If you haven’t noticed, the Sports Maunderer has a bit of a love affair with words. He gets two (2) words of the day emails. One comes from dictionary.com, the other comes from Merriam-Webster.
You seriously aren’t going to believe how felicitous they were today. Seriously. You won’t believe me and you’ll have to go look it up to verify. The first word:
Maugre. What does it mean? In spite of. As in, “The Yankees won the World Series maugre Joe Girardi’s terrifying over-managing.”
By the way, the Yankees won the World Series maugre Joe Girardi.
Now you are probably wondering why the Sports Maunderer thinks this word is so amazingly serendipitous. Well it just is. But even if it weren’t, you know what the other word was? Do you? Do ya do ya do ya?
That’s right. The other word of the day for November fifth, the day after the Yankees triumphed in the World Series, was…
Maunder.
I could not possibly have made that up. So it is time to do some maundering.
Nick Swisher is a complete bum with a bat in his hands but he came running in from the outfield like a kid on Christmas and his birthday rolled into one, and with C.C. and A.J. he made the team so easy to root for that even Yankee haters are annoyed by how easy this team is to love. Bill Simmons included. A-Rod finally played like the Greatest Player of All Time instead of the greatest hitter who didn’t hit whenever hitting actually mattered. Andy Pettite basically threw his arm off trying to win game 6, and guess what? He did. Both of those things. 18 postseason victories for Andy. I was so mad at you after the Astros debacle, but I can’t stay that way. Who could. Matsui hit 6 RBIs in what was likely his last game as a Yankee, and wow did he make his time in New York count at the best possible moment. If he had done absolutely nothing for them except hit into double plays until this very moment, it was probably still worth it. Eerily enough, this closely mirrors reality. Derek Jeter tied the record for hits in a six game World Series. What else is new. Jorge… Jorge. You are so dumb and yet so loveable. You can’t catch a game or call a game but then you hit a two run single when you need to, and all is forgiven. C.C. and A.J. made initials ultra cool. C.C. fought hard in his two games despite so-so command, and earned a split. A.J. dominated in one and was hung out to dry by his manager in another, also getting a split. Thankfully, the Yankees have A-Rod and Andy. And Teixiera, you hit about as well as I would have in the series, but saved at least three games with your glove throughout the postseason, arguably six. And Johnny Damon, you were an automatic out until the brightest lights shone, and then you stole two bases on one pitch, and the rest is you know what. Melky and Robinson, you guys were completely useless in all phases of the game but so what! The team won anyway so all is forgiven. Joba, you came this close to being Joba again. Hopefully that’s what we see for years to come. Phil Hughes… I don’t know what the heck happened to you. Damaso Marte, you made their best hitters look silly. You used to play for the Pirates. You must think you’ve died and gone to heaven. And Mariano, Mariano. The distance between you and every other reliever in the game is so gargantuan, that to even attempt an analogy would be tantamount to hijacking the incarnation as a metaphor. Or something. Regardless, you are the best player of the past twenty years. One of the best players ever. As Scott Van Pelt said, there can be no more demoralizing moment in sports than that moment when a fan sees Rivera come in to close out the game against his team. Because the game is over.
And so is this post.
Seriously. Maunder. Maunder! The word of the day was maunder.
2009 was meant to be.
~The Sports Maunderer~
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Deja WHOA!
The Sports Maunderer recently wrote a post about the Yankees/Twins game 2, and why we watch baseball. Go ahead and read it again; almost to the word, it could be applied to Yankees/Angels game 2.
Holy Crap.
~The Sports Maunderer~
Holy Crap.
~The Sports Maunderer~
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
ALCS!
The Yankees haven't gotten here in five years.
Five years ago, no one had heard of Barack Obama.
Five years ago, iPhones didn't exist (the horror!)
Five years ago, there was nothing wrong with the Sports Maunderer's knee yet.
Five years ago, Friday nights at home did not regularly include an extra Crowde(r)d table.
Five years ago, if someone said Teixiera aloud, I would have said... "I don't speak Spanish".
Five years ago, the Sports Maunderer had, thankfully, never been in Pittsburgh.
Five years ago, the Sports Maunderer had not seen Casablanca. That doesn't have much to do with anything but still.
Five years ago, we were at war in Iraq and Afghanistan. (Wait, what? We still are?!)
Five years ago, the national debt was around 7 trillion dollars. It is now closer to 11 trillion dollars (but hey, whats a few more trillion!)
Five years ago, the Patriots won their most recent Super Bowl.
Five years ago, Michael Vick... well, yeah, Michael Vick.
Five years ago, no one had heard of Tim Tebow (*gaspshockhorrorgruesomedeath*)
Five years ago, Gary Sheffield was on the Yankees.
Five years ago, so was Kevin Bronw.
And Jason Giambi.
And, amazingly enough, Bernie Williams.
Five years ago, it all ended in heartbreak. Hopefully that seems as bizarre and unique and unable to be repeated as everything else on ths list.
On a completely random note, the Phillies' victory this NLDS is the fifth time in the history of the National League that a World Series champ has won a postseason series the following year. Forget repeating--just winning a series the following year. Five times! Off the top of my head I can name five times the Yankees alone repeated as World Champions, and the entire National League has only won a series the year after five times! (For those wondering, it was the Phillies, the Braves of 95-96, the Reds of 75-76, the Giants of 21-22, and the Cubs of 1907-1908.)
Holy schmoli. Wow. WOW.
~The Sports Maunderer~
Five years ago, no one had heard of Barack Obama.
Five years ago, iPhones didn't exist (the horror!)
Five years ago, there was nothing wrong with the Sports Maunderer's knee yet.
Five years ago, Friday nights at home did not regularly include an extra Crowde(r)d table.
Five years ago, if someone said Teixiera aloud, I would have said... "I don't speak Spanish".
Five years ago, the Sports Maunderer had, thankfully, never been in Pittsburgh.
Five years ago, the Sports Maunderer had not seen Casablanca. That doesn't have much to do with anything but still.
Five years ago, we were at war in Iraq and Afghanistan. (Wait, what? We still are?!)
Five years ago, the national debt was around 7 trillion dollars. It is now closer to 11 trillion dollars (but hey, whats a few more trillion!)
Five years ago, the Patriots won their most recent Super Bowl.
Five years ago, Michael Vick... well, yeah, Michael Vick.
Five years ago, no one had heard of Tim Tebow (*gaspshockhorrorgruesomedeath*)
Five years ago, Gary Sheffield was on the Yankees.
Five years ago, so was Kevin Bronw.
And Jason Giambi.
And, amazingly enough, Bernie Williams.
Five years ago, it all ended in heartbreak. Hopefully that seems as bizarre and unique and unable to be repeated as everything else on ths list.
On a completely random note, the Phillies' victory this NLDS is the fifth time in the history of the National League that a World Series champ has won a postseason series the following year. Forget repeating--just winning a series the following year. Five times! Off the top of my head I can name five times the Yankees alone repeated as World Champions, and the entire National League has only won a series the year after five times! (For those wondering, it was the Phillies, the Braves of 95-96, the Reds of 75-76, the Giants of 21-22, and the Cubs of 1907-1908.)
Holy schmoli. Wow. WOW.
~The Sports Maunderer~
Friday, October 9, 2009
This is why...
...we watch the game.
People always ask why we play the game. And there are plenty of reasons why. But why do we watch? This is why. A-Rod, Teixiera, Jeter, Burnett, Dave Robertson (who?), Girardi... The look in the eyes of a generation's greatest player when all of the sudden you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this guy, who couldn't buy a hit in the postseason for five years, was absolutely, without a doubt, going to hit a home run. Unless they walked him.
