Under Better Circumstances

They say you can never go home again.

I suppose that’s true; just as you can never step into the same river twice, because the water is constantly moving, home will be different every time you come back. The people may be the same, or at least appear to be, but they are moving too. They are thinking, growing, spreading their wings. They are separating, searching for their own identities, their own callings. They’re coping, looking for handholds along the way, just as you are. Just as we all are. The people look the same, but they aren’t. And neither are you.

*****

Trudy, Eitan and I flew to Chicago last weekend. The details are more complicated – they always are – but let’s just say that there was a death in the family and we felt like we needed to be there. I’ve been back to Chicago a handful of times since my family moved to New York when I was eleven. We went back for a couple of family vacations; I went back in my senior year of high school; and then Trudy and I staffed a youth group trip to Chicago when we were in college. The city has been different every time, especially the neighborhood where I used to live. It’s more modern, and yet, still just the same. So many of the stores have been updated, while the homes look very similar to the way they did back then. It was familiar but strange, all at once.

We saw my father and his girlfriend, which was our main reason for making the trip. We met extended relatives, new to us but not to each other. Eitan met his baby cousin and gave her the presents we had brought with us. We saw family friends from my childhood and a friend Trudy and I knew from college. I even saw some of my old elementary school teachers when they came to visit during shiva.¹

Everyone I had known before looked the same to me. A little more grey here, another wrinkle or two there, but the faces and the smiles were all just as I had remembered them. They were thrilled to see me and to meet Trudy and Eitan, and I was just as excited to catch them up on what I had been up to over the past few years.

Still, something was off. The city felt so foreign to me. I remembered much of the geography and some landmarks here and there, but it wasn’t mine anymore. I didn’t have the same connection to the streets or the stores or the houses. The people, some of whom I’ve known for literally my entire life, had grown up or grown older or changed in some other way and I’d had no idea.

I’d come home, but it wasn’t home anymore.

*****

If there is any silver lining to losing a family member, it’s that it brings people together; it brought us to Chicago, after all. But throughout the trip, I kept coming back to that one thought. We brought Eitan to a museum, showed off the sights I’d remembered from my childhood, reinforced his Chicago sports roots. We ate deep dish pizza, spent badly needed quality time with my father, bonded with new family members. And underneath all of it was the terrible loss my relatives had suffered. The new relationships we were forming were all because of the relationship that would never be formed with the stepbrother I had never met.

The stepbrother I would never meet.

It’s still difficult for me to process the circumstances that brought Trudy, Eitan and me to Chicago last weekend. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ll ever really understand. People who have experienced a death tend to want to ask why, even though they know there isn’t a real answer.

The family and friends who came to visit kept saying, “Hopefully, next time we’ll meet under better circumstances.” I almost laughed every time I heard it; next time would have to be better because how could there ever be any worse situation than losing a family member?

And yet, I I understood the sentiment. It was an acknowledgement of a difficult, horrible time, while still expressing some hope for more positive times in the future. This, too, shall pass, as awful as it seems right now. We will all continue on as best we can; coping, growing, moving forward, somehow finding the strength to put one foot it front of the other. We will surround ourselves with the special people in our lives who offer support and guidance and distraction. We will use them to help restore structure, while still leaving the windows to the past and the future wide open.

They say you can never go home again. But they should have added that home is more about who you’re with than where you are.

 

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^{1. Sitting shiva is the Jewish tradition of accepting visitors when mourning a family member who has died. You can read more about it here. ↩}

There’s Always Next Year

The Chicago Cubs’ season ended last night.

The Cubs had a very good season. They had the third best record during the regular season behind talented young hitters and a couple of dominant starting pitchers. Of course, the two teams with better records were Pittsburgh and St. Louis, both of whom are in the Cubs’ division, which meant that 97 wins only got the Cubs a wild card spot in the playoffs. But the Cubs kept going, beating Pittsburgh in the wild card play-in game and then winning three out of four against St. Louis in the divisional round. Their regular season formula had continued, as they rode solid pitching and timely hitting to dispatch their opponents and set up a matchup against the NL East winners, the New York Mets.

Then, somehow, everything just stopped. The bats that had scored so many runs suddenly fell silent. The Cubs barely managed two runs in the first game and only scored one in the second. The young Cubs, whose raw talent had been able to feast on lesser pitching throughout the regular season, were stymied by the Mets’ starters. They looked lost at the plate and often struggled to even make contact, let alone string together a rally to score enough runs to make a difference.

