Tales of Bittersweet Loyalty

Archive for the ‘Region’ Category

Dear Baseball: We Can Still Be Friends

In Atlanta, Baseball, Loyalty on July 18, 2011 at 7:00 AM

Baseball and I, we met at Parker Field in Richmond, Virginia in September of ’83. It was a hot, humid night. A thunderstorm loomed in the west, just above the stadium lights.

Alright, most of that isn’t true. I do know that we met at Parker Field, but I have no idea when it was. I don’t even remember Parker Field. It was torn down in 1984 when I was 6, and I’m not that good at remembering things anyhow. Parker Field was the home of the Richmond Braves, Atlanta’s top farm team. Its replacement, The Diamond, opened in 1985 and is still there today. The R-Braves are not.

Since Richmond was the final stop for kids on their way to Atlanta, I saw some great players: Glavine in ’87, Smoltz in ’88, Justice in ’89, Chipper in ’93. I’d later see these same kids on TBS every night. It never really seemed like I had a choice: The Atlanta Braves became my favorite team. By the time I’d moved on from tee ball, I had Dale Murphy posters plastered on my wall. I was mimicking Ozzie Virgil’s catching stance. I was convinced Zane Smith was the best pitcher ever. Remember, though, the Braves sucked for most of the 80s. They were horrible.  Really, truly horrible. My friend Jason always made fun of the Braves. And he was a freaking Blue Jays fan.

And then ’91 happened. That’s when baseball and I really hit it off. That’s when we took our relationship to the next level.

(To this day, I hate Kent Hrbek. I still check and see if the Giants or Reds lost, even though it’s been almost 20 years since they were in the NL West together. I’d put Mark Lemke in the Hall of Fame. I think Terry Pendleton deserved that MVP.)

Baseball and I spent a lot of time together in those days. Baseball cards provided me the first opportunity to refine my obsessive organizational skills. I watched Baseball Tonight religiously. Every year in early July, I’d plan out All-Star Game night: The right TV angle, the best position on the couch, dinner, the dessert. I could tell you every team’s opening day lineup. I created each All-Star team in Baseball Stars (SHEFLD of the ‘92 National League team was an absolute monster). I’d watch the Cubs on WGN in the afternoon and then the Braves at night on TBS.

But somewhere along the line, at some point in our relationship, things began to change.

It had nothing to do with The Strike. Strikes happen. It had nothing to do with The Steroids. I would have probably done steroids if I played pro baseball.  And it had nothing to do with The All-Star Game Determines the Home Team in the World Series. Oh, I know it’s really stupid, but it’s a small blip on the radar. None of those really pushed baseball and I apart.

There were some little things I started to notice, little pet peeves that I thought our love could overcome. At times, ESPN’s coverage of baseball (everything, really) stumbled into yellow journalism. Joe Morgan, Joe Buck and Tim McCarver made watching baseball almost unbearable.  The lack of any sort of competitive balance went from annoying to bothersome to deplorable in a matter of years. The Hall of Fame voting. TBS dropping regular coverage of the Braves. I was sure we could weather those storms.

See, I never wanted to admit that I saw the end coming. But my eyes began wandering a bit. I mean, have you seen hockey in HD? I began thinking about others more, thinking about spending more time with football. But I always came back to baseball. This distance between us, it grew in the tiniest of increments, and then one day, I woke up and those little increments had become one giant gulf.

I didn’t seem to know baseball anymore. I couldn’t tell you many opening day lineups. I didn’t know where some free agents had gone. (Jeff Francoeur is on the Royals now? And he was on the Rangers last year?) I can’t tell you the Braves’ 25-man roster right now. I’ve even skipped World Series games. I admit there were World Series games where I didn’t see a single pitch. I saw my friends spending more and more time with baseball and began to feel guilty (yes, I’m talking about you, Wells).

And there was that day, the day when I learned something about baseball that I couldn’t fully live with. On the surface, it didn’t seem like a big deal. But it felt like a big deal: That seedy underbelly of your family-friendly, hometown Minor League Baseball. The way small cities and communities are cowed into giving up the farm for a team that was once the pride of another community. The way these small baseball teams could hold towns hostage. They tell me that, after all, baseball is a business. But that doesn’t really make it any less ugly.

Remember Richmond, where baseball and I met? Allow me to digress. Those very same R-Braves, they moved to Richmond in 1966, the same year the big league Braves moved from Milwaukee to Atlanta. For the next 43 seasons, the R-Braves were Atlanta’s top minor league team. Freaking Dusty Baker played for the R-Braves, that’s how long they’d been around.

The R-Braves were owned by their parent club in Atlanta. They’d seen The Diamond and they knew it was a pit. A giant, sterile, concrete pit. It was old and dated before the first pitch. They came to town, and they told the Richmond, “We want a new stadium. Richmond should build us a new stadium.” (Not an exact quote.)

The “…or else” is always understood. When minor league team owners get antsy for a new stadium, they make a trip down to your City Hall, schedule a couple of lunch meetings with your Elected Officials. There is always another city who will build a state-of-the-art, shiny new stadium. And the Richmond VIPs made the decision (or non-decision) to take some time and explore their options. In the end, though, the R-Braves became the Gwinnett Braves after the 2008 season. Go find Gwinnett on a map.

(Postscript: A year later, Richmond got an Eastern League franchise affiliated with… wait for it… the San Francisco Giants.)

Richmonders had been going to R-Braves games for 43 years. LBJ was still President. Richmond was a stalwart of the International League, a five-time champion. But Gwinnett County was willing to put their taxpayers on the hook for a stadium that won’t be paid off until 2038. The taxpayers pay for the facility and its maintenance, the team keeps ticket and concessions revenue.

It’s a good business model for the team. It sucks for everyone else. Head up north and ask Edmonton about Nolan Ryan moving the city’s team to Round Rock, Texas. Ask Ottawa about the Lynx. Next year, ask Yakima, Washington and Kinston, North Carolina. Hell, go ask the fine people of Portland, Oregon: They’ve made getting screwed by baseball franchises into an art form.

I’ll paraphrase Henry Hill from Goodfellas for the kids: Screw you, pay me.

So, what does all of this have to do with me and baseball? We all grow up and with age comes a little perspective. A reshuffling of priorities. Perhaps a little touch of cynicism. I wasn’t too old to love baseball, I just didn’t love it the same way. I could no longer buy into the idea that baseball should be as loyal to its fans as its fans are to it. The fans always lose that fight. And that’s when baseball and I went down to the courthouse and filed. Irreconcilable differences.

My baseball cards, they’re in a box in the basement. I don’t get (that) mad anymore when I think about how Dale Murphy isn’t in the Hall of Fame. I own a Minnesota Twins t-shirt. And I’ve been known to wear it.

