BrokenCowboy: Sports Views with a West Coast Bias

Before I Die...

In these opening days of 2007, thoughts often move towards resolutions for the new year, something I've generally avoided. Although I've actually made a couple resolutions for the first time in about a decade, neither is interesting enough to write about here...

So instead I thought I'd come up with a list of sports-based resolutions that would last for much longer than a year. Here's a list of eleven sports-related things I'd like to see or do before I die, which gives me about sixty years to get it done -- why can't all deadlines be that generous? So here we go, in no particular order...

1. Baseball Stadiums
Once upon a time I thought it would be pretty cool to spend a summer driving around America visiting every major league park. (Alright, who am I kidding? That would be about the coolest thing ever.) Anyway, since that's probably not too realistic, I'll narrow the list down a bit to three: Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Camden Yards. I've been to Wrigley before, but I was only eight years old at the time. Fenway might be a run-down dive, but it's an historic, run-down dive.

2. Yankee Stadium
This is the only item on my list that has a separate clock. The current incarnation of Yankee Stadium is set to close its doors for good following the 2008 season. I've been there twice before, but it's hugely important that my children get there before it's too late. It is my Mecca.

3. Cooperstown
When I was six years old my family took a vacation to New York City, and I only wanted to do two things: see a Yankee game and visit the Baseball Hall of Fame. We made it to the Bronx (Yankees 5, Royals 3; winning pitcher Sparky Lyle; game winning home run for Chris Chambliss; a Yankee fan was born), but missed the Hall of Fame.

4. Derek Jeter Day
My wife doesn't know this yet, but our entire family will be in attendance on the day that Derek Jeter's monument is unveiled beside his retired #2 jersey. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 2015, give or take.

5. The Big House
I was born in Detroit, and even though I've lived in California since the fifth grade, I've still always been a Michigan Wolverine fan. I've been to lots of college football games, but I don't think the atmosphere of west coast college football can compare to what goes on east of the Mississippi. I'd love to know what it's like to sit in a crowd of more than a hundred thousand people singing "Hail to the Victors" on a crisp autumn afternoon.

6. Duke-Carolina
Again, I've been to dozens of college basketball games, and even attended the 1998 Final Four, but I don't think anything I've experienced would measure up to what happens when Duke gets together with North Carolina. Ideally I'd like to catch a game on both campuses, but if I had to choose I'd take a game at Cameron Indoor Arena. I think the Crazies have fallen in love with their own shtick just a bit, but it's still pretty good shtick.

7. Cubs Win!
When the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, the world changed forever. It was almost as if someone all the sudden told you there were only eight planets instead of nine. I'd love to see the Cubs win the World Series, and I expect it to happen within the next seven years.

8. Yankees in the World Series
I'd like to see the Yankees win the World Series before I die. I don't mean that as an insult to the Cubs fans I was talking about above, I mean that I'd like to actually see it. I want to sit in Yankee Stadium during a World Series game.

9. Marathon Man
I'd like to run a marathon. A friend of mine once asked me what the odds were that I would ever run a marathon, and I thoughtfully told him that I didn't think it could be zero, because it was theoretically possible that some scenario could unfold in which I was forced to run 26 miles, like to save the world or something like that, so I put the odds at "as close to zero as possible." Now I find myself thinking about that distance every day. I will never be able to dunk a basketball, but someday I think I'll be able to do this.

10. Weekly Golf
I used to be a golfing fiend and never missed a chance to hit the links. When I was single I even played nine holes on Christmas morning. And so like many men, I organized a golf outing for the day before my wedding seven and a half years ago. I've played exactly once since then. Although I miss the game, I certainly don't regret the choice I've made to spend my weekends with my three children. But when I came across my clubs as I was cleaning out the garage this afternoon, I dismissed the inclination to put them in the Goodwill pile. Instead I'll keep them until that day we drive our youngest off to college. I'll find space for them in the trunk so that after we drop the child off and meet her new roommate I'll be able to head straight for the nearest course.

11. Golf With My Son
This follows from number ten, I guess. My boy is four years old right now, about to turn five, so he's more interested in toy cars than pitching wedges, but I'd still like to play a round of golf with him before I die. There are two reasons why people love to golf. First, there is the connection with the game. I've played golf alone on a darkening course with only my thoughts and frustration to keep me company, and it's been beautiful. But the time spent walking from one shot to the next, waiting for the group ahead, or killing time in the clubhouse is just as much a part of golf as the struggle to square your club face at impact. I've shared those times with friends on both sides of the country, but when I think about walking a course with my son somewhere thirty years from now, it gives me goosebumps.

