Tonight is the night several dozen young men officially part ways with their respective academic institutions so they can earn a degree – their NBA.
The NBA Draft is not the spectacle of the NFL Draft, but still marks a commencement of sorts – from the college to the court. Who knows how many of the top picks will live up to their pre-draft hype. Some notable first-round picks in recent years have made the transition from collegiate “Who’s Who” to professional “Who’s He?” with amazing quickness. Stay tuned.
“Invictus.” I finally got to see the film, “Invictus,” starring Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. It’s about how the remarkable World Cup triumph of South Africa’s rugby team in 1995 helped to solidify Nelson Mandela’s leadership in that nation.
Rugby has a World Cup? Who knew? I barely knew that soccer had one, but now I know rugby has its own international competition every four years. If you’re interested, the next one is being held in 2011. That should be enough time for you to recover from the excitement of this year’s soccer World Cup.
Watching the film, I didn’t have the foggiest notion about the rules of the game. Most of the match, it seemed, was similar to American football when the ball is fumbled and the players jump onto a pile, wrestling for the ball. Except in rugby, if the ball squirts out, you can grab it and run, throw it to someone else, or even kick it to try for a score.
And rugby guys, from what I could surmise, don’t even wear pads. Our football players are such wimps!
By the way, Nelson Mandela does have a strong resemblance to Morgan Freeman.
And the Cup goes on. Speaking of soccer, I have formulated a six-word phrase that I think summarizes the problem with soccer. If you’ll pardon the romantic metaphor, soccer is basically – too much foreplay, not enough sex.
And do you know why, when a team does score, the announcer proceeds to scream, “Gooooooooooooooaaaaaaaalllllllllll!” for what seems 15 minutes? It’s because he knows it will be a really long time before he has to shout it again.
Candidate for the Hall? Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Jamie Moyer, who must be about 80 years old, is slowly inching toward the 300-career victory mark. Now in his 25th Major League season, Moyer recorded his first victory in 1986 when he was with the Chicago Cubs. He now has 266 wins, to go with 201 losses.
Because 300 wins has traditionally been the threshold for Hall of Fame pitchers, pundits are starting to discuss whether Moyer should be considered for the Hall. He did have 20-win seasons in 2001 and 2003 with Seattle, but has averaged less than 11 wins per year over his career.
Maybe the sacred 300 mark needs to be reconsidered. What if a guy one day lives to be 320, entered the majors at age 21 and pitches for 300 years, winning one game each year. Does that mean that he will qualify for the enshrinement in Cooperstown, based on career victories?
At his current pace, Moyer probably will deserve to be elected into the Hall of Fame – for being the first pitcher to retire from baseball and immediately collect his first Social Security check!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
The Great un-American Game
Was it Willie Nelson who sang, “Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be soccer players”? Maybe not, but with apologies to poet Robert Frost, “something there is (in America) that doesn’t love…a soccer game.”
Yes, the networks and ESPN are casting faux enthusiasm toward the World Cup, but it’s the same treatment they give figure skating in the Winter Olympics. “Yeah, we gotta cover it, but I’ll sure be glad when it’s over.”
The American psyche, forged in the melting pot of blended cultures, is unquestionably unique. But despite the European, African, Latino and Asian mix that makes up our society, somehow soccer got lost in the translation.
Ask the average U.S. sports fan about soccer and the reply is, “I don’t get it.” All that running up and down, back and forth with deft footwork; great stamina and athleticism for sure – but so much effort with so little outcome. You watch a 90-minute soccer game, and lather into a frenzy for what? 1-0? (And it’s “nil,” not zero or zip.) Or, as the U.S. team did on Sunday, crow victoriously over a 1-1 tie with England? In soccer, an offensive spectacle is 3-1. Woo-hoo!
These days, people complain baseball, “the Great American Pastime,” is too slow and lacking in action. Yet it’s not uncommon to see scores of 6-5, 8-6, and sometimes even double-digits. Still, compared to “upstarts” football and basketball, which have surpassed it in popularity in recent decades, baseball is “boring.” If that’s the case, no wonder we can’t get revved up about soccer.
To me, watching a soccer game is akin to going out to buy a new car and settling instead for new wiper blades. Or buying tickets months in advance to see your favorite band in concert, then one day before the event having it canceled because the lead singer has a hangnail. Much ado about nothing!
Perhaps over time, with the influx of people into the United States from soccer-crazed lands, soccer will soar in acceptance. Here in Chattanooga, for instance, with an influx of Germans because of the new Volkswagen plant, maybe some of their devotion for the original “football” will rub off. But don’t count on it.