And they didn't walk him.
The Sports Maunderer has had a pretty crappy six months. He's been manipulated, lied to, had rods stuck in his chest, his insides rearranged, and it is still excruciating to reach down for his Pringles. He had to leave the greatest house in the world to go to a city he couldn't care much less about, hours away from everyone he could very much care less about. To add insult to injury, a new blog opened up with possibly wittier, more intelligent and--amazingly enough--more elitist authors.
But A-Rod stepped into the batter's box and the Sports Maunderer might as well have never heard of surgery, psychopathic emotional denial, Pittsburgh, or obliquely angled opposable digits. Then the smoothest, most powerful swing this side of Babe Ruth and Ken Griffey Jr. launched a ball into the night, and everything was alive again. Soon after Dave Robertson stood alone on the mound, much as we all stand alone, only to be twice saved by the friendly glove of the spectacular Mark Teixiera. If that isn't an analogy for leaning on your distant loved ones, I don't know what is.
And then Mark turned into Reggie Jackson, delivering on the big bucks thrown in his direction, and the question "why do we watch?" dissapeared into the cloudy (yeah, Pittsburgh kind of ruins poetic description) night. This is why. We endure a long season of tortuous, sinuous, treacherous twists of fate, the ups and downs of holding onto your team even when they are 15-17 and look more like the Pirates than the fabled Bronx Bombers... because in the end, holding on is more valuable than you can dream whilst undergoing the dog days of summer. It's why we get surgery, it's why we hold onto reality even when those around us can't, it's why we call home instead of going to a beer-soaked social function. It's why we keep writing even when other blogs are more obnoxious and esoteric and knowledgable (okay, so i'm joking a bit on that point. But not the others!)
It's why we believe in God, and it's why God is a baseball fan. He knows a little something about comeback wins, too. No other sport could produce this. no other sport would dare to try.
This is why we watch.
~The Sports Maunderer~
People always ask why we play the game. And there are plenty of reasons why. But why do we watch? This is why. A-Rod, Teixiera, Jeter, Burnett, Dave Robertson (who?), Girardi... The look in the eyes of a generation's greatest player when all of the sudden you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this guy, who couldn't buy a hit in the postseason for five years, was absolutely, without a doubt, going to hit a home run. Unless they walked him.
And they didn't walk him.
The Sports Maunderer has had a pretty crappy six months. He's been manipulated, lied to, had rods stuck in his chest, his insides rearranged, and it is still excruciating to reach down for his Pringles. He had to leave the greatest house in the world to go to a city he couldn't care much less about, hours away from everyone he could very much care less about. To add insult to injury, a new blog opened up with possibly wittier, more intelligent and--amazingly enough--more elitist authors.
But A-Rod stepped into the batter's box and the Sports Maunderer might as well have never heard of surgery, psychopathic emotional denial, Pittsburgh, or obliquely angled opposable digits. Then the smoothest, most powerful swing this side of Babe Ruth and Ken Griffey Jr. launched a ball into the night, and everything was alive again. Soon after Dave Robertson stood alone on the mound, much as we all stand alone, only to be twice saved by the friendly glove of the spectacular Mark Teixiera. If that isn't an analogy for leaning on your distant loved ones, I don't know what is.
And then Mark turned into Reggie Jackson, delivering on the big bucks thrown in his direction, and the question "why do we watch?" dissapeared into the cloudy (yeah, Pittsburgh kind of ruins poetic description) night. This is why. We endure a long season of tortuous, sinuous, treacherous twists of fate, the ups and downs of holding onto your team even when they are 15-17 and look more like the Pirates than the fabled Bronx Bombers... because in the end, holding on is more valuable than you can dream whilst undergoing the dog days of summer. It's why we get surgery, it's why we hold onto reality even when those around us can't, it's why we call home instead of going to a beer-soaked social function. It's why we keep writing even when other blogs are more obnoxious and esoteric and knowledgable (okay, so i'm joking a bit on that point. But not the others!)
It's why we believe in God, and it's why God is a baseball fan. He knows a little something about comeback wins, too. No other sport could produce this. no other sport would dare to try.
This is why we watch.
~The Sports Maunderer~
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Playoff Preview
It has been a while. It has also been a while since the Yankees were in the playoffs. Oh the symmetry. But to prove I'm not a Northeastern Elitist Jackanapes, the Sports Maunderer will give a playoff preview covering the whole league. More or less. Maybe. Well. We'll see how much AAAA I can take.
Let's get the boring stuff out of the way first:
The National League
Dodgers surprise everyone and get to the World Series.
Okay. National League dealt with.
American League
I would take any American League team over any National League team, with the possible exception of the Twins, who just don't seem to match up well with anyone. But then, they went 17-4 to finish the season, so who knows? Regardless, there are two teams here that are worldbeaters, and then there are the two teams who aren't. The NL's only hope is that these two teams match up for a seven game classic, exhaust themselves, injure themselves, and get to the World Series with a "we already practically won our World Series" syndrome a la the 2003 Yankees. Onto the Matchups:
Red Sox/Angels:
The Red Sox have a terrifying starting rotation. Beckett, Lester, Bucholz, even Matzusaka isn't bad. Well, okay, he is, but he's better than the other fourth starters (Some teams don't even seem to have fourth starters, but we'll leave Joba and Chad Gaudin alone for the moment). The Angels have John Lackey. He's good, but he isn't BeckettLesterBucholz good.
For crying out loud, though, Jon Lester is starting game 1? Seriously? I mean, I understand the notion that you have to reward success and he had quite the season, but seriously. Who would you rather be facing in the postseason? Lester or Beckett? Lester is terrific, but Beckett is, and I hate saying this... Josh Beckett. In the postseason.
The Angels have a good lineup. Actually, they have the best lineup this side of the Bronx. That won't be enough. The Red Sox kill the Angels like the Yankees kill the Twins. Speaking of which.
Yankees/Twins:
If there is any justice in the world, the Yankees will handily win this series. They have a better rotation, a better bullpen, a way better lineup, and more rest. The Twins have a better catcher. Now, granted, the difference between Joe Mauer and Jorge Posada is roughly equivalent to the difference between the Empire State Building and a Lego brick, but still. The Yankees should destroy the Twins, emphasis on should. And you should root for them to do so, also, because the Twins would get killed in the next series even if they managed to win this one, and the postseason would be another cakewalk for the Red Sox. Unless you are actually a Red Sox fan, you can't want that. At the very least, you want the seven-game-epic-series-aiding-the-NL-winner scenario laid out earlier.
Yankees/Red Sox:
I don't know if I can take another of these, but it does seem a bit inevitable. And weirdly enough, I might actually be rooting for the Red Sox to get here. The Yankees have won 9 of 10 from the Red Sox. The Angels have beaten the Yankees about 2,230,730,828 times in the past few years. The Yankees actually match up well against the Red Sox. Sabathia and Burnett and Petitte are more than capable of shutting down their surprisingly mediocre line-up, and for all their balleyhooed success this year, the Red Sox starters have done surprisingly not well against the Yankees, all things considered. So the Yankees, again, should win. Should.
World Series:
Yankees/Dodgers
You should root for this to happen if you have a pulse. If, sans a horse in the race, you root against this scenario, you irrationally hate big cities. Yankees. Dodgers. Manny. A-Rod. Torre. TORRE! The most storied franchise in sports history and another franchise with quite a story of its own. The Yankees should (should) crush the Dodgers, but who cares? The intrigue alone makes it worth rooting for this. My mouth is watering. And not because I'm hungry and waiting to get a bagel at Einstein's. Well, that might have something to do with it. But mostly, I just can't wait for postseaon baseball.