So there they are, ten things I'd like to do before I die. It's possible that someone else might be reading this, and it's further possible that that person might be formulating a list like this in his or her head. If that person is you, don't be shy -- share.

Rumble, Young Girls, Rumble!

A revolution is coming -- a generation of girls is getting ready to change the way we look at sports, and two of them live in my house. Jump to my column at OBM to find out more.

Strange Things Are Afoot...

Yes, at long last the Cowboy is back in the saddle. After a two-week tour of the midwest, including stops in Chicago, Evansville, Kalamazoo, and the Motor City, I've returned to the land of milk and honey, beautiful Southern California. (But if you must know, the weather was nicer in Chicago.)

Anyway, with so many things waiting to be discussed (the crystallization of the NBA playoff picture, the eruption of Mt. Steinbrenner, the upcoming NFL draft), it's hard to know where to start. I think I'll let them all percolate for another day or so.

Be sure to check back here tomorrow, though -- moderately big news on the way.

Oscar, Oscar, Oscar!!!

The Academy of Motion Pictures and Sciences passed out their statuettes on Sunday night, and thanks to my trusty TiVo I was able to watch the proceedings in about thirty minutes, which was nice. I was happy to see all of the principles from Million Dollar Baby earn Oscars for their work on the film (although I have to admit that I agreed with a few of Skip Bayless's criticisms), and the whole thing got me to thinking...

Since I didn't watch any sports this weekend aside from Stanford's ugly win over Oregon and the Lakers' disappointing loss to the Toronto Raptors, I didn't have a post ready for Monday morning. Could I somehow work the Oscars in? Sure, I could do something like "Best Sports Actor: Vlade Divac" or "Best Director: Bill Belichick" like every other uncreative sports columnist in America, but I know that my loyal readers -- both of them -- have come to expect a bit more from the Cowboy.

And so I give you the top sports Oscars of all-time:

6. Oscar Azocar: If you don't remember this Oscar, don't feel bad. There's no reason you should. He came up with the Yankees during 1992, a very dark time for the Bombers. I liked him because his last name almost meant sugar in Spanish and for a time his on-base percentage was lower than his batting average, which is tough to do. (You have to have more sac flies than walks, in case you're wondering.)

5. Oscar Gamble: If you don't remember THIS Oscar, then you didn't follow baseball -- or at least collect baseball cards in the seventies. Yes, he hit 200 homeruns, but really it was all about the 'fro. My guess is that his afro was probably about two feet across. How can you not love a guy like that?

4. Oscar Schmidt: He was the face of Brazilian basketball for twenty-six years. If you've watched Olympic basketball at any point since 1984, you're probably familiar with Oscar.

3. Oscar de la Hoya: One of the more interesting sports figures of the past decade. Following his Olympic win in 1996 he was poised to breathe life into a dying sport, but it never quite worked. Seen as the perfect cross-over candidate, the Golden Boy turned out to be too pretty for his own good. He was never embraced by Latino fight fans, and his career never quite lived up to early expectations. Too bad.

2. Oscar Charleston: One of the best baseball players ever, black or white. Sadly, Charleston played his entire career in the Negro Leagues, so his accomplishments are told more by legends and anecdotes than records and statistics. For more, check out this article posted by the Hall of Fame as part of their celebration of Black History Month.

1. Oscar Robertson: Here's all you really need to know -- in his second year in the league, the Big O averaged a triple double for the entire season. Here are the numbers: 30.8 ppg, 12.5 rpg, 11.4 apg. Numbers like that would be ridiculous in high school. In the NBA? Come on, now.

Off the top of my head, that's the best I can do. I'm sure I'm forgetting someone, so feel free to leave your own nominations. And by the way, when are the Tony's?

Back in Business

I haven't written anything for almost two weeks, but not for lack of material. There's been an awful lot going on the sporting world. Consider:

• The Patriots cemented their dynasty by winning Superbowl XXXIX. You know what I like about this? Tom Brady's been drawing a lot of comparisons to Derek Jeter lately. Let's look at the similarities: team leaders, winning championships left and right, often cited as the best at their positions even though statistics indicate otherwise, easy on the eyes, date supermodels. To my knowledge, they've never been seen in the same room together...

• Rudy Tomjanovich left the Lakers in the lurch. Two funny things connected with this. First, it took about ten minutes for the LA media to start speculating about a possible Phil Jackson encore. (About as likely as Affleck and J.Lo going another round.) Second, when Kobe Bryant was asked about this possibility, he essentially said that he didn't care. "If they want him back, he'll be back. If not, he won't." Imagine how good Kobe will be when he matures and moves on to high school...