The Cubs pitchers, meanwhile, were not exactly bad, but they weren’t amazing, either. Jon Lester took the loss in game one and Jake Arrieta, who had thrown a no-hitter earlier in the year, became human and allowed three runs in the first inning of game two. Kyle Hendricks and Jason Hammel, who had been somewhat unpredictable during the regular season, were still serviceable in games three and four, despite being the losing pitchers. The Mets hitters, particularly Curtis Granderson and Daniel “What-is-he-on-and-where-can-I-get-some?” Murphy, never seemed to get out and the runs kept coming.¹

As I watched the end of game four, with the Cubs down 8-3 in the bottom of the ninth and the writing having been on the wall since they were in a 6-0 deficit in the second inning, I was somewhat surprised to realize that I was not even so sad about the result. I was disappointed, to be sure, but I wasn’t heartbroken. The Cubs had a fantastic season. They were an extremely young team that was hoping to be competitive and maybe make the playoffs. The fact that they made it all the way to the National League Championship Series is a credit to their talent and to their manager, Joe Maddon, who, as far as I’m concerned, earned every penny of the first year of his 5-year, $25 million dollar contract.

The difference with this Cubs team, as opposed to the teams of past years, is that this team didn’t lose because of a black cat or a billy goat. They didn’t lose because a devoted fan tried to catch a ball and a player’s subsequent tantrum. They didn’t lose because of an error at first base or because of reverse jinx put on them by a movie that came out 26 years ago.

They didn’t lose because of a curse.

The difference, this year, was that the Cubs were playing a better team. The Mets had better depth among their starting pitchers and more consistency among their hitters. When a team relies so heavily on the home run to score, as the Cubs did this year, there are going to be times when the offense has trouble. As it turns out, it’s quite difficult to hit home runs when you have trouble making contact, and the Cubs learned that lesson the hard way.

As opposed to past Cubs teams, the future is still full of promise. Their core batters – Bryant, Rizzo, Schwarber, Soler, Baez, Russell, etc. etc. – is under team control for at least the next six years. They’re very young, as I keep mentioning, and I have to assume that they’re just going to get better. I read an article earlier in the season that essentially predicted that, if things go according to plan and everyone stays relatively healthy, this year should be the Cubs’ worst of the next five or six years.

So yes, the Cubs lost. Their season is over and I’m left counting down the days until spring training. But this time, the slogans “Ya gotta believe,” “It’s gonna happen” and “We are good” don’t seem quite as laughable as they have in the past. I can be optimistic about future teams without feeling, deep down, that I’m kidding myself.

There’s always next year.

 

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^{1. Murphy, who had a .281 batting average and hit only 14 home runs during the regular season, set a record by hitting a home run in six straight playoff games. He hit one in games four and five against Los Angeles and then had one in each of the four games against the Cubs.↩}

The Chicago Legacy

Spring is a great time of year to be a sports fan.

March gives us the men’s and women’s college basketball tournaments that cripple workplace productivity as people replace spreadsheets and phone calls with box scores and online play-by-play logs. It’s the time of year when NBA and NHL teams really start to jockey for playoff position and NFL teams conduct their player evaluations in preparation for the draft in May. March also marks the start of Major League Baseball’s spring training. Spring training means warmer weather is on its way, along with the optimism that every fan feels at the start of a new season.

For the most part, April and May have been pretty kind to me, as a Chicago sports fan. The Blackhawks dispatched their first round opponents, the Nashville Predators, in six games behind the stellar play of backup goalie Scott Darling and then completed a clean sweep of the Minnesota Wild in the second round. They’re currently down 2-1 in the conference finals against Anaheim, but I’m hopeful for a comeback. Meanwhile, I’ll admit that I started feeling nervous when the Bulls, who had made it to a 3-0 lead over their first round opponents, the Milwaukee Bucks, allowed the Bucks to win back-to-back games to cut the lead to 3-2. Thankfully, the Bulls were able to find their focus again and beat the Bucks handily in game six to move to the next round. Granted, they ended up losing the next series in six games to LeBron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers, but it was a hard-fought series and a few bounces here or there could have led to some drastically different results.¹ Also, I don’t think I had any real significant hopes of a championship for the Bulls, largely because of the injuries they suffered through the regular season and during the Cleveland series, so I dealt with the disappointment fairly easily. I am a bit concerned about their coaching situation for next year, given the general consensus that their head coach, defensive guru Tom Thibodeau, and the Bulls will be parting ways during the offseason, but that’s a worry for another time.

Baseball has always been my first love, though, and this year’s Chicago Cubs are not the team of years past. This year’s team is flush with young talent, almost all of which is under contract for the next six seasons, not to mention the additional prospects still developing in the minors. Brand new third baseman, Kris Bryant, has been almost as good as advertised; he works pitch counts, gets on base and has incredible defensive talent for someone his age. His power stroke is taking a bit of time to develop, but there’s time for that; he is only 23 years old, after all.² This year’s team almost definitely won’t make the World Series and probably won’t make the playoffs, but they’ve already shown that they are more competitive than any team since 2009. As long as they finish over .500, I’ll chalk this season up as a win.

