A Lesson for the Bandwagoner

It really nags at me. I am always amazed at the number of “UT Alums” out and about every year, on or around the time of the Thanksgiving “Backyard Brawl”. The successive losses are piling up so high for the Aggies that my relatives don’t want me to be alone during the holidays. I suppose I give my relatives reason for concern. This year, I twisted an ankle on a coffee table after the blocked punt that sealed the win for the Longhorns. There’s really no telling how low I could get emotionally if I was alone with my loser-team and a hangover. But, one thing is for certain: I’ll never switch allegiances. I’ll quit on the coach and the QB, but never the team. What really bothers me is that the more the Longhorns win, the more “Alums” they seem to have to help them celebrate wins from your backyard Kroger, to the most remote deer blind. Bandwagoners.

It’s a scientifically proven fact that the number of fans a team has increases in direct relation to its win-percentage. Longhorn Fans are getting so brazen in this state that they don’t even pretend to have a legitimate affiliation with the school. I don’t even bother asking how they think they’re entitled to join the maniacal, drunken mob-convulsion of the Austin Undergrads after another victory over the kind and dignified gents from College Station.

For the record, a fan is only entitled to wave the “Hook-em’ Horns” sign at me if he/she was enrolled there (or a state-sanctioned satellite) for at least two semesters before flunking-out and assuming his/her career as a Plano receptionist or Baytown dog groomer.

I just don’t respect the growing legion of Faux Horns. I do respect people who celebrate their teams’ good fortune as a legitimate expression of their long-time affiliation. For example, there is a high school friend of mine in Chicago who is more Irish than a leprechaun, dipped in green ink. His name is Sean O’Connor. His story is an illustration of honest and certifiable, non-bandwagoner, accredited sports fandom.

Sean’s dad was an Irish-Catholic from Belfast, Ireland. And, so was his dear mum. All of his brothers were at least part-time bartenders, as you might have guessed, from the time they were old enough to ride the scooter down to the corner. (And, they'd fight eachother for the scooter.) Any Chicagoan knows that it’s a much more pleasant trip to the Lakeview neighborhood surrounding Wrigley Field than to the rough and dirty South Side. Still, his dad took him to games at Comiskey from the time Sean was old enough to tug green beer through the nipple of his bottle. There they endured the interminable agony that the team had suffered since their last championship in 1906.

Sean and his father were always faithful. It’s always been sexy to be a Cubs fan. But, to my friend, it seems to be more about the connection with his roots. It seems that the elder Mr. O’Connor chose the Sox as his team because the Cubs were owned by a Protestant. The White Sox were owned by a Catholic. In 1910, Charles Comiskey built his ballpark at 35th and Shields. Shields St. ran through Bridgeport, which was as Catholic a neighborhood as could be found.

When Sean and I exchanged emails relating to the World Series Sox Sweep, I dutifully read and responded to his jubilant praise for the South-Siders. Although still stinging from what I saw as mystifying impotency at the plate by Astros 3B, Morgan Ensberg and SS Adam Everett, I gave Sean the ear that he had earned from his years as a real fan. As he crowed, and wished that his dad was there to crow along, I couldn’t feel a bit of resentment (as I cried over the wasted efforts of Backe and Pettitte).

I do however resent the legion of Faux-Horns that are breeding like rabbits at spring-break. This is not sour-grapes (although I can understand how it may appear that way). Its just that I can’t find a real UT graduate with whom to share the experience through the mob of Walmart-Longhorns. This crowd should show a little shame. If a sports fan wants to share in the joy of having an archenemy, he needs to take a lesson from Old Irish Sean O’Connor: he needs to pay his dues (or tuition).

Blalock Fallout: More Trade Speculation

Now that he's thirteen, there are times when my son doesn't walk next to me. Sometimes he jumps out in front, or lags behind. Sometimes it is a social situation, or just a visit to the Mall (where he doesn't know a soul). He doesn't want to be seen with me. And, my wife complains of the same thing. More temper outbursts. The Adolescence Fairy has got the radar gun on my son, like a pro scout.

The kid's got a big upside, with increasing potential for power numbers as his limbs elongate and he gets stronger. But, in light of this recent spat of what I consider emotional instability, I am beginning to see why some baseball clubs have trouble dealing with stars who are saddled with the "headcase" moniker. I have to consider not only how I am to handle his emotional turbulence, but I have got to think about how its going to affect my clubhouse. Now that the Blalock/Danks for Josh Beckett/Mike Lowell trade talk has simmered, I am starting to consider my own trade. I wonder if the A's would part with Barry Zito in return my young lefty prospect.

Its just like Rangers GM Jon Daniels related the potential loss of Hank Blalock, "It would certainly leave a scar." I wouldn't just get rid of my boy to get rid of him. He's come up in my system. He knows the protocols because he's been watching my signs since he was old enough to crawl. But, I've got to think about the club. My wife and daughter might warm to the trade after a while. I can just hear it now:

Wife: "Honey, I miss our son."

Me: "Well, sure we all miss him. But, in this game, you've got to give value to get value. Barry here has a career 3.50 ERA. He's 1.22 with hitters in scoring position, for heaven's sake! And, he can reach all those high boxes that Junior couldn't get for you."

