Friday, March 15, 2024
Wednesday, May 3, 2023
Friday, June 4, 2010
Faded memories
The Celtics-Lakers rivalry was renewed again Thursday night as the NBA Finals began. There was a time when I would have stopped everything I was doing to watch every game of this series. But now I have a passing interest, a let-me-know-what-the-score-was-when-I wake-up-the-next-morning curiosity.
There are some interests in life that you take with you all the way. There are other things that you've always liked that one day make a giant leap and bring you year-round interest. And there are others that possess a strangehold on you for a time, then fade into the distance. And that's what basketball is for me -- a passing fancy whose time went more than 10 years ago.
When I was a kid, my dad had LSU basketball season tickets and I probably liked basketball more than any other sport. I had a goal on the roof on the driveway side of the house, and I played basketball seemingly all year round. When college basketball season was over in March, I couldn't wait for it to begin again in November.
And then that interested faded in college. Maybe it was that LSU's program tanked about the same time. Maybe it was that the Celtics*, a team I adopted after the Jazz moved from New Orleans to Utah, also went into a freefall. But I think it was the NBA lockout of 1998-99 that finally did it for me. I'm not sure why; after all, baseball canceled its World Series in 1994 and missed another 18 regular-season games in 1995 because of a strike. But then, my interest in baseball, while still strong, isn't what it used to be, either.
*I started rooting for the Celtics during the 1979-80 season, which was Larry Bird's rookie campaign. But he wasn't the reason I became a Celtics fan. Pistol Pete Maravich, my favorite player from the Jazz, signed with Boston in the middle of that season, so I started rooting for the Celtics because of that. He played at LSU before I was born, and I probably would have been an even bigger fan of his had I been alive during his college days. Pete's stint in Boston didn't last past 1980, but I couldn't go back to rooting for the turncoat Jazz as my favorite team. I still rooted for them, but they had been "demoted" to No. 2. And I stuck with the Celts even after Pete was gone.
On the other hand, my interest in football has gone through the roof, so much so that sometimes I'll watch NFL Network offseason shows over real, live Major League Baseball games. I think it's the social component of football that has propelled it to my top spot. I don't converse with too many baseball fans these days, and the wretched, direction-less path the Astros are taking has sapped more of my interest. Not to mention the fact that the Yankees and the Red Sox are all that matters in baseball, anyway, right? Thanks, Bud Selig*.
*Bud Selig does one thing well as baseball commissioner, and that's make money for the sport. In that sense, he's a success and to his owners, I'm sure that's the only thing that matters. In every other definition of the word "commissioner," he's a train wreck. Show favoritism to some teams? Check. Show favoritism to some owners and rig the sale and transfer of some teams to friends and associates? Check. Lack of decisiveness on every major issue? Check. Destroy competitive integrity by implementing the wild card, interleague play and a convoluted divisional alignment? Check. Hurt the growth of the sport in its markets by selling out to network wishes and only promoting two teams in New York and Boston? Check. When you can't even polish your own personal grooming well enough for public consumption, then what's that say about you as the leader of your sport? No wonder everyone under the age of 30 looks at baseball as a rumpled old sport that's out of touch. Look at its commissioner.
When I was a kid, I had certain players I really liked, and I guess I still have some I like today (though that number would be much smaller). But Biggio and Bagwell will never mean as much to me as Jose Cruz, mainly because of the time in my life that I happened to be rooting for them. Most things get smaller as you get older. It's like the old Seinfeld stand-up routine of going back to your parents' house and feeling like it's so small. The same thing applies to following athletes.
So I'll hope the Celtics win, but I won't be overjoyed if they do, and I won't be disappointed if they don't. But when the Saints win or lose this fall...
There are some interests in life that you take with you all the way. There are other things that you've always liked that one day make a giant leap and bring you year-round interest. And there are others that possess a strangehold on you for a time, then fade into the distance. And that's what basketball is for me -- a passing fancy whose time went more than 10 years ago.