My other favorite piece of this particular sports spring has been the way Eitan has been developing an understanding and an interest in the games. He’s hardly a full-blown fan; given the choice between watching Sportscenter highlights and watching Daniel Tiger, Daniel is going to win every time. I have noticed, though, that if Eitan comes into the room in the morning and I have ESPN on while I’m eating breakfast, he will sit and watch with me for a little while before asking to watch Daniel Tiger. Earlier this week, we happened to see the highlight of Pittsburgh’s Pedro Alvarez hitting a home run into a boat sitting in the Allegheny River outside the stadium and, when Trudy woke up a little later, Eitan was excited to tell her, “We watched baseball and he hit the ball into the boat!” My grandparents, who happen to be Philadelphia Phillies fans, were in the car with us during a family event last weekend and my grandmother asked Eitan which team he would cheer for if the Phillies and the Cubs played against each other. Eitan smiled and said, “The Cubbies!” We all laughed, but I’ll admit that I felt a little like Mr. Burns as I pumped my fist with pride.

I’ve spent some time here and there thinking about the reasons why I want Eitan to be a fan of the Chicago teams. I think it’s pretty simple, actually; it has to do with legacies and the knowledge that I’ve passed something onto my son. The rational, higher-thinking part of me knows that there are other aspects of Eitan’s personality that he’s gotten from me and that sports are probably less important than some of those pieces. But still, there’s something about the way Eitan sings, “Root, root, root for the Cuuuuu-BEES!” that really sticks with me. It’s his enthusiasm and his smile and the pure, unadulterated joy on his face. It’s the knowledge that he got the allegiance to the Cubs from me and that he’s taking it on as his own. Honestly, I wouldn’t even mind if Eitan ends up cheering for some of the New York teams; I think I’ve already accepted that outcome as a possibility to some extent because that’s where we live and his friends will probably be New York fans too; there are worse things than being a New York fan.³ The key is that sports will be something that we can share as he gets older, no matter where we live or whatever else is going on in our lives.

Go Cubs Go.

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^{1. Eitan gets a little confused by the team names. I can’t really blame him, since they both start with “B” and they both wear red and white. He saw me watching a hockey game and asked, “Is that the Bulls?” I answered, “No, these are the Blackhawks. The Bulls play basketball. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you everything.” Then he smiled, said, “Okay!” and climbed into my lap to watch with me.↩}

^{2. Tristan Cockroft of ESPN nicknamed Bryant “Toy Store” because of his initials and the way he makes fantasy owners’ eyes light up. He caught some flak on his podcast for the idea at first, but I remain staunchly in support of the name.↩}

^{3. Except the Yankees. There is nothing worse than being a Yankee fan.↩}

Story Time: Rangers-Islanders 1999

I originally started writing this post as a connection to Eitan’s first baseball game but I got so involved in the story that it became its own post. I decided I enjoyed writing it so much that I would finish it and post it anyway, even though it was a long time ago and being a parent was one of the farthest things from my mind. I’ll post more memories occasionally under the “Story Time” title. If there are specific types of stories you’d like to hear from when I was younger, either stories that you were a part of or a type of story you’d like to read from my point of view, either send me an email at sleepingontheedgeblog@gmail.com or post on the blog’s Facebook page. Enjoy!

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I was in middle school when I first started paying attention to professional hockey. My closest friend was a New York Islanders fan, so that’s the team that I first started following (I went back to my Chicago roots with the Blackhawks a few years later). The downside was that the Islanders were terrible and played in an awful arena (two facts which remain true today, unfortunately, although apparently they’re moving to Brooklyn). The upside, though, was that because they were terrible and played in an awful arena, their tickets were really cheap, which came in handy for a middle school student with no income. My friend and I went to a couple of games and my love for the sport was sealed.

One of the games that we went to was against the New York Rangers. The Rangers and Islanders have a long and storied history. It’s hard for me to call it a rivalry, as they haven’t often both been competitive at the same time, but because of their proximity and the nature of the sport, their games always tend to get a bit chippy.¹ A group of my friends made plans to see this game together; one guy bought the tickets over the phone and we planned to pick them up at the game. We met up after school, drove to Nassau Coliseum, went to the Will Call window and…

No tickets.

My friend, Jon, was beside himself. He pleaded with the ticket person, said that he had given his credit card information on the phone, gave his name, his phone number, his drivers license, anything he could think of. The ticket person asked him to wait a minute and move to the side so that she could help the other customers. Jon did so reluctantly and after a minute, a tall, muscular man wearing a maroon customer service vest came out of the ticket office door. He asked us what had happened and Jon made his case. The man listened and, when Jon had finished, told us to wait while he would see what he could do. He went back into the office and we waited in silence, watching with increasing despair as the other fans around us – you know, the ones who actually had tickets – filed into the arena. The young woman who sang the Star Spangled Banner that night had just finished when the man emerged again.

