Big Daddy, Papa Grande, And Sports

As a kid I was into sports, mainly of the professional Detroit franchise variety.

I remember rooting for Cecil “Big Daddy” Fielder who, in the pre-steroid era, belted an unheard of 51 home runs, despite the fact that it appeared he was powered entirely by chocolate chip cookies.

I remember having the window to my room open, with a radio leaned up against the screen, facing out, so I could listen to the Red Wings in the Stanley Cup Finals while I shot hoops in the driveway.

I remember marveling at Barry Sanders making the defenders trying to tackle him look like silly, and also at how the Lions failed to ever give him a quarterback who didn’t look like he was pulled off the street minutes before the game and asked to suit up:

“Ever play quarterback, son?”
“Quarterwho?”
“You’ll get the hang of it.”

I remember watching Bill Laimbeer draining three-pointers with his ridiculous over-the-head shooting form. To this day, when playing H-O-R-S-E in Eagle Harbor with my buddy Lurch, a halfcourt, over-the-head shot is referred to exclusively as a “Laimbeer”.

They were fun times, but I’ve since grown, and the world of sports has begun to take a back seat in my life. This became readily apparent to me after I intensely followed the Detroit Pistons through the 2004 postseason all the way to their improbable championship, which cumulated in an NBA Finals victory over the heavily-favored L.A. Lakers, who were going through their last season of the intense drama, “As Shaq And Kobe Turn.” After the final seconds had ticked away and the Pistons won, I sat there for a while, waiting for a moment of jubilation to hit me, but it never came. Instead, I thought, “That’s it? Huh.”

The childhood magic of following sports was gone.

Not that I don’t do it anymore, it’s just not with the same voracity. It no longer rules my world. Today, I consider myself to be a bit more mature, a tad more sophisticated, a sliver more classy, in spite of this very blog, which consists of nothing but utterly nonsensical ramblings that seem to contradict the very assertion of maturity.

Except I’m kind of lying. Not about the nonsensical ramblings, but of the whole sports voracity following thing.

You see, if I don’t guard against it, I quickly find myself getting pulled back in and reverting back to the stereotypical fan who lives and dies by his team and throws furniture across the room after a bad call goes against them. I find that I have to go cold turkey and monitor things from the internet in order to avoid this.

Case in point, the Detroit Tigers current run through the playoffs, specifically Game One of the ALCS against the New York Yankees. Like a moron, I tuned into the ninth inning, where the Tigers were up by four. At this point, Jose “Papa Grande” Valverde was called on the close out the game, despite the fact that recently he’s looked like he’s been pulled off the street minutes before the game and asked to suit up:

“Ever pitch the ninth before?”
“Pitch the whatnow?”
“You’ll get the hang of it.”

Predictably, Papa Grande played like he was actually a double agent on the Yankees payroll, and the four run lead evaporated as fast as the Yankees could circle the bases without getting dizzy, during which time I contemplated throwing furniture across the room and seeing how many swears I could string together before I ran out of breath.

So much for mature.
See ya, sophistication.
Adios to classy.

There is no in-between. I'm either detached or all in. For example, I would gladly choose to participate in any sort of outdoor activity on a Sunday afternoon a hundred times out of a hundred as opposed to watching football, but if I do find myself stuck inside with nothing else to do and a Lions game is on, I’ll soon turn into a ranting and raving lunatic who questions vehemently the entire coaching staff’s sanity for calling a draw on third and long. However, if I check the score afterwards and see that they lost a heartbreaker, I'll usually just chuckle and say, “Same ol’ Lions!”

It’s basically the worst of both worlds. I can get all riled up watching a game when it goes bad, yet when everything goes well and victory is achieved, I look around and wonder, “That’s it? Huh.”

So basically, I just need to stay away.

Quell the quarters.
Hang up the halves.
Pitch the periods.
Impound the innings.

Give me time. I’ll get the hang of it.