It's been a while.
~The Sports Maunderer~
Let's get the boring stuff out of the way first:
The National League
Dodgers surprise everyone and get to the World Series.
Okay. National League dealt with.
American League
I would take any American League team over any National League team, with the possible exception of the Twins, who just don't seem to match up well with anyone. But then, they went 17-4 to finish the season, so who knows? Regardless, there are two teams here that are worldbeaters, and then there are the two teams who aren't. The NL's only hope is that these two teams match up for a seven game classic, exhaust themselves, injure themselves, and get to the World Series with a "we already practically won our World Series" syndrome a la the 2003 Yankees. Onto the Matchups:
Red Sox/Angels:
The Red Sox have a terrifying starting rotation. Beckett, Lester, Bucholz, even Matzusaka isn't bad. Well, okay, he is, but he's better than the other fourth starters (Some teams don't even seem to have fourth starters, but we'll leave Joba and Chad Gaudin alone for the moment). The Angels have John Lackey. He's good, but he isn't BeckettLesterBucholz good.
For crying out loud, though, Jon Lester is starting game 1? Seriously? I mean, I understand the notion that you have to reward success and he had quite the season, but seriously. Who would you rather be facing in the postseason? Lester or Beckett? Lester is terrific, but Beckett is, and I hate saying this... Josh Beckett. In the postseason.
The Angels have a good lineup. Actually, they have the best lineup this side of the Bronx. That won't be enough. The Red Sox kill the Angels like the Yankees kill the Twins. Speaking of which.
Yankees/Twins:
If there is any justice in the world, the Yankees will handily win this series. They have a better rotation, a better bullpen, a way better lineup, and more rest. The Twins have a better catcher. Now, granted, the difference between Joe Mauer and Jorge Posada is roughly equivalent to the difference between the Empire State Building and a Lego brick, but still. The Yankees should destroy the Twins, emphasis on should. And you should root for them to do so, also, because the Twins would get killed in the next series even if they managed to win this one, and the postseason would be another cakewalk for the Red Sox. Unless you are actually a Red Sox fan, you can't want that. At the very least, you want the seven-game-epic-series-aiding-the-NL-winner scenario laid out earlier.
Yankees/Red Sox:
I don't know if I can take another of these, but it does seem a bit inevitable. And weirdly enough, I might actually be rooting for the Red Sox to get here. The Yankees have won 9 of 10 from the Red Sox. The Angels have beaten the Yankees about 2,230,730,828 times in the past few years. The Yankees actually match up well against the Red Sox. Sabathia and Burnett and Petitte are more than capable of shutting down their surprisingly mediocre line-up, and for all their balleyhooed success this year, the Red Sox starters have done surprisingly not well against the Yankees, all things considered. So the Yankees, again, should win. Should.
World Series:
Yankees/Dodgers
You should root for this to happen if you have a pulse. If, sans a horse in the race, you root against this scenario, you irrationally hate big cities. Yankees. Dodgers. Manny. A-Rod. Torre. TORRE! The most storied franchise in sports history and another franchise with quite a story of its own. The Yankees should (should) crush the Dodgers, but who cares? The intrigue alone makes it worth rooting for this. My mouth is watering. And not because I'm hungry and waiting to get a bagel at Einstein's. Well, that might have something to do with it. But mostly, I just can't wait for postseaon baseball.
It's been a while.
~The Sports Maunderer~
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Not Quite 4-0, But Not Bad
This one belonged to the lineup.
I must say. While I hate prognosticating in such a fashion, the Yanks can win it with the bats when they need to, and the arms when they need to. This augurs well for them. Cliche? Yes. but you don't have to do anything new to win a World Series. You just have to do it well.
Oh, and John Smoltz is a Great Pitcher again. I have to wonder if guys who pitched their whole careers in the NL should have asterisks next to their names in the Hall of Fame. Seems more effective than steroids.
~The Sports Maunderer~
I must say. While I hate prognosticating in such a fashion, the Yanks can win it with the bats when they need to, and the arms when they need to. This augurs well for them. Cliche? Yes. but you don't have to do anything new to win a World Series. You just have to do it well.
Oh, and John Smoltz is a Great Pitcher again. I have to wonder if guys who pitched their whole careers in the NL should have asterisks next to their names in the Hall of Fame. Seems more effective than steroids.
~The Sports Maunderer~
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
I can't speak Spanish, but I can speak...
Sometimes, in the Sports Maunderer’s less stilted moments (of which there aren’t many), he wonders why he is sitting there, watching SportsCenter. He wonders why he watches PTI. He wonders why on a perfectly fine day he watches the Yankees play the Rays instead of throwing a disc or a football or, yes, a baseball. There isn’t necessarily a very good answer. Does it matter that he knows Bill Mueller once won a batting title or that Juan Gonzalez won the MVP in 1997 in a blatant robbery from Alex Rodriguez, who batted .358 that year (that’s right, Alex. .358. Remember those days)?
What is the point of this not-very-widely-read blog? At its absolute peak, it might have five or six people read a particular entry. Two or three will comment, likely. Besides the omnipresent possibility of a feminine explosion and/or “Danny-boy” moment, which is worth a post all on its own, there doesn’t seem to be much purpose much of the time.
But it occurs to any thinking individual (all fourteen of them) that in fact, sports is more than exercise for the player or spectacle for the fan. And I don’t mean it is a way of life or some humanist, new-age expression of the inner self struggling for deification. It isn’t even ordained by Xenu. Well, I don’t think anyway. I haven’t gone on the cruise ship with the last order of secrets. I digress.
What is sports? I do not mean what are sports, green-squiggly line be sent to Sheole. I know what they are. I mean what is sports. Let’s have a look.
It has its own sphere of existence. The dichotomy between those who play versus those who do not play is tantamount to those who live in a country versus those who study a country from without. Sometimes the people who don’t live in it can be more objective and bring a superior eye to the whole show. Buster Olney, Tim Kurkjian and Mike Greenberg all bring more wit and intelligence to the realm than do Eric Young (he of the migraine inducing voice), Tino Martinez (he of the sleep-inducing voice) or Rick Sutcliff (he of the suicide inducing voice).
But at the same time, to truly feel the tension of a big moment, some kind of experience helps. Most people who enjoy watching sports have at some point in their life enjoyed playing them. It has different levels of familiarity, and you can be familiar with personal experience or without.
It has its own vocabulary. “Cover Two”. “Infield Fly Rule”. “Charging” versus “Blocking” fouls. Some of the terms even find their way into the quotidian lexicon of those who are so distant from the realm of sport that they have the temerity to ask what roughing the quarterback entails. “Strikeout”, for instance, is a common term from business meetings to relationships. The intelligent reader—and that includes everyone reading, unless The Sports Maunderer has lurking readers who never comment and don't understand the maxim "B equals failure"—can see where this is headed.
Sports is a language. I can’t speak Spanish. But can you speak sport? It might seem trivial but without knowing this particular language, I would have no friends. And it isn’t because badminton is holding The Sports Maunderer and Post Hill together (although, who knows, maybe it is). But sports is the hello language. It’s the “I know nobody in this room… but that guy is wearing a Red Sox jersey. Let’s go make fun of him and see what happens.”
Alright. Bad example.
“I know nobody here… but when B**** F**** throws another interception, I can make a quiet comment about how this is nothing new, and everyone who knows anything about sports will slowly nod their head in agreement. Now we’re practically best friends.”
You can also argue about sports without any need to worry about hurting someone’s feelings or pissing them off. In fact, if you don’t feel comfortable arguing about sports with someone, walk the other way. That friendship/relationship is going nowhere. This is rare, but it happens.
