Seeing the game from a new field

Whenever I tell people that I played baseball growing up, the first question most people ask is, "What position?"  Simple question, simple answer, right?  Ehhh...

The problem is that I didn't really have a position.  Since 2002, when I was 11 and when kids really start getting locked into positions, I've been all over the place.  Quick look: 2002 - SS for the Keystone Display Braves, 3B/1B for the Crystal Lake American Little League All-Stars.  2003 - SS for the Keystone Expos, 1B/C for CLALL.  2004 - 3B for the CL Cyclones.  2005 - 2B for the Cyclones.  2006 - RF for Crystal Lake Central, 2B for the Cyclones, 2007 - CF for CLC, 2B for the Cyclones.  2008 - RF for CLC, 2009 - LF for CLC.  For those of you scoring at home, that's 6-5-3-6-3-2-5-4-9-4-8-4-9-7.

Now, every time I moved, the coach would always say, "it's great that you can play so many positions," which I'm pretty sure was only the first half of a sentence that should have ended with, "because you sure as hell don't excel at any of them."

Young William not excelling in right field in 2008

So when I answer the question I always tell people that I moved around a lot, which is true, but also leaves me without a true identity and makes me sound like a tee ball player, ("Mom!  I got to play six positions and we got juice boxes!") but I also take a lot of pride in it.  Why?  Because when circumstances changed, I was able to adjust in order to change with them.

One of the toughest things to do in the real world is to keep an open mind about things.  It's much easier to entrench yourself in an opinion, a mindset, and an identity, and never give in to the concept that maybe, possibly, there are better options out there.  Humans, it seems, are proud beings, stubborn beings, and defensive beings, which combines into the perfect storm of closed-mindedness.  Why think when we can react?  Why even bother listening to other people's opinions when we could ignore them and pound our own even deeper into our brains.

Truth is, nobody is absolutely, 100% correct about everything.  Nobody knows how to solve every problem that's out there, nobody knows who God is, nobody knows how to completely stop Aaron Rodgers, nobody has written the best novel of all time, nobody has painted the best picture of all time, nobody knows why Tiger Woods betrayed Elin Steve Williams, nobody knows the meaning of life, nobody knows who Jack the Ripper was, nobody knows why LeBron James is such a gigantic douche, nobody knows how I Can't Believe It's Not Butter can't be at least a little bit butter, and nobody knows how they get so much cheese into a Cheez-It.  There are millions of theories on every topic, but not one is absolutely accepted by everyone because they're not facts.

So why do people insist that they do?

I know, I know.  Proud, stubborn, defensive.  But what do we gain from that?  It's hard to put aside our personal pride sometimes, but when things change, be it in ourselves, the people we're interacting with, or our surroundings, if we stay stagnant we're going to become irrelevant.  If I'm playing second and a better second baseman comes along, I won't play if I insist on being a second baseman.  I'll get moved to the bench, and eventually get cut.  But I can still play the game if I'm willing to move elsewhere.  A "position change" doesn't have to be a total shift in mindset, it just means that we can be willing to adjust our perspective based on additional information.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't hold onto our opinions about things.  Just because somebody disagrees doesn't mean that we should automatically change to agree with them.  I just think that we should be open-minded enough to know that, chances are, our opinion isn't the strongest or best one out there.  There are probably other things to consider, and it's okay to consider them.  It's okay to believe that there might be better options out there than the one we have.

[Note from Mom]:  "You should tie this into evolution.  The most adaptable, not the strongest, are the ones who survive."

Brilliant woman, brilliant statement.  And she's right.  Dinosaurs, if you take the extreme example, were much more powerful than apes.  A dinosaur could tear an ape to pieces.  But they couldn't adjust to shifts in the climate, so they disappeared.  They stuck to their cold-blooded, flesh-tearing guns and it didn't work, while apes were able to survive and turn into baseball players because they didn't have any one method of survival.  I'm sure that their lifestyle pre-Ice Age was much different than the one they chose during the Ice Age, and they lived to tell the tale.  The dinosaurs didn't adjust, got put on the bench, and then the Great Coach in the Sky decided that they ran out of innings.

"It seems delightful, but so unnecessary"

Three years ago this summer I was in Bloomington, IL for a baseball showcase (They told me I was a DIII level prospect, I didn't believe them, they were right) and my Dad and I stopped for dinner at the original Jimmy John's.  Pretty cool to begin with, but the even cooler part was a sign on the wall.  Anybody who's visited a Jimmy John's knows about all the funny signs (One in Milwaukee said "Hippies Not Welcome," or something to that effect) that riddle the walls, but this one was a little bit different.  It was titled "How Much Is Enough?" and went like this:

The American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large fin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.
The Mexican replied, “only a little while.”
The American then asked why he didn’t stay out longer and catch more fish?
The Mexican said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs.
The American then asked, “but what do you do with the rest of your time?”
The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy life.”
The American scoffed, “I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat, and with the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats. Eventually, you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually NYC where you will run your expanding enterprise.”
The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, how long will this take?”
To which the American replied, “15-20 years.”
“But what then?”
The American laughed and said that’s the best part. “When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions.”
“Millions?” asked the fisherman, “Then what?”
The American said, “Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evening, sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos!”