• Duke continued its recent dominance of North Carolina. Sure the 'Heels might be the best team in the land, but they still can't figure out how to beat the Dukies...

• José Canseco named names, and went straight to the top. Not only did he implicate three of the more respected men in baseball (Iván Rodríguez, Rafael Palmeiro, and Mark McGwire), he even threw President Bush under the steroid bus, saying that this abuse took place while Bush owned the Rangers, and he must've known about it. It could be argued, by the way, that Palmeiro's deep into performance enhancing drugs -- he's been pitching Viagra for a couple years now...

Yes, all of these stories are nice, instead I thought I'd write about something that came across my radar this afternoon. Samukeliso Sithole is one of Zimbabwe's most promising young athletes, having won numerous medals in international competition and earning millions of dollars in you. The problem? Sithole competed as a woman, but she's actually a man.

Sithole was born with both male and female sexual organs, but made the choice to live life as a female. Her parents took her to a traditional healer (a common practice in Zimbabwe) who gave her an herbal remedy which made her male genetalia disappear.

Later, when Sithole's family stopped paying for the treatment, the Healer reversed his earlier cure. Tom's penis has since grown back.

Ask yourself -- could I have possibly made any of that up?

Songs of Innocence

My Saturday morning started the way my Saturday mornings usually do. I was awoken at about seven o'clock by my two-year-old son calling to me from his room: "Daddy, Daddy, come Daddy!" It's nicer than an alarm clock, but there is no snooze button. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and went to get him.

My son is always happy when he wakes up. Always. This certainly doesn't come from me. When I opened the door, he smiled and said, "Eat, Daddy?" He's always happy, and he's always hungry.

So we quietly went out to the kitchen where I made some oatmeal, maple and brown sugar. "Yummy Daddy!" Before he finished his first bowl, my four-year-old daughter woke up and wandered out in her usual grouchy mood -- this comes DIRECTLY from me. I made her a bowl of oatmeal as well, and when the two of them were finished I bundled them up against the cold (45° counts as cold in Southern California) and took them to a middle school girls track meet.

Several of my students would be running and jumping and shot putting, so I thought it would be a fun way to spend our morning. When we arrived, we were greeted like heroes. (To be honest, my children were the heroes -- the girls adore them both.)

If you've never been to a lower-level track meet, allow me to paint you a picture. Groups of girls from twenty-two different middle schools, along with any accompanying family members willing to brave the cold of the early morning, filled the stands overlooking the quarter-mile oval, and the action was constant. Athletes from certain schools were resplendent in matching track singlets and running shorts, while others looked ragged in mismatched jerseys and t-shirts. Serious sprinters wore their own track shoes and requested starting blocks, while others scrambled to borrow a teammate's spikes, trying desperately to squeeze into shoes two sizes too small. Still others would take off from a standing start in an old pair of tennis shoes, their feet spinning on the slick track like a dog running on linoleum.

Coaches were easy to spot. They wore baseball caps and sweatsuits, and their thumbs were poised above the starting buttons on their stopwatches. They constantly consulted their clipboards, either to record a recent result or to check who would be running in an upcoming event.

But back to the girls. Many of them had only a vague idea of which race they'd be running in. Rather than focusing on their own event, they instead divided their time between yelling themselves hoarse as a teammate sprinted by and squealing with delight at the picture of a boy in the yearbook someone had brought to pass the time.

What struck me most was the purity of the meet. During one of the two 1600 meter heats, the winning time was somewhere in the neighborhood of five minutes forty-five seconds, and the rest of the field strung out considerably after that. Almost three minutes later, more than thirty seconds after everyone else had finished, the last girl trudged around the far turn and headed into the home stretch. Up in the stands athletes, coaches, and parents from all twenty-two schools started urging her on with the loudest ovation of the day. Energized by our cheering and undaunted by the margin of her defeat, this girl suddenly started sprinting for the finish. Surprized by this burst of energy, the crowd grew even louder and pushed her through to the finish line. As I watched, I found myself wishing that Marion Jones and Kelli White were there, just for a reminder of what it must have been like for them years ago when they were running for the sheer joy of running.

These middle school girls have no substance abuse issues, unless you count nachos and hair gel. They were all there on that cold Saturday morning for two reasons -- they like running, and they like being a part of a team. The same was probably true for Jones and White once upon a time. Somewhere inside there still exists a twelve-year-old girl who liked nothing better than to run like the wind. Before Jones and White can begin to answer to their fans, they need to answer to that little girl.

Shall We Dance?

