I am a voracious New York Mets fan. I have loved them since I was 9 years old. I remember during the 1986 World Series my brother Eric, a Red Sox fan, and I were not allowed to stay up and watch the World Series games in their entirety. My mom made no exception to our bedtimes. Unfortunately, school took precedence over baseball bragging rights. Every morning Eric and I would run down the stairs from our bedrooms and race over to where the newspaper was neatly placed on top of the stereo speaker in the living room. Adrenaline was pumping through our veins. We had to read that precious note our dad left for us stating the winner of the game. The morning after Game 7 of the World Series, my heart skipped a beat when I read, in my dad's distinct hand writing, that the Mets won. Poor Eric experienced devastating heartbreak. At that time, I did not care that Eric's Red Sox had not won a World Series in 68 years. My Mets won. What a glorious moment.
Unfortunately, those moments do not happen that often. In order to be a Mets fan, you have grown tough skin to deal with successive losing seasons. You are prepared to concede that the Mets are out of the race for the playoffs on June 1st each year. You tell yourself that there is always next year, even though you know within the deep chambers of your heart that this sentiment is a temporary band-aid that will be ripped off upon the delivery of the first pitch on Opening Day. In recent years, the Mets have taken the baton from the Boston Red Sox and are now known as the team who was poised to make the playoffs until September 1st arrived. Yes, the dreaded September meltdown. Last year, they fell apart in July. So far this year, the meltdown appears to have started in Spring Training.
Unfortunately, Mets fans cannot rely on the "knowledge" and "expertise" of the front office to put together a winning team. Instead of identifying that they are the real problem, these masterminds continuously fire decent managers (although I would not flatter Bobby Valentine with this title), postpone necessary medical treatment for star players long enough until their recovery time might lapse into the upcoming season, and build a new stadium that improves the batting averages of opponents and hinders their core players. Oh, and remember that no quality pitcher willingly wants to sign with the Mets because the ivory tower undoubtedly will mishandle them. God Bless Johan Santana. If any of these decisions make sense to you, please explain them to me.
I am no longer going to wait patiently for upper management to get their heads out of the sand and produce a winning team. Instead, I have decided that the only way the Mets will even survive this season is with simple divine intervention. Prior to Opening Day, I decided to conduct a season long experiment. Each day that the Mets have a game, I will pray one decade of the Rosary to them. My husband was, and still is not, a big proponent of my idea. After all, there are many other important things for which to pray. However, I still pray for a variety of other things while I say the Rosary-my family, my friends, my cats, my business and world peace, just to name a few. In my opinion, the Mets are in that realm of importance.
Currently the Mets have a 3-6 record. I have prayed a decade of the rosary only once thus far. That happened on Opening Day when the Mets beat the Florida Marlins 7-1. How the Mets pulled out the other two wins is anyone's guess. As of this post I am committing myself wholeheartedly to my experiment. Granted, I may forget a day here and there. However, I am curious to see at the end of the season (after I concede on June 1st as usual) where they will be in the standings. I'll keep you posted.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Masters
This weekend is the Crown Jewel of Golf: the Masters in Augusta, Georgia. Thousands of golf aficionados have made the pilgrimage to the mecca of all golf events. Professional golfers are dreaming of walking up to the 18th green, applause from the gallery encircling them, and shooting the perfect Birdie putt into the hole. The crowd will go wild, and with tears in his eyes, the newly crowned champion will accept the most coveted prize in all of golf-the Green Jacket. Just thinking about this scenario makes me want to be there.
Unfortunately, most of us are relegated to watching the Masters on television. Yes, that is right, there are die-hard golf fans across the country,such as my dad, who will spend the weekend in their recliners commenting on the competition. I will admit that I have tried on numerous occasions to watch the Masters on television. Unfortunately, all of my efforts have been futile. Unlike other sporting events, golf does not immediately capture my attention so that it is impossible for me to pull myself away from the competition until the very last putt is made. Instead, I usually sit around thinking "How can someone actually watch this?"
