left behind!

Those who know and love me are fully aware of my little jaunt over to the left coast last week. It seems that my folks felt I didn’t get enough golf over the holidays and needed to come out for one more week before the new semester.

Rule 15c. Temporary Fan Status

Excepting the lovely company, Sunday was a wretched day. What the hell happened?! I could speculate, but there are far better people in this world to offer analysis and conjecture on the situation. The last thing anyone needs is another 2 bits tossed into the growing bank of Mets mockery.

There are a lot of things that go through one’s head when witnessing a collective meltdown of extraordinary players. Like all good fans, I feel the bizzaro need to take partial responsibility. In my heart, I know it has nothing to do with not wearing my number 7 jersey.  It isn’t that I wasn’t listening to their games as regularly as I could have. It wasn’t hubris. I know better than to get cocky about the September play of my Mets. At some point, I need to let go and recognize that I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Sigh.

Ordinarily, such a collapse would also signal the end of my baseball watching season. Like so many sore losers, I am not above storming out in a huff. I have no qualms about curling up into the fetal position until February. I take no issue with pouting my way out of a seriously depressing September of play.

Then again, there is always Rule 15c:

15c. If one of your best friends loves a certain team that has a chance to win a championship, and your team is out of the picture, it’s OK to jump on the bandwagon and root for his team to win it all. That’s acceptable. Like Temporary Fan status.

Thank God for Bill Simmons.  As Chicago remains one of my truest loves, I want nothing more than a city of happiness.  As I live in the heart of Cubby-dom, I will throw my windows wide and let the organ stylings of Gary Pressy fill my home. I will join my dearest of friends in their Cubs affection. I will don my Cubbie blue like our poseur of a mayor.  I will humbly embrace my Temporary Fan status.

That is, until next spring.

mr. math can’t catch – part 2

[continued from part 1]

Pitchers and catchers report.

These words mark the first day of spring. They define the day when my boys of summer will converge in some sunny clime. They will work off the winter pudge, work the cold out of their elbows and knees, and get in shape for the long season ahead. Slowly, the rest of the line-up will join the early birds. Most everyone is healthy, vital, and excited to be back to baseball.

Within the evaporating miasma of winter, we will catch a first glimpse of new teammates and old friends, refreshing hope like the green buds of the first spring crocus. I will join the legions of fans that wish nothing but success for this team, pledging my support and allegiance, with hopes that they will bring joy to my city. I will be happy once more, though I know that my manic euphoria is fleeting.

Anything can happen in the long month to follow. Meaningless games might demonstrate potential weaknesses in the line-up. Egos will emerge, injuries occur, and reminders of the disappointments from the past September begin to creep forward. March is the month of worry and doubt. Then, in a flash, April arrives. It is Opening Day.

The poetry that is baseball fills the speakers of my car stereo once more, as John Rooney calls the play-by-play:

One out.

A line drive to right

6-4-3.

Double-play, leaving one stranded.

The Sox are up.

It’s the bottom of the ninth.

They are the classic words to a classic play. The game unfolds in my mind as I circle the block once more so as not to miss the end of the game. The home team wins, and hopes for a pennant bubble up once more. Though this bi-polar ride of emotions will continue for the rest of the season, I could not be more thrilled.

Baseball season casts a bright light on the most mundane work days. The furtive peek at the previous night’s box scores, the lunchtime recap of game highlights, and raucous discussions between amateur general managers makes every miserable day almost pleasant. A night game transforms an otherwise dismal commute into my favorite part of the day. On those evenings, I tailor my work days to end just before the first pitch. A few of my more clever coworkers understand my outwardly disordered schedule, while others might chalk it up as another perquisite of a consultant. It is of no matter. I exit the building, open the car door, climb into the driver’s seat, hit the 3-button on my car stereo, and begin my escape to baseball.

There are days where my escape can only be described as complete. These are the days when I wear my team jersey, tucked away under a sensible pants suit. My jeans are squeezed into the briefcase, shoved between my laptop and a third draft of an RFP. On those days, I work at a breakneck pace, delegate a bit of responsibility to a few of the more competent worker bees, and blast away from the hive. Leaving early, I join the traffic caused by other slackers with the same agenda. But truly, traffic is of little concern. Happily, I listen to the most banal of pre-game programming. In truth, it is a guilty pleasure when knowing it is the precursor to a trip to the park itself. The park: a place where one experiences the camaraderie, heartbreak, and ecstasy that is baseball. Even as a backdrop for crushing pain on an overcast Friday, the park is sacred.

