Give Me Reality, Not Fantasy!

When I was a boy, we played several fantasy-type sports games – dice baseball, with numbers on the dice representing hits and outs; another game in which you placed cards of Hall of Fame baseball players over a spinner; and a vibrating, electric football game that literally shook the miniature players up and down the field.

I’ve never played “fantasy football,” but last week witnessed firsthand what it involves. That happened to be the night my alma mater, Ohio State, was opening its season against Marshall and I went to a local sports bar where fellow Buckeye fans here in Chattanooga often gather to share in the thrill of victory.

Our accustomed long table in front of the big TV screen, however, had been absconded by a group of fantasy football fanatics. I know they were fanatics because they each clutched stacks of paper containing team rosters and statistics from last year, and were also armed with laptops for collecting and correlating other relevant performance data.

Judging by the intensity and somberness of this group, you might have thought these people were negotiating a world peace agreement, or at least a hostile takeover of Microsoft, rather than forming make-believe football teams.

I admit to being miffed because their presence relegated many of us Buckeyes to a far corner of the restaurant, out of sight of the big screen, but had to wonder about the many hours these fantasy devotees were investing on the startup of an annual but essentially inconsequential pastime.

Perhaps these gridiron dreamers had visions of winning big bucks at season’s end, but it seemed like a strange way to spend time. Of course, I do my own things to consume time in silly ways. But at least they don’t deprive ardent OSU fans from enjoying the big screen!

It’s Football Time in . . .

As Monday Night Football’s opener inquires, “Are you ready for some football?!”

Tomorrow night, football – college version – will unwrap its season when Ohio State, my alma mater, hosts Marshall. South Carolina hosts Southern Mississippi in another notable opener. That will be what more people will see because it’s on ESPN, since the Buckeyes circa 2010 debut on the Big Ten Network.

For the moment, all football fans are euphoric – their favorite teams all are undefeated. (At least they haven’t lost yet.) For many, however, it will be downhill right after opening kickoff.

My hopes are especially high since the Bucks are a consensus No. 2 in preseason polls, and defending champ Alabama will face all kinds of challenges repeating. But that’s why they play the games. After weeks and months of “too much talk, not enough action,” every squad will have the opportunity to show what they can do.

Here in the South where I live, most fans seem convinced the SEC again will reign once everything in the season’s said and done. I imagine some of them even think the game was invented below the Mason-Dixon line. Actually the first football game was played between Rutgers and Princeton in 1869 in New Brunswick, N.J., just a few miles from where I grew up. The game then, of course, bore little resemblance to what we see today.

Since the NFL starts its season one week later, for one weekend college football will reign as king of the hill. And for the next four months we’ll listen to non-stop debates about who’s the real No. 1, who will win the Heisman this year, and whether anyone in the sluggish North can even compete with any team in the speedy South.

I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some football!

Childhood Baseball Memories

For the most part, I think most sports talk commentators are loud-mouthed, bombastic blowhards, barely more knowledgeable than me – which isn’t saying much. But one exception is ESPN Radio’s Colin Cowherd. I don’t concur with everything he says, but rather than rattling on about “I think…”, Cowherd actually does research and has data supporting his views, whether you agree or not.

Recently he was talking about a televised Major League Baseball game which included a quick glimpse of two little guys overwhelmed with glee when one caught a homerun ball. Scenes like this, Cowherd said, are what make baseball unique and special, despite its snail pace in a hyper-speed world.

His comments brought back my own boyhood experiences of going to ballgames. Living about 40 miles from New York City, a couple of times a year my father and I – usually with my friend, Mark, and his dad – would drive to see the Yankees in The Bronx or the Mets in Flushing. I vividly recall sitting in the reverse-facing backseat of my friend’s Rambler station wagon waving at drivers of other cars going by.

There was nothing like sitting in the box seats to the right of home plate, eating hotdogs and drinking ice-cold, watered-down Cokes (they’re actually more refreshing that way) while admiring my heroes – Mantle, Berra, Maris, Skowron (at Yankee games) or Ron Swoboda and Ed Kranepool (at Mets games) – as they knelt in the batter’s box or strode toward home plate.

For me, probably even more meaningful was the time spent with my dad. He was old-school – work hard, provide for the family – not overly talkative. We never went fishing or boating; he wasn’t the outdoors kind. Probably being wounded twice in World War II was enough outdoor action for him.