Some days I do miss what baseball and I had. And don’t misunderstand me, baseball and I still talk. Some nights the wife and the kid, we all get together and spend some time with baseball, watching the Braves when they’re on. We watch Dan Uggla ground into double plays and Derek Lowe throw his 88 mph fastball and I think back to the Braves of the 1980s. I follow Dale Murphy’s Twitter feed. I’m counting down the days until I can play catch with my son.

Baseball and I, we still have those memories. A Sunday game at Camden Yards. That 1995 World Series. McGwire’s home run (despite all that came later). Miserably hot Spring Training games in Arizona. And I still plan on creating new memories with baseball: There are many more stadiums to visit, many more teams to see. And I’ll always love the game’s history: The cowboy days of the 1800s, the turn of the century chaos, etc.

But our relationship, it’ll never be the same as it was.

Now Playing in Washington: A Discount for Ovie

In Hockey, Loyalty, Washington DC on July 14, 2011 at 7:00 AM

When Tomas Vokoun signed with the Washington Capitals in the first week of free agency this summer, the 35-year-old Czech native wasn’t shy about telling anyone that would listen that he took a significant cut in pay to play for the Capitals.

Wait, what was that?

Vokoun made $6.5 million last season with Florida, the last year of a multi-year contract with the Panthers.  He turned down multi-year, more lucrative offers from the Panthers to make less than a quarter of that this season, $1.5 million for one year in DC.

I’m not sure I followed that.  The more lucrative offer was where he was already playing?

See, this is a foreign concept for D.C. sports fans, especially Capitals fans.  For decades, we watched stars take less money to avoid the Beltway.

None of this was ever confirmed by the players, but many high-profile hockey stars were known to have turned down more lucrative offers from the Capitals to play elsewhere in the 80s and 90s (nobody can fault players for avoiding D.C. in the 70s).

I never faulted the players who turned down bigger deals from the Capitals to stay where they were.  Sometimes, the right decision for your family isn’t the most lucrative one for you; besides, a million to a guy making multiple millions for decades isn’t as much as it is to us common folk.

I also understood that some players turned down D.C.’s bonanzas to play in their hometowns.  Toronto, Montreal, Calgary, Detroit and Boston have made a veritable paper fortune banking on this hometown discount.

(It’s worth noting that Potomac, Maryland native Jeff Halpern gave the Capitals a hometown discount for his services next season—that is definitely the first time in history that’s happened!  But it won’t be the last: some D-I college hockey scouts say that D.C. is now a must-visit on the recruiting trail.  That’s really exciting to guys like me who grew up playing youth hockey in the area.  And I don’t regret this not being part of my club hockey career—my position of Left Bench was already occupied at most schools.)

I was perpetually frustrated by the players who signed with new teams and took less money than what the Capitals were offering.  In the 80s and 90s, the Capitals were a regular playoff team, including a 19-year run of post-season play, but were always just one or two players away from jumping the big hurdle.

There were flashes of brilliance: Dale Hunter clinching the series for the Caps, after D.C. trailed the Flyers 3-games-to-1, with an incredible overtime goal in Game 7 in 1988; the run to the conference final in 1989, when the Druce was Loose to knock out the vaulted Rangers and pushing the Caps further than they had ever gone before; the run to the Stanley Cup final in 1998 against Detroit, when all of the pieces just seemed to fall into place until Esa Tikkanen deked Chris Osgood but slid the puck wide of the empty net in Game 2.

The fan base was loyal and motivated—sure, it wasn’t Toronto or Boston or even St. Louis, but surely D.C. was a better stop than, say, a dying Minnesota North Stars franchise, the remote village of Quebec City (to non-francophones, anyway) or Hartford, the insurance capital of America.

What would have happened if just one of those big-name stars gave Washington a chance?

And then it happened.  A bona fide superstar gave D.C. and the Capitals that chance: Alexander Ovechkin.  In a now-infamous article, The Hockey News suggested at the start of the 2007-08 campaign that the Capitals should trade Ovechkin and rebuild with depth instead of relying on one star.  Traditional theory held that Ovie needed out of D.C. to start building his legacy.  Instead, Ovie bunked tradition and signed a 13-year, $124 million deal to essentially pledge his entire career to Washington.  That signature single-handedly put D.C. on the proverbial hockey map.  Who wouldn’t want to play with the game’s most exciting star?

Capitals fans know this part of the story already: Building sells out—perpetually; Caps make the playoffs—perpetually; Caps become the darlings of the league and the city, and NBC’s Al Michaels notes on Sunday Night Football that there are more Capitals jerseys than Redskins jerseys in the stands at FedEx Field.

And now this: Jason Arnott waives his no-trade clause at last year’s trade deadline—for one team.  Tomas Vokoun takes a 76.6% paycut to play in D.C.

I still have to pinch myself just thinking about it.

A Japanese Tornado in the History of Baseball

In Baseball, Japan, Los Angeles on July 12, 2011 at 7:00 AM

With the abundance of Japanese baseball players in the Majors these days, it’s not difficult for any average baseball fan to name one of them. Ichiro? Sure, who hasn’t heard the perennial All-Star’s name?  Hideki Matsui? Come on, he’s Godzilla. How about Daisuke Matsuzaka? The Red Sox Nation will laugh at you for not knowing that one. The list goes on and on with the likes of Hideki Irabu, whom George Steinbrenner once called a “fat toad,” while Mets fans might recall Tsuyoshi Shinjo and Kaz Matsui, both of whom made their presence known more with their dyed hair and bright-colored wristbands than their play on the field. But if you asked me the same question, I only have one answer: Hideo Nomo.  The one who started it all.

Nomo Mania began in the 1995 season, when he splashed onto the Major League scene with the Los Angeles Dodgers, seemingly out of nowhere, after a bitter contract dispute with the Kintetsu Buffaloes of the Pacific League in Japan. Mesmerizing crowds and bewildering opposing batters at every ballpark with his never-before-seen “tornado” windup style, he finished the season with an impressive résumé, leading the league in strikeouts, a 13-6 record and a 2.54 ERA.  And let’s not forget he was the starting pitcher for the National League in the All-Star Game. His performance was even more impressive the following season, going 16-11 and capping the year off with a no-hitter at Denver’s Coors Field, the hitter’s paradise. All these numbers, however, don’t begin to tell the story of Nomo, whose legacy, while paling in comparison to that of Jackie Robinson, warrants a discussion as a future Hall of Fame member for his contributions to the game of baseball as a whole.