“Okay, guys, here’s the deal,” he said to us. My heart immediately sank, as there was no way good news could follow an introduction like that. The night would be a supreme disappointment, we would have to go home empty-handed and there was nothing at all that could be done about it, no matter how much we begged.

“The good news is that I got you tickets to the game.”

My emotions have never made as fast U-turn as they did in that moment.

“The bad news is that they’re obstructed vision. Rangers-Islanders, you know, it’s sold out obviously. We keep a couple of seats open just for misunderstandings like this, though.”

We thanked him profusely as he handed us the stubs, said we didn’t care about the vision as long as we could get in. This was 95% true. Remember, I said Nassau Coliseum is an awful arena. It’s old, it smells and it’s falling apart.² There are poles and beams placed sporadically through the arena. There are places in the upper decks and at the backs of the lower decks where the roof or the levels above you hang over, allowing you to see the nearest corner of the ice and forcing you to watch the rest of the action on tiny televisions installed in the very parts of the building blocking your view. It’s as though the architect forgot that people would want to come to the arena to watch live sports. So there were tiny pieces of our hearts that were disappointed about the phrase “obstructed vision,” but we were being honest when we said that we just wanted to be at the game. There are few pairs of teams that inspire such animosity in each other’s players and fans. Think Yankees-Red Sox, but if they played forty-five minutes away from each other instead of five hours.

We made our way inside and our excitement grew exponentially as we entered. The game had just started and to say that the atmosphere was electric would be an understatement. We handed our tickets to the usher and waited to see just how much the Coliseum was going to force us to depend on the crowd’s reaction to see what was happening in the game as opposed to seeing it for ourselves. We braced ourselves for the inevitable climb up, up, up to the last row of nosebleed seats. The usher glanced at our tickets and began to lead us down to our seats.

Down to our seats.

We looked at each other, none of us daring to say a word, in case the usher had somehow made a mistake. We followed him down, getting closer and closer to the ice and the players on it. The usher finally stopped, gestured to the row of empty seats and said simply, “These are your seats.”

We were sitting in the front row.

I couldn’t help myself. I was at the front of our group so I asked him, “Are you sure?” No one else in our group had moved, so I’m assuming I had voiced the question they were all wondering.

He laughed and said, “Enjoy the game, boys.”

He had not made a mistake. As it turns out, one of the other ways a spectator’s view can be obstructed is by the six inch advertising strip that lines the base of the glass around the rink and the broad shoulders of the players sitting on the bench. I was sitting no more than three feet behind the Islanders goalie, Roberto Luongo.³ If not for the glass, I could have reached out and touched him without leaving my seat.

The game was fantastic. A rare 4-2 win for the hometown Islanders, including an incredible glove save from Isles goaltender Kevin Weekes and the diminutive Rangers forward Theo Fleury slashing his stick at the calves of the hulking Isles defenseman, Zdeno Chara, who returned the favor by stealing a Fleury pass and assisting on a goal.

The night that had started so inauspiciously had turned into an amazing evening that none of us would ever forget. It was the last time I saw a game at Nassau Coliseum, but I doubt highly that any other game could match the emotion of that night.

 

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<sup>1. Poor Tommy Salo…↩
2. The arm rest from my seat at my first game literally came off during the evening. Just fell right off of its base. Naturally, I kept it as a souvenir.↩
3. Yes, this Roberto Luongo.↩</sup>

His First Game

This post would not have been possible without our friends, Daniel and Stephanie Rensing, and Stephanie’s father, Mr. Bob Jordan. We owe all of the memories of Eitan’s first baseball game to you guys. Please take a minute to check out their amazing line of baking products at The Smart Baker.

Also, this post is part of the “Future Fanatics” campaign being run by Fanatics, the leading online retailer of everything sports. Fanatics is a one stop shop for everything sports, from your favorite team’s baseball hat to the Cubs jersey Eitan will get when he’s older (and we don’t have to worry about him spilling food on it). Check out their site to see how other “Future Fanatics” are getting their start.

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I don’t remember my first baseball game.

I went to four baseball games in person when I lived in Chicago: three to see the Cubs at Wrigley Field and one to see the White Sox at the “new” Comiskey Park.¹ The truth is, I don’t remember much of any of them. I remember that Andre Dawson hit a home run at each of the Cubs games. I remember thinking that the Sox were cooler than the Cubs because their stadium had a jumbo-tron and Wrigley Field had that boring charming manual-operated scoreboard. I remember that at my third Cubs game, we sat next to the railing in foul territory on the first base side, the last three seats in the row between our section and the bleachers to my right. At that game, I remember furtively waving my hand every once in a while just in case a television camera was filming me without my realizing it. I remember that we left that game early because my brother was with us and he was no older than six or seven and he was falling asleep. I remember standing at the L station outside Wrigley Field, listening to the crowd cheer in the stadium behind us. I remember a man standing on the opposite platform with a huge bag of wrapped presents that came undone and spilled down onto the train tracks and the way the people next to him helped him hook each gift and pull them back up.

