During the summers after 4th and 5th grade, I spent most of my days at the Lemire house. I would wake up around 8, eat a bowl of cereal, and then hop on my bike with a baseball mit in tow and ride (.2 miles according to Google Maps) over to hang out with my friend, John. We would play different sports until lunch, where I’d bike back home to eat, and then I’d head back over for more. We would mimic different batting stances and we’d try to perfect how to throw a curve ball. We were totally geeking out over sports from 9-5 every day. When my family moved from Brooklyn Park to San Diego, John and I tried to keep in touch. Unfortunately the internet wasn’t widely available yet, so we didn’t have the luxury of e-mail, or chat, or many of the other services that the internet now provides. Since we were 11 year old boys, we weren’t going to write each other long thought out letters about our personal lives. The way we tried to keep in touch was via making our own Fantasy Football League.
I don’t think our league lasted a whole season, there were just too many logistical things that we needed to take care of. John actually made a valiant effort to calculate the scores (remember no internet and no espn.com so he had to use the newspaper and a calculator), but eventually we stopped writing. It was just too difficult of a discipline to maintain (we had to mail each other at least once a week) and eventually we lost touch and he moved and forgot to send me his new address. With the rise of the internet, I joined some fantasy leagues with my friend Jeremy in high school but eventually those petered out as well. (I blame Fantasy Baseball and it’s grueling 162 game schedule.) I took a hiatus from fantasy sports for a while until I currently got in to my current league on accident.
It probably sounds odd that I still read the online version of the Minneapolis Star Tribune but since I’m still a big fan of the Minnesota sports scene, it’s the best place to get my information. Oh a whim, I started posting comments on a sportswriter’s blog. He wasn’t a beat writer for any of the teams, he was known for kind of mixing pop culture and sports culture, much like ESPN’s Bill Simmons (fun to read, for sure). After making some references to The Royal Tenenbaums, I was given the opportunity to write a guest post on his blog. (so technically, I’ve written for the online edition of a major publication) I continued to comment and post on that blog for a while and then eventually I was invited to play Fantasy Football with the regulars and with the proprietor himself.
Unfortunately for me, most people that comment on the Minneapolis Star Tribune site are indeed people that actually still live in Minnesota, so that makes having a fantasy draft tricky. If I work until 5pm on a weekday, and I don’t get home until 5:30pm (approximately), that means that the soonest I will be ready for a live draft (to pick our teams) is at 7:30pm Central Standard Time. While 7:30pm isn’t considered particularly late, a draft does take a while, and since the drafts usually happen on a weekday and the local Minnesotans try to meet up, this can be inconvenient and it’s 100% my fault. We’ve gone through 2 seasons already, and obviously the internet has aided us well in this long distance partnership. For all I know the guys despise me for causing their drafts to run later since I’ve never met them . I haven’t even seen a picture of the majority of the guys but they all seem like pleasant enough chaps.
We’re on Year 3 of this Fantasy Football league and I’ve been mediocre at best. I don’t watch as much football as I used to when I was a kid but I still keep up with what’s going on. I probably wouldn’t put the effort in to finding another league if this one dissolved. I don’t blame John or Jeremy for the dissolution of the leagues we had when I was younger. I blame it on just being kids. I really appreciate that these guys, who I’ve never met in person, accommodate me and make sure that I’m not forgotten. It’s both touching and sad that these guys who are definitely closer to the “stranger” end of the spectrum versus the “friend” end of the spectrum are more thoughtful and accommodating than a lot of the people that I think that I’m close to. I guess it’s one of the more redeeming factors of being a sports geek; the blinding loyalty you have to your fellow geeks. When your team is terrible, you will still defend them to the very end and together you’ll find a silver lining amongst the sadness and when that one guy from California whom you’ve never met still wants to play even though he never wins, you let him, because of that same unexplainable loyalty.
In one of my many failed attempts to get in shape, I decided to take up playing roller hockey. I thought that playing a team sport would be an easier way for me to burn calories since I would be having fun, so I convinced my friend to join up with me because he was also looking to shed some pounds. I’ve wanted to play hockey ever since I was a little boy growing up in Minnesota but my parents weren’t too keen on it since it would’ve given a bunch of white kids a valid reason to hit me. While that fear was probably unfounded, it was probably for the best. I learned to ice skate around the age of 8 and that would’ve put me way behind the curve of most hockey playing Minnesota kids.