No, in America, football will always be synonymous with “pigskins,” first downs, blitzes and sacks. And we don’t need the vuvuzelas, those raucous-sounding plastic horns that soccer zealots are using to try and destroy one another’s eardrums. The traditional bell chime, to remind the defense that it’s third down and they need to stop to opposing offense, is just fine with us.
Why settle for “Gooooooooooooaaaaaalllllllll!” when you can shout, “TOUCHDOWN!”?
Yes, the networks and ESPN are casting faux enthusiasm toward the World Cup, but it’s the same treatment they give figure skating in the Winter Olympics. “Yeah, we gotta cover it, but I’ll sure be glad when it’s over.”
The American psyche, forged in the melting pot of blended cultures, is unquestionably unique. But despite the European, African, Latino and Asian mix that makes up our society, somehow soccer got lost in the translation.
Ask the average U.S. sports fan about soccer and the reply is, “I don’t get it.” All that running up and down, back and forth with deft footwork; great stamina and athleticism for sure – but so much effort with so little outcome. You watch a 90-minute soccer game, and lather into a frenzy for what? 1-0? (And it’s “nil,” not zero or zip.) Or, as the U.S. team did on Sunday, crow victoriously over a 1-1 tie with England? In soccer, an offensive spectacle is 3-1. Woo-hoo!
These days, people complain baseball, “the Great American Pastime,” is too slow and lacking in action. Yet it’s not uncommon to see scores of 6-5, 8-6, and sometimes even double-digits. Still, compared to “upstarts” football and basketball, which have surpassed it in popularity in recent decades, baseball is “boring.” If that’s the case, no wonder we can’t get revved up about soccer.
To me, watching a soccer game is akin to going out to buy a new car and settling instead for new wiper blades. Or buying tickets months in advance to see your favorite band in concert, then one day before the event having it canceled because the lead singer has a hangnail. Much ado about nothing!
Perhaps over time, with the influx of people into the United States from soccer-crazed lands, soccer will soar in acceptance. Here in Chattanooga, for instance, with an influx of Germans because of the new Volkswagen plant, maybe some of their devotion for the original “football” will rub off. But don’t count on it.
No, in America, football will always be synonymous with “pigskins,” first downs, blitzes and sacks. And we don’t need the vuvuzelas, those raucous-sounding plastic horns that soccer zealots are using to try and destroy one another’s eardrums. The traditional bell chime, to remind the defense that it’s third down and they need to stop to opposing offense, is just fine with us.
Why settle for “Gooooooooooooaaaaaalllllllll!” when you can shout, “TOUCHDOWN!”?
Monday, June 7, 2010
One of a Kind
As a teenager, I hated UCLA basketball. After all, they won all the time. From 1964 to 1975, the Bruins reigned as National Champions 10 years out of 12, including seven in a row. It seemed unfair UCLA could have players like Lew Alcindor (now known as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar) and Bill Walton, when nobody else did. But what UCLA had, most of all, was a one-of-a-kind coach named John Wooden.
Over his 27-year career at UCLA, Wooden posted an overall record of 620-147. Look up “dominant” in the dictionary and you’ll probably his photo alongside the definition. Despite remarkable on-court accomplishments, however, Wooden stood out for other reasons. He was a man of integrity, of principle, and of faith. With his passing June 4 at the age of 99, the world lost a remarkable individual.
Millions of words already have been said and written in homage to him, and I’m hardly one to write with authority about Wooden. I did meet him once in Columbus, Ohio at a sports awards program back in the late ‘70s. Already retired, he was still held in awe by everyone he encountered. He was humble, unassuming, quite unlike many celebrity coaches of today. Like the old E.F. Hutton commercials, whenever Wooden spoke, people knew they should listen.
After his beloved wife, Nellie, died in 1985, he never remarried. He never even dated. It’s said that Wooden, a native Midwesterner, had just accepted an offer to coach at UCLA when a phone call came to offer him a job to coach at Minnesota. Wooden declined the offer, holding to his UCLA commitment. Why? Because he had given his word.
Young men who played for Wooden at UCLA inevitably left his mentorship as better men, whether they advanced to the professional level or not.
Proverbs 11:3 says, “The integrity of the upright guides them, but the unfaithful are destroyed by their duplicity.” From all accounts, Coach Wooden was never accused of “duplicity.” In an age when double-mindedness seems prevalent, when principles rarely interfere with ambition, we need more people like John Wooden. By God’s grace, may it be so.