Tonight Leslie and I took advantage of an increasingly rare opportunity -- her parents were available to watch the kids so we went out to a movie. Since there's nothing out right now that really catches my eye, Leslie made the choice -- Shall We Dance with Richard Gere, Jennifer López, and Susan Sarandon. Admittedly, it probably wouldn't have been my first choice, but it turned out to be okay.

Anyway, here's the interesting part. About ten minutes into the movie I realized that I actually knew a guy who was in the movie. We're not friends or anything, but I know him. His name is Omar Miller, and his two nephews played on my basketball team last year. If you were following our season, you might remember Omar in his role as the "disgruntled uncle." When we won our first game, Omar got so excited that he leaped out of the bleachers and slapped my ass. So now he's gone from slapping my ass to hanging out with Richard Gere and Jennifer López. Kind of a lateral move, I guess.

Even more interesting, there's a scene in the movie where Omar's character is talking to another actor who -- for no apparent reason -- is holding an obscure Billy Joel album. Conspiracy theorists take note: just last week I prefaced a post on fantasy football by quoting obscure lyrics from that same Billy Joel album!

None of this has anything to do with sports, but it does prove a long held theory: the BrokenCowboy is clearly in touch with the cosmic workings of the universe.

That Smarts!

The world seemed to stop on Saturday afternoon as Smarty Jones and the eight dwarves entered the gates for the start of the Belmont Stakes. I'm not completely sure how long a furlong is, and I've probably watched fewer than twenty horse races in my life, but I actually set my TiVo to record this one when I left the house on Saturday afternoon. We were heading to the in-laws to celebrate my wife's birthday, and I didn't expect that I'd get to watch the race live. But soon after we arrived, my mom asked, "Is anyone else interested in watching the race? The post-time is 3:38." Now, my mom is not the biggest sports fan, but she usually knows what's going on, the same way I usually know who's in the running for American Idol. (I don't watch, but people talk.) Anyway, back to my mom. She actually knew the post time, which says a lot about Smarty Jones.

Never has there been such a sure thing. I know that six horses in the last eight years have come to the Belmont with hopes of a Triple Crown, but this year seemed different. This would be the year. For the first time in twenty-six years, we'd have a sweep of the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont.

This wasn't a race, it was a victory lap. The other eight horses were like back-up dancers at a Britney Spears concert. Sure, they're talented, but all eyes are on Britney. But then something completely unexpected happened. Smarty Jones lost. Even more unexpected, I cared about it. As Birdstone (or was it Birdsong?) surged past in the homestretch, I found myself yelling at the TV. As the crowd hushed and the track announcer's voice sagged into the final depressing call, "Birdstone wins the Belmont Stakes," the camera immediately found Smarty's trainer and owner. The trainer was stunned, and didn't seem to want to turn back to look at the owner behind him, for fear of being turned into a pillar of salt. The owner looked confused, as if defeat hadn't been considered. It probably hadn't. The image was one of loss, but not just a lost race. Certainly, they had lost millions of dollars in bonuses and future stud fees, but more than that they had all lost a shot at immortality. As a nation watched, Smarty Jones was fading from our consciousness. Everyone knows Seattle Slew, but we've all forgotten War Emblem and Funny Cide. Soon enough, we'll forget Smarty Jones.

Finally, NBC got around to the winners, who seemed to be as disappointed as the losers. Birdstone's jockey, Edgar Prado, immediately sidled up to Smarty Jones jock Stewart Elliot and apologized. He would later apologize to Smarty's trainer. When Birdstone found his way to the winner's circle, he was booed by the disappointed crowd, and owner Marylou Whitney looked like she was ready to join in. She apologized profusely, saying that "we've all fallen in love with Smarty Jones."

The problem is that horse racing only matters one day a year -- the Saturday of the Belmont Stakes -- and even then it only gets our attention if there's a horse with a shot at the Triple Crown. Yes, there will always be 100,000 people at the track, and thousands more chewing cigars and stroking lucky ties in casinos and OTB's around the country, but is that enough to keep the sport alive? This was it, maybe horse racing's last chance before flat-lining, and Birdstone didn't get the memo. Even on a day when a former President passed away, a win for Smarty Jones would've put him on the front page of every newspaper in the country. It would've meant glossy magazine covers, quirky endorsements, and increased attendance at every stop on the Smarty Jones victory tour.

But none of that will happen now. Horse racing is dead, at least until next year.