The moral of the story is no secret; why be stressed and miserable for years and years so that you can do what you love later if you can do what you love now?

I know, I know, it's pretty hard to eat Cheetos, drink Bud Heavy, sit on your couch, and watch the Golf Channel for your entire life without getting evicted, losing all your friends, having your parents think you're a slob, and having girls never talk to you, and that's the one thing that you truly excel at, but let me explain:

No matter what your dream job is, chances are that there are things you'd rather be doing, but those things also don't provide you with funds.  What the Mexican man did was figure out a way to get all three into his day.  He was good at fishing, loved fishing, and could get paid to fish, so he did it, and then used it to live a comfortable life with his wife and family.  Could he have made more money doing something else?  Yes.  Could he have had a nicer boat?  Yes.  A bigger house?  Yes.  But what's the use?  When our family visited friends in Australia, we were telling them about how whipped cream is sweet in the States (it's literally just "whipped cream" down under).  One of the daughters seemed a little bit perplexed when she heard this, then finally said, "It seems delightful, but so unnecessary.."

Sure, the added sweetness seems nice, but if it's whipped cream you're looking for, doesn't unsweetened get the job done?  If we really stretch the analogy, the added sugar will harm your body in the long run blah blah blah etc etc.

Unfortunately, that's a dangerous road to go down.  Settling for less is never a good thing, and even if you like something, you're good at it, and you're getting paid, it doesn't necessarily mean that there isn't a better situation out there which you like more, you're better at, and you could get paid more.  It also doesn't mean that we need to pretend that a situation is something that it isn't.  I'm all for positive attitudes, but it's never good to pretend that you love something just because you're currently doing it.  Finding the positives is a good thing, looking on the bright side is a good thing, but feigning passion always seems to lead to disaster.

One of my recent favorite songs is Doc Pomus, by Ben Folds, namely because of two wonderfully written lyrics (written by Nick Hornby).

1. "Out they pour, the hits and the misses."

2. "He could never be one of those happy cripples / The kind that smile and tell you life's okay."

Good things happen and bad things happen.  That's unavoidable, but what is totally in our control is our reaction to them.  If something comes along to cripple us, we don't have to just sit and take it.  If we're stuck doing something we don't love, we don't just have to stay with the job.  If somebody breaks our heart, we don't just have to feel sorry for ourselves.  If things aren't okay, we need to do something to fix it, to try to find that dream combination of love and skill and support.  It's always there.

The key is finding the right balance.  Just because something is delightful doesn't mean it's unnecessary and just because something is unnecessary doesn't mean we have to settle and pretend it's delightful.  Sometimes it's good to step back and say, "Why am I doing this?  What am I looking to gain?"  At age 60, the American executive and the Mexican fisherman would have had the same life, but life isn't always about destinations.  A lot of the time it's about the journey.

Brothers Need Brothers - Teammates in the Game of Life

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about how happy I was that the Mavs had won the NBA Finals, and more specifically, about how cool it was to see a bunch of teams full of foxhole guys reigning on the top of the American sporting world, especially when the most recent "defining moment" of that world was The Decision.  That got me to thinking about how much I miss my teammates, and for the past three weeks I've been sitting on my couch watching videos of my Little League years, spraying cheez whiz straight into my mouth, looking at old pictures of my high school teams, and crying profusely.  However, now that it's all out of my system (but not really), I have time to do other things, like thinking constructively on the issue.

With a few exceptions, all of the friends from high school that I have actively stayed in touch with through my first two years of college are former teammates (about .4 seconds after writing that sentence I realized that there is no such thing as a former teammate).  You see, teammates have a special relationship that can't just be created through any friendship.  Teammates are stuck with each other.  They can't jump ship, they can't choose new teammates, and they can't completely ignore each other.  At least while they're on the field they have to interact in a working unit.

Over the course of a season, or, in the long term, a career, almost every team will hit both a hot streak and a slump, and on a smaller scale there will be hissy fits, incredible personal runs, game-losing screw-ups, game-winning plays, "Did you just see that?" greatness, "Did you just see that?" failures, and everything in between.  Through all of the joy, pain, crap, and mediocrity, you learn to deal with these people in about every different setting imaginable, and the most important part is that, unless you perform the ultimate sacrilege and quit, you're stuck with them for months on end.  I've stayed close with my teammates, even the ones that I wasn't super close to in high school, because I can go to them about any number of scenarios and they will know how to handle my emotional states.  After seeing me spike helmets, perform borderline-flagrant fouls, cuss, laugh, cry, jump with joy, fall to my knees in pain, get injured, hit home runs, strike batters out, give up home runs, strike out at the plate, airball shots, hang my head, stick my chest out, draw charges, argue calls, shove teammates, hug teammates, and punch lockers, it's not that tough to read my feelings after a low GPA, a breakup, or a job offer.  Sports, especially baseball, are based off of locker room chemistry more than I think anybody gives enough credit for anymore, and more than that, it's based on keeping each other even-keel.  The highs can't get too high or you'll come crashing down.  The lows can't get too low or you won't be able to rise out of it.  If one person starts riding these, other people start riding these, and sooner or later you always end up on the bottom, so it's the job of teammates to make pull each other through anything; to tell them to flush a strikeout and move on, to give them a butt-pat after a home run and remind them to move on, to keep the player balanced so the team can be balanced.

