Yesterday, I posted briefly on the incident between Urban Meyer and Orlando Sentinel reporter Jeremy Fowler, saying that perhaps this wasn't the best way for Meyer to go about stating his concerns that his player was quoted out of context.
Clearly, this was a very frustrating thing for one reader to process. Here are his thoughts. Pretty scary how he manages to correctly infer so much with so little.
Kyle that is the problem with reporters...If there is no story to be had they make up sh1t or take things out of context to make things seem differently then they really are and then somnetime a douchebag ike you comes along and pushes the same out of context line and blame the good guys for challenging the douchebag that purposely sensationalied something just because either he is a bigot(like most liberal reporters
are) or he is just a lying sack of sh1t piece of crap like you. Deonte clearly didn't mean it like Fowler portrayed it.You are scum and should be in Politics or on MSNBC where your kind of journalism would fit well in with the bigots,hatemogerers,and intolerant bastards again just like you!!!
Very similar to your liberal lying sacks of sh1t bretheren in the MEDIA that says all these Democrats are getting threatening calls from "cray people" but you purposely leave out that Republicans have not only got Hateful calls by liberals they also SHOT at one of the Republican Represenative office.....Who is worse?Someone ranting over Power Hungry Mad Politicans that use every dirty trick under the sun to Push legislation that most Americans know is terrible and a big money grab by crooks or someone getting shot at because they are bigots like you?
I am sure the calers that cussed out the Demoncraps wil have the ghestapo harrassing them and hauling them to prision but the guys that shot up offices will get OFF totally because they are good little Obama minions... Obama is the most corrupt person ever to be in Politics...I am sure he has killed or had killed more people then Clinton ever dreamed of doing let alone the few he had murdered to cover up his illegal activities.
Commenter name: James Monroe
Commenter email address: gsan201@aol.com
James, if you're interested in writing a guest post, we'd be more than happy to hear more from you.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Technology is supposed to make our lives easier, but waiting to play Madden can drive a boy insane
In the pantheon of human experiences, a Playstation 3 update is one of the more minor of inconvienences.
But, considering the fact that the user is slightly tipsy upon arrival home from a night out at some of Ravenswoods' finest establishments, it's among the most excruciating seven-minute spans in human existence.
I just want to play Madden online. I'm a simple man. I am.
It's just not right to give these idle hands more time to puruse the Devil's workshop. It really isn't.
Instead of running the unstoppable screen play to Adrian Peterson, I'm sending text messages that I shouldn't. I'm tweeting about the most mundane of events.
Screw you, Playstaion 3, and your overly complicated processes. When life was painted in 8-bit graphics, it was simpler. Maybe not better, but more user-friendly. I wasn't playing this waiting game.
I wasn't waiting on the virtual world.
I realize that these are the rantings of an overly privilegeded urbanite, but I don't care. I want to play now and I don't care who knows it. Drinking breeds impulsivity. We all know that. So, why the delay?
Is it so I put things in perspective? Is it to take stock of what at times can seem like a simplistic life too dependent on video games?
Oh, wait. It's almost done.
Time to bring the pain with Purple Jesus. Time for the ageless Brett Favre to throw touchdown passes to Percy Harvin.
Time to live virtually and stop blogging.
But, considering the fact that the user is slightly tipsy upon arrival home from a night out at some of Ravenswoods' finest establishments, it's among the most excruciating seven-minute spans in human existence.
I just want to play Madden online. I'm a simple man. I am.
It's just not right to give these idle hands more time to puruse the Devil's workshop. It really isn't.
Instead of running the unstoppable screen play to Adrian Peterson, I'm sending text messages that I shouldn't. I'm tweeting about the most mundane of events.
Screw you, Playstaion 3, and your overly complicated processes. When life was painted in 8-bit graphics, it was simpler. Maybe not better, but more user-friendly. I wasn't playing this waiting game.
I wasn't waiting on the virtual world.
I realize that these are the rantings of an overly privilegeded urbanite, but I don't care. I want to play now and I don't care who knows it. Drinking breeds impulsivity. We all know that. So, why the delay?