In fact, one could probably blame all of society’s ills on those who are either sports-illiterate or sports-belligerent. Mothers-in-law, bad girlfriends, bullies—if they would just sit down and debate the finer points of the Triangle Offense or Gary Sheffield’s method of catching pop-flies, no one would have to worry about awkward visits, bad dates or getting punched in the mouth.
As a further example, bad fathers-in-law can also come out of this. If you can’t talk sports with a potential father-in-law… make sure he never becomes more than a potential. What are you going to *do* for the rest of your life if not talk sports with your father-in-law for a few minutes each day? Discussing French Butter certainly won’t do. If they hate Derek Jeter and think A-rod is a Ballplayer™, that’s fine. Heck, that’s wonderful. It means they have the sports independence to go against the grain (don’t you love the hypocrisy in that particular cliché? I find it extremely bemusing). It helps if they’re Italian, too, but that helps everything, so let’s put that aside.
Opinionated=fine.
What isn’t fine? Being so attached to Kobe Bryant that one deludes oneself into believing he is a facilitator. Look, Kobe is a fantastic player. He is the best scorer since Jordan and probably one of the five best scorers ever. Maybe even top two among all time shooting guards. But the guy is a selfish player. Period. He played selfishly last year and they lost, so everyone cried “SELFISH SHAME SHAME SHAME SELFISH”. He played selfishly this year but the Lakers were so overwhelmingly talented that it didn’t matter and they won anyway (thanks to a little help from KG’s knee). Anyone who thinks the difference in the two years was Kobe’s “maturation” is a bona fide imbiber of Kobe Kool-Aid. Had Kevin Garnett not gotten injured, the Celtics would have once again shown the world that a team is better than a Kobe. But of course, certain people refuse to admit this. And it isn't even so much their inability to listen to reason that tips you off as to the fact that this is a bad confabulation-buddy. It's the fact that even disagreeing with them could be seen as an attack on their very person. And this is bad. And you never would have known it if it hadn't been for Kobe Bryant. (So he IS good for something other than puppet commercials!)
And there you go. Without the language of sport, you might have gotten stuck with a lousy father-in-law. That would have sucked, wouldn’t it? Now what other language helps you determine something like that, huh? Speaking Farsi sure as heck won’t get you marital clues. And unless you move to Iran (which The Sports Maunderer does not advocate), it won’t help you meet any new people, either.
To get anywhere with another being you have to share a language, and English just isn't good enough. Otherwise, no matter how badly they need your help with calc homework, you’ll get nowhere. Sports, of course, isn’t the only language one can speak to a new acquaintance. But it is certainly a good one. And really, if you can’t maunder about sports with someone, what are you going to do with them? If they aren't impressed by your knowledge of El Duque's career postseason stats, to Sheole with them, too.
~The Sports Maunderer~
What is the point of this not-very-widely-read blog? At its absolute peak, it might have five or six people read a particular entry. Two or three will comment, likely. Besides the omnipresent possibility of a feminine explosion and/or “Danny-boy” moment, which is worth a post all on its own, there doesn’t seem to be much purpose much of the time.
But it occurs to any thinking individual (all fourteen of them) that in fact, sports is more than exercise for the player or spectacle for the fan. And I don’t mean it is a way of life or some humanist, new-age expression of the inner self struggling for deification. It isn’t even ordained by Xenu. Well, I don’t think anyway. I haven’t gone on the cruise ship with the last order of secrets. I digress.
What is sports? I do not mean what are sports, green-squiggly line be sent to Sheole. I know what they are. I mean what is sports. Let’s have a look.
It has its own sphere of existence. The dichotomy between those who play versus those who do not play is tantamount to those who live in a country versus those who study a country from without. Sometimes the people who don’t live in it can be more objective and bring a superior eye to the whole show. Buster Olney, Tim Kurkjian and Mike Greenberg all bring more wit and intelligence to the realm than do Eric Young (he of the migraine inducing voice), Tino Martinez (he of the sleep-inducing voice) or Rick Sutcliff (he of the suicide inducing voice).
But at the same time, to truly feel the tension of a big moment, some kind of experience helps. Most people who enjoy watching sports have at some point in their life enjoyed playing them. It has different levels of familiarity, and you can be familiar with personal experience or without.
It has its own vocabulary. “Cover Two”. “Infield Fly Rule”. “Charging” versus “Blocking” fouls. Some of the terms even find their way into the quotidian lexicon of those who are so distant from the realm of sport that they have the temerity to ask what roughing the quarterback entails. “Strikeout”, for instance, is a common term from business meetings to relationships. The intelligent reader—and that includes everyone reading, unless The Sports Maunderer has lurking readers who never comment and don't understand the maxim "B equals failure"—can see where this is headed.
Sports is a language. I can’t speak Spanish. But can you speak sport? It might seem trivial but without knowing this particular language, I would have no friends. And it isn’t because badminton is holding The Sports Maunderer and Post Hill together (although, who knows, maybe it is). But sports is the hello language. It’s the “I know nobody in this room… but that guy is wearing a Red Sox jersey. Let’s go make fun of him and see what happens.”
Alright. Bad example.
“I know nobody here… but when B**** F**** throws another interception, I can make a quiet comment about how this is nothing new, and everyone who knows anything about sports will slowly nod their head in agreement. Now we’re practically best friends.”
You can also argue about sports without any need to worry about hurting someone’s feelings or pissing them off. In fact, if you don’t feel comfortable arguing about sports with someone, walk the other way. That friendship/relationship is going nowhere. This is rare, but it happens.
In fact, one could probably blame all of society’s ills on those who are either sports-illiterate or sports-belligerent. Mothers-in-law, bad girlfriends, bullies—if they would just sit down and debate the finer points of the Triangle Offense or Gary Sheffield’s method of catching pop-flies, no one would have to worry about awkward visits, bad dates or getting punched in the mouth.
As a further example, bad fathers-in-law can also come out of this. If you can’t talk sports with a potential father-in-law… make sure he never becomes more than a potential. What are you going to *do* for the rest of your life if not talk sports with your father-in-law for a few minutes each day? Discussing French Butter certainly won’t do. If they hate Derek Jeter and think A-rod is a Ballplayer™, that’s fine. Heck, that’s wonderful. It means they have the sports independence to go against the grain (don’t you love the hypocrisy in that particular cliché? I find it extremely bemusing). It helps if they’re Italian, too, but that helps everything, so let’s put that aside.
Opinionated=fine.
What isn’t fine? Being so attached to Kobe Bryant that one deludes oneself into believing he is a facilitator. Look, Kobe is a fantastic player. He is the best scorer since Jordan and probably one of the five best scorers ever. Maybe even top two among all time shooting guards. But the guy is a selfish player. Period. He played selfishly last year and they lost, so everyone cried “SELFISH SHAME SHAME SHAME SELFISH”. He played selfishly this year but the Lakers were so overwhelmingly talented that it didn’t matter and they won anyway (thanks to a little help from KG’s knee). Anyone who thinks the difference in the two years was Kobe’s “maturation” is a bona fide imbiber of Kobe Kool-Aid. Had Kevin Garnett not gotten injured, the Celtics would have once again shown the world that a team is better than a Kobe. But of course, certain people refuse to admit this. And it isn't even so much their inability to listen to reason that tips you off as to the fact that this is a bad confabulation-buddy. It's the fact that even disagreeing with them could be seen as an attack on their very person. And this is bad. And you never would have known it if it hadn't been for Kobe Bryant. (So he IS good for something other than puppet commercials!)
