At the Intersection of Sports and Culture
Photo Credit for Header: Alex Foucre-Stimes
by Jon
We are happy. We are sad.
We are good. We are bad.
We are smiles. We are sorrow.
We are today. We are tomorrow.
We are hits. We are outs.
We are wins. We are doubts.
We are friends. We are foes.
We are joy. We are woes.
We are bought. We are sold.
We are young. We are old.
We are players. We are fan.
We are people. He is the man.
I am Wilmer. You are Wilmer.
We, are Wilmer.
by Jon
The needle laid indiscriminately between sharp blades of green grass. The summer scorch days away from turning the lush diamond into a hardened slab of dirt and dust.
The boy had previously been instructed by his coaches not to lay a finger or mitt on these discarded syringes yet by this point of the little league season he and his teammates had stumbled across so many of these “spikes” as they were known throughout this small New England town that they all might as well have been named honorary medical personnel.
The boy waved his arms in the air and the umpires brought the game to a stop so that the authority figures could assess the situation, a process which the boy found comical given that it was these drug addicted adults leaving needles strewn about the baseball field as if they were fertilizer.
Sadly though, more and more kids, some only a few years older than the boy, had begun experimenting with drugs. A slippery slope with a sad ending. For most, young and old, it starts with a simple pain. Either physical or emotional the remedy is usually the same. A pill a day will dull your senses just long enough for the problem to metastasize and turn into a cancerous lump of heartbreak and despair. Soon one pill’s not enough. Or two. Or three. And when the bottle dries up and the doctor gets suspiscious, that’s when the real hunger sets in.
The dope starts in cities like New York, Boston and Montreal before making its way up and down the interstates and thoroughfares of New England until finally mainlining on main street, threatening to change the chemical makeup of one of America’s most historic regions. Heroin, the new opiate of the masses has no care or concern for personal finances or social well being. The drugs are cheap and readily available. Rich and poor. Educated and self made. Addiction doesn’t discriminate.
Nowadays, junkies were trading train tunnels for baseball dugouts and the results extended well beyond the box score. The boy stepped away from the needle while his coach called the police. Authorities had done their best to keep things on lockdown but there were too many broken links in the chain to keep them all out. Some, were former players themselves who only years earlier were the ones hitting home runs and making memories. Unfortunately the passing of time had left too many former all-stars feeling alone, unwelcome. The only comfort and solitude to be found in a syringe.
As the police cleared the scene the baseball field was deemed ready for play the boy resumed his position in the outfield. Head held high. Future uncertain. For how long would it be until the drugs made their way into his home. From glove to glove box, bat to basement. Nothing was sacred. Not even the sports we play.
by Jon
One book, two books.
Where did they go?
Why the editor and widow we all want to know.
What took them so long to reach the light of day,
and what’s with this moment to have one final say?
As kids, now parents, we hold both authors proudly.
One famous for a cat, the other Boo Radley.
Scout and Atticus, the Lorax and Grinch,
what you accomplished wasn’t a cinch.
Now after all these passing years what to make of these latest editions.
Should we hold them as gospel or some form of sedition?
One from the good Dr. about house pets and tough choices,
the other from the Mayor of Monroeville who altered characters voices.
The patriarch, our protagonist, a symbol of strength and conviction.
Reduced to anger and bigotry please let it remain fiction.
Of course as they say these new stories have more meaning.
Beyond lessons, morals and capitalists leanings.
For no icon is too sacred when money is to be made,
legends belong in the light not hidden by the shade.
Ted and Ms. Lee we hold your words dear.
Growing up your books helped us make sense of our fear.
And we promise to read your latests creations,
regardless the provenance of publishers inclinations.
As you will forever remains titans for the stories you’ve told.
For hearts and minds young while our bodies grow old.
by Jon
Contrary to popular belief, the most wanted criminal in the world is not Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman, head of the Sinaloa Cartel, who broke out of a Mexican prison earlier this month. No currently, the most sought after fugitive from justice is quite a lot taller than the diminutive drug kingpin and will soon be spotted lurking around the grounds of the historic Otesaga Resort Hotel in the tiny hamlet of Cooperstown, New York. This is because on Sunday, Randy Johnson is scheduled to be inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame but, if aviary officials have their way the 6’10” inch “Big Unit”, as he is commonly known by accomplices, will be standing trial for murder.
Here are the facts as we know them. On March 24th, 2001, Johnson, already more than halfway through his two decade long career and pitching for the Arizona Diamondbacks, took the mound in a Spring Training game against the San Francisco Giants. It was during the 7th inning of this contest that the absurdly length left-hander delivered one of his patented 95 mph pitches directly into the flight path of an innocent dove. The force of the fastball reduced the the bird to feathers as its lifeless carcass faltered to the earth. Below you can watch the raw, uncut video of the moment Randy Johnson blew up a bird. (Caution…this video contains disturbing images that you’ve probably already seen before. Proceed with caution.)
The Diamondbacks would go on to win this meaningless game while in 2001 the Big Unit enjoyed one his best seasons in professional baseball leading the league in both ERA and strikeouts as well as winning his 4th Cy Young and first World Series.
Immediately following the gruesome incident Johnson demonstrated very little remorse in saying, “I didn’t think it was funny”. Failing to find the humor in the moment does not absolve one of any wrong doing and if the pitcher were really concerned about the well being of the bird perhaps he would have approached the featherless remains to assess whether or not CPR was warranted. Instead he remains dumfounded in front of the mound waiting for catcher Rod Barajas to throw him a clean baseball without any bird blood on it.
Now, 14 years and lord knows how many more dead doves later, Randy Johnson is a free man soon to be enshrined in the Hall of Fame alongside fellow inductees Craig Biggio, Pedro Martinez and John Smoltz, none of whom, as far as we know, has ever been suspected of murdering a bird with a baseball.
Maybe if Johnson didn’t already have a history of attempted manslaughter could we then believe that he didn’t intend to harm that dove however we baseball fans, remember the 1993 All-Star Game at Camden Yards in Baltimore when the Big Unit, then pitching for the Seattle Mariners, almost decapitated Phillies’ first baseman John Kruk. Kruk was so visibly shaken by the near death experience that he could barely muster even a few feeble swings while the only sign of emotion from the sinister Seattle pitcher was a conniving wink and smile.
With members of the Audubon and Humane Societies amongst the thousands of people flocking to upstate New York for this weekend’s Hall of Fame festivities, Major League Baseball remains confident that the statute of limitations on murder of bird by baseball has expired and that the celebration will go off without incident.
Nevertheless, it’s very difficult to appreciate Randy Johnson’s remarkably dominant baseball career while also thinking about that dove’s family, waiting in vain for their daddy to return to the nest. Little did they know that their father was killed by a fastball. But not just any kind of fastball, a Hall of Fame fastball.
by Jon
Moving Day at the Open Championship.
Where it’s either push your way up the leaderboard or pack your bags for next week because this one has slipped away like the sands of the Scottish coastline, worn down from ages upon ages of waves, tides and tempers. Because if there’s anything a Saturday at St. Andrews can do it’s test the patience of golf’s finest champions as they struggle through earth, wind and fire all in an effort to wrap their sinewy claws around golf’s most sought after jug.
Who will survive moving day and at what cost? Will it be the talented American in search of his first major or the lesser known Englishman hoping to make his countrymen proud? The first few pages of the iconic yellow leaderboard are so full of pedigree that the weekend can’t possibly disappoint. Unless Mother Nature has her way in which case we will enjoy the suffering much more than the players involved, hats and hair tossed about as if they were sticking their heads out the window of a vehicle heading down the road to Glasgow or London. Anywhere but here.