Is it so I put things in perspective? Is it to take stock of what at times can seem like a simplistic life too dependent on video games?
Oh, wait. It's almost done.
Time to bring the pain with Purple Jesus. Time for the ageless Brett Favre to throw touchdown passes to Percy Harvin.
Time to live virtually and stop blogging.
Road Warriors
Found this on the old computer, would peg it from 2006. We were all a lot younger then. And the Tigers were in the World Series.
There may be some spelling errors.
Ahhhhh, memories.
The aroma of unwashed baseball socks and tobacco fills the dugout. We are tightly-packed, aching legs touching aching legs. We’ve stopped talking about the weather. Baseball legends are supposed to make their mark in October, and all we want to do is stave off hypothermia. Our leadoff man strides to the plate, one of the few not suffering from a hangover. He takes the first pitch for a ball outside.
We’re underway.
There are crisp and sunny autumn mornings, and then there are days like this one. Days when the gray of the clouds seems to reflect the mood of those shivering in the icy winds. Baseball is a fair game though, and our opponents appear just as bleary-eyed and uncomfortable as we are. Our bursts of baseball chatter die in the dense air before they reach our hitter. We are in a town called Big Rapids playing our second game in eighteen hours. A win here will put us through to the championship, and more importantly to us, let us have another night out on the road.
Earlier that morning, I had been the coordinator for our caravan. As team president I have the impossible assignment of trying to manage a group of thirty college guys who like to drink and carouse almost as much as they like baseball. We’re set to leave at ten in the morning. The team begins to trickle into my living room, each sporting bags under their eyes. They flop down hard on my garage-sale quality couch and we begin making our gameplans along with our night moves. I give them the line-up in exchange for information on bars or dorms around the field.
There is not enough room in my minivan for our equipment, and not enough common sense in our group to come up with a compromise. Ten minutes later we are on the road. Five grown men, five stuffed bags, and one shared vision of a weekend of total destruction. We spend our time competing for the most horrific and wonderful version of what that might be like. We debate over the radio station, the best route, or where to stock up on more provisions. As expected, we get lost.
But, Big Rapids isn’t the kind of town where you actually need directions anyway. We arrive at the ballpark fifty minutes before game time, and pile out. It’s an old high school field, with pennants flying above the outfield fence. The scoreboard harkens back to when Norman Rockwell was actually painting scenes like this. A red Coca-Cola and yellow Ryder sign surround the smaller ads of the locals. The chiropractor, the dentist, and the VFW all anted up for some exposure. The crowd is sparse. Only the most dedicated friends and family are interested enough to show up. We’ve grown used to the small crowds, lumpy fields, and bad calls. All we want to do is play.
My arm explodes with pain as I throw the first pitch. It catches the corner and the umpire’s numb right hand signals “strike”. I scan the dugout quickly, making a mental note to look for a reliever. Rob is sitting with his hood completely over his head and I can’t make out his eyes. Nick spent a majority of last night icing his right arm and lifting Bud Light with his left. Our left fielder makes a sliding catch to end the inning and we marvel at how far he travels across the frost-covered grass.
We retreat out of the wind and hope for hits, runs, and hot cocoa. There are no girls here, so it’s acceptable for some quasi-cuddling for warmth. Everyone reeks, but no one notices. That’s just typical road-trip smell. We are men without mothers, no common sense to bring enough clean socks and underwear. The smoky stench is a souvenir of last night.
We’re sitting around after a blowout win, waiting for the night to begin. A vote is taken and the nearest Hooters wins. Twenty-six raging young men with uncontrollable appetites for food, drink, and women are not what the hostess wants to see. She is polite enough but her eyes give her away. We all notice the apprehension as she leads us past the smoking section, but none of us are concerned. Our conversation is as refreshing as the beer, our laughter as pervasive as the chicken bones we strew everywhere. We talk about sports, always the safest topic among men. As the drinks fuel our self-confidence, we begin the next phase, obligatory flirtations with the waitress. Her name is Maggie, and unlike the others here, her face is her best physical attribute. I sit with the other veterans and share a silent laugh. Our freshmen have no chance, but they are young and this is their first taste of life on the road. They want to impress the older guys, to experience every exaggerated tale they’ve overheard.