What do I miss about sports?  I miss the feel of the dirt, I miss the smell of the grass, I miss seeing curveballs snap into the strikezone, I miss stealing bases, and I miss hitting the ball on the sweet spot, I miss getting playing 32 of 32 minutes, I miss the mixture of pride and exhaustion, but most of all, I miss being on a team and I miss having teammates.

Luckily for me, I have two outstanding brothers.

Over the course of a season, or, in the long term, a career a lifetime, almost every team family will hit both a hot streak have high times and a slump tough times, and on a smaller scale there will be hissy fits, incredible personal runs, game-losing seemingly life-altering screw-ups, game-winning plays moments of personal triumph, "Did you just see that?" greatness, "Did you just see that?" failures, and everything in between.  Through all of the joy, pain, crap, and mediocrity, you learn to deal with these people in about every different setting imaginable, and the most important part is that, unless you perform the ultimate sacrilege and quit, you're stuck with them for months on end forever.  I've stayed close with my teammates, even the ones that I wasn't super close to in high school, brothers, because I can go to them about any number of scenarios and they will know how to handle my emotional states.  After seeing me spike helmets, perform borderline-flagrant fouls, cuss, laugh, cry, jump with joy, fall to my knees in pain, get injured, hit home runs, strike batters out, give up home runs, strike out at the plate, airball shots, hang my head, stick my chest out, draw charges, argue calls, shove teammates, hug teammates, punch lockers, punch them, throw temper tantrums, quit on them, bully them, tattle on them, support them, stand up for them, need them to stand up for me, after riding in cars with me, after waiting for me in the car while I puke away my carsickness, after crossing oceans with me, after insisting that I play one more inning, one more quarter, one more set of downs, after boxing with me, after singing with me, after hugging me, after watching me break down, after watching me exude cockiness, and after living with me for twenty years, it's not that tough to read my feelings after a low GPA, a breakup, or a job offer.  Sports, especially baseball, Families are based off of locker room chemistry more than I think anybody gives enough credit for anymore, and more than that, it's based on keeping each other even-keel.  The highs can't get too high or you'll come crashing down.  The lows can't get too low or you won't be able to rise out of it.  If one person starts riding these, other people start riding these, and sooner or later you always end up on the bottom, so it's the job of teammates brothers to make pull each other through anything; to tell them to flush a strikeout failure and move on, to give them a butt-pat after a home run success and remind them to move on, to keep the player brother balanced so the team family can be balanced.

As Dante Shepherd of SurvivingTheWorld.net so wonderfully states, "Life is a lot like a baseball game - You want your team to win, you want it to be a thriller, you don't want it to be called short on account of nature, and you wouldn't mind if it went into extra innings."  In this game of life, it's nice to have some good teammates.

When I was little, I spent just about every second playing with my brothers.  We'd pull out the Indians and the Orioles lineups and play series after series in the backyard; Michael always spotting me just enough runs to keep me interested but just few enough to still be able to come back.  We'd throw elbows on the cement of the basement basketball court.  We'd check each other into the drywall (the same drywall which I once threw a ping-pong paddle through).  We'd never finish a single game of football without a fight breaking out.  And it couldn't have been more perfect.

When I got to high school, it was Michael who took me under his wing.  I was known as his brother and that wasn't a problem for me.  He'd made a name for himself as hard-working, athletic, good-natured, and, as way too many of my female friends told me, a good looking dude.  He was the one who took me out to the batting cages to hit after school with his teammates.  He was the one who brought me to lift weights and play in open gyms.  He was the one that showed me how much diligence had to be put into school work.

When Stuart got to high school, I tried to do the same thing, and I hope I succeeded.  I feel like I did.  Stuart and I got very close during my senior and his freshman years.  We took care of each other.  That's important.  It's the constant that's held us together through all the years.

Michael and Stuart have been there for me through everything, and not just because they have to (at least I don't think that's why).  When I broke up with my girlfriend of two years, it was Michael who gave me a hug and walked with me, even if I had trouble saying anything.  When my baseball career ended, it was Michael and Stuart who were there to comfort me.  When I got into Notre Dame, they were the ones I wanted to talk to.  When I have philosophical issues, I go to Stuart.  When they lost (Michael coaching, Stuart playing) a mere five wins away from the Little League World Series, I felt like I'd gotten kicked in the stomach too.  They've been there for me for every single second, momentous or mundane, of my entire life, and I know that that will never change.