When I was a kid, my dad had LSU basketball season tickets and I probably liked basketball more than any other sport. I had a goal on the roof on the driveway side of the house, and I played basketball seemingly all year round. When college basketball season was over in March, I couldn't wait for it to begin again in November.
And then that interested faded in college. Maybe it was that LSU's program tanked about the same time. Maybe it was that the Celtics*, a team I adopted after the Jazz moved from New Orleans to Utah, also went into a freefall. But I think it was the NBA lockout of 1998-99 that finally did it for me. I'm not sure why; after all, baseball canceled its World Series in 1994 and missed another 18 regular-season games in 1995 because of a strike. But then, my interest in baseball, while still strong, isn't what it used to be, either.
*I started rooting for the Celtics during the 1979-80 season, which was Larry Bird's rookie campaign. But he wasn't the reason I became a Celtics fan. Pistol Pete Maravich, my favorite player from the Jazz, signed with Boston in the middle of that season, so I started rooting for the Celtics because of that. He played at LSU before I was born, and I probably would have been an even bigger fan of his had I been alive during his college days. Pete's stint in Boston didn't last past 1980, but I couldn't go back to rooting for the turncoat Jazz as my favorite team. I still rooted for them, but they had been "demoted" to No. 2. And I stuck with the Celts even after Pete was gone.
On the other hand, my interest in football has gone through the roof, so much so that sometimes I'll watch NFL Network offseason shows over real, live Major League Baseball games. I think it's the social component of football that has propelled it to my top spot. I don't converse with too many baseball fans these days, and the wretched, direction-less path the Astros are taking has sapped more of my interest. Not to mention the fact that the Yankees and the Red Sox are all that matters in baseball, anyway, right? Thanks, Bud Selig*.
*Bud Selig does one thing well as baseball commissioner, and that's make money for the sport. In that sense, he's a success and to his owners, I'm sure that's the only thing that matters. In every other definition of the word "commissioner," he's a train wreck. Show favoritism to some teams? Check. Show favoritism to some owners and rig the sale and transfer of some teams to friends and associates? Check. Lack of decisiveness on every major issue? Check. Destroy competitive integrity by implementing the wild card, interleague play and a convoluted divisional alignment? Check. Hurt the growth of the sport in its markets by selling out to network wishes and only promoting two teams in New York and Boston? Check. When you can't even polish your own personal grooming well enough for public consumption, then what's that say about you as the leader of your sport? No wonder everyone under the age of 30 looks at baseball as a rumpled old sport that's out of touch. Look at its commissioner.
When I was a kid, I had certain players I really liked, and I guess I still have some I like today (though that number would be much smaller). But Biggio and Bagwell will never mean as much to me as Jose Cruz, mainly because of the time in my life that I happened to be rooting for them. Most things get smaller as you get older. It's like the old Seinfeld stand-up routine of going back to your parents' house and feeling like it's so small. The same thing applies to following athletes.
So I'll hope the Celtics win, but I won't be overjoyed if they do, and I won't be disappointed if they don't. But when the Saints win or lose this fall...
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Nobody's perfect
When I was 10, Len Barker of the Cleveland Indians pitched a perfect game, the first in 13 years. I remember thinking how cool of a feat that was and how Barker must be this great pitcher to pull it off. Little did I know that Barker was a mediocre pitcher at best who just happened to pitch the game of his life.
The first time I saw a no-hitter was later that season during an NBC Game of the Week, about four months after Barker's perfect game. Nolan Ryan of my Astros pitched his record-breaking fifth no-hitter against the hated Dodgers*. I didn't watch pitch for pitch because of my short attention span and because Ryan walked a couple of batters early. So I don't think I realized he had a no-hitter going until about the sixth inning. But I remember what a special thrill it was to see the final out, Dusty Baker's grounder to Art Howe at third base. I have that game on DVD now, thanks to modern technology and re-broadcasts and it was a thrill to re-watch it a few years ago.
