Radio Day

Came to a conclusion this afternoon -- actually just now.

I'm pretty damn spoiled when it comes to getting coverage of my favorite teams. Especially coverage on the telly. My beloved Florida Gators. Those exasperating Buccaneers. The venerable Boston Celtics. All television regulars.

And then there are my Tampa Bay Rays. Baseball is one hell of a long season -- and the Rays broadcast team is there on one channel or another to bring me pre-game, gametime and post-game coverage.

Except for the rare moment when there's no TV coverage.

Like tonight.

Whoa.

What's a sports chick to do?

Tried following on the "real-time" (and oooooh, how I use that term loosely) Yahoo sports thing. Meh.

Not an MLB.com subscriber. There went that audio option.

And then I realized the stereo receiver in the living room has a radio component. Push a couple of buttons -- Bingo, Bango, Bongo and Irving ... POW! Got the game, coming straight to my ears.

Old school, baby.

(BTW, if you get the semi-obscure pop culture reference in the above statement, we need to talk...)

There's something to be said for listening to a sports event, as opposed to watching it. Takes a little work. But it's worth it.

The mind's eye goes into overdrive, processing the plays as the announcers call 'em. I'm picturing the outfield, the diamond, the dugout. Processing the action as well as what's going on around the action.

I'm a really visual person -- like to see things. It's my learning style. So this is a workout for me. But it's good.

My pop, when he was a kid playing sandlot baseball in Orlando in the '40s, took in all his big league games this way. Hoping the atmosphere would line up just right so he could hear the broadcast of his favorite team of the day, the St. Louis Cardinals.

There's something really pure and unsullied about this experience -- this listening to a game thing. Innocent almost. And while my radio is more complicated than the little transistor with the white single-earpiece my day used, the broadcasts then and now probably don't differ all that much.

The beauty of the game. Timeless. Any way you look -- or listen -- at it.

Is that a Championship Trophy in your pocket, or are you...

Don’t call me stupid.
~ Kevin Kline as Otto, A Fish Called Wanda

Don’t call me shallow. Often.
~ CJ

Fact: I am a chick.
Fact: I like sports.
Fact: I have been known, on occasion, to appreciate the physical attributes of boy-types who play sports. In a very shallow and slightly lascivious way.

What?

At least I’m honest.

It ain’t always easy being a female sports fan. Not in my world, anyway. Most of my galpals don’t get my intense affection for all things ESPN-esque. Sure, they may have cursory interest in their college teams or our local sports franchises, but nothing resembling what I would call passion. And when I try to talk games or stats or drafts with the fellas, I get mixed reactions – from a condescending pat on the head to being ignored to some genuine give-and-take.

It’s just the way it is.

I grew up in a household that was filled with sports. My dad loves them; my mom could be considered a fan. My brother played ‘em – primarily baseball. Many spring and summer nights were spent with my fanny riding the splintery pine of Little League bleachers, drinking slightly flat soda (because there was something wrong with the dispenser in the concession stand) and learning to watch and call balls versus strikes.

Oh – and I also took serious note of the players on any of those teams – who appealed to me in a hormonal sort of way. Hormones. The Achilles Heel of any adolescent. But it was a win-win all the way around, the way I looked at it.

Cute boys and sports. A match made in CJ heaven. Been that way ever since.

And ever since, I’ve tried to reconcile my genuine interest in sports with my genuine appreciation of the male specimen. Tried like hell to make sure I’m not looked at like a “camp follower” or a “groupie” or that most loathed of all labels – a “bimbo.”

Sure, I developed a rabid interest in the LA Dodgers of the early/mid ‘80s because of the chiseled boyish good looks of their ballyhooed second baseman, Steve Sax. (That's him over there <<<<<) But I also became attached for life to the Boston Celtics around that same time – and trust me, that was not a team made up of pinup boys. Bless Larry Bird’s heart. Good thing he’s one hell of an athlete.

It really is the “sport” itself I am interested in – that I follow and study and watch and obsess over and enjoy. And if there’s a player I find that I fancy (John Lynch – call me! How you doin’, Andre Agassi? Buy me a drink, Dario Franchiti?) then that’s just a bonus.

I think.

Note: there is one exception to my “I am not a bimbo” declaration. Swimming. While I do like the sport – even though I really only pay attention during Olympic years – have you seen those boys in their “uniforms?”

Mother Nature – thank you thank you thank you.

I started this blog/site (yes, I have grand plans for this thing… stay tuned) to be an outlet for my perspective on something that, let’s face it, has traditionally been a man’s world. And this here chick’s perspective could be clinical (I am a Fantasy Football commissioner/team owner.) Observational (got an opinion on everything.) Retrospecitcal (that is so a word. I just made it up. Hush.) And sometimes hormonal and borderline lascivious. Rowrrrrrrr...

But never ever bimbo-esque. Promise. You can take it to the bank.