Most of all, I remember the crowd. I remember being in awe at the sheer volume of people in the stadium and how amazing it was to hear 30,000 people cheering, “Let’s go Cubs!” in unison. I remember watching 30,000 pairs of hands clapping to applaud a strikeout and hearing 30,000 voices scream, “Charge!” after the piped-in bugle played. I remember the organ and singing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” with Harry Caray (who, by that point, I had finally realized was not my grandfather) along with all of those 30,000 other strangers. I don’t remember the score; I don’t even remember who the opponents were. I just knew we were all fans, we were all there for the Cubs and we were all having a blast.

We brought Eitan to his first baseball game this past weekend. He had a very different experience than I did when I was younger, for a number of reasons. For one thing, we were at Citi Field, home of the New York Mets, a much more modern and fan-friendlier stadium than Wrigley Field. For another, we had been invited by old-school friends of Trudy’s to watch the game from the luxury box that they had for the evening, which meant that all of the food and drink was catered, Eitan had some space to run around (although he actually sat and watched a lot of the game with me) and we even got a personal visit from Mr. Met.

 

 

I’ll admit, I was a little uncomfortable about the idea of Eitan’s first game not involving the Cubs at all. I know he’s going to make his own decisions about sports allegiances, just as every child does, but I want him to be a Cubs fan. I know there are all kinds of reasons why I should spare him the misery, but I want to share the love of the team with him. You can fault the Cubs for many things, but treating their fans well is not one of them. It’s a badge of honor being a Cubs fan and I want Eitan to know that feeling. So I knew it was going to be difficult to pull him away from a mascot with a giant baseball for a head or the ice cream in the little New York helmet or the bright flashing lights of the scoreboard.

In the end, we all had such a good time that I almost didn’t care that we were cheering for the Mets. For me, it made no difference that we were cheering for another loser team; it’s not like they were going to knock the Cubs out of a playoff spot or anything.² I had gotten what I wanted: we were sharing baseball together. We were cheering in unison with 30,000 strangers and we were joining in the highs and lows of a hard-fought battle on the basepaths. We ate, we laughed, we ooh-ed and ahh-ed.

And in the middle of it all, we made this moment:

Forget the finger; we’ll make a Cubs fan out of him yet.

 

I don’t remember my first game and Eitan probably won’t remember his either. But I’ll never forget bringing him.

 

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<sup>1. That was right after they re-did the “old” Comiskey Park. I’m pretty sure it’s still the same stadium today, although it’s had two or three different corporate sponsor names since the early 90s.↩
2. Playoffs?!? The Cubs? Hah!↩</sup>

Dear Eitan

Dear Eitan,

I’ve been meaning to start writing you letters for a little while now. I suppose the blog that I’ve been writing for the last year and a half has basically been a long series of letters to you anyway, but I wanted this piece to be directed to you, in particular, as opposed to me just writing about you. There are some things I’ve been thinking about here and there, especially over the last month and a half since my last blog post, and I want to make sure I get them down before I forget them.

As I write this letter, you’re 30 days away from your second birthday. Don’t worry, I’m not going to wax poetic about where the time went and how I can still remember carrying you around cradled in my arm like a football and how much you’ve changed in the last two years, although I definitely could. I will, however, tell you a little bit about… you.

–You’re funny. Every kid can do something cute from time to time (whether they mean to or not) and, don’t get me wrong, you do plenty of cute things without realizing it. You walk around in your mother’s and my shoes; you take your food and “cook” it in your toy kitchen; you give a huge smile and shut your eyes tight when your picture gets taken, just to name a few. But you also know how to make your mother and me laugh, whether you’re spinning around in a circle until you’re dizzy, running through the apartment naked or telling us where you aren’t when we’re playing hide and seek.¹

–You’re caring. Whenever your mom or I aren’t feeling well, you come over and give us hugs. When you meet a baby, your first impulse is to go give them a hug or a kiss or “make nice.” You’re like that with animals too. One of your friends is unfortunately terribly sick but when you were at her birthday party, you couldn’t stop giving her hugs and kisses. You also didn’t stop saying her name and “happy birthday” for weeks afterward.

–You’re friendly. You’ve met other kids in playgroup and you’ve been playing with them – not just alongside them, with them – for months now. I’m not usually at your playdates because I’m at work, but I inevitably get pictures sent to me of you and your friends dancing on top of your toy box or jumping in your crib or using your mom’s stethoscope to hear each other’s heartbeats. Sometimes you and a girl are even lying down in your crib and smiling at each other.²

–You’re smart. It actually startles me how smart you are sometimes. You seem to see something once and it’s like you’ve mastered it, whether you’re building train systems on the floor, learning to ride your scooter or manipulating your parents into bribing you with cookies to get you into your car seat. Your language skills are also exploding. Your mom told me one day that you pointed to your toy basketball hoop in the living room and said “hoop.” She had never heard you say the word before but I told her that you and I had been watching ESPN in the mornings while we ate breakfast together. Now I can flip between basketball, baseball and hockey games³ and you point out hoops, balls, bats, pucks and nets. Now all we need is for you to recite the line, “There’s always next year” and we’ll be all set.