And there you go. Without the language of sport, you might have gotten stuck with a lousy father-in-law. That would have sucked, wouldn’t it? Now what other language helps you determine something like that, huh? Speaking Farsi sure as heck won’t get you marital clues. And unless you move to Iran (which The Sports Maunderer does not advocate), it won’t help you meet any new people, either.
To get anywhere with another being you have to share a language, and English just isn't good enough. Otherwise, no matter how badly they need your help with calc homework, you’ll get nowhere. Sports, of course, isn’t the only language one can speak to a new acquaintance. But it is certainly a good one. And really, if you can’t maunder about sports with someone, what are you going to do with them? If they aren't impressed by your knowledge of El Duque's career postseason stats, to Sheole with them, too.
~The Sports Maunderer~
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
1972
Originally posted July 19th, 2007
Michael Vick was indicted just as Chris Mortensen said wouldn’t happen, Randy Moss and Tom Brady appear to be getting along fine just like ESPN unilaterally decided wouldn’t happen, and David Beckham is here to energize soccer in America, which everyone knows won’t happen.
Derek Jeter says the Yanks can catch the Sox, which everyone knows they can’t.
Talladega nights won the ESPY for best sports movie, which everyone knows sucks.
Dale Earnhardt Junior is going to replace Kyle Busch in Hendrick racing (probably the first NASCAR related factoid ever divulged on The Sports Maunderer), even though he stinks.
If only the world was as simple as in 1972. Back then, Americans were good guys, Russians were bad guys, and everyone else had to pick a side, rename itself Switzerland, or surrender (only one country chose the latter option, I’m sure you can guess which). Back then, no one had ever heard of steroids, and the Super Bowl was a new-fangled concoction of those dudes whose shoulders looked way too big. Movies were movies (and Al Pacino didn’t look dead), and Harry Potter had never been heard of (its too bad he isn’t dead).
In 1972, Bobby Fischer told the world he would win the World Chess Championship, though everyone knew the Russians always won. He then told the world he wouldn’t play because the cameras had to leave, and most people believed him. He was insane, after all.
He ended up not only playing but capping off one of the great stories of the 20th century. Bobby Fischer was a champion in every possible way; he was called a complainer, a crackpot, insane, reckless, and bordering on otherworldly. He was likely all of these things as well, but they do not diminish his greatness. Indeed, they were likely the reasons for his greatness.
In the late 1950s and the 1960s, when Fischer was winning U.S. opens at the age of fourteen and beyond (he played in the U.S. Chess Championship eight times, and won each time), becoming the youngest grandmaster ever at sixteen, mesmerizing former world champions with his play and nearly disappearing on multifarious occasions, chess was hardly on the map of the world, except in the place that owned it: Russia.
Russian chess players were often seen as products of the communist system, and in the sense that Russia had a very good system for discovering and nurturing young chess talent, that was true. They were extremely varied in style and physiognomy, however, not all lining up as boring, mathematical, apathetic geniuses. The man who seemed to embody that saturnine, tedious reality did end up claiming the World Championship, however, in the form of Boris Spassky (as an aside, he was not a saturnine, tedious character. But compared to Fischer, anyone would seem as such). He was the last in an impressively long line of Russian champions. Indeed, after Fischer, that line would start again and has maintained itself to this day*. Since 1948, only three years have gone by where a Russian was not the world champion. So in case you haven’t gotten the picture, Russians are very, very good at chess.
So obviously when Fischer was in the midst of thwomping Spassky like a native American drum, the world was slightly interested. The entire career of America’s lone champion was worth discussing, though. It was, very simply, weird. It also contained the Sandy Koufax period of championship chess, and indeed that is a great injustice to Bobby Fischer’s play; not only was he better than Koufax in his prime, he never had a 4.00 ERA in his early career. Bobby Fischer was one of the great chess players of all time throughout his career. For a span of one or two years, he was far better than anyone else has ever been, possibly at anything.
To understand why ordinary people look at Bobby Fischer in a different light is to understand the obvious. He was calumnious, cranky, picky, quick-tempered—you never knew what vicissitudes of countenance he would showcase or what their effect would be. He was churlish, boorish, and in many ways simply a rude curmudgeon. If he had not played chess as well as he did, it is likely he would have been an ostracized crazy man.
To understand why chess players find Bobby Fischer interesting, one needs to understand that he did not simply win the world championship once and then disappear. Oh sure, he did that. But this man dominated tournaments like no one before him or after him has. He dominated match play against the world’s best like no one before him had or anyone after him likely will.
In high level tournaments, draws are inevitable. It is simply impossible to consistently outplay other grandmasters to the point of defeat over and over and over. For instance, a score of 7/12 (a win is one point, a draw is half a point, a loss is zero points) at a strong grandmaster invitational is considered a great outcome. The winner might be 7.5/12, if that. For perspective, 7.5/12 would likely mean a player scored four wins, one loss and seven draws. Draws are merely expected to outnumber decisions at such a level. In match play, where the same two opponents are facing each other repeatedly, draws are even more ubiquitous.
To illustrate the point: In Kasparov v. Karpov, the world championship match in 1981, the format was simple. First man to six wins claims the title, no matter how long it takes. After forty-eight games, the match was cancelled due to the absurd length of the match. Only eight decisions had been derived; forty of the matches were draws! In Kasparov v. Kramnik in 2000, Kramnik eked out a close victory in which Kasparov did not manage to win a single game. For reference, Kasparov is considered one of the best, if not the best player of all time by most pundits. He holds records for highest rating, duration of rating, and numerous other titles in addition to almost twenty years of being world champion. Yet he failed to win once. Instead, he racked up a ton of 1/2-1/2s.
Clearly, high level play is fraught with draws.
Bobby Fischer’s U.S. Open scores were : 1957-58: 10.5/13; 1958-59: 8.5/11; 1959-60: 9/11; 1960-61: 9/11; 1962-63: 8/11; 1963-64: 11/11; 1965-66: 8.5/11; 1966-67: 9.5/11.
Included rather innocently in that tiny diagram of domination is his impossible 1964 victory at the U.S. Open in which he won every game he played. He did not draw a single game. This is akin to a football team playing an entire season without even falling behind at any point in any game. As a player continues winning, it is the almost understood duty of each player who plays him to at least draw him. Yet they could not. Even with the black pieces (a common misconception is that black and white are equal in chess. They are not. A draw with black is more or less considered a good outcome at the highest levels), Fischer could not be touched.
And none of this takes away from his overall domination at the tournament from the age of fourteen and beyond. He played in eight U.S. Opens and lost three whole games out of ninety!Well “so what?” you say, he was clearly the greatest American player ever. Indeed, so what. Never mind the fact that no player has dominated a tournament scene like that—what about the Russians?!
For the year leading up to his historic battle with Boris Spassky, Fischer put on a show like none other in the history of chess. To reach the position of world championship challenger, one had to first climb through a succession of zonal, interzonal and match play tournaments. After easily reaching the candidates matches (while posting scores of 19/22 and 15/17 in other, non-championship related tournaments), he played three of the greatest chess minds of the day. To say he annihiliated them would be an understatement.
First, he played against Russian Mark Taimanov. Taimanov has an opening named after him, if you were curious as to his ability. Fischer won the match 6-0. Taimanov could not even draw him once. Towards the end of the match, Taimanov contracted a mysterious illness.
Second, Fischer played Bent Larsen, the strongest Danish grandmaster ever. Towards the end of another 6-0 rout, Larsen contracted a mysterious illness. It was dubbed “Fischer fever” and no one could really take it seriously other than an excuse to delay games towards the inevitable conclusion of the match.