[Continued in Part 3]

mr. math can’t catch – part 1

In lieu of doing any actual writing, I am going to enjoy the balmy summer weather. To keep you entertained, I leave for you a little piece that I quite enjoy. For those like AKA Stephanie, who only read this before bedtime (so she promises), I am breaking it down in easily digestible chunklets.

Those who know and love me have heard this story many times over. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, I promise that it gets funnier…

when not to send in the British…

Last Wednesday, I asked the relatively new imperialist, aka Steve History, what he would be doing over the weekend. He answered that he would be going to the track.

Wait a second. “The race on Saturday?” I asked. His response: “I have no idea. It might be.” For those who are countrymen of the relatively new imperialist or have been living under a rock, Mr. History was to see the Belmont Stakes, the third in the Triple Crown, the “run for the carnations.”

Me being me, I asked Mr. History to put down a few bets. He kindly agreed. To make life easier for the lad, I sent him an email:

Hey Mr. History,

Can you place a few bets for me? They are contingent on these post positions being final:

1 Imawildandcrazyguy
2 Tiago
3 Curlin
4 C P West
5 Slew’s Tizzy
6 Hard Spun
7 Rags to Riches

If the post positions don’t change, you can just show this to the guy at the betting window:

Race 11: Belmont Stakes

$5 exacta box 7, 2, 3
$5 exacta key 2, with 3, 7
$5 Superfecta 7, 3, 2, 6

HORSES!

Simple enough. I figured that Rags to Riches would win, but there would be an outside chance that Tiago would rock it. Hedge the bets, right?

The race results: 7, 3, 2, 6.

Okay, not that the outcome was a huge surprise, and it wasn’t like there was a huge field, and it wasn’t like I know too much about the horses. Turns out, I know enough to hit the superfecta. In this particular race, it wasn’t brain surgery, but it still felt nice!

At least it did for a little while. Dreams of new 500 thread count sheets evaporated like the steam off a pile of horse manure. It seems that Mr. History didn’t go to the track that afternoon, but attended a barbecue instead.

June 10th resolution: Never send in the British when cash is on the line.

like mary poppins, but way better…

Mark Buerhle!

Wow.

Just… wow.

february 15th is a great day…

Though it is the shortest month, February feels like an eternity. It is a gaping maw in my sports world. I can’t seem to get myself interested in the NBA, there is no madness until March, and try as I might, I can’t seem to invest myself in the progress of the Devils until Spring.

The sky is dismal, life is cold, and the snow just looks like slush. It is a bleak February, indeed. Yet through all this, a small ray of hope breaks through the grey misery. It is a promise of green, warmth, happiness, and cheers. It is the incantation for weekends and friends and barbecues and cold beer all found in four magical words:

Pitchers and catchers report.

da bears. sigh.

As a Jets fan, I would like to say that I didn’t care about the game tonight. I would like to say that I was just watching to see good football. All lies. As an eight year resident of the second windy, I couldn’t help but hope that the Bears would take it. I really wanted them to win.

Perhaps I should have done more. Maybe I should have jumped on the bandwagon and bought a wardrobe full of Bears paraphernalia. That foam finger could have helped. And the chili. Every time I ate another bowl, they started doing great things. But I was so very full and a fourth bowl seemed like so very much. Maybe if I put my rally pants[1] on sooner… what was I thinking waiting for the fourth quarter?!

Or maybe, just maybe, if frickin’ Rex Grossman stopped being such a pussy and ran the ball up the middle for seven yards here and there instead of waiting to throw long bombs, and maybe if he didn’t trip over his own frickin’ feet, and maybe if he didn’t fumble the frickin’ snap, TWICE, and maybe if he didn’t throw two frickin’ interceptions at the worst possible FRICKIN’ moment, well maybe…

Sigh. It was probably the rally pants.

___________________________________________________________________________

[1] rally pants – pants that have been turned inside out and backwards at a critical moment of a game to show support for a team. Derived from rally hat.