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mrtroy · 4 years

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The Scores Have Changed, My Childhood Is Over, and I Think I Might Understand How Other People Look At Sports

Originally from December 5th, 2010

To say that the last twenty plus years of my life have been completely and hopelessly consumed by sports may be the grossest understatement I have ever put into print, yet until just recently, I don't think I had a grasp on what a more "normal" sports following could be like. I'm still not sure I am willing to accept this concept of "social sports fan-dom" as I'll call it, but it might be worth a prolonged look.

Let me explain.

I suppose that to best understand where I'm at now, it might be best to understand where I am coming from. I think I need to blame my mom for setting me off on this crazed obsession, or maybe the blame should go the Oakland A's for the utterly disappointing display they put on in the 1990 World Series. As I had really started to get into baseball in the Summer of '90, Mom had the great idea of taping the World Series. While other 5 year-olds were perfectly content watching Mr. Rogers zip up his cardigan every morning, Mom knew that if she was lucky a good World Series could provide my baseball fiending mind with seven games of pure VHS-driven bliss. At roughly 3 hours a game, played back ten times each, Mom would have 200 hours of fodder to answer the question, "Mom, when are they going to start playing new games again."

And then, Jose Rijo, Barry Larkin, Chris Sabo and the Don't Stand A Chance Reds had to ruin everything. It wasn't so much the fact that they won the series as it was that they did it in such decisive fashion that added insult to injury. Four games, and it was over. The minimum. The very least. And worse, Game 1 was a 7-0 blanking, and Game 3 was a convincing 8-3 rout in which the Reds put up 7 in the third, and the rest of the game was a mere formality. Translation: My to-be friends of 18 years later, Nathan Clinkenbeard, and Nate Kohrs, rejoiced as their Reds won it all, but more relevant to the situation at the time, I was left without much good winter baseball to tide me over until April.

I watched the tape, and all I wanted to do was to be able to break a bat on my back the way I had seen Reds journeymen outfielder Glenn Braggs do it. I emulated the overly pronounced batting crouch of Rickey Henderson, and began to wonder how Harold Baines could hit a ball so far, despite never looking like he was even swinging hard enough to hit the ball as far as I did in T-Ball.

In '91 things worsened. For some reason I got the Pittsburgh Pirates lineup in my head, and every day in the back yard I would throw the ball up to myself, hit the ball, run around imaginary bases, take a break to become an imaginary outfielder to retrieve the ball, and then switch back to being the base runner to continue running. Every day, it was Cubs and Pirates. I can remember getting mad at myself, and actually sitting down and pouting for extended periods of time because when it came time for Sid Bream's at-bat I ran too fast. Sid was a notoriously slow runner in real life, and I wanted to maintain a certain level of realism in my one-man re-enactments. Apparently in my excitement I had forgotten who I was supposed to be impersonating, and run too fast. In my six-year old world, this was enough to ruin my day.

The Fall came, and with it a Fall Classic for the ages. Why Mom didn't tape this one, I'll never know. Although, if she had, I may still be watching it. The Braves and Twins treated me to seven games of pure ecstasy. Although, all I cared about was the sweet headstand that Greg Olsen went into after a collision at the plate. Sports Illustrated put Olsen on the cover, and I spent all winter trying to duplicate the feat in my basement. Here's a look at the photo; it's a miracle I didn't break my neck. ( http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/cover/featured/9301/index.htm )

It was also in '91 that I first realized there were other sports other than baseball, as the Bulls were on their way to capturing their first title. I don't remember much of the season, other than laying on the floor with a basketball in my hand trying to mimic the Michael Jordan poster in my room.

History seemed to repeat itself over the next few years. The Bulls won another title and the Braves were in the World Series again in '92. I was incredulous to the fact that Otis Nixon would try and bunt his way on while representing the Atlanta's last shot to extend the series. I was mad about that until about March of '93 until Mom and Dad packed my brother and I into a conversion van and we set our sites on Mesa, Arizona for Cubs spring training. We ran into Cubs' pitcher Mike Morgan in the parking lot, he gave my mom his hat, and sent me into a swoon of idol-worshiping that would last even longer than Morgan managed to bounce around the big leagues.

**Side Tangent** I remember being in a bar in the Phoenix area eating dinner, and everyone was going crazy about the Phoenix Suns as they were on their way to meeting the Bulls in the Finals. And yet, all I cared about was that Steve

Buechele, Cubs third baseman was sitting a few tables away. I remember my French fries getting cold because I was too mesmerized to eat.