*Everybody in the old National League West and fans of those teams hated the Dodgers. All of those teams either had been in a pennant race with them, had a beanball war with them or both. And everybody in the old NL East except the Cubs eventually played the Dodgers in the playoffs before the divisions were realigned in 1994, so they hated them, too. But the Dodgers were easy to hate. They always won. Steve Garvey was so perfect that even a teammate or two didn't like him (see Don Sutton, 1978, New York). Davey Lopes was too arrogant. Reggie Smith was too surly (though he looked like Issac from the Love Boat). Dusty Baker had a chip on his shoulder. Joe Ferguson never cracked a smile in his life (and he kneed Alan Ashby in the ribs in the 1980 NL West playoff game, knocking Ashby out of the subsequent NLCS). And don't get me started on Tommy Lasorda, who eventually received his lease payment and more from the Astros for "rent" they owed on the NL West lead in 1986 that they eventually turned into a division title (little did lard-butt know, but the Astros' lease came with an option to buy).
I've seen two no-hitters in person, both of them in the minor leagues and one of them was a two-pitcher no-hitter. A no-hitter is special in its own right, much less a perfect game. So I feel for Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga, who was robbed of a perfect game with two outs in the ninth inning last night by umpire Jim Joyce's erroneous safe call at first base on what became an infield hit for Cleveland's Jason Donald.
Galarraga really got screwed, though what happened to him isn't unprecedented. In 1972, Milt Pappas of the Cubs missed a perfect game with two outs in the ninth when home-plate umpire Bruce Froemming called a borderline 3-2 pitch ball four. Pappas was enraged and screamed at Froemming, who may have thrown him out under different circumstances.* But Pappas settled down, retired the next hitter and had his no-hitter.
*Pappas showed up Froemming and umpires don't like to be "shown up." What comprises being "shown up?" Basically, an action from a player that a fan in the stadium can readily see. Here are a few examples: Putting your palms on your knees and bending your back after a borderline call that doesn't go your way, smirking after a borderline call that doesn't go your way, flinging your glove at the ball after the catcher throws it back to you following a borderline call that doesn't go your way, bobbing your head as you scream a profanity after a borderline call that doesn't go your way, pointing your finger at an umpire, etc. These are all of the things Roy Oswalt did to home-plate umpire Bill Hohn in 2 1/3 innings Monday . So for the life of me, I can't figure out why everyone blamed Hohn for having a quick trigger and tossing Oswalt. If anything, Hohn showed more than enough tolerance for the actions of Oswalt, who between the petulance shown Monday and his trade "request" is quickly becoming the six-year-old kid who pouts cause dad wouldn't buy him pizza for supper.
Galarraga couldn't fall back on that and people are outraged, moreso than Galarraga, who showed a rare amount of class that's lacking in sports these days and basically said stuff happens and it's done. The predictable, day-after, knee-jerk reactions have accumulated. Folks want instant replay, a call reversal to retroactively award Galarraga a perfect game or both. And my response to all of that is "No, no, and no."
Galarraga got screwed, but this wasn't the worst call in baseball history. Don Denkinger blew a call at first in Game 6 of the 1985 World Series (though the way the Cardinals have blown this out of proportion out of the years, you'd think it happened with two outs in the ninth). Richie Garcia whiffed on fan interference in Game 1 of the 1996 ALCS (the Jeffrey Maier game -- Google it). Red Sox fans still bitch and moan about the no-batter's interference call against the Reds' Ed Armbrister in the 10th inning of Game 3 of the 1975 World Series.
The point is that in sports, like in life, stuff happens. It's called the human element. Occasionally, calls are blown and they provide controversy, which provides talking points years after the fact. And that's not a bad thing. It adds to the lore of athletics. If everyone was perfect, we'd have nothing to discuss. Cubs fans still cry about Steve Bartman, but why isn't there more discussion about Alex Gonzalez subsequently booting a double-play call later in that eighth inning of Game 6 of the 2003 NLCS that opened the floodgates to eight Marlins runs and an eventual Cubs series loss? Players make errors on the field and we don't cry to change those. Why should it be different for umpires?
