The man in the Carhartt coveralls offered me a cup half full
as I ran by. My acceptance of his offer was more an act of reflex than of
thoughtful strategy.
I was having problems that two ounces of sports drink
weren’t likely to resolve.
I craved an act of decency more than I craved any item at
the aid station and this man, who had been standing in the breakdown lane for
hours in a 25 mile per hour wind on a 21 degree day, provided a bit of hope to
everyone who ran by. I wanted to tell him how much he was appreciated. I wanted
to tell him that his acts, and the acts of others at times like this, when the
recipient was riding the red line, were more valuable and appreciated than any
offered during moments of physiological homeostasis. I wanted to tell him that
he was one with the saints, and rescue workers, and hospice nurses. Instead I
took the cup, broke a hole through the layer of surface ice with my teeth,
snuffed an ounce of lemon-lime Gatorade directly into my sinuses, spilled the
rest on my face, and gasped “Thansuh”.
“You’re welcome” said Lawrence Nightingale, “You boys are
doing great. Two miles to go!”
“Boys?... Plural?... Who the hell…!??”
I thought I was alone. But when I took a quarter glance
behind me and me I found myself staring into the eyes of “Dude in red”. He
wasn’t always known to me as dude-in-red. Once, when I was young and the
starting gun was firing, he was a fuller human being. He was one of many
strong-looking runners striding out in the early yards of a fifteen mile road
race on a winter day. He was polite and focused and completely in control. I
stalked him for 9 miles, passed him with authority, and left him for dead.
Those were the rules. Every child knows them. When you are shot you lie down
and play dead. But this fellow, unlike the others, didn’t buy my act. He seemed
to have a few grey hairs himself and he knew a bad thespian when he saw one. He
knew how to race. And now he knew that I was weak; my insecure glance back and
Gatorade-induced coughing fit provided evidence. I might be bought off with a
lawn chair and a promise to fight another day. And he seemed to know that too.
We ran up a short but nasty little hill into the teeth of
the wind. I was well behind the leaders with no chance for an award of any
kind. Not that it would have mattered; the prospect of a trophy carries no vote
in the congress of a racer’s mind. It was decision time. I had a forty yard
lead on him. I decided that if he was to steal the suddenly all-important 7th
place finish in this local race then I would make the bastard earn it. This, I
realized, is why we came here today, dude-in-red and I, to race each other. We
didn’t know that until now but here it was, clear as day. Every other runner
was at a hopeless or safe distance from us by this point. It was just us and every
move now was a fake. Look strong until the next telephone pole. Run this hill
hard. Pretend the finish is just a few hundred yards away. He will see how
strong I am and quit…then I can ease up a bit.
But he wouldn’t crack. He was the type, I began to fear, who
would not ever give up. It was hopeless. But at this point the cards were all
dealt. I couldn’t go back to acting like this wasn’t a race and neither could
he. This was gonna be pain all the way to the finish. The Penguin and George
Sheehan were nowhere to be found. Somewhere someone’s foot crunched poetically
into the virgin snow of a wintry trail, somewhere hard bodies did crunches to
loud rock music in a warm gym, and somewhere someone ate a sensible lunch
washed down with a fistful of antioxidants. But they were not here either…just
two middle age guys, with frozen spit on their faces, riding a hypoxic conveyor
belt to the finish, each trying to gain an inch on their newfound opponent.
This is who I am and so this this is what I do…sometimes.
I was born with a congenital inability to sense the
difference between a 77 mile per hour fastball and a 97 mile per hour fastball.
My lack of skill in this regard made me a lousy baseball player but has saved
me thousands and thousands of dollars. I love baseball. I don’t really understand
it; I just love it. I like how most of the time nothing happens until suddenly
something does. Then it’s interesting for a while until it isn’t any more. Just
like running a road race. I cannot distinguish high quality performances from
very high quality performances. Because of this I enjoy the Columbus Clippers,
the AAA minor-league affiliate of the Cleveland Indians, every bit as much as I
enjoy the tribe itself. For six dollars apiece I hit a bunch of Clippers games
each summer. In fact shaving one or two of the A’s off the triple AAA
classification doesn’t douse my enjoyment either. I like the Akron Aeros
(AA-Cleveland) just fine, and I was a regular at the Delaware Cows’ (single-A unaffiliated)
home games, until they went under a few years ago.
I guess I’m easy to please; I also enjoy par-three golf,
Mid-major NCAA teams, and those fake Twinkies that Little Debbie came out with
for a while.
The Delaware Cows charged two bucks to get in and couldn’t
draw spectators to save their lives. There were only about 20-30 people present
at any given game and so we all got to know each other. Jegs Auto Parts once
had a free hat day and when I went through the gate they handed me three of
them because they had expected hundreds of people to show up, but only fifteen
people did. I gave two of the hats away but I still have one and I love it. I
really do.
