy

When the dust settles and the facts of the incident become clear to all, the impact of December 2009 in the world of sports culture will be unable to be understated. Only Jordan had such an impact on sports from such a young age. And even he didn’t find worldwide success as quickly as Tiger did.

In 1996 Tiger was a boy challenging men in the most grueling golfing event of the year. How many times in life do we say, "That kid will be the greatest ever," and it's actually true? Nearly never, but with Tiger it was.

In the midst of steroids and Vick and Kobe and Phelps’ bong...we had Tiger. Even Lance Armstrong faced accusations and a broken household.

He won with class and without controversy. Quite simply, he was (is?) the best.

Was it a lie? Did he let us down? Was the pressure we placed on him fair? He always owned Sunday, and was seemingly never rattled. But was he really striving under the pressure, or just simply keeping from cracking? Did we let him down? He didn’t ask to be our sports savior, were we really offered anything more than the best he could do on the course?

He never cheated the game. This wasn’t Rose’s or Jordan’s gambling. There will be no investigation by the PGA or the FBI. It speaks to how we held Tiger, that he is being so indicted for not a legal issue, but a moral one. Who knows how many women he slept with or how many will come forward? It isn’t important now; once that number hit more than one it was all over. Now each one still matters, is still significant, but they matter less and less.

But should we fans be surprised? The notion of a hero striving for perfection and falling just short is one that is as old as human history. Aristotle coined the term hamartia, referring to the tragic flaw of Grecian heroes. There was always one imperfection, no matter how small or discrete, that would prevent a hero from being anything more than just one of us…from being human.

Perhaps that is what it boiled down to. We were all just shocked that it turned out Tiger Woods was as human as the rest of us. He does stupid shit that he probably knows he shouldn’t. He does things without thinking about consequence. These things are natural and integral part of the human experience.

The next chapter of this saga remains largely unseen. Woods has made his path to greatness even that much difficult. He must continue to chase history under an even larger magnifying glass than before. The fans will be relentless. Everyone will be watching and waiting to see—just as on nearly every summer Sunday afternoon—whether Tiger will persevere and overcome or will he crumble and fail as he rarely does.