If anything, Galarraga can't be awarded a perfect game because an umpire made an erroneous call at first. That in itself lends the blemish to an otherwise perfect outing.
The first time I saw a no-hitter was later that season during an NBC Game of the Week, about four months after Barker's perfect game. Nolan Ryan of my Astros pitched his record-breaking fifth no-hitter against the hated Dodgers*. I didn't watch pitch for pitch because of my short attention span and because Ryan walked a couple of batters early. So I don't think I realized he had a no-hitter going until about the sixth inning. But I remember what a special thrill it was to see the final out, Dusty Baker's grounder to Art Howe at third base. I have that game on DVD now, thanks to modern technology and re-broadcasts and it was a thrill to re-watch it a few years ago.
*Everybody in the old National League West and fans of those teams hated the Dodgers. All of those teams either had been in a pennant race with them, had a beanball war with them or both. And everybody in the old NL East except the Cubs eventually played the Dodgers in the playoffs before the divisions were realigned in 1994, so they hated them, too. But the Dodgers were easy to hate. They always won. Steve Garvey was so perfect that even a teammate or two didn't like him (see Don Sutton, 1978, New York). Davey Lopes was too arrogant. Reggie Smith was too surly (though he looked like Issac from the Love Boat). Dusty Baker had a chip on his shoulder. Joe Ferguson never cracked a smile in his life (and he kneed Alan Ashby in the ribs in the 1980 NL West playoff game, knocking Ashby out of the subsequent NLCS). And don't get me started on Tommy Lasorda, who eventually received his lease payment and more from the Astros for "rent" they owed on the NL West lead in 1986 that they eventually turned into a division title (little did lard-butt know, but the Astros' lease came with an option to buy).
I've seen two no-hitters in person, both of them in the minor leagues and one of them was a two-pitcher no-hitter. A no-hitter is special in its own right, much less a perfect game. So I feel for Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga, who was robbed of a perfect game with two outs in the ninth inning last night by umpire Jim Joyce's erroneous safe call at first base on what became an infield hit for Cleveland's Jason Donald.
Galarraga really got screwed, though what happened to him isn't unprecedented. In 1972, Milt Pappas of the Cubs missed a perfect game with two outs in the ninth when home-plate umpire Bruce Froemming called a borderline 3-2 pitch ball four. Pappas was enraged and screamed at Froemming, who may have thrown him out under different circumstances.* But Pappas settled down, retired the next hitter and had his no-hitter.
*Pappas showed up Froemming and umpires don't like to be "shown up." What comprises being "shown up?" Basically, an action from a player that a fan in the stadium can readily see. Here are a few examples: Putting your palms on your knees and bending your back after a borderline call that doesn't go your way, smirking after a borderline call that doesn't go your way, flinging your glove at the ball after the catcher throws it back to you following a borderline call that doesn't go your way, bobbing your head as you scream a profanity after a borderline call that doesn't go your way, pointing your finger at an umpire, etc. These are all of the things Roy Oswalt did to home-plate umpire Bill Hohn in 2 1/3 innings Monday . So for the life of me, I can't figure out why everyone blamed Hohn for having a quick trigger and tossing Oswalt. If anything, Hohn showed more than enough tolerance for the actions of Oswalt, who between the petulance shown Monday and his trade "request" is quickly becoming the six-year-old kid who pouts cause dad wouldn't buy him pizza for supper.
Galarraga couldn't fall back on that and people are outraged, moreso than Galarraga, who showed a rare amount of class that's lacking in sports these days and basically said stuff happens and it's done. The predictable, day-after, knee-jerk reactions have accumulated. Folks want instant replay, a call reversal to retroactively award Galarraga a perfect game or both. And my response to all of that is "No, no, and no."