Over his 27-year career at UCLA, Wooden posted an overall record of 620-147. Look up “dominant” in the dictionary and you’ll probably his photo alongside the definition. Despite remarkable on-court accomplishments, however, Wooden stood out for other reasons. He was a man of integrity, of principle, and of faith. With his passing June 4 at the age of 99, the world lost a remarkable individual.
Millions of words already have been said and written in homage to him, and I’m hardly one to write with authority about Wooden. I did meet him once in Columbus, Ohio at a sports awards program back in the late ‘70s. Already retired, he was still held in awe by everyone he encountered. He was humble, unassuming, quite unlike many celebrity coaches of today. Like the old E.F. Hutton commercials, whenever Wooden spoke, people knew they should listen.
After his beloved wife, Nellie, died in 1985, he never remarried. He never even dated. It’s said that Wooden, a native Midwesterner, had just accepted an offer to coach at UCLA when a phone call came to offer him a job to coach at Minnesota. Wooden declined the offer, holding to his UCLA commitment. Why? Because he had given his word.
Young men who played for Wooden at UCLA inevitably left his mentorship as better men, whether they advanced to the professional level or not.
Proverbs 11:3 says, “The integrity of the upright guides them, but the unfaithful are destroyed by their duplicity.” From all accounts, Coach Wooden was never accused of “duplicity.” In an age when double-mindedness seems prevalent, when principles rarely interfere with ambition, we need more people like John Wooden. By God’s grace, may it be so.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Imperfect Game, Perfect Response
The perfect game: a pitcher’s dream. Twenty-seven batters up, 27 batters down. No runs, no hits, no errors, no runners, no nothin’.
Perfect games don’t happen every day, although this season it’s starting to seem like they do. In Major League history, there have been 20 perfect games thrown – but two already are in the record books this year, and June 2 there almost was a third.
Detroit Tigers’ hurler Armando Galarraga had retired 26 Cleveland batters in a row and was just one out in the ninth inning from finalizing his own “perfecto.” The only problem was, umpire Jim Joyce’s eye was not as quick as the instant replay. In his view, the Indians’ Jason Donald was safe on a bang-bang play at first base; slow-motion videotape clearly showed both ball and Galarraga arriving a blink before Donald’s foot hit the bag.
As expected, many of Galarraga’s teammates responded in anger, but the pitcher only displayed a wry, incredulous smile. No hysterical tantrum, no irate outburst, just good-humored disbelief. Then he quickly recorded out No. 28, although only 27 counted.
Many argue it’s time baseball stepped into the 21st century with instant replay, but what stands out most is how both umpire and pitcher responded.
Joyce had sincerely believed he had made the correct call, but after viewing the replay admitted he had blown it. Confession. Galarraga, who delivered the starting lineup the next day to Joyce, slated to work behind home plate, was gracious in accepting the umpire’s apology. Forgiveness.
What a vivid, real-life demonstration of biblical admonitions to “confess your sins to each other” (James 5:16) and “…forgive men when they sin against you” (Matthew 6:14).
A missed call may have cost a winning pitcher his perfect game, but in its aftermath a greater victory was won.
Perfect games don’t happen every day, although this season it’s starting to seem like they do. In Major League history, there have been 20 perfect games thrown – but two already are in the record books this year, and June 2 there almost was a third.
Detroit Tigers’ hurler Armando Galarraga had retired 26 Cleveland batters in a row and was just one out in the ninth inning from finalizing his own “perfecto.” The only problem was, umpire Jim Joyce’s eye was not as quick as the instant replay. In his view, the Indians’ Jason Donald was safe on a bang-bang play at first base; slow-motion videotape clearly showed both ball and Galarraga arriving a blink before Donald’s foot hit the bag.
As expected, many of Galarraga’s teammates responded in anger, but the pitcher only displayed a wry, incredulous smile. No hysterical tantrum, no irate outburst, just good-humored disbelief. Then he quickly recorded out No. 28, although only 27 counted.
Many argue it’s time baseball stepped into the 21st century with instant replay, but what stands out most is how both umpire and pitcher responded.
Joyce had sincerely believed he had made the correct call, but after viewing the replay admitted he had blown it. Confession. Galarraga, who delivered the starting lineup the next day to Joyce, slated to work behind home plate, was gracious in accepting the umpire’s apology. Forgiveness.
What a vivid, real-life demonstration of biblical admonitions to “confess your sins to each other” (James 5:16) and “…forgive men when they sin against you” (Matthew 6:14).