The challenges he faced in paving the way for other Japanese players to come to the Majors cannot be understated. If you think the 24/7 media scrutiny Ichiro, Matsui or Dice-K have received in their time here is bad, Nomo’s plight makes them look like spoiled children on My Super Sweet 16. A Japanese baseball player playing outside of Japan at that time was not only unprecedented, but also seen as a bit of an insult in the eyes of many Japanese, many of whom lived and died by baseball.  They sincerely believed that the Japanese brand of baseball was the best in the world. I viewed Nomo’s move to the States in the same way other Japanese did. I came to the States from Japan in the summer of 1994, shortly before Nomo. As an obsessed baseball fan growing up in Tokyo, idolizing the likes of Nomo, it was even more difficult for me to see him abandon not only his team, but also his country.  In Japan, where loyalty is of the utmost importance, Nomo’s decision was a slap in the face. The reaction to Nomo’s defection to the Majors was in stark contrast to the fanfare and celebration that preceded the departures of Ichiro, Matusi and Daisuke. His every move, on and off the field, was questioned and dissected, partially because some Japanese, even those in the media, wanted to see him fail. But this attitude from his countrymen made his accomplishments in the majors, including throwing no-hitters in both the National and American Leagues (one of only five pitchers in the history of the MLB to accomplish this feat), even more impressive. Ichiro, Matsui and Daisuke came to the majors with the entirety of Japan backing them and cheering them on to succeed. Not Nomo. Ichiro, Matsui and Daisuke came over having multiple destination options and double-digit million dollar contracts. Not Nomo. Ichiro, Matsui and Daisuke had the option to always go back to Japan if things didn’t go so well stateside without receiving a ton of criticism because their failures would have been characterized as “difference in style of play between Japan and America.” Not Nomo. He didn’t have the luxury of being able to go back home. He put everything on the line in coming to the Majors. He had no choice but to succeed.

Nomo’s legacy lies beyond the precedents he set for his fellow countrymen dreaming to play in the Majors.  Were it not for his successful career, we wouldn’t be seeing the Yankees play their opener in Tokyo. The so called “posting system” that enabled Matsui and Daisuke to make their move to the Majors would have never been implemented and without Nomo, the World Baseball Classic might not have been established. And we can’t overlook that Nomo brought many baseball fans, who were still upset about the 1994-95 baseball strike, back to the ballparks with his tornado delivery. His style and success helped renew interest in the sport that America calls its favorite pastime.

While we can’t give Nomo all the credit for the globalization of baseball in the last decade, the success that he enjoyed encouraged 42 other Japanese players to successfully make their way to the Majors since then.  This alone speaks volumes. Sure, Ichiro might have ended up playing in the Majors anyway, but perhaps not as early as 2001.  And Nomo’s success certainly influenced general managers across the MLB to look outside of the U.S. to not only Japan, but other Asian countries as well. The infusion of Latin and Asian players into the Majors in the last 15 years, along with the additional revenue the MLB has generated with its globalization initiatives, must, at least in part, be credited to him.

With all of these accomplishments, is there room for him in the Baseball Hall of Fame?  Not just for his impressive statistics, but for the legacy he left behind? Even when he retired and moved back to Japan, where he was hired to be the Orix Buffaloes’ manager, his desire to implement the American/MLB style of practice and conditioning was unwelcome, and he was eventually let go. It’s truly a shame that someone who has set so many records in Japanese baseball history has yet to be inducted into even the Japanese Baseball Hall of Fame.  In fact, there is still a debate around whether he will ever be inducted because of Japan’s grudge over his defection to the Majors 16 years ago.  So tell me, America, for a man who left his home and country and changed the MLB both with how he played and for those that followed him, can we and our Hall of Fame give this guy the love that he deserves?

 

The Goddess of Victory Forgives and Forgets

In Football, Philadelphia on July 11, 2011 at 7:00 AM

A few months ago, the NFL handed out its awards for the 2010 season. One of those awards went to Michael Vick, who was named the Comeback Player of the Year by the Associated Press. On the surface, it makes sense: The previous season, he completed 6 passes for 86 yards as the backup to Donavan McNabb.  Before that, he hadn’t played since 2006.  This past season, however, he threw for over 3,000 yards, rushed for another 700 or so and had a total of 30 touchdowns. I watch a lot of NFL, and there’s no doubt this was the most dramatically pronounced improvement of any player in the league.

Before I continue, it’s important I disclose to you that I hate Michael Vick as much as you can hate someone you’ve never met.

I realize that sounds pretty harsh. But I personally believe that animals have intrinsic value, that they do not exist solely to serve as means for our ends. That means all of the following: I find any testing done on animals deplorable, regardless of the real or perceived benefits to mankind; I consider the very idea of purchasing an animal—any animal—offensive; I believe the very idea of hunting and fishing as “sport” is a blight on mankind; and I believe Gandhi said it best when he remarked, “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”

I’m well aware that these views may verge on heresy for some. I’m fine with that. I don’t hold animals in higher regard than humans, and nothing I say about Vick would suggest otherwise.

But Vick’s actions aren’t simple. They require analysis way above my pay grade. It’s not as easy as evoking “they’re just dogs.” 99% of those who’ve uttered “they’re just dogs” would not stand by and allow something like dog-baiting to occur in their presence. Vick didn’t simply participate in dogfighting. He led and financed an interstate crime syndicate, and he hosted it on his own property. He hung and drowned dogs who “underperformed.” It’s not an issue of culture—that defense is as racist as it is ridiculous. It’s not an issue of mankind’s dominion over animals. It’s a question about the very value of life. I truly believe that Vick’s lack of respect for life extends to humans. I truly believe that Vick will be forever incapable of understanding the gravity of his actions.

With all of that out of the way, we arrive at the question that was posed recently here at Perfecting the Upset: Do we, the fans, forgive and forget athletes’ transgressions too easily?

The short answer? Yes. Absolutely. In general terms, athletes are held to a lower standard than the rest of us. To some extent, we expect athletes to screw up: Drunk driving, domestic violence, hanging out with the wrongest of crowds at the wrongest of times and places, etc. That’s why they seem to receive relatively minor punishments for behavior that would ruin the lives of the rest of us. There was a time a few years ago where it seemed like every member of the Cincinnati Bengals had been arrested for something. It became a running joke on the sports talk radio circuit. The details of the alleged crimes didn’t matter after a while.

When Vick was sentenced to 23 months in prison, many were outraged at the severity of the punishment. It was frequently weighed against the punishment given to Leonard Little, the St. Louis Rams’ defensive end who ran a red light and plowed into another car. He was drunk, over the legal limit and he killed the woman in the other vehicle. His punishment was four years probation and 1,000 hours of community service. He was suspended for eight games by the NFL. Little killed a woman and received no jail time. Vick killed dogs and ended up in Leavenworth for almost two years. People said, “Something’s wrong with that.” And they are absolutely right: The two punishments were way out of whack. But the problem wasn’t that Vick’s punishment was too severe; it was that Little’s wasn’t severe enough. How many of you even know who Leonard Little is, much less remember his crimes?

Just a few days ago, Nike signed Vick to an endorsement deal four years after they severed ties with him. Forgive and forget? Nike weighed the pros and the cons and they came to the conclusion that it makes business sense to have Vick out there on their behalf. Nike is banking on the fact that those of us who buy their products have forgiven by now (or don’t care). Nike can take the hit from those who, like me, will never buy another Nike product.