Galarraga got screwed, but this wasn't the worst call in baseball history. Don Denkinger blew a call at first in Game 6 of the 1985 World Series (though the way the Cardinals have blown this out of proportion out of the years, you'd think it happened with two outs in the ninth). Richie Garcia whiffed on fan interference in Game 1 of the 1996 ALCS (the Jeffrey Maier game -- Google it). Red Sox fans still bitch and moan about the no-batter's interference call against the Reds' Ed Armbrister in the 10th inning of Game 3 of the 1975 World Series.
The point is that in sports, like in life, stuff happens. It's called the human element. Occasionally, calls are blown and they provide controversy, which provides talking points years after the fact. And that's not a bad thing. It adds to the lore of athletics. If everyone was perfect, we'd have nothing to discuss. Cubs fans still cry about Steve Bartman, but why isn't there more discussion about Alex Gonzalez subsequently booting a double-play call later in that eighth inning of Game 6 of the 2003 NLCS that opened the floodgates to eight Marlins runs and an eventual Cubs series loss? Players make errors on the field and we don't cry to change those. Why should it be different for umpires?
If anything, Galarraga can't be awarded a perfect game because an umpire made an erroneous call at first. That in itself lends the blemish to an otherwise perfect outing.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Grass Cutting, continued
I wrote yesterday about mowing the grass differently, and I promised a picture. So we'll get those out of the way first and then I'll explain why I did this.
I've always had a fascination with the grass patterns some Major League Baseball stadiums used. When I was a kid growing up in the '70s and '80s, not many stadiums had a special mowing pattern, or so it seemed. Being a fan of the Astros of the National League and given that half of the 12 NL teams in existence at the time used artificial turf, I didn't see many games on TV where the grass had special mowing patterns.
For whatever reason, it seemed AL stadiums were the ones who tried to spruce up the grass look a bit, and the California (now Los Angeles...of Anaheim, ugh!) Angels seemed to be the team that sticks out in my mind for this. Anaheim Stadium had these cross-cutting diamonds mowed in to the grass that just looked really cool.
And the other day, I was driving down the road and I saw a yard that looked liked it had been mowed diagonally. So I said to myself, "What the hey?" and decided to try it myself. The photo above really doesn't do it justice, especially since I mulch and the remaining grass accounts for half of the diagonal lines left by my handiwork.
I may do it again in the backyard, but the front yard was a bear to do it diagonally, so I doubt I'll do anything special there. Plus, in the backyard, I can experiment some more and if I mess up, the rest of the neighborhood can't see it.
If nothing else, I made a dreary task a little more interesting, and sometimes, it's just the little things that make life enjoyable.
I've always had a fascination with the grass patterns some Major League Baseball stadiums used. When I was a kid growing up in the '70s and '80s, not many stadiums had a special mowing pattern, or so it seemed. Being a fan of the Astros of the National League and given that half of the 12 NL teams in existence at the time used artificial turf, I didn't see many games on TV where the grass had special mowing patterns.
For whatever reason, it seemed AL stadiums were the ones who tried to spruce up the grass look a bit, and the California (now Los Angeles...of Anaheim, ugh!) Angels seemed to be the team that sticks out in my mind for this. Anaheim Stadium had these cross-cutting diamonds mowed in to the grass that just looked really cool.
And the other day, I was driving down the road and I saw a yard that looked liked it had been mowed diagonally. So I said to myself, "What the hey?" and decided to try it myself. The photo above really doesn't do it justice, especially since I mulch and the remaining grass accounts for half of the diagonal lines left by my handiwork.
I may do it again in the backyard, but the front yard was a bear to do it diagonally, so I doubt I'll do anything special there. Plus, in the backyard, I can experiment some more and if I mess up, the rest of the neighborhood can't see it.