Later in '93 the Toronto Blue Jays won another World Series, and I began to understand for the first time what it was like to feel compassion. Mitch Williams gave up the famous home run to Joe Carter that sent Canada into a a frenzy, and while everyone was celebrating, all I could think about was how mad people were going to be at Mitch Williams for blowing it.

1994, my life almost came to a screeching halt. The day before I turned 9, the Major League Baseball Players strike started, and eventually culminated with the cancellation of the World Series. You may as well have cancelled my birthday, Christmas, New Years, Easter and any other meaningful holiday. We're talking total devastation.

Luckily in '95 baseball came back with a new playoff system, and I had spent the entire off season reading. It was about this time in school that we had to do free reading every day, and we had to write about it. Our school library had a seven or eight book series highlighting the different aspects of baseball that someone could be good at. The books were entitled, "Speed," "Power," "Pitching" etc. I read these books over and over. They were large format books that I think I would consider to be rotating coffee table material if I came across them today. Little matter, I read them cover to cover, and they had these charts that listed the all-time leaders in many of baseball's statistical categories. After a while, I'd just read the charts. Time, and time again. For some reason, knowing who was the best at certain things excited me. Even if this person had been dead for 60 years. The pages came alive in my mind, and even though I had never seen Ty Cobb play, never known anyone who had, or had any rooting interest for his team, the Detroit Tigers, I was fascinated by what the numerical data next to his name could teach me about him. I would later go on to read that Tyrus Raymond Cobb (I developed a penchant for knowing players full names) was not so much of a good guy, but actually was a mean spirited bigot. It was at this time that I remember being glad that many of his most hallowed records had been broken.

Around this time I also discovered that each morning the glorious, glorious sports editors at The Chicago Tribune published box scores for all the major sports action from the night before. It was an unbelievable development. Now I had happened upon a way to read new and evolving history, every morning. League leaders in all the statistical categories, short recaps of what had happened, and overall numbers galore; every day was better than the last. Ken Griffey Jr. was tearing up the American League with home runs on what seemed to be a daily basis. On the other side of the page in the paper, Greg Maddux was shutting down the National League, and further cementing himself as the best pitcher of his generation, (in my mind at least) and elevating himself to Greek God-like status in the mind of my father.

It was at this time that the foundation for my current sports revelation first planted its seeds. Although, I didn't know it at the time. I was too busy counting home runs to realize what was going on, but inside there was also this great love of Maddux developing as well. This really had nothing to do with Maddux himself, as he had moved on from the Cubs to the Braves a few years earlier, and I could no longer watch him on a day to day basis. This had all to do with Pops. Seeing my father get such enjoyment out of simply reading that Maddux shutout another opponent was very cool to me. And, as is the case with many father-son duos, I loved Maddux because Pops loved Maddux.

These trends continued. I read as much baseball statistical data as I could get my hands on, and I looked to Pops to find new interests to follow in the paper each morning.

Lots of guys rose to prominence at this time. But it wasn't necessarily the guys that were established that caught my eye. It was the young guys. Despite the fact that Maddux would go on to play for more than twenty years, he was old news by the time I really got into following this sort of thing. He was Pops' guy. Pops didn't much care for the new-age stars like a Ken Griffey Jr., but we could agree on a guy like Chipper Jones, the all-American can't miss kid, or Derek Jeter the emerging star of the Yankees. We weren't fans of their teams, but they were in the post season every year, and it was easy to watch them progress.

Then came the star of stars for Pops and I. Tiger Woods. Pops had been reading up on him for years, and by the time he burst onto the scene in '96, Pops had already drank about six quarts of the Tiger Koolaid. Every week our love grew, with every major championship, it wasn't just that Tiger had won, it was as if Pops and I had won. We won because we had followed him, we had read about him, and along with millions of others, we knew he was going to be good. And, every time he won, he elevated himself further into this land of unthinkable admiration. Never before had there been an athlete of whom I had come to expect so much from that had actually been able to deliver. Not only had he been able to deliver, but each time he delivered, he seemed to do it in such a way that I couldn't help but just think, man, I love this guy.

Time continued on, and my enthrallment with the games that these men played continued to grow. '96 marked the beginning of the Yankees run of dominance, and with it much reading of Yankee lore. Also I remember teaching Mom how to keep a proper score book for a baseball game. We'd watch the World Series, and while she didn't know Mariano Duncan from Duncan Hines, she came to learn that if there was a ground ball to Mariano at second, she would enter a 4-3 in the score book as soon as he recorded the out at first base.