Right fielder Matt stays out of it. Although a meager freshman, he knows he is starting tomorrow, and tells me he’d rather score on than off the field. The road brings out a different person in all of us. For some, the carefree environment is a green light to hedonism. Some become thoughtful and reclusive, staying alone in our rooms at night. They call their girlfriends; then go to bed by midnight. Others open up, revealing aspects of themselves they keep under wraps at home. The road is not forgiving. It puts us together and forces us all to co-exist. Twenty-six different personalities, twenty-six egos, twenty-six personal agendas.
We load the bases in the second inning and Matt comes to the plate. He is a stout freshman with the type of attitude every coach loves. Dives for balls during practice, goes the extra mile. He stands slightly crouched, and shows no sign of anxiety for his first at-bat with the team. The small talk in the dugout ceases for a while and focuses on the field. Walters swings from the heels and connects, sending the ball violently upward against the gray sky. The sound of it colliding with the chain link fence in center field is the best thing we’ve heard all morning. Runners parade to the plate and Matt is hell-bent on third base. He slides headfirst, avoiding the tag and looks over to the dugout with the widest smile I have ever seen on him.
It’s the fourth inning and my arm is screaming that it can’t take much more abuse. My father is leaning against the fence down the first baseline, watching me intently. A heavy black jacket is covering his round frame and a winter cap is pulled snugly down on his round face. I know that if he weren’t here watching me I would pull myself in favor of a healthier teammate. He drove a long way and he is out here in the frigid air, watching his oldest son play his favorite sport. Pride is what is keeping him warm, and pride is what won’t let me climb down off that mound. I throw a hanging slider and the hitter jumps on it with a grunt. As it rockets down the third baseline, I start to hang my head and curse my choice of pitches. In the corner of my eye I see white baseball pants and a green jersey leap and fly completely parallel to the ground. The ball disappears into the tan mitt and the body crashes haphazardly to the hard ground below. I pump my fist and smile as my eyes meet Bolton’s, remembering last weekend.
Bolton is a junior who looks more like a lumberjack than a third baseman. His strong jaw line is covered in hair the color of the Georgia red clay infield at our home park. Everyone ribs him about his backpack. It’s more suited for a hike through the Adirondacks than carrying odious socks and weathered mitts. He is a good kid though, and plays his position like a frantic goalie defends his net. Last week Bolton made two crucial errors, costing us the game. The look on his face told me he knew he had let us down, and the genuine hurt in his eyes was moving. We drove back to our hotel in virtual silence except for the radio. In the backseat he looked out the greasy window, not looking at anything in particular, lost in thought.
“I’m sorry guys,” he said in a meek voice at a stoplight. Glancing in the rearview mirror I saw his head turn from the window and towards his teammates.
Our burly, bearded first baseman was the first to respond.
“It’s fine, dude. If I hadn’t stranded all those runners we never would have been in danger.”
“Even still, there is no excuse for me to fuck it all up like that. Things started moving in high speed after the first one. It’s like…like I had cement in my shoes.”
Bolton’s words strike a resounding chord in all of us. We’ve all been the goat, the one who blew it for our team. Maybe some more than others, some not for a long time, but we’ve been there.
“Bolts, we got a game tomorrow and you are playing third base,” I tell him. “We all know you are the best guy we have out there, and two errors isn’t going to change that. Now let’s go back to the hotel, get a shower, a case, and move on.”
Our passion burns so brightly on the field that sometimes it blinds us from the simple fact that it is a game. Win or lose, the world isn’t going to end. The road magnifies our successes and failures. There is all night to revel in glory, or a whole night to stew in anger and missed opportunities. Teammates on the road together need to let them know there is always another game, another shot at redemption. Bolton just got his.