We could always opt for the more temporal gratification

Of sheer physical attraction

That wouldn't make you a shallow person

Would it?
“Here I Am” ~ Lyle Lovett

The Art of Athletics

The world is divided into two kinds of baseball fans: those who keep score at the ballgame... and those who have never made the leap.
~ Paul Dickson, “The Joy of Keeping Score”

Picture it: a sunny Florida Sunday afternoon. April or thereabouts. Late 1970s. I was in my early teen years and was sporting a world-class dose of hormonal angst and attitude that comes with being such an age.

And we were having a “family outing” to the ballpark. Yay. It was Spring Training time and my dad, having line marker chalk running through his veins, wanted to share the live baseball experience with us. The closest we got to such a thing, my brother’s Little League games excluded, were our yearly summer vacation jaunts through Atlanta, which always included a trip to Atlanta Fulton County Stadium and Chief Noc-A-Homa’s politically incorrect lair. The Braves were our family’s de-facto favorite team, as in those days they were the closest thing to a home team we had. (Thanks Ted Turner for your ego, Bob Horner, Biff Pocaroba and your SuperStation!)

Anyhoo.

I was actually excited about going to this particular Spring Training game, as the current Unrequited Object of My Affection and his best friend were rumored to also be in attendance. While I liked baseball, I liked this boy more… what? I was a 14 year-old-girl. Hormones trumped everything.

As we walked up the ramp of the stadium, hot dogs and sodas and such in hand, we stopped at the top where an elderly man in an elderly lawn chair sat, hawking programs. Daddy stopped to buy one, plunking down a couple of extra dimes for a couple of pencils. Which I thought was weird, but whatever.

As we sat down and got settled, Daddy handed me a pencil and a program, flapped opened to the center section. Which was basically a grid-looking thing.

“Girlie, today you’re going to learn to keep score.”

Keep score? Wasn’t that what the big scoreboard was for?

Apparently not. And that afternoon, as the Unrequited Object of My Affection wandered around the stadium (I don’t think he ever sat down – to this day, I like to think he was trying to get my attention, but we’ll never know…) I was introduced to a ritual that is as timeless as the game itself.

Keeping score.

Shortstop = 6

Slugging percentages.

Pitcher performance.

The foundation of the Maslow’s Hierarchy of Baseball Statistics.

I loved it. Which surprised me, since the right side of my brain usually holds a coup when anything remotely statistical or numerical enters the grey matter. But this – this I could and did embrace.

As I marked the mystical numbers on the card and made hatch marks in boxes, I became part of the game itself. A documentarian, with lead and papyrus as my medium. My scribbles told the tale of the game. Then, now and forever. And while I can scream and backseat coach my football games and intently focus on the constant court action during basketball (OK, Celtics) games, I can intimately interact with baseball as I follow and note and analyze.

It’s been a long time since I’ve sat at a game, pencil in hand, ready to watch and write. Been wanting to pick it up again, especially since I’ve got plans to go to a lot of Rays games this summer. Just need to pick up a scorecard book (one with a spiral binding and hard cover, since I’m old now and particular about my writing accoutrements ) and take a little refresher independent study course in how to do it. I still remember which numbers correspond to which players – that’s a start, right?

Maybe I’ll ask my dad to go with me to a game so he can show me again first hand how it’s done. This time the beer and the pencil will be on me.  

We are inclined to think that if we watch a football or  baseball game, we have taken part in it.

~ John F. Kennedy

Clubhouse Rules

PLAY BALL!

Two words that are music to my ears. It’s that time of year. Baseball season. America’s Pastime.

I love sports. Passionately. I’m the chick watching SportsCenter with all the guys at the bar. The one placing bets on games. The one who reads SI.com and ESPN.com daily.

And while I love all sports (save for NASCAR – what’s the hell is the deal with that, anyway. I just don’t get it. At. All.) baseball and the boys of summer are part of me. Chalk it up partially to genetics – both my dad and brother played, with Daddy getting drafted while playing college ball but having to change gears due to an ankle injury -- and partially to an innate affection for a game that’s deceptively simple on the surface and always accessible.

A read of this article written by a Houston Astros fan about his own personal baseball creed inspired me to develop my own similar statement.

Call it Janey’s Baseball Manifesto. It goes well with peanuts and Cracker Jacks, dontcha know. As well as a cold Bud and a soft pretzel with light salt.

A good cigar is like a beautiful chick with a great body who also knows the American League box scores.
~ M*A*S*H, Klinger, "Bug-Out," 1976

***I am a fan of the game. Period. Then, now and forever. I’ve been watching baseball for as long as I can remember – Saturday afternoons were all about the ML Game of the Week on NBC with Joe Garagiola. Weekday evenings were spent with tuchuses on rough wood bleachers watching my brother play ball and my dad coaching his team.

