Get To Know Me

Sports in many ways shapes a person. Fortunes, good and bad, on the fields of play teach us valuable lessons: dealing with adversity, standing up to pressure, eliminating distractions to focus on the matter, the game situation at hand.

The first sport I ever played was soccer. At the time, age 7, I didn't know what soccer was. I had grown up in a sports fanatical household. My parents schlepped me to Candlestick Park on many occasions to watch their beloved Giants in arctic temperatures. I learned simple math from baseball box scores, dripping milk and Cheerios on the sports page while adding the linescores to see if the numbers were correct. But I never played an organized game until I suited up in the all-red kit of the Minnows and took the pitch against the barber-pole striped X-Rays.

We won 2-0. There was running and kicking. I had lucked into a good team, an established team, where all the kids had played together before, earning a championship the previous season. And if most of the experience is lost to memory, I do remember most of the other teams' names (Angels, Guppies) and I do remember my first goal, poking it in during a goalmouth scramble (is there any other kind at age 7?) during a Thanksgiving tournament in Pleasanton, the next town over. I remember jumping into Tim McFadden's (you can call him "Lead Foot," everyone else did) arms and slobbering with glee on his jersey.

The only other event I recall is a totally random one. My barber, during a haircut, was asking me about playing and I told him I was a "wing" (these were the days of 3-3-4 alignments), to which he replied, "Oh, you must be fast then." I had never thought about it, never wondered whether I was fast or whether that was a prerequisite for the position. But that stuck with me, because I don't like not knowing things. And over the course of my athletic history, the primary focus I had was to learn. I was never the best player on a team. But, very often, I was the smartest.

That's not simply the product of my prodigious brainpower, though I have a certain aptitude. No, most of the credit has to go to my coaches beginning the year after that first one. Jack, Steve and Mike were father-figures to me, like favored uncles, alternately stern and playful. I, and a dozen others, were with them for four years, a period during which we won two California State titles, traveled to--and won--tournaments in Calgary and Toronto, played--and beat--teams from Mexico, Sweden and the Netherlands. We were talented, to be sure, but far more than that, we understood the game, strategy and instinct drilled into us ten months a year, four nights a week. Twenty years later, I would take a coaching job at a local high school. I applied the same drills I'd learned back then and was tilted into fury when my kids could not adequately perform them. Even more, they had no clue how they applied to actual play.

I suppose it's an inherent trait of mine, a thirst for knowledge. It's what I do professionally after all. I'm expected to know everything and if I don't know the answer, I need to find it on deadline. It attends my personal life, as well. I'm rarely unprepared. If I'm traveling to a new city, or even a just-opened local restaurant, I'll know everything I need to know before stepping foot inside. As an example, I was across The Pond this summer and missed my flight from Scotland to Ireland (through no fault of my own). I did not panic. In fact, five minutes later, I had mapped out a route to get to my destination, one that required much more travel time and trains, buses and cabs, but one that was navigable because I had all the information with me. Just in case.

Which brings me to AJ, my 5-year-old son. He just completed his first season of soccer. They did not win a single game, which is not a big deal. Even he, who is constantly focused on winning (future post forshadowing there), didn't seem to mind. While I wanted them to win, for his sake, the play is the thing at his age. And learning. Regretably, that didn't happen and it was this fact which had me on a peculiar edge at most of his games. Yes, thank you Coach Debbie for volunteering your time and kudos for your patience with eight 5-year-olds, but goddamnit, read a book or something. Even at that age, there are some simple and easily applicable skills which can be taught. It's all repitition, all ball familiarity. And these kids got none of that. They got no taste of knowledge, nothing to stimulate them further about the game or its intricacies.

To me, the joy of sports, playing, watching, being a fan, is being able to recognize the whole picture, how a single at-bat can alter a game's complexion, how a 1-1 fastball dictates pitch selection, defensive positioning, managerial gear-turning. The other day, I remarked on a heady play by a Notre Dame defensive back. "Daddy!" AJ shouted. "We're rooting for USC!" I told him that was true, but that being a sports fan means appreciating both greatness and nuance, regardless of the team or player in question.

One thing I always told my players when I coached was that whey were going to make mistakes, physical errors, have days where the touch just wasn't there. We all have. But, on the other hand, I stressed that every game, every practice, they could play hard and they could play smart. Neither of those characteristics should ever wane, from T-Ball to the Majors, from AYSO to the Premiership.

In the unlikely event you return here, the above encompasses my philosophy, and the guiding principles of what will appear in this space. Learn as much as you can. Play hard. Play smart. I'll try to help.

Batter Up

Sports provides us with many indelible images. The Catch. Kirk Gibson. The Jeter Flip Throw. Everyone remembers these; some even recall where they were when the events occurred (My parents' bedroom, an apartment in Reseda, my living room in Torrance) and who they were with (nobody, my parents and first ex-wife, my second ex-wife, son and Donny) at the time. But these events did not occur in a vacuum. Like every good story, there is a beginning and a middle before we get to the denouement. And often, there is a postscript to be written as well.

Take "The Catch." Dwight Clark's gravity-defying reception from Joe Montana's seemingly desperate fling tied the NFC championship game, the extra point giving the Niners the slimmest of leads. But a minute remained in the game and Danny White quickly drove the Cowboys to near midfield. Where he (Danny White, not Drew Pearson; thanks Todd) fumbled.

Take the "Jeter Flip Throw." The A's trailed by a run and long before Terrence Long ripped the ball down the right field line, long before Shane Spencer's egregious miss of 8 (I think it was 8) cutoff men, I was jumping up and down in my apartment screaming at A's manager Art Howe to pinch run (with speedy Eric Byrnes) for the fat and lumbering (and fat) Jeremy Giambi, a move so obvious (Jeremy was the DH, so there were no positional aspects) I could not believe it was not happening. Howe's bumbling allowed baseball history to be made and for sportscasters the universe over to reverentially tug at Jeter's nether regions with even more frequency.

Which brings us to Kirk Gibson, safely ensconced on the Dodger bench with the home team down to their last strike in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series. Uber-closer Dennis Eckersley had journeyman Mike Davis down 1-2, the same Dennis Eckersley who had issued all of 11 free passes in over 70 innings during the season, the same Dennis Eckersley who threw Davis three straight fastballs off the outside corner, putting the tying run on first and bringing Gibson limping to the plate.

So that's what you can expect to find here, the clicks and tumbles behind the clockface, a celebration of the sometimes seemingly insignificant action that leads up to the dunk or the dong you get from your national sports highlight networks. Less MTV quick cuts than a languid afternoon at the beach with a novel. And yeah, I'm also gonna make fun of Joe Morgan at every opportunity.