The Philadelphia Eagles had faith that their fans had forgiven Vick by 2009. He’s now the face of the franchise. The Ed Block Courage Award Foundation believed fans had forgiven Vick when they gave him their award the same year. The general consensus on talk radio is that he is forgiven (or, in some cases, there was nothing to forgive in the first place). The Humane Society has allowed Vick to participate in their End Dogfighting campaign. President Barack Obama forgave Vick, praising the Eagles’ owner for giving Vick a second chance. Obama said that “too many prisoners never get a fair second chance.” Then again, how many prisoners have PR teams and Tony Dungy vouching for them in the special, peculiar Tony Dungy kind of way?

I don’t think anyone has forgotten, though. Vick’s name will be forever synonymous with dogfighting. In the end, it seems that forgiving is more important and easier than forgetting. Forgiving is especially easy when it accompanies winning. Winning is very powerful force. Kobe Bryant has been forgiven since his rape charges in 2003. The eight years have helped, but the Lakers’ two championships really helped. Ray Lewis led the Ravens to a win in Super Bowl XXXV and was named its MVP. This was a year after his involvement (to whatever extent) in the stabbing deaths of two people. His past transgressions might even be forgotten at this point. When we talk about Lewis now, we talk about his place in the pantheon of football players, not his past.

Forgiveness does not require winning, though. Winning just makes it easier. What forgiveness should require is remorse, some sign that the transgressor knows the wrong in their transgression. Some people don’t care if he’s remorseful at all. Many people believe Vick is genuinely remorseful and these people are closer to Vick than I am. When he walked out of prison a free man, he had a goal to be back in the NFL. We had the expectation he would be back. We wondered what team would take that risk. Vick is back to making many millions of dollars playing football and many of us are back to cheering him on.

I have a hard time believing that Vick’s total lack of compassion can be overcome with a little less than two years in prison. I hear him say, “My daughters miss having [a dog], and that’s the hardest thing: Telling them that we can’t have one because of my actions.” That doesn’t show me that he learned anything or that he’s rehabilitated. It shows me there’s still a bit of a persecution complex lurking beneath the polished and prepared talking points.

It has been said that he paid his “debt to society.” I’m not sure what that means. But obviously many people do. If he continues to play as he did in the 2010 season, if by some miracle the Eagles win a Super Bowl, the percentage of people who forgive will increase. That’s how it works, for better or for worse.

So, do we sports fans forgive and forget too easily? If Leonard Little can slam into a woman while driving drunk and play in the Super Bowl less than a year later, the answer is yes. If it only takes four years to go from the most vilified athlete, possibly ever, to being the Comeback Player of the Year and making $20 million, the answer is yes. If the decision to forgive is in any way based on the success of the player, the answer is yes. And it’s not just the fans: The establishment, the leagues, the companies—they all forgive too easily.

A fellow contributor here commented, “America sure loves a comeback story, huh?” We do indeed. And Vick’s comeback is one we rarely see. His comeback is truly amazing. What that comeback signifies about sports fans, what it says about our society and what it teaches the kids that may look up to him, remains to be seen.

Love and Bruises: The Curse of the Mets

In Baseball, New York on July 7, 2011 at 10:00 AM

I’ll never forget that night. Thursday, October 19, 2006. I’ll never forget the pitch. A knee buckling, filthy 12-6 curveball that seemed to just drop off the face of the earth. With just a single pitch, not only was our season over, it felt like someone had sucked the living soul out of my body. I felt empty and lifeless. Standing in that raucous bar, I was absolutely stunned. That feeling quickly gave way to anger and frustration. This was our season! We were destined to go all the way. In many aspects, it was the best New York Mets team that I had ever seen, even better than 2000. The 2006 Mets were the perfect blend of youth and experience, clutch hitting, pitching and defense. However, as many can attest, such is the curse of being a Mets fan. Heartbreak is almost a prerequisite, a sort of “hazing” if you will, that one must endure to enter the brotherhood of bleeding blue and orange.  Though we’ve been crushed by the reality of missed opportunities and unfulfilled expectations, with sick perversion we look forward to next April every year. Things are going to be different this season. I know it. And so, I curse the day I became a Mets fan.

To be honest, I can’t pinpoint a single game or moment that made me a Mets fan. Growing up in Long Island, long summer days were spent playing baseball and home run derby at the park. We’d emulate our favorite players’ batting stances and pitching motions. In particular, I was infamous for my Jeff Innis sidearm delivery impression, and my Daryl Strawberry silky smooth swing was uncanny.  My father was particularly enamored with the ‘86 Mets. He loved Keith Hernandez and Gary Carter. We spent many hazy summer nights watching the Mets on TV after he’d get home from work. I loved it when he told me stories of that season, and how the they were unlike any other team he’d ever watched. Shea Stadium in nearby Flushing was a mere 30 minute drive from home, so we’d go to at least one game a season. Combine all the aforementioned factors, and unfortunately, a Mets fan was born.

There are a few distinct moments that have truly defined what it is to be a Mets fan. Game 7 of the 2006 National League Championship Series (NLCS) at Shea Stadium is one of them. The season itself was refreshing, to say the least. Promising young manager Willie Randolph had the team playing loose and fun baseball, culminating in a 97-65 record and a NL East title in only his second season as skipper.  We swept the Dodgers in the Divisional Series (NLDS), so optimism and expectations were at an all-time high. As the underdog St. Louis Cardinals rolled into town, it was hard not to think that this was our year.  A great series ensued, and it ultimately came down to a final Game 7 at Shea Stadium for the right to advance to the biggest stage. As a baseball fan, this was one of the best games I’ve ever watched. As a Mets fan, this was by far the most soul crushing and painful game to date. The very definition of what it means to be a Mets fan can be epitomized by this Game 7.  A 1-1 game in the top of the sixth inning, Scott Rolen crushed an Ollie Perez pitch into deep left field.  My heart sank. I’ve heard that sound before; it was the sound of a baseball leaving the stadium. I was right: The ball flew high into the crisp late autumn night. Then a moment of brilliance ensued. Endy Chavez scaled the wall and made a brilliant snow-cone catch and had the wits to double up Jim Edmonds at first.

 

“Perez deals. Fastball, hit in the air to left field… that’s deep. Back goes Chavez, back near the wall… leaping… and… he made the catch! He took a home run away from Rolen! Trying to get back to first, Edmonds; he’s doubled off! And the inning is over! Endy Chavez saved the day! He reached high over the left field wall, right in front of the Mets’ visitor’s bullpen and pulled back a two-run homer. He went to the apex of his leap and caught it in the webbing of his glove… with his elbow up above the fence. A miraculous play, by Endy Chavez, and then Edmonds is doubled off first and Oliver Perez escapes the sixth inning. The play of the year, the play… maybe… of the franchise’s history for Endy Chavez! The inning is over!”