I brag about my brothers, I'm proud of my brothers, and I love my brothers.  They are my heroes, they are my best friends, and they are rocks that I can build off of.  When I graduate college, they'll be cheering.  When I get engaged, they'll be the first to know.  When my first kid is born, they'll be there to see.  When that kid busts into the Majors they'll be wearing his uniform in the stands next to me.  When I need someone to talk to they'll open up, when I don't want to talk they'll sit and wait with me.  When I want to celebrate they'll be the ones popping the cork and dancing with me, when I want to mourn they'll each have an arm around me.

My brothers and I are stuck together for the rest of our lives, but that doesn't really matter.  After being on the same team for so long, I don't think any of us would ever want to take our talents elsewhere.  You see, we don't even really have a choice.  Having been raised together, having learned to rely on each other, having come to trust each other and wanting to fight for each other and being ready to jump in the foxhole together, trying to operate without each other would be like trying to turn a 6-4-3 double play without two of the players.  And that's what separates brothers from any other type of friend, from any other type of teammate, from any other type of relationship.  That's what makes it special.  One of the more regular readers of this blog (of the 6 or 7 that there are) asked me to write about what it means to be a brother, and I guess that I can't really give a prescription or a recipe for what to do, but I can tell you how I feel towards my brothers and about brothers in general.

Brothers don't just love their brothers.  Brothers don't just appreciate having their brothers around.  Brothers Need Brothers, and will continue to need them for the rest of this infinite ballgame.

Championship Teams

Two things:

1.  Bill Simmons' new site, grantland.com, is excellent.  I strongly recommend reading every article.  And if you don't have time for that, just the ones by Simmons and Klosterman, and if you don't have time for that just the ones by Simmons, and if you don't have time for that, reevaluate your priorities.  Thanks to morebaseball.com for the tip.

Moving on...

2.  While being overpaid to stock shoes this morning, and still reveling in the scent of vanilla, choruses of angels (probably something having to do with Moses), soft summer breeze, and the faint sound of children laughing that have been following me (everybody?  I can't be the only one, right?) since the Mavs beat the Heat, I realized that, although my father didn't accomplish the rare Quadruple Crown of having his favorite teams in the four major sports (Packers, Giants, Bulls, Blackhawks) holding championships, we did have a situation where every title that had been won in the past twelve months was won by teams that prided themselves on their team-first mentalities.

Now, because A) I don't really know enough about hockey to start putting pen to paper on it, and B) all hockey teams seem to be pretty unselfish, we're going to skip over the Blackhawks.  I'm sorry.  That leaves us with, in chronological order, the Giants, the Pack, and the Mavs.


After years of carrying around Barry Bonds in order to score more runs than other teams, the Giants finally felt guilty and decided to make up for it by not scoring any runs in the 2010 season.

Actual Barry Bonds head to body size ratio

That's actually an exaggeration, but the Giants did finish 17th in the majors in runs scored, the lowest of any playoff team.  Instead, they rallied around their pitching, defense, a midget they found on the street named Cody Ross, a hobo living under the Golden Gate Bridge named Brian Wilson, and had a group meeting sometime in late August/early September to decide that they were the best team in the Majors and it would probably be fun to win the World Series.  Try to name a star on that team.  Sure, Wilson was good, but he could only pitch 1/9th of the innings.  Lincecum was solid, but only had a few playoff starts.  Ross hit well.  Juan Uribe had some clutch at-bats.  But get this: Edgar Renteria was the World Series MVP.


Let's let that sink in.


The man is 35, which isn't too old until you think about the fact that he abandoned his amateur status (which they should really give you a card to carry around for) at age 16, in 1992.  The man has a lot of innings under his belt.  The Giants stayed within themselves, played for themselves, believed in themselves, and won.  Outstanding.


The Packers put themselves in a similar boat by sneaking into the playoffs with must-win wins in the last three weeks of the season.  They then proceeded to blow through the playoffs like an invisible shank to Jay Cutler's knee.  They did this all with a total of 80+ missed games due to injuries to Week 1 starters, and then, just for good measure, Charles Woodson and Donald Driver got hurt mid-game.
 

At some point during the year, I'm convinced that Aaron Rodgers just decided that they weren't going to lose anymore, held a meeting, shared his opinion, and everybody cashed in on it, leading to your Super Bowl Champions list including Jordy Nelson and some guy named Brett Swain, who doesn't even have a picture on his Wikipedia page.


Coolest moment of the whole thing though? (Besides that awesome picture of Rodgers and Matthews on the podium that shows before Sportscenter)  The fact that during the post-game interviews, Greg Jennings kept referring to Donald Driver as the Packers No. 1 Receiver, even though Jennings out-received Driver by 25 receptions and 700 yards during the regular season.  Hell, Driver was 4th in yards.  Except it was his team, his receiving core, and that was fine with everybody because of all the intangibles that he had provided.

Yep, that's the one.