They once had a special promotion called “Road Kill Day” and
couldn’t draw flies.
OK that last line was just me joking around. The fans used
to tell little jokes like that to each other at Cows games. The players Moms
would bring extra cookies for us…and I’m not kidding about that. Those ladies
could bake!
The truth is that everything about the Cows was wonderful.
The quality of the baseball was very high. Of the 20 people in the stands, at
any given game, a couple of them would be major league scouts. The players were
typically college students who played for very prestigious NCAA teams. They left
their egos behind and lived in the homes of local residents, earned very little
money, carpooled to games in places like Lima and Zanesville, and would risk
life and limb to dive for a base or a foul ball regardless of how hopelessly
lopsided a game might be. They hosted skills camps for local kids, did a
charity game against a team of Special Olympians, stuck around after games
until the very last fan didn’t want to chat anymore, and stayed in touch with
their elementary school pen pals in the off-season. And once or twice I saw a
97mph fastball (at least that’s what the speed-gun thingy said).
Last summer I spent 173 dollars on some great seats at an Indians
game for my son’s birthday. It was wonderful; it was early in the season so
there wasn’t any playoff pressure yet. But there weren’t any free cookies. And
I didn’t get to meet a player. If I sent an e-mail to the coach he would likely
not write back. And the league manager didn’t attend my church. The Indians game
was on a Friday night and so there were 40,000 people in attendance.
It really is a shame that the Cows went under.
I once heard a comedian talking about our relationship with
dogs. He pointed out that if aliens came down and observed dogs barking at us,
leading us around, and forcing us to pick up their poop the aliens would naturally
assume that the dogs were in charge. I wonder at times if the aliens might also
assume, after observing things like cost/quality ratios and human relations why
we wouldn’t simply flock to a Cows game and avoid the cost, traffic snarls, and
overpaid arrogance of major league games.
I’m not naïve. I understand that sports is an industry. I
get that livings and fortunes are made and lost based upon sexiness, money, and
marketing. I also understand the desire
to be part of this revenue stream. It’s a fact that has invaded nearly all
parts of our lives. But sports stop
being fun for me when I group them with real-life American capitalism. Salary
arbitration might be necessary at some level but I refuse to believe that it is
the least bit ennobling. The goodness of sports is, after all, what is being
sold to us, and that goodness exists outside of any effort to harness it. The
basics of sports are there without year-round youth travel leagues, strength
programs, personal trainers and free agency. The goodness of sport exists at
all levels, from the World Series to the Delaware Cows, to recreation league
soccer, to two guys challenging each other to a duel that involves running
shoes rather than swords. And that goodness is entirely ennobling.
At the conclusion of my race with dude-in-red one of us
crossed the finish line before the other one did. Then we both stumbled into
the high school cafeteria/race staging area and lay flat on our backs and
coughed, until one of us worked up the energy to come over and give the other a
hug.
It’s the greatest thing about sports. The immediate intimacy
and otherwise unacceptable social behavior that is allowed. I love that a
couple of old dudes can 6:45 per mile each other into a near coma and
appreciate that we both did each other a favor. I love that I can cheer for my
kids at the top of my lungs on a baseball field, or a basketball court, or a
swimming pool. And I understand but regret that I cannot do the same in the
middle of one of their history tests. Nor can I yell positive helpful advice as
they make a move to ask a girl out on a date, or do a vocal solo at a school
Christmas concert. I cannot try to break a fellow physical therapist and expect
a hug at the conclusion of the contest.
In real life we can be hesitant to accept an offer from a
stranger standing by the side of the road, and might be embarrassed to accept
the role of cheerleader and savior to the semi-public we are placed in
positions to serve.
In real life there are fewer opportunities to daydream, to
display passion, to engage in acts of kindness…to accept help and challenges.
It only seems to happen in sports. It’s probably an
indictment on our humanity, or maybe just our culture, that these things are
limited in this way but let us rejoice that at least this one cup is half full.
Kathleen Norris wrote that the one thing that distinguishes
a frontier is the precarious nature of the human hold on it. Can’t any sport,
any history test, any romantic venture, be a frontier? Aren’t they already
frontiers? Aren’t so many of the things we do in life an excuse for cheering,
heroism, and acts of goodness, whether we take advantage of them or not?
I resolve to let my passions run toward those things in life
that really elicit passion; the small things that have no market value, but
make me human nonetheless. My normal work life might need to be dictated by
some amount of sales and marketing. It’s the insurance premium we pay to live
in a free market. But I resolve to believe that sport is more than the slickly
packaged versions of things that already exist on every sandlot, every
basketball court, every swimming pool, and every trail in America.
And if sports can be utilized in this way, maybe other things
can as well. Maybe the beauty of sports lies in the example they serve of what
we can be. The Cows were cool, and expanding upon their example would be cool
as well.