As the numerical world inside my head expanded further, It may not shock you to learn that my abilities on the field experienced an inverse reaction. Once in possession of an above average fastball and an hefty appetite for shagging fly balls, by the time freshmen year of high school rolled around, my role on the high school baseball team had been reduced to pencil pushing scorekeeper, infield practice facilitator, and blowout mop-up inning specialist. This didn't so much bother me, as I recall an instance where I rushed out of an early season practice so my mom could drop me off at a fantasy baseball draft where I was the youngest guy in the room by about 30 years. (I picked up Mike Sweeney late in that draft, and was smiling cheek to cheek all season as he hit well over .300) My uncle Tony was nice enough to let me tag along in his fantasy league for years, and I remember the best day of the week being when the old stat packets would show up in the mail, and I'd spend all afternoon breaking down what the other team owners were doing, and what we could do to improve on our perpetual 7th place standing. This was before all of the fantasy sports had moved to the Internet, and while I have come to appreciate the ease in which I can stay connected to fantasy sports nowadays, there was something magical about tearing open that envelope to find out that we'd moved up a half a point, and were now only a point and a half out of 6th place!!

Eventually the Internet won out for statistical tracking, and while I was sad, this transition gave me access to entire portals of data that were completely dedicated to my passions. Living with my buddy Ed Liss my freshmen year of college, he must have thought I owned a partial stake in www.basketball-reference.com. While I wasn't much of an NBA fan at this point, the historical standings, all-time leader boards, and player searching capabilities kept me occupied for hours on end. In fact, my choice of the University of Illinois to go to college in the first place was a choice that I made in large part due to the Big Ten sporting atmosphere that I knew I'd experience while I was there.

Jeff Renfro and I lived and died along with every play of the Illini's historic run to the Final Four in 2004-05, and I'll never forget going to games in the years following with Melissa Colgan, Suzan Balch, Gregg Conn, and countless others. I wore my Luther Head # 4 shirt to every game, and for something like 41 times in a row, if I wore the shirt, the team didn't lose. It was unbelievable.

In 2008, the Illini football team made a rare appearance in the Rose Bowl, and took on the heavily favored Trojans of USC. The family made the trek out to Pasadena for the game, only to watch our team get thoroughly trounced. Walking out of the stadium, if I would have had a tail, it would have been tightly tucked away between my legs as if I were a puppy who had just ruined a garden full of freshly planted petunias. The Illini had been humiliated, and so too had I.

I'm not sure if my transformation really started because the teams I rooted for never won, or if it was just gaining a new perspective that can only come with growing up, but I started to realize, maybe the keys to the games didn't so much lie in the encrypted world of statistics.

Time passed and one by one, the sports heroes of my childhood faded away. Maddux retired after the '08 season, and watching Ken Griffey Jr. limp through his final days in Seattle early in the 2010 season really put the nail in the coffin of my childhood. Sure, I was 25 years old at this point, and far from actually being a child, but here was the guy whose jersey I had, baseball cleats I had, video games I played, baseball cards I collected, and the guy who I had simply first known as "The Kid." And here he was, 40 years old and unable to keep his legs healthy enough to play every day. I may not have been a kid anymore, but Ken Griffey Jr. was my childhood.

And so I thought, "This is what it was like for Yankee fans as they watched Mickey Mantle hobble around the bases in 1968? This was the anguish of watching Johnny Unitas try and hang on with the Chargers, or Willie Mays with the Mets?" The unmistakable ending of an era, right before your eyes.

It was awful.

No amount of statistical data could save me, either. On the stat sheet, Griffey Jr. may have hit 630 career home runs, but that was just it, at this point, those were just stats. They were history. The guy who could never get old, got old. And just like that, he was gone. Next thing I knew, Chipper Jones tore his ACL, and there is a good chance his career could be coming to an end shortly. Somehow Derek Jeter is 36 now and has just negotiated the final contract of his career. All of these guys that I associated with my childhood, they're old. Sure, there are always new players, and there will always be guys to make assaults on the record books, but unfortunately for me, for every new young star that comes along, I'm no longer going to be that little boy who doesn't know any better than to worship the ground on which he stands. The innocence it takes to one day envision yourself running the bases at Wrigley Field or Yankee Stadium, these thoughts can only be conjured up by the mind of a pre-pubescent teen. I'm sure a new young star will enter the game in the coming years, and there's a good chance I'll admire the level at which he's honed his skills, but there's no way he'll turn me into a major leaguer, the way I thought Ken Griffey Jr. could.