And then there are the Mavs.  The wonderful, wonderful Mavs.  Sure they had Dirk, but who else?  Jason Terry?  He didn't even start.  Jason Kidd?  Way past his prime.  There were exactly zero minutes in the series when Dallas had the talent on the floor advantage.  But they won because they decided they were going to win.  The popular opinion is that it happened right after Dwyane Wade knocked down the 3 in front of the Mavs' bench, but who's to say that it didn't happen the second that the tattoo artist finished putting the Larry O'Brien Trophy on Jason Terry's arm.  Everybody was watching Lebron James last summer while Dirk & Co. re-signed and got better.  I'm convinced that at some point, the Mavs were walking out of practice and somebody said, "Let's win the Finals," and that was it.  It was done.


Simmons really hit the nail on the head in his retro-diary of Game 6.  In his second-to-last paragraph he says, "When Dirk briefly disappeared under the arena after the final buzzer, presumably to cry and collect himself, it was the most genuine sports moment of the year. He barely made it, you could see him choking up. LeBron would have done it at midcourt in front of everyone, partly for effect, and maybe that's one of the biggest differences between them right now. You play basketball for you and your teammates, not for everyone else."

That last sentence really hits home with me.  There's something about being on a team, a true team, that is absolutely impossible to replace with anything else.  "You play basketball for you and your teammates, not for everyone else."

Although I didn't think about this at the time, looking back, it seems like the three teams that I talked about played without even realizing that there were people in the stands.  As anybody who has ever played on a team with real chemistry knows, there's something special about that bond.  You go through bad stuff together, you celebrate good stuff together, and you get to know each other better than you know just about anybody.  My teammates and my coaches have taught me that if you're going into a foxhole, you don't always want the most talented, but you do want people who are going to fight like hell until the bitter end.  You want people who won't let themselves lose and won't let you lose.  These teams did that.

My favorite teammates

These guys proved to themselves and to their teammates that they were the best.  There's a reason that announcers say that teams "shock the world," but nobody has ever claimed to be shocked themselves after a solid win.  They always know.  They always believe.  These three teams firmly believed that they were the greatest teams in the world, and they set out to, and did, verify it.

Reflections

Last night was frustrating for me.  Seeing the Bulls lose was tough, but in all honesty an NBA Championship was a stretch this year.  D-Rose can only do so much (especially when he stops getting the ball to Luol in the 4th), and the team still needs to mature and figure out their identity.  Yes, watching a thirteen point lead disappear in a matter of seconds was tough, but what was even worse was watching Lebron James flop, cry, bitch, and bullshit his way through that basketball game.

Before I get the "you hate him because he's the best" argument, I'll admit a few things:
1. Yes, he's the best player in the NBA.  Not the most valuable to his team, but absolutely the best.
2. He's an adult and can play wherever he wants to play.  He technically didn't owe Cleveland (home of your Major League Best Indians!) anything.

There.  That's out of the way.  Please wait a few minutes while I go confess to my sins of appreciating a douche bag.

While you wait, please notice: A. The score, B. Lebron being a baby, C. Dwyane Wade being embarrassed by Lebron's bitchiness

Thanks for waiting. 

The reason that Lebron James will never be better than Michael Jordan, will never be more valuable than Kobe Bryant, and will eventually get eclipsed by Derrick Rose and countless others is his inability to take responsibility for anything.  He is 26 years old and an 8 year NBA vet, but if you were to ask him, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised to hear him claim that none of his 1,233 career NBA fouls should have been called, and that none of his teams' 249 regular season losses were his fault.

That being said, I do think that Lebron James Game 5 performance was one of the most important of all time.  Important in that every young athlete, before being allowed to compete in Little League, YMCA Basketball, Pop Warner football, or Mite hockey, must be required to watch James' reactions, his flops, and his "look at me" celebrations.  If any of those kids ever do anything similar to what he did in that game, they should be banned from all competition for the rest of their lives.

Kobe Bryant is out to beat people.  Michael Jordan went out to humiliate people.  Derrick Rose is out to prove himself, and is humble enough to realize that he hasn't accomplished anything yet.  Lebron James is out to make people watch him.  He's not a competitor, he's an entertainer.  Give him a Globetrotters uniform.

*******

On a related note, is there anything worse than watching a sporting event that you're extremely invested in with someone who is cheering for the same outcome but is less invested than you are?  "Young William," I hear you ask, "Are you talking about watching the Bulls with your mother?"

"Yes."

If you can't be with thousands of others cheering with you, sometimes the next best thing is to be absolutely alone.  I was forced to leave my lucky chair in the family room after I was reprimanded by more than one person for reacting negatively to the flagrant foul called on Carlos Boozer (his first good defensive play of the series, also, clearly not a flagrant.  He went for the ball, he made contact with the ball, he fouled in the process.  He was forced to foul due to the angle of the drive.  The NBA rulebook (No. 12, Part B, Section IV a.) states that a flagrant foul is called when there is "unnecessary" contact.  Boozer's contact to James was necessary), leaving the much lower quality basement TV, a much less comfy chair, but much more inner peace as I could watch the game as I saw fit.  This obviously wasn't ideal, so I propose the following:

We really need two separate airings of big games.  That way, the more invested fans can watch, scream, and cry in peace, and then let the more casual fans see everything (maybe even condensed into a one hour special) later on that night.  ESPN, let's talk.