Yep. Zito for My Kid sounds so one-sided, it seems unlikely that the Oakland Club would consider it. Wait. There's more to it. Zito's a big name for sure. But, his numbers are trending downward. Like my kid, he's still a young lefty pitcher. However, his best season was three years ago. He zenithed at 23 Wins and 2.72 ERA. Wowzer!! Well, he hasn't sniffed more than 14 wins since. So, when I called dangling this lengthening lefty whose best season is still in front of him, the Oakland Athletics would certainly answer the phone. Bet on it.

He's my kid. But, I have never allowed disrespect or disorder in my organization. The A's don't know about all that. They only know he's got a Plus Fastball, developing change-up and a filthy knuckler. A GM only keeps his job if he can sell-high and buy-low.

Could I pull the trigger on this? My wife thinks I've got to slow down and give it some thought. She says to think about it. Players and sons change. She says sometimes they need space. Our son might have to grow out some in order to grow up some. Its the front-office's responsibility to provide an environment that allows space and growth. She's right, if you use Zito's career as a measure. He's all over the road in terms of his numbers. And, Manager Ken Macha still loves him and gives him all the space he needs. Macha still considers Zito one of the faces of the franchise.

All this talk has given me new respect for what Jon Daniels must have been going through. The prospect of parting with Blalock, the home-grown, former top prospect must have been agonizing. Of course, he is tasked with running a winning organization. The gossip was that the Marlins wanted a sweeter deal. But, there was a point beyond which Daniels wouldn't go. I can relate. I guess my organization will take the bumps and bruises this year while our own top prospect develops. If I work with him, he'll come around. The Adolescence Fairy moves on down the road sooner or later. And, like the A's, I'll continue to stand by the face of my franchise.

The Bear's Challenge

The Maroon-bloods at Texas A&M University have a story about the harshest “Coach’s Challenge” ever declared. In 1954, in his first season as Head Coach, Paul “Bear” Bryant’s gridders went 1-9. The following summer, he took two busses with just over 100 players to a hot, cactus-ridden dot on the map, called Junction, Texas. In heat that exceeded 110º, The Bear worked those players for ten days, on a rocky pasture, with no water, in full pads. Most players didn’t have the courage to tell the Coach that they were quitting. So, they left under the cover of darkness. In the end, only 25 players remained. The following year, such off-campus “camps” were outlawed. No doubt, today Bryant would be arrested on criminal charges for his unyielding harshness. It should be noted however that his football teams went 25-4-2 in the following three seasons. The quitters didn’t want “it”. The survivors found it within, and are reverently referred to as “The Junction Boys”.

In sports, parents and coaches ask their kids to excel. We demand that they exceed previous limits. Why? Simply put, to the winner goes the spoils. For example, in my high school, the athletic achievers got first pick of the girls. The draft order worked like this: 1) The jocks. 2) The rich kids. 3) The Musicians. 4) The Partiers. 5) The Geeks. Oh sure, now we all act indignant about the inherent unfairness and insensitivity of “The Draft Rules”, but we all knew them. And, we all played by them. And, deep down, we knew that they were fair.

Winning is fun, but sustained winning carries expectations. My boy’s baseball team has had remarkable success in the past year. And, he was one of the two pitchers who helped carry the team to a league championship and a berth in the Little League World Series. But, sometimes success carries that ugly, burdensome baggage: complacency. As the boys began preparation for this fall’s series of tournament games, the coaches noticed an increase in the “dropsies” and other statistical indicators of 10-year-old half-heartedness. After a recent and particularly underwhelming practice, the coaches gathered the kids to tell them that when the team bus takes off this fall, only the hard-charging players can ride. It was the kind of talk that becomes familiar to a kid once he plays at the high school level. It’s the coach’s challenge: step up or step off. No doubt, the challenge was the first of its kind for these boys, most of who still prefer GI Joe to any girl at school.

The next day was hot and humid. The grass was high and wet, from the day’s rain. The mosquitoes were out collecting blood, by the pint. And, where there were 9 players at the previous practice who heard the challenge, only 5 were present to accept it. Insuring one’s place in that unwritten draft order means hard work.

Fall is the time of year when men all over our great country define themselves. In fact, it was in the fall of my junior year in high school when I first heard “The Challenge”. Acutely aware of my uncertain spot in the draft lottery, somewhere between underweight rich kids and clueless geeks, I was determined to move up on the selection board. I decided that I would make the football team. And, like all good stories, I encountered a few hurdles. These were my size, my utter lack of speed and a complete ignorance of the rules and fundamentals of the sport. With pads, I was emboldened to take the field, for Two-A-Days. The football coaches issued the “the Challenge” every day, followed by endless running, hitting and vomiting. Players thinned in number. But, I persevered. I wore the bruises like a badge of honor. I began to understand the definition of character. And, I felt like I was building a little of my own. I was far from All-State, not recruited by a Division I school nor did I get my picture in the paper. But, I played. I succeeded. I didn’t quit. And, you better believe I moved up in the draft.

The winner gets the glory, the sense of accomplishment, the girls, etc. Our coddling moms and their servile husbands sometimes require a refresher. I had a firm grip on this dynamic by the time I was sixteen. If I wanted to move up, I would have to work. I appreciate the coach or teacher who demands excellence because it creates opportunity for the player to achieve. My son has never heard of Junction, Texas and I hope he never endures anything so grueling. But, sooner or later, everyone comes to his own Junction. By helping our sons learn to work hard, we increase their chances of being a survivor and a winner.