My attempts at watching the Masters, and other golf events, began at a very early age. Etched in my memory are many Sunday afternoons sitting in the living room with my dad looking at beautiful fairways, perfectly groomed sand, and crystal blue water on our pre-digital television. Oh yeah, and apparently there was a competition occurring. Somehow my dad had the magical power to see the golf ball on the television. My dad was as silent as the crowd gathered at each hole, anxiously waiting for the golfer to tee off. Once he heard the crack of the golf club hitting the ball my dad would exclaim "That's a good shot", or "The ball is going to land in the rough", or "That ball is going too far to the right." I just sat there, staring at the television, wondering why I could not view a tiny, white, circular object flying through the air. Shouldn't everyone be able to see it? I can honestly say that I have never been able to follow a golf ball on television from the time it took flight until its landing. The only time I ever witnessed an actual golf ball was when the golfer was putting. My dad would stare intently at the television screen waiting to see what would happen. Would the golfer hit his forty foot putt and make a Birdie? Or would the golfer's efforts simply end in a Double Bogey? Once the golf ball moved, and inched closer and closer to the hole, my dad would either say "He's going to miss that shot" or "It's definitely going in."
My dad's ritual would continue on each hole, and I would just sit there bored, hoping that maybe my dad would change the channel so I could watch something actually interesting, such as cartoons or MTV. It never happened. Occasionally I would ask my dad who was winning, and I would receive one of three responses. My dad would simply say "the winner", he would mumble a golfer's name, or he would wait to answer my question until after a player's name would pop up on the screen with the word "leader" attached to it. Those were some of the longest Sundays of my life. I never thought that the words "dinner" coming from my mother's lips would sound so precious.
This weekend my parents will be visiting. I am 98% sure that at some point on Sunday my dad will "accidentally" change our antiquated television to the Masters. After all, my dad has to watch the final few pairs on the last three holes to see that winning moment. Being the always dutiful daughter, I will sit on my couch, staring at the screen, wondering if there really is a golf ball, listening to my dad's comments, and reminiscing about all of those father-daughter moments we shared while I was growing up that I never truly appreciated.
Unfortunately, most of us are relegated to watching the Masters on television. Yes, that is right, there are die-hard golf fans across the country,such as my dad, who will spend the weekend in their recliners commenting on the competition. I will admit that I have tried on numerous occasions to watch the Masters on television. Unfortunately, all of my efforts have been futile. Unlike other sporting events, golf does not immediately capture my attention so that it is impossible for me to pull myself away from the competition until the very last putt is made. Instead, I usually sit around thinking "How can someone actually watch this?"
My attempts at watching the Masters, and other golf events, began at a very early age. Etched in my memory are many Sunday afternoons sitting in the living room with my dad looking at beautiful fairways, perfectly groomed sand, and crystal blue water on our pre-digital television. Oh yeah, and apparently there was a competition occurring. Somehow my dad had the magical power to see the golf ball on the television. My dad was as silent as the crowd gathered at each hole, anxiously waiting for the golfer to tee off. Once he heard the crack of the golf club hitting the ball my dad would exclaim "That's a good shot", or "The ball is going to land in the rough", or "That ball is going too far to the right." I just sat there, staring at the television, wondering why I could not view a tiny, white, circular object flying through the air. Shouldn't everyone be able to see it? I can honestly say that I have never been able to follow a golf ball on television from the time it took flight until its landing. The only time I ever witnessed an actual golf ball was when the golfer was putting. My dad would stare intently at the television screen waiting to see what would happen. Would the golfer hit his forty foot putt and make a Birdie? Or would the golfer's efforts simply end in a Double Bogey? Once the golf ball moved, and inched closer and closer to the hole, my dad would either say "He's going to miss that shot" or "It's definitely going in."
My dad's ritual would continue on each hole, and I would just sit there bored, hoping that maybe my dad would change the channel so I could watch something actually interesting, such as cartoons or MTV. It never happened. Occasionally I would ask my dad who was winning, and I would receive one of three responses. My dad would simply say "the winner", he would mumble a golfer's name, or he would wait to answer my question until after a player's name would pop up on the screen with the word "leader" attached to it. Those were some of the longest Sundays of my life. I never thought that the words "dinner" coming from my mother's lips would sound so precious.
This weekend my parents will be visiting. I am 98% sure that at some point on Sunday my dad will "accidentally" change our antiquated television to the Masters. After all, my dad has to watch the final few pairs on the last three holes to see that winning moment. Being the always dutiful daughter, I will sit on my couch, staring at the screen, wondering if there really is a golf ball, listening to my dad's comments, and reminiscing about all of those father-daughter moments we shared while I was growing up that I never truly appreciated.