Who needs elbows anyway

I don't normally just talk about sports on their own.  In fact, I don't know if I ever have, but this deserves some recognition.

Rajon Rondo just returned to a game in which the Celtics had an 18 point lead after sustaining a dislocated elbow a few minutes earlier.

I'll give you a little time to comprehend that.

More time.

Still haven't fully understood the magnitude of that?  Me neither.

This is shades of Billingsley in the Astrodome in the Texas State Championship, shades of Mary Lou Retton, shades of Paul Pierce.  My goodness.  I went through a period of not loving the NBA, not trusting the NBA, not wanting to be a fan, but that has all just disappeared.  For me, the NBA just went back into the category of "Sports My Grandfather Would Be Proud Of" along with baseball, hockey, pre-concussion rules NFL, and boxing.

I have no reason to be proud of Rajon Rondo, the Boston Celtics, or the NBA, but the fact that David Stern isn't rigging anything anymore, The Lakers losing to the Mavs Kobe losing to Dirk, and the concept of somebody doing something as gutsy as this in GAME 3 OF THE SEMIFINALS is unreal.  Last summer, the Heat LeBron James did something that everybody knew was against every rule in the masculinity book.  He pulled the ol' I'm a testicleless pussy "if you can't beat 'em join 'em" card, and took his bitchass talents to South Beach.  It was the saddest thing to happen in professional sports since Cliff Lee started against CC Sabathia in the World Series.

Except it was the greatest thing too.

Nobody else wanted to be LeBron James.  You could feel loyalty exploding from players, from fans, from coaches, from Carmelo Anthony, from GMs, from Dan Gilbert.  Derrick Rose decided that he was going to be the best player in the NBA and he did it.  Paul Pierce called out James from the start of the season, and then everybody dropped the gloves.  Pretty soon LeBron is throwing elbows at his coach, everybody realizes that Chris Bosh is a fake, GMs started trading again, the Bulls win without a single supporting castmember for Rose while Boozer and Noah are out, Blake Griffin is so good that he gets Baron Davis to play well again for a while, and everybody pretty much decides to create the best NBA season in recent memory (ever?).

We had an awesome first round.  Chris Paul balled again, Tyler Hansbrough proved that he's not a slouch (for now), Shane Battier finally beat his old Texas rivals once he got out of Texas, and the Knicks got smoked when Karma-elo finally came around.  Now this?  Down 2-0, the Celtics not only pull ahead by 10 in the third, but then EXTEND THE LEAD when their point guard goes down with a nasty injury.

AND THEN HE COMES BACK IN.

I didn't see this live, only online, but in my head I've romanticized this to follow the script from Miracle where Herb Brooks chews out Jack O'Callahan for being injured, except this time Ronjo is the one chewing out the trainer.

Rondo: "What the hell is wrong with you?? Pop it back in!"
Rondo: "I said pop it back in!!"
Trainer: "But it's dislocated.  You can't play."
Rondo: "Yeah, I know.  My bones aren't in the joints.  You know what, back off, I'll do it myself.  I've got no time for quitters."
Doc Rivers: "Come on Rajon, nobody's quitting here."
Rondo: "You worry about coaching this series.  There's plenty there to keep you busy!"

Then he pops it back in and goes and checks himself in at the scorer's table.

If you're the Heat, how do you react to this.  Not only has a Rondoless Boston team just extended the lead on you by 8 points, but now he's coming back in?  With his adrenaline raging?  In front of the one of the top two fan bases in all of sports?  Would it be okay to just forfeit and hope that Game 4 went better?

I've heard theories (that I think I believe) that LeBron James would have stayed in Cleveland if he would have had a father figure in his life.  The father's role is generally to stress hard work, loyalty, perseverance, etc, while the mother has historically been the one who comes in and makes you feel better after pops bitches you out.  They're the "do what makes you feel best, don't worry about what you're expected or relied on to do" people.  (In general).  So when LeBron was frustrated in Cleveland (home of your first place Indians!), LeMama finished with Delonte, rolled out of bed, and told BronBron to go have fun and take the easy way out as long as it would make it happy!  Yay!

Before you hit me with the "what about the Big 3 in Boston?" argument, listen to this.  Allen and Garnet were in terrible situations where they weren't going to win titles anytime soon.  They were past their primes, trying to get one last shot in.  The Cavs had been close.  LeBron was without a doubt one of the top two players in the league, without a doubt most valuable, and Dan Gilbert was bringing in talent to try to get him a title.  LeBron James was in control.  All he needed to do was stick it out, but he didn't.