The final opponent before Spassky: Tigran Petrosian, the former world champion, considered one of the three strongest players in the world. Petrosian finally offered a bit of resistance, managing a win in the second game and even the score. After a few draws, Fischer won again. Then, he won again. Petrosian was suddenly ill. Fischer finished him off with a four game winning streak. Fischer so dominated his opponents mentally and physically that they all complained of an ersatz illness.
After all, let us not forget it was Bobby Fischer. He never made a match easy. He complained about lighting, about chess sets, about chairs, etc. He would show up late to games, leave for extended periods of time, etc. He was perhaps the most difficult opponent to play in the world completely regardless of his ferocious ability on the board.
And he put his psychological warfare into full force with Boris Spassky. He first refused to attend his own match, then he arrived and refused to play because of the cameras and the spectators, then he forfeited the second game by not showing up. He had now played Boris Spassky seven times, won none, drawn three, lost four—one by forfeit. The world was beginning to think Fischer was as much of a poseur in chess as the French are in war.
But Spassky was always doomed to lose. After agreeing to play in a back room away from cameras and spectators for the third game, Spassky finally broke and lost to Fischer. Over the course of the match, Fischer would relatively easily defeat Spassky. After grabbing a three point lead, Fischer was content to draw the rest of the games to eventually win by a score of 12.5-8.5 Bobby was the king of the world.
It would not stay that way for long.
It is often believed that chess drives men crazy. A wise man once denied that belief with the clever and indubitable line, “Chess does not drive normal men past the edge of sanity. Chess keeps insane men on the normal side.”
Nowhere was this expressed more visibly than with Fischer, whose disappearances, rants, hate and simply downright lunatic behavior since 1972 show a man who likely would never have been sane but for the board he so thoroughly dominated. For a period of a year, he so utterly crushed all comers that he might as well have played me and the result would have been similar to the greatest players of the day (I exaggerate of course, but if you aren’t enthralled by my hyperbolic cadence by now, you aren’t reading anyway. I am being arrogant of course, but if you aren’t enraptured by my egotistical rambling by now…).
Basically, I can’t write about the Yanks because the last time I did, they fell apart. But I don’t think the story of Bobby Fischer ever gets old. Some puling egomaniacal chess players of today will claim Fischer only won because of the fuss he created around matches. While this is probably absurd, it misses the point. Fischer was a whirlwind of chaos, and he had to deal with it just as his opponents’ did. Fischer was able to overcome everything else and simply win.
The mark of a champion is not upon those whose best is better than their best. You win because your worst is still good enough. At his peak, Fischer’s worst was better than even his opponent’s best. He overcame near-insanity, extremely skilled opponents, endless distractions and the freaking Cold War to dominate like no other.
To the thirty-fifth anniversary, here here,
~The Sports Maunderer~
*This is no longer the case. Viswanath Anand wrested the undisputed title from russian Vladamir Kramnik in 2007.
Michael Vick was indicted just as Chris Mortensen said wouldn’t happen, Randy Moss and Tom Brady appear to be getting along fine just like ESPN unilaterally decided wouldn’t happen, and David Beckham is here to energize soccer in America, which everyone knows won’t happen.
Derek Jeter says the Yanks can catch the Sox, which everyone knows they can’t.
Talladega nights won the ESPY for best sports movie, which everyone knows sucks.
Dale Earnhardt Junior is going to replace Kyle Busch in Hendrick racing (probably the first NASCAR related factoid ever divulged on The Sports Maunderer), even though he stinks.
If only the world was as simple as in 1972. Back then, Americans were good guys, Russians were bad guys, and everyone else had to pick a side, rename itself Switzerland, or surrender (only one country chose the latter option, I’m sure you can guess which). Back then, no one had ever heard of steroids, and the Super Bowl was a new-fangled concoction of those dudes whose shoulders looked way too big. Movies were movies (and Al Pacino didn’t look dead), and Harry Potter had never been heard of (its too bad he isn’t dead).
In 1972, Bobby Fischer told the world he would win the World Chess Championship, though everyone knew the Russians always won. He then told the world he wouldn’t play because the cameras had to leave, and most people believed him. He was insane, after all.
He ended up not only playing but capping off one of the great stories of the 20th century. Bobby Fischer was a champion in every possible way; he was called a complainer, a crackpot, insane, reckless, and bordering on otherworldly. He was likely all of these things as well, but they do not diminish his greatness. Indeed, they were likely the reasons for his greatness.
In the late 1950s and the 1960s, when Fischer was winning U.S. opens at the age of fourteen and beyond (he played in the U.S. Chess Championship eight times, and won each time), becoming the youngest grandmaster ever at sixteen, mesmerizing former world champions with his play and nearly disappearing on multifarious occasions, chess was hardly on the map of the world, except in the place that owned it: Russia.
Russian chess players were often seen as products of the communist system, and in the sense that Russia had a very good system for discovering and nurturing young chess talent, that was true. They were extremely varied in style and physiognomy, however, not all lining up as boring, mathematical, apathetic geniuses. The man who seemed to embody that saturnine, tedious reality did end up claiming the World Championship, however, in the form of Boris Spassky (as an aside, he was not a saturnine, tedious character. But compared to Fischer, anyone would seem as such). He was the last in an impressively long line of Russian champions. Indeed, after Fischer, that line would start again and has maintained itself to this day*. Since 1948, only three years have gone by where a Russian was not the world champion. So in case you haven’t gotten the picture, Russians are very, very good at chess.
So obviously when Fischer was in the midst of thwomping Spassky like a native American drum, the world was slightly interested. The entire career of America’s lone champion was worth discussing, though. It was, very simply, weird. It also contained the Sandy Koufax period of championship chess, and indeed that is a great injustice to Bobby Fischer’s play; not only was he better than Koufax in his prime, he never had a 4.00 ERA in his early career. Bobby Fischer was one of the great chess players of all time throughout his career. For a span of one or two years, he was far better than anyone else has ever been, possibly at anything.
To understand why ordinary people look at Bobby Fischer in a different light is to understand the obvious. He was calumnious, cranky, picky, quick-tempered—you never knew what vicissitudes of countenance he would showcase or what their effect would be. He was churlish, boorish, and in many ways simply a rude curmudgeon. If he had not played chess as well as he did, it is likely he would have been an ostracized crazy man.
To understand why chess players find Bobby Fischer interesting, one needs to understand that he did not simply win the world championship once and then disappear. Oh sure, he did that. But this man dominated tournaments like no one before him or after him has. He dominated match play against the world’s best like no one before him had or anyone after him likely will.
In high level tournaments, draws are inevitable. It is simply impossible to consistently outplay other grandmasters to the point of defeat over and over and over. For instance, a score of 7/12 (a win is one point, a draw is half a point, a loss is zero points) at a strong grandmaster invitational is considered a great outcome. The winner might be 7.5/12, if that. For perspective, 7.5/12 would likely mean a player scored four wins, one loss and seven draws. Draws are merely expected to outnumber decisions at such a level. In match play, where the same two opponents are facing each other repeatedly, draws are even more ubiquitous.
To illustrate the point: In Kasparov v. Karpov, the world championship match in 1981, the format was simple. First man to six wins claims the title, no matter how long it takes. After forty-eight games, the match was cancelled due to the absurd length of the match. Only eight decisions had been derived; forty of the matches were draws! In Kasparov v. Kramnik in 2000, Kramnik eked out a close victory in which Kasparov did not manage to win a single game. For reference, Kasparov is considered one of the best, if not the best player of all time by most pundits. He holds records for highest rating, duration of rating, and numerous other titles in addition to almost twenty years of being world champion. Yet he failed to win once. Instead, he racked up a ton of 1/2-1/2s.
Clearly, high level play is fraught with draws.