A missed call may have cost a winning pitcher his perfect game, but in its aftermath a greater victory was won.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
What Changed Baseball?
For whatever reason, I vividly recall that in my final year of Little League baseball – also my last attempt at organized baseball, because I couldn’t hit my way out of a field of weeds – I batted .226 (seven hits in 31 at-bats), and every hit was a bunt. (I also got plunked by pitches several times, but my brief experience as a human baseball target is not the focus for this blog.)
I remember two solid hits, one deep down the leftfield line that went foul, and the other a hard grounder to the shortstop that was called an error when he bobbled the ball.
Why do I mention that? Because the other day a radio sports commentator bemoaned that in Major League baseball, you rarely see players bunt the fall. Pitchers occasionally bunt to advance base runners, but position players hardly ever bunt.
He also mentioned you never see players choking up on the bat so they can control the ball by smacking it just beyond the infielders’ reach. I remember watching Bobby Richardson, the Yankees’ second baseman in the ‘60s, choking up on the bat at least two inches. He certainly was not one of New York’s famed “Murderers’ Row” – his career high for homeruns was eight – but he did bat over .300 twice. And he knew how to bunt.
So why don’t today’s players bunt? The commentator said he thought it’s because modern ballplayers don’t consider it “manly.” I think it’s an even simpler reason: ESPN.
We’re all familiar with Chris Berman’s “back, back, back, GONE!” to describe homeruns. When did you ever hear Berman offer a similar description for a bunt? What’s he going to say, “dink, dink, dink, safe”?
The nuances of baseball have suffered as the spotlight has grown brighter on mammoth homers. Players don’t get paid millions for bunting, or capture endorsement contracts for pushing a baseball gently down the baseline.
As a Little Leaguer, I actually did bunt the ball into the outfield, over the head of the charging third baseman, but that was long before ESPN, or even YouTube. And I wasn’t on steroids!
I remember two solid hits, one deep down the leftfield line that went foul, and the other a hard grounder to the shortstop that was called an error when he bobbled the ball.
Why do I mention that? Because the other day a radio sports commentator bemoaned that in Major League baseball, you rarely see players bunt the fall. Pitchers occasionally bunt to advance base runners, but position players hardly ever bunt.
He also mentioned you never see players choking up on the bat so they can control the ball by smacking it just beyond the infielders’ reach. I remember watching Bobby Richardson, the Yankees’ second baseman in the ‘60s, choking up on the bat at least two inches. He certainly was not one of New York’s famed “Murderers’ Row” – his career high for homeruns was eight – but he did bat over .300 twice. And he knew how to bunt.
So why don’t today’s players bunt? The commentator said he thought it’s because modern ballplayers don’t consider it “manly.” I think it’s an even simpler reason: ESPN.
We’re all familiar with Chris Berman’s “back, back, back, GONE!” to describe homeruns. When did you ever hear Berman offer a similar description for a bunt? What’s he going to say, “dink, dink, dink, safe”?
The nuances of baseball have suffered as the spotlight has grown brighter on mammoth homers. Players don’t get paid millions for bunting, or capture endorsement contracts for pushing a baseball gently down the baseline.
As a Little Leaguer, I actually did bunt the ball into the outfield, over the head of the charging third baseman, but that was long before ESPN, or even YouTube. And I wasn’t on steroids!
Friday, April 30, 2010
Hearkening Back to a Very Different Time
Summer’s long, steamy days fast approach, meaning only one thing: Baseball can temporarily resume its role as national pastime. NBA and NHL playoffs will have ended. College football will fade from public view until practices resume in August. College basketball won’t beckon our attention until October. That leaves “the boys of summer” – unless you’re big into NASCAR.
While baseball no longer reigns as my favorite sport, it has provided some of my m
ost vivid memories. Growing up in New Jersey, twice a season I enjoyed riding into New York City’s Bronx Borough and striding into the shadows of the historic “House that Ruth Built.” I would usually go with my father, a friend and his dad, spending a day consuming lukewarm hotdogs, peanuts and watered-down Cokes, while watching my heroes – Mickey, Yogi, Whitey and others – lead the guys in pinstripes to victory.
I’ll always remember the day I went to Yankee Stadium in 1961 with my Little League team. Mantle and Roger Maris were chasing Babe Ruth’s sacred homerun record, and we saw both “the Mick” and Rog slam homers. Ford was the winning pitcher, and Luis Arroyo came in to save the victory. Yankee nirvana!