—Gary Cohen, WFAN, October 19, 2006

 

Amazing. The single greatest defensive play I’ve ever witnessed couldn’t have come at a more clutch time. The Amazin’s were back, and we had life. Hope. But you know how this story goes. This is the Mets we’re talking about. You know, the same ol’ Mets that build up your dreams of something grand only to have the carpet pulled from underneath and expose you to the harsh reality of, well, being a Mets fan. And suddenly, we started playing like the same ol’ Mets. With the pressure mounting, bases loaded and only one out in the bottom half of the same inning, we would fail to drive in a run, with our hero Endy Chavez getting the last out. You could almost feel the once rowdy Shea Stadium deflate. The Cardinals would go on to take a 3-1 lead in the top of the ninth courtesy of a 2-run home run by Yadier Molina. The task was daunting: 3 outs and 3 runs to win, to break the curse.  The bottom of the ninth inning started with promise as Valentin and Chavez both singled off Cardinals rookie closer Adam Wainwright. It pains me to type his name. The decibel level at the bar had reached a dangerous level. Let’s go Mets! Even though Wainwright would retire the next two Mets batters, Paul Lo Duca’s patient approach led to a walk that loaded the bases.  The stage was set.

There are few better moments in all of sports better than waiting for a crucial pitch to be delivered late in October. If the Mets were to break the curse of being the Mets, this was the perfect moment. There was no one I’d rather have up at the plate than the next batter, Carlos Beltran. 41 homeruns, 116 RBI, All-Star, Gold Glove winner, Silver Slugger winner. This was why the Mets shelled out the big bucks for the quiet centerfielder.  First pitch, strike 1. Second pitch, strike 2. I looked at my best friend and fellow Mets fan. No words were needed. As I took a deep gulp and tried to compose myself for what was to follow, an undeniably ominous feeling crept through my bones. Ya gotta believe, they say. Wainwright would pause at the top of the mound for what seemed like an eternity. He then delivered one of the filthiest, nastiest curveballs I’ve ever seen. As the ball dropped 12-6 on the outside corner of the plate and into the catcher’s mitt, Beltran still had his bat on his shoulders. I knew my dreams were shattered. Our clean-up hitter, our big home run man, our hope to break this curse, didn’t even swing the bat. It was all over. I stood stoically as some Yankees fans came over to offer a kind word. It’s hard to recall what they said exactly because the whole bar had become eerily silent, and everything around me had become a blur.  Absolutely gutted. Then rage. He didn’t even swing the bat! Just like that, one pitch and order in the universe was restored. The Mets disappointed yet again.

As crushed as I was, the next April I was once again full of optimism and hope.  And of course, it was no different this past spring.  Being a Mets fan is somewhat of a sick addiction.  Bleeding blue and orange means having to deal with Tom Glavine (who was never a true Met) give up 7 runs in the first inning of a must-win game during the historic 2007 collapse.  It means having the same thing happen again against the same team the following season. It means having to deal with Bobby Bonilla, Kaz Matsui and Roger Cedeno.  It means being second best no matter how well you play to a more polished big brother in pin-stripes. But even though I curse the day I became a Mets fan, I wouldn’t have it any other way. We are a proud and persevering bunch, and we will always look forward to April with dreams (delusions) of a World Series.

The Tin Man Always Had A Heart

In Basketball, Houston on July 5, 2011 at 10:00 AM

Tracy Lamar McGrady, Jr. was drafted 9th overall by the Toronto Raptors in the 1997 NBA Draft.  He came straight out of high school and mainly played a reserve role in his first two seasons.  A year after T-Mac’s arrival, the Raptors drafted his cousin Vince Carter with the 5th pick: The high flying duo instantly built expectations for the Canadian franchise.  They finally led the Raptors to a playoff berth in 2000 only to get swept by the Knicks in the first round.  Then, in order to escape the shadow of his older cousin, he forced the hand of the Raptors into a sign-and-trade that sent him to the Orlando Magic.

During the four years he spent in sunny Florida, he was consistently considered one of the top 5 players in the league.

In the summer of 2004, after McGrady successfully defended his scoring crown, the Magic agreed to send him and a slew of mostly forgettable players to the Houston Rockets for local favorite Steve Francis and another slew of forgettable players.  There, McGrady continued his statistical onslaught, averaging 24 points, 5.8 rebounds and 5.8 assists in four relatively healthy seasons including a memorable comeback against the Spurs that may be his only Lone Star highlight.  But his body started to give out; amidst controversy, he was traded to the Knicks in what felt like a mercy transaction.  He finished the season, unwanted, and was signed by the Detroit Pistons last summer for a veteran’s minimum.  This past season, he had his first injury-free year in three years.  We even saw hints of the old T-Mac, though they were few and far between.  Now, with his eventual retirement looming, T-Mac will never again be in the discussion for the best player in the NBA.

For T-Mac, statistical success has not translated to critical praise: Players like Karl Malone and Charles Barkley all receive knocks as players because they never won a championship; T-Mac’s legacy is even more tarnished as he has never even advanced beyond the first round. Despite averaging 29.5 points, 6.9 rebounds, 6.2 assists and 1.3 steals in the playoffs as the main star of his teams, his doughnut trips to the second round has led basketball experts and historians to scratch him off the all-time greats list.  He’ll always be remembered as one of those players who never lived up to their physical talents.

But that isn’t exactly fair…

First and foremost, McGrady was never given the personnel to go far into the postseason.  Even the greatest of players need a team that’s better than dead weight: Every championship team has been full of all-stars and above average role players.  Just compare the past 3 championship teams:

2011 Mavericks: Dirk Nowtizki, Shawn Marion, Tyson Chandler, Jason Kidd and Jason Terry
2010/2009 Lakers: Kobe Bryant, Pau Gasol, Lamar Odom, Andrew Bynum and Ron Artest
2008 Celtics: Kevin Garnett, Ray Allen, Paul Pierce, Rajon Rondo and Kendrick Perkins

In fact, I could list every single championship team and a plethora of names would jump out to even the most casual of basketball fans.  T-Mac has only been paired with one recognizable player in Yao Ming, and the rest of his teams never truly fit the bill of a genuine contender.  Here’s a basic list of his key contributors: an over-the-hill (OTH) Darrell Armstrong, OTH Horace Grant, OTH (and fat) Shawn Kemp, Rafer Alston, Tyronn Lue, OTH Bob Sura, OTH Juwan Howard, OTH David Wesley, OTH Clarence Weatherspoon, Derek Anderson, Luther Head, etc.  When I write OTH, I mean on the wrong side of 30.  Besides Yao Ming, none of T-Mac’s teammates could have pulled off being on the starting rotation of a true contender.  Great players are recognized by non-fans.  My fiancée knows who LeBron James, Dwyane Wade and Dwight Howard are, but she couldn’t name more than five teams in the league.  Most argue that T-Mac’s so-called greatness should’ve at least carried him past the first round, but instead his lack of discipline and heart failed to get his teams over the hump.