Bobby Fischer’s U.S. Open scores were : 1957-58: 10.5/13; 1958-59: 8.5/11; 1959-60: 9/11; 1960-61: 9/11; 1962-63: 8/11; 1963-64: 11/11; 1965-66: 8.5/11; 1966-67: 9.5/11.
Included rather innocently in that tiny diagram of domination is his impossible 1964 victory at the U.S. Open in which he won every game he played. He did not draw a single game. This is akin to a football team playing an entire season without even falling behind at any point in any game. As a player continues winning, it is the almost understood duty of each player who plays him to at least draw him. Yet they could not. Even with the black pieces (a common misconception is that black and white are equal in chess. They are not. A draw with black is more or less considered a good outcome at the highest levels), Fischer could not be touched.
And none of this takes away from his overall domination at the tournament from the age of fourteen and beyond. He played in eight U.S. Opens and lost three whole games out of ninety!Well “so what?” you say, he was clearly the greatest American player ever. Indeed, so what. Never mind the fact that no player has dominated a tournament scene like that—what about the Russians?!
For the year leading up to his historic battle with Boris Spassky, Fischer put on a show like none other in the history of chess. To reach the position of world championship challenger, one had to first climb through a succession of zonal, interzonal and match play tournaments. After easily reaching the candidates matches (while posting scores of 19/22 and 15/17 in other, non-championship related tournaments), he played three of the greatest chess minds of the day. To say he annihiliated them would be an understatement.
First, he played against Russian Mark Taimanov. Taimanov has an opening named after him, if you were curious as to his ability. Fischer won the match 6-0. Taimanov could not even draw him once. Towards the end of the match, Taimanov contracted a mysterious illness.
Second, Fischer played Bent Larsen, the strongest Danish grandmaster ever. Towards the end of another 6-0 rout, Larsen contracted a mysterious illness. It was dubbed “Fischer fever” and no one could really take it seriously other than an excuse to delay games towards the inevitable conclusion of the match.
The final opponent before Spassky: Tigran Petrosian, the former world champion, considered one of the three strongest players in the world. Petrosian finally offered a bit of resistance, managing a win in the second game and even the score. After a few draws, Fischer won again. Then, he won again. Petrosian was suddenly ill. Fischer finished him off with a four game winning streak. Fischer so dominated his opponents mentally and physically that they all complained of an ersatz illness.
After all, let us not forget it was Bobby Fischer. He never made a match easy. He complained about lighting, about chess sets, about chairs, etc. He would show up late to games, leave for extended periods of time, etc. He was perhaps the most difficult opponent to play in the world completely regardless of his ferocious ability on the board.
And he put his psychological warfare into full force with Boris Spassky. He first refused to attend his own match, then he arrived and refused to play because of the cameras and the spectators, then he forfeited the second game by not showing up. He had now played Boris Spassky seven times, won none, drawn three, lost four—one by forfeit. The world was beginning to think Fischer was as much of a poseur in chess as the French are in war.
But Spassky was always doomed to lose. After agreeing to play in a back room away from cameras and spectators for the third game, Spassky finally broke and lost to Fischer. Over the course of the match, Fischer would relatively easily defeat Spassky. After grabbing a three point lead, Fischer was content to draw the rest of the games to eventually win by a score of 12.5-8.5 Bobby was the king of the world.
It would not stay that way for long.
It is often believed that chess drives men crazy. A wise man once denied that belief with the clever and indubitable line, “Chess does not drive normal men past the edge of sanity. Chess keeps insane men on the normal side.”
Nowhere was this expressed more visibly than with Fischer, whose disappearances, rants, hate and simply downright lunatic behavior since 1972 show a man who likely would never have been sane but for the board he so thoroughly dominated. For a period of a year, he so utterly crushed all comers that he might as well have played me and the result would have been similar to the greatest players of the day (I exaggerate of course, but if you aren’t enthralled by my hyperbolic cadence by now, you aren’t reading anyway. I am being arrogant of course, but if you aren’t enraptured by my egotistical rambling by now…).
Basically, I can’t write about the Yanks because the last time I did, they fell apart. But I don’t think the story of Bobby Fischer ever gets old. Some puling egomaniacal chess players of today will claim Fischer only won because of the fuss he created around matches. While this is probably absurd, it misses the point. Fischer was a whirlwind of chaos, and he had to deal with it just as his opponents’ did. Fischer was able to overcome everything else and simply win.
The mark of a champion is not upon those whose best is better than their best. You win because your worst is still good enough. At his peak, Fischer’s worst was better than even his opponent’s best. He overcame near-insanity, extremely skilled opponents, endless distractions and the freaking Cold War to dominate like no other.
To the thirty-fifth anniversary, here here,
~The Sports Maunderer~
*This is no longer the case. Viswanath Anand wrested the undisputed title from russian Vladamir Kramnik in 2007.
The Game That Matters
Originally posted August 20th, 2007
On Saturday, something that had not happened in twenty one years took place during the afternoon Tigers/Yankees game. The situation was thus:
Runners on the corners, Clemens on the mound, Posada behind the plate, the count was full, there were less than two outs. Jim Leyland, Detroit's manager, called for a double steal. For the edification of the baseball-ignorant, a double steal is a play by which the man on first attempts a steal of second, with two possible positive outcomes. If the catcher throws to second, the instant the ball leaves his hand, the man at third guns it for home. Even if the man stealing second is tagged out, the man from third easily scored and you gained a run. If, fearing a double steal, the catcher does not make the throw, the man on third stays put and you very simply stole second base, not only placing another man in scoring position but taking the ground ball double play out of the equation.
The double steal is a relatively quotidian occurence, particularly when aggressive managers like Leyland are around. He called the double steal this time, and the runner at first took off. Clemens threw a fastball which struck the hitter out, and Jorge came up gunning for second. As the double steal dictates, the man at third--Brandon Inge--immediately took off for home.
What Inge did not anticipate--heck, what no one anticipated--was that Clemens would stick his glove out and intercept the ball. This, of course, left Inge stranded between home and third, and Clemens easily tagged him out. It was a beautiful, rare (the last time it happened was in 1986) scenario which reminds all watching of the pure elegance of baseball.
Baseball is a game in which nine innings can go by without an unexpected event, or which a single inning can contain three uncommon, outrageous happenings. Baseball is above all a game, however, and it maintains that distinction with a pride and dignity that other sports could never hope to attain. No other game could see itself affected by the third basemen surreptitiously taking the ball from the pitcher, only to tag the man at third out when he takes his lead. No other game can elicit such sandlot trickery without losing some of its honor and its integrity. In baseball, the fact that it is a game is its honor and integrity. A rundown between second and third is every bit as plausible in a major league game as a little league game, and that makes sense because baseball is the game that connects generations like no other.
Baseball is a game where intelligence is valued, athleticism is helpful, but more than anything, simply skill is required to win. In football, you can be the greatest mind with the greatest throwing arm of all time, but if your body is smaller than everyone else, you will get crushed into tiny little pieces and never walk again. A linebacker can't simply be good at football. He also has to be big and fast. In basketball, even the greatest shooters languish on the bench if they can't jump out of the building and run past a train. In baseball, David Eckstein is a major leaguer.
Now obviously, to pitch you need a special arm which can throw it 95 mph. But then for every Joel Zumaya there is a Jamie Moyer, craftily outwitting hitters for years by throwing stuff that wouldn't scare me. Fielding doesn't so much require outlandish, eerie athleticism but awareness of the field, the hitter, the pitcher, the wind, a good jump on the ball, a quick throw to the right base. And heck, you could even pretend to forget there were only two outs, wait for the guy on second to sprint to third, then immediately gun him down. It has been done, and only baseball could do it with a sly grin rather than a sheepish frown.