In those days baseball stars were revered. We didn’t have investigative reporters or Internet rumors recounting the Yankees’ late-night hijinks. I never knew Mickey often patrolled centerfield nursing a killer hangover. No, major leaguers were golden boys, virtual gods to adoring young fellows like me who would never master hitting a round ball with a round object square.
Those Yanks probably weren’t better or worse than players reviled today for their misdeeds, but it was a simpler, perhaps more naïve time. We read only news that was fit to print – not news that wasn’t.
As a nation – and a sporting culture – we’ve lost our innocence. Not that we ever really had it. But we thought we did. And there’s something sad about that.
While baseball no longer reigns as my favorite sport, it has provided some of my m
ost vivid memories. Growing up in New Jersey, twice a season I enjoyed riding into New York City’s Bronx Borough and striding into the shadows of the historic “House that Ruth Built.” I would usually go with my father, a friend and his dad, spending a day consuming lukewarm hotdogs, peanuts and watered-down Cokes, while watching my heroes – Mickey, Yogi, Whitey and others – lead the guys in pinstripes to victory.I’ll always remember the day I went to Yankee Stadium in 1961 with my Little League team. Mantle and Roger Maris were chasing Babe Ruth’s sacred homerun record, and we saw both “the Mick” and Rog slam homers. Ford was the winning pitcher, and Luis Arroyo came in to save the victory. Yankee nirvana!
In those days baseball stars were revered. We didn’t have investigative reporters or Internet rumors recounting the Yankees’ late-night hijinks. I never knew Mickey often patrolled centerfield nursing a killer hangover. No, major leaguers were golden boys, virtual gods to adoring young fellows like me who would never master hitting a round ball with a round object square.
Those Yanks probably weren’t better or worse than players reviled today for their misdeeds, but it was a simpler, perhaps more naïve time. We read only news that was fit to print – not news that wasn’t.
As a nation – and a sporting culture – we’ve lost our innocence. Not that we ever really had it. But we thought we did. And there’s something sad about that.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Where Would You Be Drafted?
Tomorrow night, the NFL will begin its annual right of passage for collegiate heroes who hope to trade their alma mater’s adulation for professional riches. Millions of fans will tune in to ESPN to hear Mel Kiper, Jr. (was Mel Kiper, Sr. a draft guru, too?), Todd McShay and others gush over the prowess of various prospects.
The NFL Draft has become so big, this year for the first time it’s opening on a Thursday during prime time and being extended through Friday and Saturday. If a two-day draft is good, a three-day draft should be great, right?
Besides who will be the top picks, other questions awaiting answers include: How high will Tim Tebow (“Tim Terrific”) be drafted? Which seemingly can’t-miss prospect will see his draft stock plummet? And who will be “Mr. Irrelevant,” the very last pick of the seven-round draft? Keep calm – soon all those questions will have proper answers!
But what if a national draft were conducted for your profession, whether it be sales, medicine, homemaking, business administration, clerical work, engineering, truck driving, accounting, teaching, mechanical trades, or whatever role you happen to fill? Where would you be drafted?
Based on performance – or potential – do you think you would be a top-round pick, maybe even one of the very first draft choices? Or would your name be called in a later round? Would it be called at all?
For most of us, playing in the NFL is not even a dream or a fantasy, much less a hope or a goal. But we can resolve to be the best we can be at whatever God has equipped and called us to do. “For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do” (Ephesians 2:10).
The NFL Draft has become so big, this year for the first time it’s opening on a Thursday during prime time and being extended through Friday and Saturday. If a two-day draft is good, a three-day draft should be great, right?
Besides who will be the top picks, other questions awaiting answers include: How high will Tim Tebow (“Tim Terrific”) be drafted? Which seemingly can’t-miss prospect will see his draft stock plummet? And who will be “Mr. Irrelevant,” the very last pick of the seven-round draft? Keep calm – soon all those questions will have proper answers!
But what if a national draft were conducted for your profession, whether it be sales, medicine, homemaking, business administration, clerical work, engineering, truck driving, accounting, teaching, mechanical trades, or whatever role you happen to fill? Where would you be drafted?
Based on performance – or potential – do you think you would be a top-round pick, maybe even one of the very first draft choices? Or would your name be called in a later round? Would it be called at all?
For most of us, playing in the NFL is not even a dream or a fantasy, much less a hope or a goal. But we can resolve to be the best we can be at whatever God has equipped and called us to do. “For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do” (Ephesians 2:10).
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