So since I’m now an adult and I’m in Southern California, my friend and I signed up for a beginner’s roller hockey league. This was a no-hitting league, but unfortunately the skill level of people in the league varied. No one would be mistaken for a professional hockey player, but there was definitely a considerable difference between the skill level of the best guys on our team, and real beginners like my friend and me. This didn’t sit well with our team captain, John. He did very little to show his contempt for two actual beginners, but he needed more warm bodies on his team and that’s pretty much all we were to him. He would scream and swear at us constantly, whether he was on the bench or on the rink with us. My friend received the brunt of the punishment since he was less skilled and more out of shape than me and he quit soon after that (I later found out that my friend cannot take any sort of criticism and that is why we are no longer friends.)
I decided to keep playing, because even though this guy was a jerk, my main goal was to exercise and get in better shape. Occasionally, I would have other friends play on the team, taking over my other friend’s spot, but for the most part I was pretty much an outsider, other than this other new guy who was also a beginner. Most of the guys were pretty nice, but they were also much older so we didn’t get to know each other that well. Through random talk in the locker room or on the bench, I found out our captain was pretty much the stereotypical jock. He played minor league baseball part time, played rec-league hockey at night, and his only hobbies seemed to be staring at women like a creep and getting drunk. It’s probably a safe assumption to say that he probably didn’t listen to Sufjan Stevens and Belle and Sebastian.
Our team was pretty terrible. I think we only won one game during the eight game season. It would be unfair to place the blame on me, or the other new guy, or my friend who quit after one game, we just lacked players. We surely could’ve used more skilled players, but we just didn’t have enough players to keep our team fresh and we would wear down with fatigue as the game went along. After our last game, the captain actually told me that I had improved a lot over the course of the season. It was nice to know that in the midst of all his rage that he actually noticed that I was getting better. It was a pleasant surprise, but it didn’t make up for all the verbal abuse I had taken all season long. I was asked if I was going to come back the next season and I said “I don’t know”, which was the honest truth at the time. Playing hockey was fun, but it was expensive, and since we played these games on weeknights, it made it really hard for wake up for work the next morning.
My decision whether I would continue playing hockey was made for me a couple of weeks later at a pickup game. I took a slapshot to the only unprotected part of my skate, right where the laces are. My foot immediately began to swell and I could barely walk on it. I was scared that I had broken it, but after about a day, my foot was back normal. Even though I didn’t need any medical attention for it, I thought about how difficult my life would’ve been if I had broken my right foot. I wouldn’t be able to drive to work, it would be a pain to get around the campus of the school I work at, and I would probably need assistance at the grocery store. While I realize that sometimes injuries will happen if you’re careful or not, I thought it would be better to stop throwing myself in harm’s way, where hard rubber discs fly at me at 70mph on a regular basis.
So after one season, I retired from rec-league roller hockey, and while I didn’t lose a lot of weight from playing, I proved that I was tough and resilient, not just physically but emotionally as well. While I can’t say that I went out on top, or as a champion, I can at least say that I didn’t quit because Captain Jerkface yelled at me. Even though I probably will never see him again, and I probably wouldn’t say much if I did, I gained his respect, and for some strange reason that is somewhat satisfying.
When I was a kid, I was a sucker for baseball game promotions. Whenever they were giving away free stuff at a game, I wanted to be there. I wanted the free baseball cards, the hats, and whatever other junk they were peddling. Looking back, I probably drove my parents nuts. We went to lots of Twins games back when we lived in Minneapolis, but I only remember one time where they relented and actually took me to one of these promotion games, and unfortunately we got there too late for me to actually collect my prize. I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get my mini-bat (not to be confused with an actual useful full sized bat), but we stayed for the game and we definitely got our money’s worth. The game went 14 or 15 innings and by the time the last inning hit, we had moved down from our nose bleed seats to seats right along the field level. We ended up over by the visiting team’s bullpen and when they sent their closer in at the end, I yelled to him that he sucked. He ended up blowing the game, and a couple of other games after that, so as a kid, I seriously thought I had jinxed him.
As an adult now, I realize that for the most part, a lot of this stuff that they give away is junk. I would never tell a kid that this stuff is junk, but outside of bobble head dolls, most of the stuff that I get at these games ends up in the trash or it’ll go to my friend’s kids when I move. It’s not that I think I’m above this stuff, I just don’t want to put up a picture of the 2007 Angels team with some company’s corporate logo plastered all over the poster. As an adult, I find all this sponsorship stuff kind of tacky. I mean, I understand it works and that it has value. I would just rather not have posters or clothes that tell people to eat at Dairy Queen. It’s a personal preference.
I wouldn’t say that I’m adverse to receiving anything at the ballpark for free. I’ll take any sort of free food or beer no matter how gross or bad it is, because at the ballpark I like to lower the bar when it comes to my foodie and beer-snob ways. I don’t care how greasy or fattening my food is, and I don’t mind if I have to drink Bud Light as long as it comes in that cup that has glowing lights on the bottom of it. It’s all part of the experience and I need at least one place in my life where it’s okay to enjoy liquid processed cheese.