If you had to pick a group of five dudes that I wouldn't want to piss off, it would be Rajon Rondo (always looks like he's going to kill somebody, scrappy as hell), Paul Pierce (survived a knife fight), Shaq (big, produced a rap album, meaning that he's probably a thug), Kevin Garnett (does anybody know what's going on in his mind?), and Ray Allen (but only because of his dad Jake Shuttlesworth).  The Heat won those first two games in Miami, but then went into the Boston Garden, House of Legends, of Bird and Parish and McHale and Havlicek, of 17 Championships.  Then, they have to mess with a just-hurt-enough-where-he-can-play-but-it-hurts-like-hell-and-he's-out-for-blood Team Engine (similar to MJ's flu game).  Uh oh.

It was clearly set up by whoever is in charge that the Celtics, everybody's least favorite team to play, were given rival New York, led by Anthony, and then huge rival Miami, led by the world's biggest narcissist.

Blue-collar city vs Prima Donna city.  The Old Guard vs two and a half of the best players of the next generation.  Reigning champs of the East vs the challengers.  And Boston even spotted the Heatles two games and a 10 to 9 arm advantage.

Yes, I think it's fair to say that the NBA is as much fun as ever.

The Authentic Self

The one Natural that I have ever encountered was Roy Hobbs.  I first met him about ten years ago, when Robert Redford came into my living room and introduced me to the dangers of women who invite themselves to your hotel room and the concept that someone could hit a baseball 600 feet on the reg after: A. Not having practiced for fifteen years; and B. Having been a pitcher in his previous career; as long as C. The bat that was used had been infused with lightning.

I took both points to heart, and while I'm still to allow a wary woman into any hotel room I've occupied (which has worked out quite well, as can be seen by my lack of gunshot wounds to the hip), I do credit the second major concept from that film with ending my baseball career.

Young William showing a confident smile, knowing that all he needs is a magical bat to keep his baseball career going.

Young William circa October 2009 upon finding out that he'd been cut from the Notre Dame baseball team.

Unfortunately for me, I never found a lightning bat and I hadn't worked hard enough to make it the old-fashioned way.

***

My buddy Pete recently gave me The Legend of Bagger Vance (novel form).  I had planned on using it to avoid reading my psychology textbooks, but I was unable to do that as Pete obviously had me figured out from the beginning, because after a mere 74 pages, I stumbled into a trap of deep psychology.  For anyone who hasn't read the book or seen the movie, Bagger Vance is a caddy of mysterious origins who is less of a man who carries a golf bag and more of a life coach.  That's not to say he isn't a golf fanatic.  He is.  And while he does know the game from physical side, he is more worried about the mental and spiritual aspects to it.  He has the belief that every golfer has an "Authentic Swing," which cannot be coached, but rather follows the player from the very first time he picks up a club.  He describes the swing with a man named Keeler, another student of the game, thusly:

 

"'I believe that each of us possesses, inside ourselves,' Bagger Vance began, 'one true Authentic Swing that is ours alone. It is folly to try to teach us another, or mold us to some ideal version of the perfect swing. Each player possesses only that one swing that he was born with, that swing which existed within him before he ever picked up a club. Like the statue of David, our Authentic Swing already exists, concealed within the stone, so to speak.' Keeler broke in with excitement. 'Then our task as golfers, according to this line of thought...' '...is simply to chip away all that is inauthentic, allowing our Authentic Swing to emerge in its purity.'

As I'm sure you've all figured out, he's not just talking about a golf swing.

"'Consider the swing itself,' he said. 'Its existence metaphysically, I mean. It has no objective reality of its own, no existence at all save when our bodies create it, and yet who can deny that it exists, independently of our bodies, a...s if on another plane of reality.' 'Am I hearing you right, sir?' Keeler asked. 'Are you equating the swing with the soul, the Authentic Soul?' 'I prefer Self,' Bagger Vance said. 'The Authentic Self'"

Once again.  Not only targeted towards golf

Will Smith as Bagger Vance.  Quick side rant: This absolutely should have been Morgan Freeman.  Big Willie Style is way too young/unmysterious for this gig.

 Bagger Vance believes that there are three paths to find one's Authentic Swing Self.  The first is Discipline - hard work, dedication, commitment.  The second is Wisdom - analyzing, dissecting.  The third, however, is a "pure love of the game."  Only when this pure love is actualized does the Authentic Swing Self come about.

***

In The Natural (movie version), Roy Hobbs hits a home run to win the Pennant for the New York Knights (great name for the future Nyets, Prokhorov), blows up the light towers, and rounds the bases in a shower of sparks.  The only thing he learns is that it was him, not the bat, the whole time.  

In The Natural (book version) [Spoiler Alert], Roy Hobbs strikes out.  He's been forcing a relationship with the owner's daughter, which has clearly been a terrible idea from the start.  He gets paid to throw the pennant, and while whether or not he actually does is left unclear, he is faced by a child at the end who tells him to "say it ain't so," and Roy can't.  He has tried to force himself into being a celebrity instead of the simple man that he grew up as.  He tries to force a relationship with a woman who repeatedly shows no signs of caring for him.  He tries to build himself into a superhero instead of being himself, and the book ends with him walking away in the rain, a sorry and bitter man.