Maybe that's why golf, despite being what most would call a boring game, has endured over time and remained relevant. In no other sport can a guy like Jack Nicklaus win major championships 24 years apart, or a guy like Tom Watson compete a few months shy of his 60th birthday for an Open Championship. For any average 50 year-old watching Watson toil at Turnberry, an opportunity arose for them to remember back to when the same guy did they same thing at the same course- when they were in high school. Just think of that.

All of this leads me back to Tiger Woods. My sports equivalent to a Lord and Savior. Mine and Pops guy. The same guy who prompted Pops to call me in June of 2008 when I was at the College Baseball World Series in Omaha, Nebraska, just so Pops could channel his inner Dan Hicks and give me the play by play of Tiger's famous putt.

"He's lining it up. Now he's walking around it. You know, looking at it from every angle, like he always does. He really seems to be taking longer than he usually does on this one..."

At this point, the baseball game I'm watching is in between innings, and not much was going on, but Pops continued.

"Alright, I think he's finally ready. I think it's about 18 feet or so. He putts it. And....Ohhh my gosh Matt, HE MADE IT. HE MADE IT. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. HE MADE IT!!"

At this point, I let out a loud cheer 450 miles away in Omaha. I'm sure the people around me were looking at me like I was crazy, but at this point, I didn't care. Tiger had done it! The guy was playing with a torn ACL, and a broken leg, and the next day he would go on to with the U.S. Open. This is the kind of legend that Mark Twain couldn't write, and Steven Spielberg couldn't make any more sensational.

A year and a half later when the world came to find out that Tiger wasn't exactly the guy everyone thought he was, I was crushed. While his feats on the golf course should not be diminished in light of the details that came out of his personal life, the mystique and the aura that he carried with him could never be the same. Steroids rocked baseball, the NBA after Michael Jordan lacked the luster that it once had, the NFL, while great, had never had quite standing in my sports universe, but this was more than those combined. This was fifteen years of bonding between my father and I that all the sudden seemed hollow. Sure, those events that we cheered about still happened, but the big part of what made it so special was the fact that it was Tiger, and up to that point, he had represented all of the things that my parents had tried to teach me to be. A hard worker, a fierce competitor, and a well-rounded individual away from sports. I should be clear in emphasizing that my parents never told me to emulate Tiger, or any athlete for that matter, yet his case just so happened to be one was easily relate-able. With the deeper meaning of what Tiger meant to my father and I now in question, I was sent searching.

This all helped me realize that being a sports fan is not about the people who play them, or the stats they accumulate.

You can say that I'm going "soft," or that in this moment in time I must be feeling overly sentimental, but, I think I'm ready to come to grips with the fact that being a sports fan is about sharing your rooting interest with those around you.

Really? You had to spend thousands of words to figure that out, genius?

I never thought I'd say it, but being able to share these moments with others means more than a box score ever could. Sure winning helps, but the jubilation I watched my friends experience when the White Sox won the World Series in 2005, or the way people partied when the Bears advanced to the Super Bowl after the 2006 season, none of that would have existed in a vacuum. Sure, you'd be excited if a team you'd rooted for your whole life finally achieved their goal and won something, but being able to call up your dad, or party with your buddies, or text your uncle, those are the things you remember.

I look back fondly on that U.S. Open, not for how it turned out, but for the memories I have with my father. I think back to the Final Four with Renfro reduced to tears as we watched players from North Carolina cut down the nets. I remember an Illini basketball game where it appeared as though Rich McBride had hit a last second shot to beat Penn State. The shot was later overturned, but my memory of clutching the arm of my friend Jessica Young, hoping against hope that somehow they'd overrule the call can't be taken from me. The Rose Bowl from '08, my most indelible memories are of my friends Tim and Meghan Michaels having a comical battle with their GPS as we drove around LA. To this day I don't watch an Illini fooball game without thinking of Steve Contorno and his detest for my old E.B. Halsey Illini football jersey. Halsey has moved on, and the jersey is gathering dust in my closet, but that one little morsel of a fact has been enough for Steve and I to remain friends five years after the fact.

The fantasy sports I play today, I no longer have rabid tendencies to devour stats, or prove to anyone that I'm smarter than they are. In fact, the playful ribbing of a Steve Hild, or the incessant banter of Jeff Lizzo, Kevin Barry and Drew Stiling mean more to me than winning a fantasy league title ever could.

I often wondered as people sat in the stands at games, or watched on TV, how they could fully enjoy the experience without knowing that the last time there had been a statistical oddity like this or that was in 1974, and before that 1921, and so on and so on. Rather, I've moved on. Beyond all the statistics, and all the analysis lies the significance of human emotion. And while I may never be able to quantify it, and it may have taken me longer than most to come to this conclusion, it really is what sports are all about.

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