If nothing else, I made a dreary task a little more interesting, and sometimes, it's just the little things that make life enjoyable.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Introductions, grass cutting, etc.
I'm new here. The title of this blog is one of my favorite ironic well-worn quotes from Seinfeld. If you've seen the show, you know it well. If you don't, I suggest a Google search because my telling you about it won't do it proper justice.
The original title was going to be "This, that, but definitely not the other," (another Seinfeld homage with a twist) but the blogger URL was frankly gonna be a pain. The URL that eventually got used for this blog isn't much better, but we'll work on it later.
Anywho, this blog will pretty much be a bunch of rambling about nothing, probably most of it sports. It's a creative outlet for me to talk out loud because therapy these days is a little too expensive.
With that, welcome to the show. Hope you don't fall asleep. If you do, well...see the title of the blog.
GRASS CUTTING
I have mixed emotions about cutting grass. It's a good form of exercise because I don't have a push mower. And I like it a lot better in March and April, not so much in May and June and let's not even discuss July, August and September. You have a more finite window to get it done once the calendar goes past June because of the heat and humidity of south Louisiana, and you better hope that rain isn't on the menu that afternoon about 6ish.
Now that we've hit the hot-as-hell part of the grass-cutting season, I needed some motivation to get this done Tuesday. So I broke from the outer-border, square pattern taught to me by my father at age 7 and went with my own design.
I know this is very scintillating, and I know you're just sitting on the edge of your seat waiting to read more. After all, what else are you gonna do on June 1? Watch the Astros lose again (UPDATE -- they came back in the bottom of the ninth after blowing a lead in the top of the ninth and won, 8-7, vs. the Nats. Only 16 games under .500 now. Whoopee!!!)? But I'm gonna make you wait for the rest of the story. In my day job, we call it a tease, but leaving you hanging here has nothing to do with it. I just forgot to take pictures of my handiwork today, and without photos, the rest of the post means squadoosh. Actually, that would make it perfect for this blog, but you figured that out already, I'm sure.
So I'll delve more into my grass-cutting mayhem with pictures tomorrow, though you'll have to bring your own crayons. Have a pleasant evening.
The original title was going to be "This, that, but definitely not the other," (another Seinfeld homage with a twist) but the blogger URL was frankly gonna be a pain. The URL that eventually got used for this blog isn't much better, but we'll work on it later.
Anywho, this blog will pretty much be a bunch of rambling about nothing, probably most of it sports. It's a creative outlet for me to talk out loud because therapy these days is a little too expensive.
With that, welcome to the show. Hope you don't fall asleep. If you do, well...see the title of the blog.
GRASS CUTTING
I have mixed emotions about cutting grass. It's a good form of exercise because I don't have a push mower. And I like it a lot better in March and April, not so much in May and June and let's not even discuss July, August and September. You have a more finite window to get it done once the calendar goes past June because of the heat and humidity of south Louisiana, and you better hope that rain isn't on the menu that afternoon about 6ish.
Now that we've hit the hot-as-hell part of the grass-cutting season, I needed some motivation to get this done Tuesday. So I broke from the outer-border, square pattern taught to me by my father at age 7 and went with my own design.
I know this is very scintillating, and I know you're just sitting on the edge of your seat waiting to read more. After all, what else are you gonna do on June 1? Watch the Astros lose again (UPDATE -- they came back in the bottom of the ninth after blowing a lead in the top of the ninth and won, 8-7, vs. the Nats. Only 16 games under .500 now. Whoopee!!!)? But I'm gonna make you wait for the rest of the story. In my day job, we call it a tease, but leaving you hanging here has nothing to do with it. I just forgot to take pictures of my handiwork today, and without photos, the rest of the post means squadoosh. Actually, that would make it perfect for this blog, but you figured that out already, I'm sure.
So I'll delve more into my grass-cutting mayhem with pictures tomorrow, though you'll have to bring your own crayons. Have a pleasant evening.
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