So many fail to understand baseball's majestic greatness, and from a certain perspective that is understandable. If you don't care who wins the game, the right fielder moving ten steps to the left, the guy on second stealing signs, the fastball up and in begin to lose their transcendant qualities. You start to worry less about why the pitcher has shaken the catcher off four times and more about why he won't pitch and get the inning over with already. You start to lose sight of the elegant nine-inning format where the game itself keeps time, and wonder why a buzzer wouldn't go off so you could watch your beloved OC coming up next.
But when the pitcher is your pitcher, and the hitter belongs to the most underhanded, duplicitous, dirty, abhorrent team in America, the wheel play takes on celestial significance, the hanging curveball evokes somniferous horrors, and the umpire who calls too small a strike zone is a regular Jekyll when your team is batting, a loathsome Hyde when your team is pitching.The counter-intuitive aspects of baseball which seem so inane to college football fans are the reasons baseball lives on. Yes, the defense does have the ball, and no, the pitcher's duel is not boring. When Joba Chamberlain wipes out the heart of Detroit's order, and Edwar Ramirez follows by throwing changeups that don't seem slow until you realize you struck out and the ball hasn't even hit the catcher's mitt yet, anyone with a heart can only rage with enthusiasm as the young guns are throwing the ball right by--or way in front of--the seasoned Tigers lineup.
There is nothing wrong with watching football or basketball or any other sport (save soccer). In fact, it could be argued that playing those sports is just as enjoyable or moreso (particularly given that I have played basketball my entire life). But for the James Bond flicks that are basketball games, there are the timeless baseball Godfathers. While football creates war movie epics, baseball crafts Citizen Kane, 2001 and Field of Dreams (the latter quite literally!). Not everyone understands them, not everyone gets them, not everyone cares, but in a hundred years, no one will remember who Ethan Hunt is. I'm betting they'll remember who Dave Bowman is.
Call baseball elitist, call it esoteric, call it slow, call it an old man's game, call it an old game period, but just remember: Miguel Cabrera swung at an intent ball and won the game with it. That didn't require thought or muscles or reaction times. All it required was the puerile art of a kid who had played baseball his whole life, and knew he had done the same thing when he was eight years old.
Roger Clemens stuck his glove out. He is 45 years old. He probably did the same thing when he was ten. Here's to the ageless game, in every sense of those words.
~The Sports Maunderer
On Saturday, something that had not happened in twenty one years took place during the afternoon Tigers/Yankees game. The situation was thus:
Runners on the corners, Clemens on the mound, Posada behind the plate, the count was full, there were less than two outs. Jim Leyland, Detroit's manager, called for a double steal. For the edification of the baseball-ignorant, a double steal is a play by which the man on first attempts a steal of second, with two possible positive outcomes. If the catcher throws to second, the instant the ball leaves his hand, the man at third guns it for home. Even if the man stealing second is tagged out, the man from third easily scored and you gained a run. If, fearing a double steal, the catcher does not make the throw, the man on third stays put and you very simply stole second base, not only placing another man in scoring position but taking the ground ball double play out of the equation.
The double steal is a relatively quotidian occurence, particularly when aggressive managers like Leyland are around. He called the double steal this time, and the runner at first took off. Clemens threw a fastball which struck the hitter out, and Jorge came up gunning for second. As the double steal dictates, the man at third--Brandon Inge--immediately took off for home.
What Inge did not anticipate--heck, what no one anticipated--was that Clemens would stick his glove out and intercept the ball. This, of course, left Inge stranded between home and third, and Clemens easily tagged him out. It was a beautiful, rare (the last time it happened was in 1986) scenario which reminds all watching of the pure elegance of baseball.
Baseball is a game in which nine innings can go by without an unexpected event, or which a single inning can contain three uncommon, outrageous happenings. Baseball is above all a game, however, and it maintains that distinction with a pride and dignity that other sports could never hope to attain. No other game could see itself affected by the third basemen surreptitiously taking the ball from the pitcher, only to tag the man at third out when he takes his lead. No other game can elicit such sandlot trickery without losing some of its honor and its integrity. In baseball, the fact that it is a game is its honor and integrity. A rundown between second and third is every bit as plausible in a major league game as a little league game, and that makes sense because baseball is the game that connects generations like no other.
Baseball is a game where intelligence is valued, athleticism is helpful, but more than anything, simply skill is required to win. In football, you can be the greatest mind with the greatest throwing arm of all time, but if your body is smaller than everyone else, you will get crushed into tiny little pieces and never walk again. A linebacker can't simply be good at football. He also has to be big and fast. In basketball, even the greatest shooters languish on the bench if they can't jump out of the building and run past a train. In baseball, David Eckstein is a major leaguer.
Now obviously, to pitch you need a special arm which can throw it 95 mph. But then for every Joel Zumaya there is a Jamie Moyer, craftily outwitting hitters for years by throwing stuff that wouldn't scare me. Fielding doesn't so much require outlandish, eerie athleticism but awareness of the field, the hitter, the pitcher, the wind, a good jump on the ball, a quick throw to the right base. And heck, you could even pretend to forget there were only two outs, wait for the guy on second to sprint to third, then immediately gun him down. It has been done, and only baseball could do it with a sly grin rather than a sheepish frown.
So many fail to understand baseball's majestic greatness, and from a certain perspective that is understandable. If you don't care who wins the game, the right fielder moving ten steps to the left, the guy on second stealing signs, the fastball up and in begin to lose their transcendant qualities. You start to worry less about why the pitcher has shaken the catcher off four times and more about why he won't pitch and get the inning over with already. You start to lose sight of the elegant nine-inning format where the game itself keeps time, and wonder why a buzzer wouldn't go off so you could watch your beloved OC coming up next.
But when the pitcher is your pitcher, and the hitter belongs to the most underhanded, duplicitous, dirty, abhorrent team in America, the wheel play takes on celestial significance, the hanging curveball evokes somniferous horrors, and the umpire who calls too small a strike zone is a regular Jekyll when your team is batting, a loathsome Hyde when your team is pitching.The counter-intuitive aspects of baseball which seem so inane to college football fans are the reasons baseball lives on. Yes, the defense does have the ball, and no, the pitcher's duel is not boring. When Joba Chamberlain wipes out the heart of Detroit's order, and Edwar Ramirez follows by throwing changeups that don't seem slow until you realize you struck out and the ball hasn't even hit the catcher's mitt yet, anyone with a heart can only rage with enthusiasm as the young guns are throwing the ball right by--or way in front of--the seasoned Tigers lineup.
There is nothing wrong with watching football or basketball or any other sport (save soccer). In fact, it could be argued that playing those sports is just as enjoyable or moreso (particularly given that I have played basketball my entire life). But for the James Bond flicks that are basketball games, there are the timeless baseball Godfathers. While football creates war movie epics, baseball crafts Citizen Kane, 2001 and Field of Dreams (the latter quite literally!). Not everyone understands them, not everyone gets them, not everyone cares, but in a hundred years, no one will remember who Ethan Hunt is. I'm betting they'll remember who Dave Bowman is.
Call baseball elitist, call it esoteric, call it slow, call it an old man's game, call it an old game period, but just remember: Miguel Cabrera swung at an intent ball and won the game with it. That didn't require thought or muscles or reaction times. All it required was the puerile art of a kid who had played baseball his whole life, and knew he had done the same thing when he was eight years old.
Roger Clemens stuck his glove out. He is 45 years old. He probably did the same thing when he was ten. Here's to the ageless game, in every sense of those words.
~The Sports Maunderer
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