In a recent interview, Jon Barry, NBA journeyman and a member of the Rockets during T-Mac’s stay, was asked about his biggest regret as a player: “I couldn’t help Tracy McGrady get past the first round. The whole team saw the talent, heart and dedication of T-Mac, but we just weren’t good enough to help him get over that hump.”  This comes from a former teammate, acknowledging that the Rockets, who had a better cast than the Magic, failed to surround him with the talent necessary for postseason success.  LeBron showed us in recent years that a subpar cast isn’t enough even when you’re the heir-apparent to Michael Jordan.  Even Karl Malone, paired with the all-time assists and steals leader in John Stockton, never won a championship.   In the same vein that Malone, Charles Barkley and crew had to compete in the Age of Jordan, T-Mac had to play in an era when the Western Conference was unusually stacked.

But T-Mac had Yao: That should mean something, right?  But those Rockets fans who’ve obsessed over our pitfalls know better.  There’s no need to discuss Yao’s fragility as that’s deserving of its own article.  Yao was (and still is) the Rockets’ cash cow, whether the organization admits it or not.  Retaining Yao, even into next year regardless of how much of a liability his injuries have become, is important if only because Yao is a significant financial asset.  But Yao’s body and game were never meant to be paired with someone like T-Mac. In his prime, T-Mac represented an ideal NBA body: 6’9″ with a 7’3″ wingspan, 42-inch vertical jump, 235 pounds with only 8% body fat and ran the 40-yard dash in less than 4.5 seconds.  He represented the perfect combination of height, weight, speed and strength to be successful in the league—a build like LeBron but with T-Mac’s quickness making up for his lack of similar upper body strength.  This quickness suited him a fast-paced system, not one that has to have a half-court set with Yao.  In addition, Yao’s game has always been easily neutralized: Too uncoordinated to catch quick passes, too tall to have true success with his back facing the basket, too slow and un-athletic to defend against players that would front him.  The list goes on.  I’m a fan of Yao only because the man always says and does the right thing and has a lot of heart.  But heart only gets you so far.  I’ve never met anyone who agreed that the two superstars’ games complemented each other, but everyone agreed that they were indeed “superstars” and would bring in the “kwan” and “show the Rockets the money.”  (Jerry Maguire quotes seem quite fitting when discussing money and heart together.)  The Rockets would’ve had more success if they had traded Yao for versatile and mobile big men, or if they had traded T-Mac for knock down shooters and defenders (something that Mark Cuban would have done without hesitation)—but the Rockets held onto their “superstars” as money in the pocket instead of building a better ball club to advance to the second round and beyond.  The failures of Team USA basketball in the early 2000s have taught us that you can’t just stick a bunch of good players together and expect to win.  They have to gel and complement each other.  Let’s put this into a statistical perspective: Until the end of the 2007 season, the Rockets won 59% of games with Yao on the floor and 70% without.

McGrady has been called the “Tin Man,” referencing The Wizard of Oz character who lacked a heart.  I spoke of a former teammate’s defense of T-Mac, but there are a couple of statistical arguments against this as well.  McGrady was always one of the most efficient players in the NBA (even leading the league in 2002-03 ahead of another monster season by Shaquille O’Neal).  But we often overlook this feat.  The more minutes you play, the more susceptible you are to reducing the quality of your play, and T-Mac averaged around 40 minutes per game from age 21 to 26.  As such, T-Mac’s efficiency always rose in the playoffs.  He literally averaged more of everything in every statistical category when the postseason arrived, and doing more of everything should show the effort and heart—except that you can only do so much sometimes.  McGrady also came back from multiple injuries.  If he truly lacked the heart and desire to win, wouldn’t he have called it quits and gone to Disneyland with his $100 million?  The long hours, the constant media ridicule and having to play with teammates that he simply couldn’t depend on—when you combine all this, “lack of heart and desire” is the easy, lazy criticism because there’s no way to really disprove it.  In football, Carson Palmer can only nod his head in agreement.  He was a top 5 quarterback in the league in his prime, had multiple injuries, never a great supporting cast to surround him—and now he’d rather face retirement rather than once again carry the weight of a mediocre franchise on his shoulders.

I’ve always found myself to be a staunch defender of T-Mac’s legacy.  While I’ve felt he was in the wrong sometimes, I’ve never doubted his ability, heart and desire.  If we replaced Kobe Bryant with T-Mac, would the Lakers have still won those championships?  I believe so.  Just look at the seasons where Kobe was going solo and failed to make it past the first round despite leading the league in scoring titles in back to back years (sound familiar?).  In fact, he didn’t become the Kobe that we will remember until Chris Wallace gift-wrapped Pau Gasol to the Lakers in February of 2008.  If T-Mac had been blessed with the same luck, I’m quite sure that all these knocks against him would’ve never existed.  Because when you win, history shows us that people let you get away with even rape.

A Farewell Letter to Chris Drury

In Hockey, New York on July 4, 2011 at 10:00 AM

“O Captain! my Captain! Our fearful trip is done…”

-Walt Whitman

On June 30th, 2007, I wanted you. I wanted you bad. Well, truthfully, I wanted you or Scott Gomez. As an organization, the first line center was seemingly an unfillable void since 1997, when Mark Messier left for Vancouver after only a year of being reunited with Wayne Gretzky. Much like the Flyers can never find a goalie and the Canucks cannot win the Cup, it seemed the Rangers could not have an elite first line pivot.

It loomed even larger in the 2007 off-season when, very much against Jaromir Jagr’s wishes, we let Michael Nylander and his army of 19 children walk, where he eventually signed a disastrous deal with the Washington Capitals. Jagr was past his prime then and couldn’t do it alone. He needed a new center and you and Scotty Gomez were the prizes of the unrestricted free agent class that season, and you both happened to be first line level centers.

Never did I dream that we would acquire both of you. Never did I dream that it would quickly turn into a nightmare. It was elating in the moment, though, watching you guys flip a puck to see who would wear #23.

True, you had just ripped out Ranger hearts in the playoffs by scoring a game-tying goal in game five with 7.7 seconds left. But you grew up in Connecticut and, more importantly, grew up a Ranger fan. It was a coincidence that you scored a game tying goal with 7.7 seconds left, the same as the Devils’ Valeri Zelepukin did in 1994, though one that was impossible to not feel sore about in the moment as there was no Stefan Matteu to step up, only Maxim Afinogenov to twist the knife in our hearts deeper.

Gomez had his own issues, too, coming from the loathed New Jersey Devils, where he was regularly a Ranger killer. But he loved playing in the Garden, where he could take the puck from his own goal line, zip through the D untouched like they weren’t even there and put one right past Mike Dunham, or even Mike Richter and Henrik Lundqvist. He tallied 4 goals and 2 assists in three games at the Garden in his ’99-00 rookie season, including a hat trick the first time he stepped on Garden ice. Of course it’s not as easy to do that when you’re not playing against the Rangers D.