Of course, I still go to games because I enjoy the sport. I haven’t outgrown my love of baseball. I don’t like watching it on TV as much as I did when I was a kid when I had all the time in the world, but I still love watching it in person. I love watching the ball jump off the bat. It’s just so much more impressive live than on TV, especially when the ball is headed towards your section via a home run or a foul ball. I’ve been fortunate enough to get one. I didn’t catch it, it rolled into the (company) suite that we were in and my co-worker gave it to me since it was a Twins v Angels game. The next day I showed up to the park early and headed over to the seats by the Twins dugout to get the ball signed. Justin Morneau (2006 American League MVP) was doing an interview with Hockey Night in Canada’s Don Cherry (I believe it was around the time that the Ducks and Canucks were playing each other in the playoffs, and Mourneau is a big Canucks fan). I waited for the interview to be over and I yelled “Hey MVP” and Mourneau turned his attention towards me. I tossed him my foul ball from the night before, and my sharpie and he signed the ball and tossed the ball and marker back to me. It was a surreal moment for me as I basically played toss and catch with one of my favorite baseball players. I was no longer an adult, I was back to being that little kid who wanted to go to all those games to get the free souvenirs.
I was at an Anaheim Ducks game a few weeks ago. I went with Jessica, who I hadn’t seen in a while. We were both exhausted from trying (and succeeding) to snag Thom Yorke tickets from earlier that morning. The Ducks had blown the lead but we were probably too tired to really care, and then a puck flew into the stands about a row in front of us. The people in front of us were feverishly looking for the puck but after a minute they threw their hands up in the air, confused. I was so out of it that Jessica had to motion to me that the puck was directly in front of me, right behind the row, so I just instinctively lunged down and grabbed it. I was told by the usher to stand up and hold the puck up high so everyone could see that I grabbed it. People cheered for me except for the people in the row in front, they just kind of grumbled. It dawned on me then that I was in sports fan heaven. I had received a foul ball and an out of play puck in the same lifetime. Most people would be lucky to have gotten one of these and here in my room, I have both. Maybe it’s because I didn’t get the puck signed, of maybe it’s because I was taught to share as a child, but I think I’m going to give the puck to Jessica since she paid for the tickets. I’m definitely not giving it to her because I don’t want it. It’s something that I actually considered buying a display case for (my autographed baseball is already in one). Souvenirs like these have helped me see past the corporate sponsorships that plague sports today and perhaps since I already have one thing to remind me of my pure love of these sports (and will be a great story for my future kids), I’m okay to part with the other.
We are currently in a very anxious time for the entire state of Minnesota. At stake is the well-being of every person in the state. Who’s holding them for ransom? A 26 year old professional baseball player named Joe Mauer. If you don’t know who Joe Mauer is, ask any Minnesotan over the age of 5 and they will probably be able to recite you his Wikipedia page ver batim: born and raised in St Paul, Minnesota, was the highest rated quarterback and baseball player coming out of high school, drafted first overall by his hometown Twins in 2001, has won two batting titles and an MVP award by the age of 26 and will hopefully be signing the richest contract for a catcher in baseball history (somewhere in the ballpark of 200 million dollars over the next ten years) for the hometown team. If you don’t know or follow baseball, all you need to know is that there is few greater joys for small market sports fan than watching a hometown kid (or ONE OF US as Minnesota hockey fans like to say) become a star for the hometown team. Mauer in on track to become the best catcher to ever play baseball and is perhaps the best player playing today. If he doesn’t sign his contract before it expires, there is a huge fear that he will leave for New York or Boston for probably $10 million dollars more a year. This fear is probably unwarranted since Joe Mauer is the Jay-Z of the Twin Cities. He runs this town.
I’m not sure if I’m exaggerating when I say that there will be a riot in the Twin Cities in Mauer ends up leaving the only place he’s lived for the East Coast. There are some sports fans who are far too emotionally invested in their teams, where they can be hostile when told critical things about their teams/players, even when they are absolute facts. These people are referred to as “homers”. These people can be difficult to deal with because you can’t use logic or facts on them. They’re loyal to a fault, and typically are too far invested in their teams/sports that they are hard to have normal conversations with. There was a movie that was made about this last year called Big Fan, starring Patton Oswalt. While I don’t know of any homers that have followed their favorite athlete (and entourage) to a strip club, I’m pretty sure that there are some homers that will vandalize the newly minted Target Field (which ironically they paid for via their taxes) if Mauer doesn’t sign his contract.