That’s probably a good place to stop for now. There’s a lot more for me to tell you about, but there’s time. I’m going to be writing new posts, either as letters to you or as my usual essays, about once per week. Ian Malcolm in Jurassic Park talked about life finding a way; in my case, with regard to writing regularly, life got in the way. I should have a slightly easier time now. Here’s hoping you’ll enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.

Love,

Me (“Da-dee!”)

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^{1. Here’s a tip: if you’re hiding and you hear us asking, “Are you behind the door?” or something similar, you don’t have to answer. I hate to break it to you: we already know where you are. Although, to be fair, your uncle Joel was a lot better at hide and seek at your age than I was. Maybe you should take notes from him instead.↩}

^{2. Getting a girl into your bed will have a very different meaning for you when you’re older. Something to look forward to.↩}

^{3. No football yet; it’s still spring, so it’s early baseball season and the NBA and NHL playoffs. We’ll get to football, don’t worry. You don’t realize it yet, but I’ve already taught you about the Bears.↩}

Lesson #3: The Chicago Bears

I don’t spend a lot of time watching sports.

This is not an entirely new development; it’s been a gradual decline over the past five or six years or so. And over the last two years or so, my live sports consumption has dwindled to almost nothing.

There are a few reasons for this trend. The most significant, of course, is that I just don’t have as much time as I used to. Between a full time job and two part time jobs, plus actually wanting to spend some quality time with my wife and son, it’s not easy to carve out a three hour block (at least) to watch a game start to finish. I’m pretty sure the last game I tried watch from the beginning was Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals and we all remember how that turned out. I barely even watch highlights anymore, although that has a lot to do with my disappointment in what Sportscenter has become, as opposed to just not having the time.

It does get hard sometimes to stay passionate about my teams, even though my loyalties have been set since I was a child. There is only so much information you can get about a team from reading articles and listening to podcasts. To really feel connected, you need to be watching the games. Even fantasy leagues only take me so far; there’s a big difference between watching your quarterback throw seven touchdowns – four of which to your number one wide receiver¹ – as opposed to constantly clicking “refresh” on the box score on your phone. The fantasy teams keep me involved in terms of paying attention to the league and staying informed, even if I’m not watching, but the feeling of really understanding the circumstances surrounding my team just isn’t there.

That being said, I don’t think I would enjoy it as much right now anyway. I have so little time at my disposal to spend with Eitan as it is, so I wouldn’t want to spend it sitting in front of the television. Plus, even if I tried, he’s 16 months old; he doesn’t care about sports yet. He’d rather tear the cable wire out of the wall or point out every single bus that drives by or take every book off the shelf or move the furniture around than sit and watch grown men yelling, grunting and fighting over a leather-bound ball. If I were to sit down to watch a game, I’d feel like I was missing something.

I know that a day will come when he and I will be able to sit and watch a game. We’ll be able to talk about Da Bears, both the heroes from 1985, like Sweetness, Ditka, Jim McMahon and the Fridge, and from more recent teams, like Urlacher, Briggs, Forte and Cutler.² He’ll be able to quote the famous Saturday Night Live sketch that gave me the name of many of my fantasy teams, Hurricane Ditka. By then, maybe the Bears will actually have been able to win another championship.

Or maybe I’ll just have to teach Eitan the Super Bowl Shuffle and be satisfied with that.

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^{1. Peyton Manning to Wes Welker, week 1. And by the way, I lost that game. Thanks, Maurice Jones-Drew.↩}

^{2. Granted, today’s players have yet to truly earn “hero” status, with the likely exception of Urlacher.↩}

Celebrating a Championship

As you may have heard (or read, seen personally, etc.), the Chicago Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup earlier this week. I mentioned that they were in the final in my last post, focusing there on the idea of the way our superstitions affect – or, more likely, don’t affect – sports games.[1] My extremely generous wife agreed to stay home with our sleeping son while I went to a bar with my brother[2] so that we could watch together. Sports are always more fun when they’re shared so we went out, we drank, we ate, we watched and most importantly, the Blackhawks won.

It was a fantastic ending. The Blackhawks were terribly outmatched in the first period and were lucky to finish only down 1-0. They played much better in the second and tied the game. About halfway through the third, Boston took a 2-1 lead and as time wound down, it looked like Boston would win, sending the series to a winner-take-all game 7. But then, with 76 seconds remaining in the game, the Hawks scored to tie it and only 17 seconds later, scored again to take the lead, which they held for the win. My brother and I were understandably thrilled that our team and city were once again hoisting the Stanley Cup, the best championship trophy in all of sports.