This is probably why I love the purity of the Little League game, with its crazy scores and earnest players, as much as I do the nuanced finesse of the Big League game. Give me an afternoon/early evening on a field one step up from a sandlot with a steamed hot dog, a Pepsi and kids engaged in America’s Pastime and I’m a happy, giddy girl.

The other sports are just sports. Baseball is a love.
~ Bryant Gumbel, 1981

***I will always have a passionate opinion about my team:
They’re wonderful!

They suck!

They’re great!

They’re awful!

Amazing!

Damn, they suck!

These opinions will be spewed forth fast and furiously and quite often in the span of a week, a three/four game series, a day or even a game.

I’m a chick. It’s my right to chance my mind. Yeah, that’s right. I pulled the chick card. Nyah.

There have been only two geniuses in the world. Willie Mays and Willie Shakespeare.
~ Tallulah Bankhead

*** I’m going to defend my team’s players – through stupid comments and asshattery and bad behavior. Most of the time, anyway. That’s just how I roll. Love my team, love its players. Regardless. Usually.

However, once a player that dabbles in the aforementioned asshattery is no longer a member of my team, he is automatically Dead To Me and his actions, which I previously ignored or overlooked, become abhorrent.

See, Spurrier, Steve as a classic example of this. He’s a Jackass. Through and through. Once upon a time, he was My Jackass. And it was OK. His antics and arrogance didn’t bother me one whit. I embraced it. Then he wasn’t part of my Team anymore. Now he’s Dead to Me AND a Jackass.

(Yes, I know that I’m mixing sports analogies here. You know the deal: My blog, my rules. Have we just met?)

Baseball is a ballet without music. Drama without words.
~ Ernie Harwell, "The Game for All America," 1955

*** My prerogative: as a fan, I get to criticize and lambast and bemoan the fate and play of my team. My heart’s with them – nothing wrong with a little tough love and constructive criticism.

However… when anyone else opens their big trap to criticize or lambast or bemoan the fate or play of my team… pffft. Not cool.

Even worse: I really don’t appreciate being mocked or taunted or goaded about my team and their standing, success or otherwise. Don’t do it to get a rise out of me – unless you want to fall into Dead To Me status with Spurrier and Joakim Noah (once a Gator Boy, now a member of the newest enemy of my Boston Celtics, the Chicago Bulls.) I take my sports teams very seriously – thinking it’s “funny” to mess with me about them is the fastest way to end up on my Very Bad Side.

Exception to the Dead to Me rule: Rocco Baldelli. Once a Ray, now a Red Sox. I’ve tried to push him into Dead to Me territory but he just won’t go. He's just too cute and adorable for me to loathe.

Baseball? It's just a game - as simple as a ball and a bat. Yet, as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. It's a sport, business - and sometimes even religion.
~ Ernie Harwell, "The Game for All America," 1955

*** Let’s be honest: try as I might, there’s no way I can be objective or impartial or benevolent with a wrong call when it comes to my team. Yeah – that ump really does need glasses if he thought that pitch was a ball. And please – Carl Crawford was SAFE by a mile, dude. When I love, I love unconditionally and with a biased, affectionate eye. Suck it, ump.

Don't tell me about the world. Not today. It's springtime and they're knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball.
~ Pete Hamill

*** Embedded in the fiber of my being and the foundation of my soul, there lies a well-bred, genteel Southern lady who was taught not to say unkind things about anyone (at least in the presence of those to whom she would be referring.)

However – that engrained character trait goes out the window when it comes to the main rivals of my team – specifically the Red Sox and the Yankees. I loathe them. Despise them. Would even go so far as to say I hate them. I heckle their players whenever they appear on the telly, even if just in a commercial. I would root for the Devil himself in a three game stand at Fenway. I have already bet on the first Yankee/Rays series of the year (and paid up on my part of the bet, too. One thing I’m not is a welcher.)

By the way, this venom is also spewed at my other athletic rivals, including the horrid, wretched and vile Florida State Seminoles and Tennessee Volunteers. In case you were wondering.

There are three things in my life which I really love: God, my family, and baseball. The only problem - once baseball season starts, I change the order around a bit.
~ Al Gallagher, 1971

*** I am a true, through and through sports-loving girl. Let's emphasize that "girl" thing for a moment... while I'm going to appreciate the game and the stats and all the things my fellow testosterone-laden fans do, my estrogenical sensibilities are going to come shining through. And I'm going to make comments that reflect that. Like "nice tuchus" or "damn, he's hot" or "Hit the ball long and hard, sweetie." I spent several years in the mid '80s following the Los Angeles Dodgers simply because I was in love with Steve Sax and his outstanding posterior.

I'm a girl. It's what I do.

So there you are – the Janey Baseball Manifesto. Read it. Learn it. Know it.

And I’ll see you in the cheap seats. First dog and draught are on me.

Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good too.
~ Greg, age 8