But neither you nor Scott could find a fit with Jagr. 25 goals and 33 assists for 58 was not a bad return, but not the 70 points we were expecting and the -3 plus/minus on a team where the only other players minus were the fourth line and a aged Brendan Shannahan was deeply worrying.

Still, after Jagr left you were named captain. Rightly so. You were fulfilling the dream of millions in the NY Metro area—the entire sports fan world, really—to play for the team you grew up rooting for. In explaining your departure from Buffalo you explained to the fans that it was like a kid from Rochester being offered a chance to play for the Sabres. You had to take it. Just that fact made you instantly beloved by fans of a certain generation (mine, born in the early 80s and older), though your diminishing skills and silent, lead-by-example style did nothing to impress younger fans who were not sated by the Stanley Cup win in 1994 as my generation was. They could not identify with the famous “Now I Can Die in Peace” banner held up that night. They didn’t witness a cup.

To them, you were supposed to be Captain Clutch, the Rangers’ version of Derek Jeter who would score key and late goals like the one you scored against us in the playoffs.  You did have 7 game-winners, but there were not that many clutch goals to speak of outside of the one in Chicago in that ridiculously penalty-filled game, or the one in Calgary where we lost in a shoot out anyway. In the following three seasons, you had 3 combined game winners, as you morphed into something of a penalty killing defensive specialist, which, let’s face it, we could have just kept Jed Ortmeyer at $600k a season for if that’s what we needed.

You and Ryan Callahan did Ranger fans proud at the Vancouver Olympics, but we wondered why you lacked that same drive when you played for us. We saw the same Cally on the ice at the Garden as we saw in Vancouver,, but you were different, like that jersey mattered more to you than the Ranger jersey. I’m sure it didn’t, but it felt that way at times.

And then came the injuries. The concussions, the twice-broken finger that never really healed and the knee that had to be scoped that also never really healed, which limited you to 24 games played, 1 goal and 4 assists last season. Just not acceptable for $7.05m a season, and so Glen Sather was forced to buy out your contract for the Rangers to stay competitive.

You’ll surely be missed, even though your time here was largely a failed experiment. You’ll be wished well on your new team (until you score against us) if your knee ever heals enough to resume playing. Ryan Callahan will probably replace you as captain either this season or next. Someone will be issued the #23, though I hope we keep it vacant for a season.

But things move quickly in sports, Chris, and we’ve already spent your cap money on Brad Richards, who comes on a 9-year, $60m deal that, while exciting as he fills every need we have (veteran leader, elite, top line center and powerplay quarterback) is somewhat worrying when we think of the deals we made in 2007 with you and Scotty. Though his cap hit is a relatively tame $6.66m a season (maybe a little numeric payback for the Devils having 19,040 seats at the Meadowlands), the 9 year term is an awful lot to live up to in New York.

Childhood Chris, who used to go to baseball practice in Rangers sweatpants en route to winning the Little League World Series, would think this was a good move to make.

It was, sadly, the only move to make.

Cheering for a False Idol

In Baseball, Houston on June 30, 2011 at 10:00 AM

My heroes always carried a glove, not a cape.  Somewhere in my closet, I had a nice collection of comic books, but they were just a collection.  My pride and joy were my baseball cards.  I spent countless hours memorizing stats, sorting them and creating trades in my head (an early precursor to fantasy baseball).  These weren’t just guys playing baseball.  They represented everything I wanted to be.  Simply put, the Houston Astros were my life.  To a large degree, they still are, but it’s not and will never be the same again.  As a kid, I was fortunate enough to have had many encounters with these superheroes, but in the end, those experiences have become a touch too bittersweet.

Ken Caminiti was the greatest 3rd baseman I’d ever seen.  Maybe he wasn’t, but when you’re nine, you have a distorted frame of reference.  All I knew was that he could stop a bullet down the line and fire off a fastball to first that would have made Nolan Ryan blush.  Yeah, and he swung a mean stick.  But more than that, he was a good guy, and he played for my team.  Bagwell, Biggio, Gonzalez, they all were.  How could they not be?  I cheered for them, I wore a smile for weeks after I got one of them to sign a ball for me, and I religiously watched them at night.  Even after Caminiti was traded to San Diego, he was still a Houston Astro for me.  Being one was more than a jersey; he just happened to play elsewhere.  I had no perspective at that age about the “business” end of sports.  It was so much more than just that.

In 1996, Ken Caminiti reached the top with the Padres.  He was named the 1996 National League MVP and won his second consecutive Golden Glove.  A couple of years later, he made it to the Series.  And like many athletes, he had a rough end to his career.  Suddenly, he could no longer make the plays or manage his way through the pain.  Ultimately, he flamed out at first base for the Braves.  All in all, though, it was still a great career.

And then it happened.  Eight years and many confessions later, Caminiti was dead.  I had lost a part of me.  I had lost my innocence.  Superheroes weren’t supposed to die.  Or have a cocaine habit.  Or cheat.  Watching his fall was painful.  I poured over his Sports Illustrated story and tales of steroid abuse.  All those stats I had memorized now had a nice, big asterisk.

But this is not about steroids or other drugs.  It’s about last piece of the puzzle that Caminiti’s demise helped me figure out about baseball, sports and, well, everything.  What I saw so clearly as a kid became an impossibility as an adult.

Realizing that so many of my idols were false idols makes it hard for me to be a baseball fan nowadays, or at least one that’s not cynical.  Baseball is a proud and stubborn sport, to say the least.  It’s basked in tradition and numbers.  And for a good part of my youth, many of those playing at the highest level blatantly disregarded this history.  I’d like to believe baseball has cleaned itself up over the last few years.  And while the cynic in me is ready to forgive the sport, I refuse to forget.  After all, I still find myself comparing every third basemen today to Caminiti.

But cynicism has its limits: As an adult, I realize athletes aren’t mythological.  They’re just people like you and me.  Like many, Caminiti had his flaws and made his share of mistakes.  Unfortunately, his mistakes (and those of other athletes) were put in the spotlight for everyone to see.  But I still believe he was a good guy.  He had to be.

You Have to Start Somewhere

In Chicago, Football, Soccer on June 29, 2011 at 10:00 AM

I wasn’t raised a sports fan.  I was raised, by my father, to love the New York Giants and thus loathe the Philadelphia Eagles, but I couldn’t tell you anything about the sport. My mother, in an attempt to raise children with less rigid gender roles, enrolled both my brother and I in soccer and ballet.  She figured we would experience different ends of the spectrum and decide for ourselves which suited us better.  Though we participated in both activities, we eventually fell into traditional roles: He competed in soccer and track & field, whereas I continued dancing three to four times a week.  (There is an anecdote about my standing on the soccer pitch, twirling my pigtails; I was quite disinterested.)  I continued not caring about sports for many, many years.