The Week that Was • April 19, 2004

And so what happened in the sporting world during my academics- and IRS-induced nine-day posting hiatus? Not much. Phil Mickelson birdied the 18th at Augusta to win the Masters, his first major in forty-three tries. Breaking tradition, Lefty chose not to leave his green jacket hanging in the club closet, instead opting to wear it out the door. While sporting it on the Tonight Show, Phil confessed to Leno that he and his wife Amy "took it to bed last night," an image we could've done without... In baseball, Barry Bonds jacked a fist full of homeruns as he cruised past Willie Mays into third place all-time, trailing only the Babe and Hammerin' Hank. Whether you like Barry or not, whether you think he's 'roiding or not, this is a momentous accomplishment. In the twenty-five years that I've been following baseball and keeping track of the only statistic ladder in sports that really matters, the all-time homerun list, the three guys at the top have always been the same -- Aaron, Ruth, Mays. Every few years someone would climb into the top ten -- Jackson, Schmidt, McGwire -- but the big three were untouchable. Until now. Ruth seems certain to fall next season, but Aaron might be safe until Alex Rodríguez comes knocking in ten or twelve years... In soccer -- soccer? -- Freddy Adu scored his first goal for DC United... In the NBA, Kobe Bryant took only one shot in the first half against Sacramento on Sunday, prompting some to claim he had tanked the game to prove a point to his pouting teammates. The Los Angeles media exploded and sports radio phone lines were ablaze with Kobe attackers. Officially, everyone connected with the Lakers backed Kobe's story that he was just passing out of double teams, but one "unnamed" Laker offered this nugget: "I don't know how we can ever forgive him for what he did." After this quote appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Kobe confronted each of his teammates individually. Not surprizingly, no one copped to the comment. Two nights later Kobe emerged from his phone booth to drop forty-five points on Golden State in a Laker victory, but this only seemed to fan the conspiracy flames. Kobe scored thirty-seven the next night in Portland, including a last-second three-pointer shot-putted in the face of Ruben Patterson, the self-proclaimed Kobe Stopper. And then, with his team down by two in double overtime with a single second on the clock, the Lakers called timeout and Kobe told his teammates, "Set me a good pick and we'll go home with a W." They set the pick, and Kobe delivered with a miraculous fall away trey for the win. Business as usual in Lakerland...

In the week ahead the NBA playoffs will continue, the NFL will hold its annual draft, and the Red Sox and Yankees will make a brief return to the regular season before meeting up again in the Bronx. I'll have plenty to write about, so I promise I won't wait another nine days before posting again. But if I did wait nine days, would anyone notice?

Houses of the Holy

For most normal people, an outing to a sports stadium is no different than a trip to a movie theatre or concert hall. For the sports fan -- let me rephrase -- for the truly insane sports fan, these arenas and fieldhouses and pavilions are no less shrines than the holiest temples, synagogues, or churches. As the fan hands his ticket to the usher at the door, the transaction is similar to placing an envelope in a donation plate; as he walks through the tunnel leading to the playing area, whether it is one of the wide, well-lit hallways of our modern stadiums or a dank, dirty passage from a century-old park, the bright light at the end is the same. As he emerges, he enters not a gymnasium, but a cathedral.

While millions each year file through the Cistine Chapel to admire Michelangelo's masterpiece, the same number flock to the House that Ruth Built. In exalted venues such as Fenway Park, Wrigley Field, and Madison Square Garden, in obscure arenas like the Cow Palace, the Gold Mine, and the Pit, thousands gather in nightly communion, cheering their children, their classmates, their idols, urging them on with chants of side-out, de-fense, and block that kick. Lost in the unity of the crowd, the fan is transformed on a spiritual level, no different than a reveller under the tent at a Baptist revival on a hot summer night.

Does this sound familiar? Welcome to my world. For me, each trip to a ballpark or arena promises something new (the hope of seeing a no-hitter or a fifty-point game) while reminding me of something old. I cannot watch the Stanford Cardinal play without remembering the tightly packed student section of Maples Pavilion, nor can I sit in the antiseptic Staples Center without thinking back to the dark-theater atmosphere of the Fabulous Forum. At the age of twenty-eight, I walked into Yankee Stadium for the first time since being christened there twenty-two years earlier, and my arms and necks bristled with goosebumps as I stepped into the hot August sun.

These moments in the life of a sports fan, moments the well-adjusted would see as trivial day trips, can be life changing. So while some keep lists of countries they've visited or masterpieces they've seen with their own eyes, I choose to list the athletic venues where I've had the pleasure to watch competitions ranging from pre-season exhibitions to the NCAA's Final Four and the U.S. Open. Some of the buildings are no longer in use and some have been destroyed, but I remember them all. You can find the list to the right of these words, under the appropriate heading, House of the Holy.