And I missed it.

About five minutes into the third period, my wife called me to say that our son had woken up sick and she needed me to come home. We left the bar and came straight home so I could put some newly dirty clothes and blankets in the laundry, clean up in the living room after Eitan got sick a second time and comfort him while my wife took a shower to clean herself off. It wasn’t until early the next morning, after Eitan had gotten some much needed sleep, that I had a chance to see the highlights of the end of the game.

Here’s the most important part: it didn’t bother me at all.

I couldn’t believe it. I had just missed my team winning the championship, something that theoretically may never happen again[3] and I was totally fine with it. My wife tried to tell me on the phone as I was walking home from the bar that I could go back and she could handle the situation by herself[4] and I said, “Absolutely not, I’m coming home.” She even apologized to me at one point for my having missed the end of the game and I told her she was being ridiculous. I knew where I needed to be and what I needed to do.

It’s a weird thing about fatherhood. I’m not going to pretend that Eitan was born and I immediately snapped into the father of the year. If anything, it’s taken me a long time even to get to the place where I am now and I’ve still got a long way to go. But fatherhood has grown on me. Maybe it’s because Eitan is older now and is more interactive. Maybe it’s that I’ve gotten more used to the idea of my new responsibilities. Maybe it’s that Eitan finally stopped peeing on me every time I changed his diapers. Maybe it’s even the idea that the more time I put in now, the more I’ll be able to share these sports moments with Eitan when he’s older.

Whatever it is, apparently Eitan isn’t the only one who’s growing.

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[1] If you look back at the comments on that article, you can safely assume that my brother’s jersey was set down on his couch during game 6 and no one was allowed to touch it.

[2] Not the jersey on the couch brother; the other one.

[3] I’m a Cubs fan too, remember?

[4] I told you she was generous.  To be fair, though, this was before Eitan got sick a second time.

Lesson #2: The Chicago Blackhawks

I’m not generally a superstitious person.  I don’t throw salt over my left shoulder; I don’t have a rabbit foot on my keychain; and if I break a mirror, I’m much more concerned about avoiding getting cut by shards of glass than I am about incurring seven years of bad luck.

 

That being said, though, I do think about superstitions fairly often.  If I’m walking outside, I tend to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk panels so I don’t “break my mother’s back.”[1]  When I open my umbrella indoors to let it dry out in my hallway, I think to myself about whether that will bring bad luck.  My family has a superstition that if you either step over a person who happens to be on the floor or walk in a complete circle around someone, you both acquire all of their sins and invite the evil eye upon them.  I’ve never bought these ideas, but they do pop into my head whenever I step over my son while he’s playing on the floor.

 

Sports superstitions are even more extreme.  People will go to incredibly great lengths to replicate the circumstances that they experienced in past years because they think that somehow they can influence the outcome of a game.  I’m talking about seating position, whether the lights are on or off, being at the game or watching from home, which hand they’re using to hold a drink.  Bud Light was airing commercials about superstition during the 2012 NFL season[2] using the tag line “It’s only weird if it doesn’t work.”  Most people use these kinds of superstitions to win championships; I once banished my own mother from the room where I was watching a random regular season Cubs game against Cincinnati because both times she had come in earlier, the Reds tied the game.  Never mind the fact that the Reds probably scored because they were playing against the Cubs (see Lesson #1); I was convinced my mother was bad luck for the Cubs.[3]

 

This is what brings me to the Chicago Blackhawks of the National Hockey League.  Just like I didn’t get into all of the Cubs’ history in my previous post, I’m not going to do that for the Blackhawks either.[4]  In any event, there’s too much to get to in one post, including their start in the Original Six, the stellar goaltending of Tony Esposito, the loudmouthed Ed Belfour and Jeremy Roenick, the terrible ownership of Bill Wirtz and the subsequent resurrection of the franchise that culminated in a Stanley Cup win in 2010.

 

My point is that the Blackhawks are currently competing in the Stanley Cup Finals once again this season and I am trying to figure out how to help them win.  I’ve watched parts of the games, but none all the way through and definitely not the majority of any of them.  I didn’t stay up for the end of Game 1, a three-overtime affair that ended in a Hawks win around 1:00 AM.  Game 2 also went to overtime, I also didn’t watch the end, and the Hawks lost.  I probably watched the most of Game 3, a 2-0 shutout loss, and the least of Game 4, a back-and-forth contest that also resulted in a Hawks overtime win.  Now they’re going to Game 5 with the series tied at two and I find myself almost considering not watching because it might somehow help them win.