Monday, April 5, 2010
NCAA Turmoil
When the Butler Bulldogs, a #5 seed in the 2010 NCAA Tournament, beat my beloved Syracuse Orange, a #1 seed, in the Sweet Sixteen, I was devastated. My brain could not comprehend what my eyes witnessed for 40 minutes on television. I, along with other Syracuse fans, could taste a second National Championship. Jim Boeheim took an unranked team at the beginning of the season and turned them into one of the top college basketball teams in America. Now, Syracuse was done. Finished. Eliminated. Victims at the hands of Butler. It was at that moment that my disdain for Butler came to fruition.
Since that fateful day, and while watching Butler advance to the National Championship game tonight, I have been in NCAA turmoil. Who do I root for? A part of me cannot forget that Butler, and their young, inexperienced, punk coach, took my team's dreams of a National Title, stomped on them, and spit them on the ground like a pile of sunflower seeds. On the other hand, if Butler does cap a Cinderella season by beating the Duke Blue Devils, then Syracuse lost to the best team in the nation. For some illogical reason, this makes Syracuse's loss to a team that relies on one athlete a bit easier to swallow. Still, this internal conflict has not yet been resolved.
Now enter in a few environmental factors. My husband is of the logic that if Butler wins, Syracuse lost to the best. My brother has put a pox on me and forbids me to root for Duke. All around me, the stars are aligning, whispering softly, "Allison, root for Butler. You must root for Butler." Personally, I want to shoot those stars out of the sky with a BB gun.
In the end, the best team will win tonight. Will that team be Butler? No one will know for at least for a few more hours. Will I be rooting for Butler? That may never be known.
Since that fateful day, and while watching Butler advance to the National Championship game tonight, I have been in NCAA turmoil. Who do I root for? A part of me cannot forget that Butler, and their young, inexperienced, punk coach, took my team's dreams of a National Title, stomped on them, and spit them on the ground like a pile of sunflower seeds. On the other hand, if Butler does cap a Cinderella season by beating the Duke Blue Devils, then Syracuse lost to the best team in the nation. For some illogical reason, this makes Syracuse's loss to a team that relies on one athlete a bit easier to swallow. Still, this internal conflict has not yet been resolved.
Now enter in a few environmental factors. My husband is of the logic that if Butler wins, Syracuse lost to the best. My brother has put a pox on me and forbids me to root for Duke. All around me, the stars are aligning, whispering softly, "Allison, root for Butler. You must root for Butler." Personally, I want to shoot those stars out of the sky with a BB gun.
In the end, the best team will win tonight. Will that team be Butler? No one will know for at least for a few more hours. Will I be rooting for Butler? That may never be known.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Opening Day!
It is finally here-Major League Baseball's Opening Day! I have waited in anticipation for this moment since November, when I, a New York Mets fan, painfully watched the New York Yankees beat the Philadelphia Phillies in the World Series. I felt as if I had been stabbed in the heart-my division rivals against my cross-town rivals. But I digress....
Tonight's game has me excited. The New York Yankees versus the Boston Red Sox at Fenway Park. This is the best rivalry in all of sports. CC Sabathia will be leading the 27-time World Series Champions against Josh Beckett and the only team in sports history who was down three games to none in post season play, only to come back and win the American League Championship Series, win the World Series, and end the alleged "Curse of the Bambino." In case you are wondering which team the Red Sox embarrassed in such grand fashion, it was the New York Yankees.
Some may say that tonight's game means nothing in the grand scheme of the season. While that may be true, both teams want to win simply for posturing purposes. The Yankees want to remind the Red Sox that they will always be the inferior team. The Red Sox want the Yankees to know that they are a force with which to be reckoned. Tonight begins the next chapter in the battle for baseball supremacy.
Tonight's game has me excited. The New York Yankees versus the Boston Red Sox at Fenway Park. This is the best rivalry in all of sports. CC Sabathia will be leading the 27-time World Series Champions against Josh Beckett and the only team in sports history who was down three games to none in post season play, only to come back and win the American League Championship Series, win the World Series, and end the alleged "Curse of the Bambino." In case you are wondering which team the Red Sox embarrassed in such grand fashion, it was the New York Yankees.
Some may say that tonight's game means nothing in the grand scheme of the season. While that may be true, both teams want to win simply for posturing purposes. The Yankees want to remind the Red Sox that they will always be the inferior team. The Red Sox want the Yankees to know that they are a force with which to be reckoned. Tonight begins the next chapter in the battle for baseball supremacy.
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