Dad was very mechanical, but after becoming convinced the mechanic-gene somehow had bypassed me, he left me to writing, reading and other pastimes.

Those times sitting in Yankee Stadium or Shea Stadium with my dad, however, were special. Although he wasn’t a big sports fan – by age 12 I easily knew more about the teams than he ever cared to learn – it was one way to indulge his son.

Our relationship wasn’t everything I might have wanted, but whether at a ballgame, watching him work on a car, tagging along with him at a National Guard exercise or whatever, Dad still managed to impart valuable principles to me: a solid work ethic, faithfulness, constancy, integrity. As it says in Proverbs 4:1, “Listen, my sons, to a father’s instruction; pay attention and gain understanding.” I did. One day I hope my own children and grandchildren will be able to say the same about me.

Bouncing Down Buckeye Memory Lane: Clarett and Tatum

Reading this week’s sports section has been almost like being visited by ghosts of Buckeyes past.
Maurice Clarett, who largely contributed to Ohio State’s 2002 BCS Championship Game victory over Miami, is back on campus in Columbus. Having served several years in prison for armed robbery, Clarett again is a student at The Ohio State University, although his football eligibility is long gone.

I’m sure there are those who question what right he has to set foot on campus again after putting the football program into disgrace, but head coach Jim Tressel has welcomed Clarett, still a young man. Personally, I think “Mo” has done the time for the crime. If he’s trying to get his life back on track, why not? Too often prison sentences are only about punishment, and not about restoration and rehabilitation.

One other Buckeye was sadly in the news, Jack Tatum, who died of a heart attack at 61 after years of other health issues. Supposedly nicknamed “The Assassin,” which apparently was not true during his pro career, Tatum is infamously remembered for the savage hit he made as an Oakland Raider on New England receiver Darryl Stingley in 1978, leaving him a near-quadriplegic.

“A bad guy” is the instant assessment of many sports observers. But in 1969, while I was a reporter for Ohio State’s student newspaper, The Lantern, Tatum struck me as anything but that. He had been a member of the National Championship team the preceding year, the centerpiece of a fierce defensive backfield for the Buckeyes. Experts say that had he played on offense, Tatum could have been a stellar running back, but Woody Hayes liked to keep his best athletes on defense.

I spoke little to Tatum, because he was a quiet guy. He would stroll through the locker room hallway in pads and cleats, look you in the eye and offer a slight smile, then move on. Like me, he had come to OSU from New Jersey, but from a background very unlike my own.

What Tatum was really like, I can’t say. Without question, despite his NFL celebrity – and notoriety, his life wasn’t an easy one. Since I just turned 62 myself, I can honestly say that 61 seems too young to leave this life. My only hope and prayer is that he has found peace and joy in the next.

Carrying the Weight of Leadership

Not long ago, life was good for University of Georgia athletic director Damon Evans. He held a prestigious job and had the distinction of being the first African-American to hold that role in the Southeastern Conference. He also was about to receive a new contract and pay increase to $550,000 annually. Yes, life was good.

Then Evans, married and the father of two, got caught in the devastating mix of late hours, too much alcohol, an attractive young woman not his wife – and the police.

Suddenly he’s jobless, his career is in jeopardy, and his marriage and family might be as well. Situations like this are so common we’re no longer shocked. A much-higher profile sports figure, Tiger Woods, drew similar attention not long ago. But the same question arises: “What was he thinking?!”

Whether this was a singular act of poor judgment, or a case of finally being caught in bad behavior, we don’t know. What we do know is Evans betrayed the university’s trust and failed as a role model for hundreds of athletes at UGA who constantly are receiving warnings about being in wrong places with wrong people at the wrong time.

Some may scoff, saying Evans’ termination was harsh, but he wasn’t merely an employee. He headed Georgia’s athletic program. Leadership brings privilege – and a price: As Jesus admonished, “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked” (Luke 12:48).

The Bible also cautions, “If anyone sets his heart on being an overseer, he desires a noble task. Now the overseer must be above reproach…self-controlled, respectable…not given to drunkenness” (1 Timothy 3:1-3).

Those are wise words for us all, even if we don’t hold prominent, visible roles in sports.

NBA Draft, Rugby . . . and Other Random Thoughts

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!

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!”?