Then, in 2004, I began dating a man who was an ardent Chicago Bears fan.  At the beginning of our relationship, it was easy to avoid the games: Adam would be busy on Sunday afternoons, and I’d find something else to do.  Football gave me an excuse to have boozy brunches with my ladies.  (Though, come to think of it, I probably didn’t need an excuse.)  Once we began cohabiting, though, the NFL was much harder to avoid.  Initially, we struck a bargain: If I received physical attention in the form of cuddling, I’d watch the games with him.  Then the bargain extended to the bar: I’d only come if at least one of my beers was purchased for me and there were wings.  Inadvertently, I started learning about the game.  At the beginning, I would make up meanings for the call gestures: holding wasn’t holding, it was fisting; that’s not a false start, but rather a sign for the bossa nova (time for a dance break)!  The discovery of a new favorite sound made the game even more entertaining: When the rival team attempted a field goal and missed by hitting the posts, the resounding klongggggggg was pure pleasure.  Eventually, I did actually accumulate some knowledge, though I’m still nowhere near the level of my male friends who make the calls before the referees do.

RedEye reporter Alexia Elejalde-Ruiz listed, in a 2007 guest-post on Luis Arroyave’s blog Red Card, five ways to engage your girlfriend in sports.  In her case, the sport in question was soccer, but these tips work across the board.  Elejade-Ruiz nailed it:

1. Take her to a game
2. Take the time to talk to her about the sport
3. Show her photos of the team studs
4. Invite her to join your co-ed team or at least invite her to watch you play
5. Bargain with her

My path to being interested in sports on any level hit each of these marks.  My good friend, Danny, worked for a time on the Major League Soccer website.  That, combined with a trip to Adam’s Chicago family, gave the boys a perfect opportunity to introduce me to soccer.  (I still think it should be called football, as it is everywhere else in the world and is far more accurate.)  As I said before, what I knew of soccer extended to the tips of my braids, but they were committed to changing that.  And what better way than to take me to a live game?  Not just any live game, though: The opening of Chicagoland area’s Toyota Park in June 2006.  When it comes to sports, live games are good, opening days are better and grand openings are best—talk about fanfare!  During the game they gave me insights and explanations on how the game was played (much the same way they would on Sunday afternoons at football bars).  Our seats were not the best in the arena, but from where we were sitting I could see many of the players and quickly developed a crush on Chicago Fire’s lanky Nate Jaqua (now of the Seattle Sounders FC), whom I started referring to as “Naqua.”

Just in that one evening, the boys managed to hit the first three points on Elejalde-Ruiz’s list.  My re-introduction and education in football had already been covered via bargaining, bribery and, though I didn’t mention it before, finding a crush (or two).  But what about that fourth point?  Though New York City is rife with social sports leagues, none of my male friends played football. They did play street hockey, though…

Learning to Love the Hated

In Basketball, Houston, Loyalty on June 27, 2011 at 10:00 AM

There are people in Kentucky who will threaten bloody murder upon hearing the words “Christian” and “Laettner” one after another.  Because his shot was the kind of moment that creates hatred in the heart.  It’s the kind of moment that spontaneously imbues everlasting enmity towards not just players, but whole franchises.  And tragically, every fan has one of these moments.  For me, it was John Stockton’s three-pointer against my Rockets in Game 6 of the 1997 Western Conference Finals.

Little did I know that it was just the beginning: The Jazz went on to knock us out of the playoffs three more times over the next decade (1998, 2007, 2008).  On their first go-around, the Jazz were hated for being ruthless: On top of Stockton, you had the hard-to-love, nearly mechanical mailman in Karl Malone and James Bond-villain rejectee Greg Ostertag.  (Face it: If they remade The Spy Who Loved Me, Richard Kiel would have had some serious competition for the role of Jaws.)  As if that wasn’t enough of a trio to despise, Jerry Sloan came off as a brutally exacting coach.  He kept the Jazz competitive every year without actually winning.  They were the NBA-counterpart of the 90s Braves (though Bobby Cox did get his World Series win).  It’s frustrating seeing a team fail so often, especially when they do so at your expense.  Then came the crew of Boozer, AK47, D-Will and Ashton Kutcher.  While lacking the same sort of instant revulsion the old school crew brought us, Sloan’s basic presence still allowed them to embody the sort of cold swagger that reminded us of the Stockton-Malone era.  The first round exits in 2007 and 2008 were effectively the only real shot we ever had for the McGrady-Yao combo to bring home a trophy.  And the Jazz killed it.  They dashed our hopes, slashed our tires, left us on a ditch with our necks spewing blood on broken glass.  The team was broken, spirits dismantled.  Fans were on the verge of complete resignation.  The only thoughts that ran through our minds: “Fucking Stockton.”  It always went back to him.  To that one shot.

On February 9 of this year, Jerry Sloan coached his last game as the coach of the Utah Jazz.  On February 23, Deron Williams was traded to the New Jersey Nets.  Boozer left the summer before in free agency, as did Korver.  It’s inevitable that Kirilenko will bolt this summer (possibly to the Russian-soiled Nyets or literally to Russian soil).  And now the Jazz are no longer the team that I hated.  Been a huge fan of Al Jefferson for years, watching him toil away in the Minnesota cold.  Like Devin Harris and am looking for good things from Derrick Favors.  And when on draft night Enes Kanter found himself in Salt Lake City, I started feeling guilty.

I kind of want to support these guys.

Does that make me disloyal?  Am I suddenly a treacherous fool unworthy of cheering for the Rocket Red?  The Jazz and the Rockets don’t have a geographical rivalry: It’s been a purely incidental product of chance playoff seedings.  We’re not even in the same division anymore.  And the bad blood is mostly within a 15 year time frame.  Or wait: Am I just making excuses?

At what point are we allowed to stop hating certain teams?  If the Red Sox move to Montreal and change their name to the Expos, will Yankee fans still be mandated to wish ill on their pitchers and hock long-distance loogies at batters on-deck?   The Seattle SuperSonics were the bane of my existence as an early 90s Rockets fan.  But they’re the Thunder now.  In Oklahoma City.  With a crop of young talent headlined by a Longhorn.  I support them without guilt.  Is there a flaw in our logic of who we can and cannot hate?  The Jazz aren’t moving, but their pieces are drastically different from before.  The only real vestige of the old guard is Okur, and even he may be gone after next year.  Is change of culture enough of a justification?

Between love and hate, the memories we try to forget (or grudgingly hold onto because it feeds us the fire we sometimes need), there has to be a way to learn to love the hated.  Blind hate does a disservice to the beauty of a game.  It does disservice to players who are trying to make something of themselves.  All indications point to Kanter being the kind of guy you want on your team.  Shall we force upon him an unnecessary, inherited hatred?  We support teams because we like the sport.  The sport is the priority.  When we let blind hatred ruin the appreciation of a game, are we even worthy of being a fan?