 

I realize that this is absurd.  It’s irrational and kind of ridiculous to believe that a team playing an arbitrary game with arbitrary rules hundreds of miles away from me is going to be affected in any way by whether or not I decide to watch on my television.  But then, if I do watch and they lose, I know that a part of me will feel at least slightly responsible.  And yes, I know that’s ridiculous too.

 

But if it works…

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[1] I don’t completely alter my stride to avoid them, though, and I definitely have stepped on more than a few cracks in the past few days.  And my mom’s back is fine, thanks.

[2] Watch one of them here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yt2WedUdqO4

[3] It should also be noted that the Cubs won the game while my mother was safely somewhere else in the house.

[4] Feel free to do your own Internet research, including checking out my brother’s blog, Windy on the Banks, which focuses much more heavily on Chicago sports.

Lesson #1: The Chicago Cubs

Baseball is stupid.

I know, you’re confused. “What do you mean? You said this is a blog about sports and I know you’re a baseball fan! How can you say baseball is stupid?” Just bear with me.

I repeat: baseball is stupid. One guy throws a ball, another guy tries to hit it, and eight other guys run around throwing the ball to each other. Some of the position names make sense (pitcher, catcher, baseman) but some definitely do not (what’s a shortstop?). The managers and coaches never play in the games but they wear the same uniforms as the players.[1] Some teams don’t even put their players’ names on the backs of the uniforms so unless you follow the team closely or you’re watching on television, you don’t know who you’re watching.[2] And the game is so freaking slow.

And yet, it’s our national pastime. It’s the oldest of the four major sports, and it has the most documented statistics from as far back as 1860. Baseball movies are more beloved than any other sports movies.[3] People who don’t know anything about baseball know who Babe Ruth was and about the rivalry between the Yankees and the Red Sox. Baseball was the first organized team sport to break the boundary of racial segregation. Entire cities define their identities based on their baseball teams.

Baseball is also the sport that’s most often talked about as being passed down from father to son.[4]  Fathers teach their sons about the terminology, the players and the history, as well as the intricacies of base-running, pitch location, positioning in the field and countless other minutiae that will take up valuable space in their brains for years to come.  Fathers tell stories about players they’ve watched and the passions they’ve developed for the teams and the game.  Yes, fathers may teach their kids to shoot free throws or to throw a spiral, but neither of those compare to playing a simple game of catch.[5]

As I said in a previous post, I’m teaching my son lessons about Chicago sports.  Lesson number one is the Chicago Cubs, the baseball team of which I’ve been a fan for as long as I can remember.  I’m not going to go into the whole heart-breaking history of the team here; that’s what the internet is for.  Plus, everyone already knows about their century-plus streak of futility, from the curse of the Billy goat to one of the worst collapses in baseball history[6] to Leon Durham to Moises Alou.  Some people even acknowledge the good players that have been on the team, including Tinkers-to-Evers-to-Chance, Ernie Banks, Ferguson Jenkins, Ron Santo, Ryne Sandberg, Mark Grace, Kerry Wood and a bunch of others.  Rest assured, Eitan will hear and learn about all of it, plus the Friendly Confines of Wrigley Field, the rooftops, Santo’s black cat, the Hawk’s home runs, Wood’s bathtub incident, Dusty’s mission to overwork every pitcher he ever works with and Prior’s intimate relationship with the disabled list.  He’ll know the difference between a curveball and a slider, running on contact, the infield fly rule, the steroids era, fantasy sports and the league’s apparent refusal to use replay technology to ensure that the right calls are made.[7] He’ll know that it’s important to stick with your team, even when they’re horrible, because it makes it that much sweeter when they finally win.

It may be a stupid game, but it’s the first one I ever learned about and it will be the first one I teach Eitan.

Go Cubs Go.

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[1] Can you imagine if they did this in the NBA? Picture Stan Van Gundy or Tom Thibodeau wearing a jersey and shorts.  Just make sure you don’t mind not being able to unsee things.

[2] Reason number 2,840,751 to hate the Yankees.

[3] Try to argue with me about this. All I have to do is say Major League and Field of Dreams and I win.

[4] And daughters, too, obviously, but I have a son, so we’re sticking with that.  On a different note, I wouldn’t be surprised if a big reason for the transmission of baseball traditions to younger generations is the speed of the game.  Basketball, hockey and football all move too quickly.  Watch a hockey game; the only times you can actually go to the bathroom without fear of missing something is during the intermissions between periods.  Basketball has stoppages for free throws, time-outs and quarter intermissions, but it’s otherwise continuous action.  Even football is pretty fast-paced, as there are only 40 seconds between plays.  Baseball allows for discussion between innings, between batters and even between pitches.  There’s nothing to do but watch and talk about what the teams are going to do next.

[5] There’s a reason this book was written: http://www.amazon.com/Hey-Dad-Lets-Have-Catch/dp/097865840X

[6] You’re welcome, 1969 Mets.

[7] I told you – baseball is stupid.