If asked how to describe Roy Hobbs' Authentic Self after finishing that book, I'm fairly confident that nobody could actually do it.  He grows on his strong, farmboy values, throws them away, and then is left in a state of ambiguity.  It could be that the natural wasn't so natural after all, or it could be that he simply stopped after the Discipline step from Mr. Vance.  He put in the time, the dedication, the effort to try to woo Memo (the girl) (shouldn't a weird name like that be the first clue that something's wrong??), but he never stops to analyze how terribly the situation that he's putting all of his time towards, and he certainly isn't doing it because of some pure love.  

You see, it's really easy to find Discipline when you want something.  The dedication and hard work that Bagger Vance refers to are the first (and often only) things that we try to increase when faced with a goal.  We rarely reach the Wisdom step, and almost never do things because we have a Pure Love for them.  We have the ability work so hard for something that we want it to be love so much that we can convince ourselves it is, but often it is contaminated with things that would be clearly noticed if we ever took the time to do the dissecting and analyzing that Bagger requests. 

That's because Pure Love can never be forced.  Pure love occurs when you love something for what it is.  You have no desire to change it.  You have no desire to manipulate it.  You don't approach it looking for something in return.  Pure love means loving something unconditionally for what it is in the purest sense.

I think that the most important line from Bagger's whole talk about finding the Authentic Self is when he says that what we need to do is to "chip away all that is inauthentic, allowing our Authentic Swing to emerge in its purity."  He says swing, but once again, I'm pretty confident that he means Self.

This doesn't mean that we need to avoid all outside influences in the world.  My parents have different ideas for what my life should be than what I think it should be.  I don't mind dropping a few tenths of a point on GPA in order to experience something that I feel I'll value more in twenty years, but they're worried about my grades because grades lead to jobs, which is a hard stance to argue with, especially considering that they've put me under their roof for the past twenty years, they've fed me, raised me, clothed me, made me into who I am today.  Just because they want something different from what I want doesn't mean that I have to run away from it.  It just means that I have to understand why our views differ.  I need to have a conscious, concerted effort to understand who I am even when the world is throwing influences at me from every angle.  

I'm guilty of having done things to get something in return.  I'm fairly confident that we all have.  I've thought at times that having a girlfriend would be great just for what it stood for, and not for who the person was.  I've wanted leadership roles for status instead of to lead.  What I've recently realized, however, is that I'm always a lot happier when I control myself and hope that that leads to the consequences I desire than when I throw myself at a desired consequence and totally lose control of myself, and while I never realized it before about an hour ago, I'm pretty sure that Bagger and I are on the same page.

It seems to me that all of this could be avoided if we simply turned our Discipline efforts another direction.  Instead of trying to attain something, why do we not focus those efforts on ourselves.  God knows that we have room to improve.  If we really, truly put as strong of an effort as we can into finding and maintaining our true selves, into chipping away the inauthenticities, as we do into manipulating other people to like us, we should be able to figure it out pretty quickly.  

And isn't that the person that we want other people to see?

Time is way too short to try to bullshit people with a false self, and even if it wasn't, why the hell would we want to do that?  Personally, I would rather find one person who loves me for my true self than a thousand who love me for something I'm not.  When we meet others we automatically go through the Wisdom stage.  We analyze them, we dissect them, we recall past experiences to figure out what's going on with them.  That's easy.  That's a short step.  We do that every day.

If we can take these first two steps and really, honestly be happy with them, that is when we will find a pure love for our Authentic Self.  We need to take that Discipline, take that Wisdom, and figure out what we truly are, and once we have, once we've analyzed and dissected it all away we will find out that we've found ourselves.  And if we've gotten rid of all the things that we really can't stand, if we've chipped away all the unnecessary buildup that has stuck to us, chances are that the stuff that's left is something that we love.

The hardest part of this whole thing (as recently pointed out by Pete) is not actively analyzing what's going on when it's going on.  You can't think in the middle of a golf swing.  You know the checkpoints of the swing, you know the basics, but you can't be constantly analyzing it to see if you've hit them.  You just have to trust that it'll happen.  You have to do.  You have to be.

I know that I have to figure out who I am before I jump into relationships.  I need to have confidence in myself.  I also need to be able to look back and know where I deviated from that self.  I obviously need to know how my Authentic Self acts, I can't do outrageous things and just hope to analyze them later, but like the golf swing, I just have to trust that I'm hitting my checkpoints and being myself and not be constantly double-checking to make sure I've been there.  If I keep looking back, by the time I turn around the moment will be gone, and that's not what the moment is for.

The moment is for being.  I want to be me.  Just like trusting my golf swing to hit the ball down the fairway, I need to trust myself to find pure love and to ride it out for as long as it lasts.  If it ends, I can figure out why, but bliss isn't meant to be interrupted by the conscience.  If it's all set up on the tee waiting to be driven straight and true 250 yards down the fairway, I have a responsibility to let it fly.  If I shank it into the trees and the relationship falls apart, that's the time to figure out what I did wrong, where I deviated from my swing, but for now, I'm going to trust myself to be the person that I know I am, and I'm going to love this for all it's worth.