I’ll be honest, in some ways I’m very much a homer. I usually know which players have Minnesota ties, like the 2010 olympic team (about 1/3 of the team is either from Minnesota, went to a prep school in Minnesota or went to college there). I can usually admit when my teams are bad and I try not to overrate players I have special ties to (I probably played little league baseball against Pat Neshek or his brother). I’m a bit of a homer when it comes to Minnesota music as well. I’m a huge fan of Low, (Bob Dylan and Prince are universally beloved so we can skip them), I will defend Semisonic as being far better than a one-hit wonder, and I love Tapes ‘n Tapes, though I will admit Walk it Off is a huge letdown after their amazing debut, The Loon.
There’s a new “kid” on the block from Minnesota that I just can’t get behind and it’s not because they’re not from the Twin Cities (neither is Low or Team USA captain Jamie Langenbrunner). It’s because this kid is just terrible. I, of course, speak of Owl City whose hit “Fireflies” was the number one song in the COUNTRY not too long ago. I’m not one of those people who gets annoyed when an artist becomes too mainstream. I never liked Owl City, even with their inspirational unsigned artist with a Myspace account to chart topper story. I won’t touch the whole “they sound like Postal Service” debate because my friends’ heads will explode, but I must say this. As a Minnesota native who is supremely proud of it, how do I reconcile being ashamed of this particular Minnesota artist?
This is probably anti-climactic but the only way I’ve thought of is just to not mention that Owl City (which is really just one guy, I don’t even know why I know this) is from Minnesota. It’s like when a movie comes out, the trailers and posters only point out the “good” things affiliated with the movie, not the bad. The next Halle Berry movie trailer will most likely NOT mention she was in Catwoman but it WILL most likely mention her Oscar win. The next Danny Boyle film will mention that he directed Slumdog Millionaire and Trainspotting but will most likely leave out A Life Less Ordinary and The Beach (maybe). So lets let this be the last time we discuss the origins of Owl City. Adam Young, I wish you the best of luck in your musical career, but Minnesota only has room for one native son to cherish and his name is Joe Mauer.
Every year, without fail, I’ll get obsessed with the NBA, NFL, and NHL drafts. I’ll scour mock drafts on websites, talk it about it with friends, and read whatever I can get my hands on. This is definitely a huge time waster at work so I try my best to avoid the temptation, since now with the internet, following a draft starts the day after the draft. These drafts are an odd process. These multimillion dollar (soon to be billion dollar) sports teams congregate in some auditorium, they force kids (between the ages of 17-24) to sit in said auditorium in a suit, and then select them like they were selecting a kick ball team by giving each kid a baseball cap. But unlike a kickball team, these kids are getting multimillion-dollar contracts. Sweet deal.
I’m not complaining about the fact that these kids are getting paid millions of dollars. If you’re really good at something, you’re going to get paid for it. That’s how I’ve been taught life works, unless you’re an artist. Plus, these kids get put under the microscope and aren’t allowed to be kids anymore. Caught smoking weed in college? You have “character” issues. Got in a fight outside of a club because someone spilled Bud Light on your new Italian loafers? You’re a head case. Every kid gets dissected. “He seems to have a low basketball IQ”, “he doesn’t have a high enough vertical”, “his wingspan is surprisingly short”. See, these kids have expectations to perform, and short of dying or being paralyzed, these kids will be judged no matter what life throws at them. “Tore up your knee? Great! You will be booed on the street because you’ve set our franchise back three years!” “Your Mom died? You need to get over it because Game 7 is tomorrow.” Sympathy is dead. 20-year-old kids are getting labeled as failures. It’s truly a great world we live in.
It actually really is if you’re Mark Madsen, who somehow managed to escape having any expectations bestowed on him even though he was a 1st round pick. 1st round picks are supposed to be useful, maybe not necessarily great, but regular contributors. Mark was picked by the Lakers with the last pick of the first round, and immediately the joke was “he’s getting picked to guard Shaq during practice”. Madsen is perhaps the worst player in the NBA. It’s almost unanimous but he seems to find work and isn’t considered a failure. If he were a walk-on, I’d understand because he’d be the modern day Rudy. But would you still enjoy the movie if Rudy came from a ridiculously wealthy family? Nope, but here we are, shrugging at Mark Madsen’s lack of skills, instead of looking back at the draft and wondering who the Lakers could’ve had that would’ve been a better choice of a pick.
Not to personally hate on the guy. I mean, I hear he’s a great teammate, and an even better person. Maybe the NBA is just trying to teach us about morals. Or maybe we see a little bit of Madsen in ourselves. I mean, isn’t most of America incompetent at what they but enjoy getting paid for it anyways? Mark Madsen is a symbol of America, except he’s got great character.