Because of free agency, pro sports don’t engender the same marrow-level rage that college sports do. Sure you may have a devotion to your Designated Market Area’s team because you hope that they represent your geographic region with dignity and honor (and that they sell enough $140 tickets so you’ll have something to watch on TV on Sunday afternoon and Monday night and Thursday night and Saturdays after college is done), but it’s not like you want to lay siege to the next DMA over the way you might want a nuclear holocaust to scorch Tallahassee, Fla., on a given Saturday in the fall.
It was this past weekend during the Divisional Playoffs as my beloved Saints lost… and the New England Hatriots won… and then Colin Duh-pernick and the San Francisco 49ers won… and then I climbed on an airplane not knowing if Phillip Whine-Me-A-Rivers would pull the upset of the universe against the eldest scion of the Manning Clan and John Elway’s Denver Broncos… Well, it was this weekend that I realized that I needed a Hierarchy of Hate just to navigate the Super Bowl. Who am I going to root for when three-fourths of the possible teams are paragons of hatred?
Tonight concludes another orbit around the universe of college football: The BCS National Championship, the so-called pinnacle of achievement in post-secondary educational entertainment. For me, it is the apex on the Hierarchy of Hate.
Nothing – not even Louisiana politics – engenders such excitable energy from me as college football. Sure, I love my New Orleans Saints – and I hate New England Hatriots coach Bill Belicheater and Pittsburg Stealers quarterback Ben Rapelisberger with the fire of a thousand suns – but the pros don’t spark the same life-shortening rage that comes from college. Spending hours, standing on wobbly aluminum benches, facing the blast-furnace of a setting Texas sun, screaming your lungs out for a chance to kiss your date when you score does some weird things to your gray matter. That, and investing all that time and money in a solitary place in the middle of nowhere births a sick form of loyalty that can transcend marital bonds.
Just ask Pat: I hated LSU long before I loved him. He is a Tiger. He knew that going in.
Appearance Date: Thursday, October 24, 2013 Your group number: 4002 Jury ID: 101906931
My response was more “AWESOME!” than “Aw, man.” I am one of those throwbacks that enjoys voting in person at my designated polling place on Election Day… even for primary elections, bond issues and school-district overrides that will increase my property taxes to fund schools I don’t even use. (We have no kids. They don’t allow dogs on the playground. It’s a small price to pay to ensure the our next generation of policy makers is not led by feral ingrates who believe the earth is 6,000 years old and can’t find Russia on a map – even from Alaska).
So for me, going to the mailbox to find a jury summons postcard is akin to having Ed McMahon show up at my door with an envelope from Publishers Clearing House. Continue reading →
A friend of mine who owns a record store sparked a spirited debate on Facebook last week when she overheard two earnest music lovers debating “the worst song of all time that ever got popular: Witchy Woman by the Eagles or I Can’t Drive 55 by Sammy Hagar.”
Through 184 comments, her devoted followers dredged up the dregs of music history: Africa by Toto, Eye of the Tiger by Survivor, Caribbean Queen by Billy Ocean, the entire Barely Manilow cannon, Sussudio by Phil Collins… or anything by solo Phil Collins, for that matter… and of course, We Built this City (on Rock and Roll) by Jefferson Starship… or Airplane… or just Starship… or whatever the hell they’ve been calling themselves since they turned “rock and roll” into a milquetoast Top 40 exercise in stupidity.
And while all 184 suggestions made me want to gouge out my eardrums because now they are playing on an endless, middle-of-the-night loop inside my head (thank you, Starship), I would like to make the case for the Worst Rock and Roll Song of All Time:
I have not run the Boston Marathon, but I count myself lucky to have been at the finish line three years ago.
We cheered on Pat’s sister Valerie and our dear friend Christopher as they competed in – and completed – their first Boston Marathon. We joined thousands of friends, family, lovers, cousins, runners, walkers, dignitaries, children, tourists, workers, volunteers and knuckleheads screaming ourselves hoarse, raising more than a few glasses and blinking back a tear or two at the thousands that streamed across that line, ending a 26.2-mile run and a journey that stretched months and maybe years before that.
At the 114th Boston Marathon finish line a single pulse churned through the hearts of the crowd: Anticipation. Little kids wriggled through the barricades to cross the finish line with Mom or Dad while gruff cops looked the other way. Runners burst into tears and dropped to their knees to kiss the pavement and struggled into a volunteer’s arms to stagger down the chute. Whoops of glee echoed through the stands when the dizzying focus of binoculars landed on a familiar gait way down Boylston Street revealing a glimpse of their runners. Our runners.
Lithe and slender and quick as whippets; plodding, blistered and worn down by miles; driven onward by a cause greater than themselves (cancer, AIDS, Wounded Warriors, domestic violence, Sudan, peace, Mom, Dad); racing against the internal measure of a personal challenge – hour after hour after hour they came, each triumph fresh every time their feet touched that line.
Bars opened up at the crack of dawn and hit capacity before the first runners left Hopkinton. Grocery stores and markets ran low on colorful bouquets. Tom cradled tulips in his arms for a good two hours for Valerie. A Babel of languages swirled up between the buildings from the grandstands. It was there that I learned a full bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne can fit in a standard bicycle bottle.
Eleven-deep along the sidewalk, we searched for the handwritten names emblazoned across their shirts – Go Dana! Go Mike! You can do it, Terry! Almost there, Julie! A weak smile, a half-wave, a nod – their eyes on the prize and the Old South Church looming beyond, we pushed them onward with our shouts, cheers and thunderous claps.
“There she is! There she is! It’s them! It’s Christopher! Go Valerie! You can’t do it, sweetie!” We cried for them, like we had cried for so many that had come before.
Late into the afternoon, the party rolled on. We bought beers for triumphant strangers – many of them still clinging to their foil race-wrappers for warmth, absently rubbing their medals between their fingers or staring awestruck at the news coverage of Marathon Monday. They did that! They ran Boston.
And though some may have ended their day in defeat – bested by a competitor, falling just-short of a goal – the achievement would be etched in their hearts and ours, having borne witness to an accomplishment they may not recognize for another day.
I have not run Boston. After my first and only marathon – London 1995 – it wasn’t in these legs to qualify, though I ran the Las Vegas Rock and Roll Half in 2011 and the New Orleans Mardi Gras Half in 2012. Celebrating in Boston at the finish line was enough for me – I marvel still at all of those that streamed across and at the city that encircled them in a great, big, loud, proud hug.
Nothing can take that away from me – nothing will take that away from them.
The finish line will never be the same – not for Boston, not for any marathon, not for any race of any distance of any kind.
The taut tape that spans the finish line will no longer stand stand for getting up off the couch, setting a goal, pushing yourself and achieving something – it will stand against hatred and anger and fear. The third and fourth and fifth and 20th people to cross will not just be vying for the podium or an age-group prize, they will be competing for the dignity of the injured and the memory of the lost. On and on through every runner that charges onward toward the goal, up to the last straggler whose brave effort will sweep up the confetti, they will cross the line for the volunteers, the police officers, the EMTs and paramedics, the spectators that charged onward into the blood and smoke to help.