We are winning 3-1 in the top of the sixth. Matt steps into the box with two outs. The thought of his clutch hit is still resonating in the pitcher’s mind as he unleashes a fastball that seems to have sonar. It follows Matt’s head as he attempts to duck and makes a sickening hollow sound as it hits just left of our school logo. He slumps to the ground as his parents hold their breath and hope for the best. Surges of testosterone blend with instincts to protect our teammate. Baseball, for all its reputation as a gentleman’s game, has a seedy underbelly on and off the field. The unwritten rules are just as important as the ones on record. They’ve just violated one by throwing above the shoulders. Angry shouts and threats explode from our dugout and the air becomes thick with tension. The umpire issues an icy stare and stern warning to their pitcher. The red in my teammates faces is now more rage than cold. Our desire to win is as strong as our anger.
It’s the bottom of the seventh and I make the decision. There’s nothing left in the tank. Rob has been loosening up and says he’s ready to go. The last three outs are the hardest to get. Rob is the quintessential goofball. Seventy-five inches of disproportions. Arms drooping at his sides, lanky body bouncing awkwardly as he runs. His head goes from side to side like a bobble head. Closers in baseball are eccentric. It takes a special breed to handle the pressure. Rob has just enough screws loose to fit into the role. He is just as clueless as the batter about where one of his pitches is going to land. There is no finesse as his right arm whips forward. Catchers have the largest gloves of anyone on the diamond, but ours still can’t stab Rob’s first pitch. Bits of gravel elevate as the ball hits three feet in front of the plate.
Rob will make a great older man. The four big loves in his life are food, beer, sleep, and sports. His needs are not complicated, and the road affords him all he ever needs. Maybe that’s the reason we all have so much fun. Because of the simplicity of our life. Essentially we do what we want.. We’re hungry, we eat. Thirsty, we drink. Horny, we barhop. It’s appropriate that the guy who most personifies our road trips is called on to win it for us. He strikes out the first two batters with curveballs that make their knees buckle. We love every minute of it, each man coming up with different slang for his pitch.
“Nice yakker, Robby!”
“Thataway to twist, Rob-O!”
“Captain Rob Hook, baby!”
Feeding off the energy, Rob mows the last guy down, and poses after striking him out. This show of cockiness pisses off our opponents, but we couldn’t care less. They are the enemy; the only ones who matter on the road are your mates. We pound fists and slap asses, congratulating each other on another victory. We’ve won the game, but there is a greater reward. The boys have another night on the road, more chances to get in trouble.
We get back into town Sunday night just as the sun is setting. The amber hues are outlining the horizon. Two of the guys are passed out in the back, attempting to catch up on all the missed sleep. We are talking about the trip, savoring every last minute of our freedom. Once back, reality will be on us like an inside fastball. No one really cares that we lost in the finals earlier that day. The car lets out a relieved sigh as I pull into the drive and turn off the engine. They unpack the equipment, looking slightly dustier and more worn-out than four days ago. The guys don’t look much better, each with greasy hair and faces that haven’t touched a razor since we left. I give a ride home to Eric, who has been on the team with me for the past three years. He has been on every trip I’ve made.
“I’m getting too old for this stuff,” he says.
“Yeah, you and me both,” I reply, looking at the creases under my eyes and feeling the exhaustion in my body.
“I was kidding, if I ever stop enjoying the trips you have my permission to kill me.”
We are in front of his apartment and he hops out.
“Oh yeah, and one more thing,” he says. “You smell horrible, take a shower.”
There may be some spelling errors.
Ahhhhh, memories.
The aroma of unwashed baseball socks and tobacco fills the dugout. We are tightly-packed, aching legs touching aching legs. We’ve stopped talking about the weather. Baseball legends are supposed to make their mark in October, and all we want to do is stave off hypothermia. Our leadoff man strides to the plate, one of the few not suffering from a hangover. He takes the first pitch for a ball outside.
We’re underway.
There are crisp and sunny autumn mornings, and then there are days like this one. Days when the gray of the clouds seems to reflect the mood of those shivering in the icy winds. Baseball is a fair game though, and our opponents appear just as bleary-eyed and uncomfortable as we are. Our bursts of baseball chatter die in the dense air before they reach our hitter. We are in a town called Big Rapids playing our second game in eighteen hours. A win here will put us through to the championship, and more importantly to us, let us have another night out on the road.
Earlier that morning, I had been the coordinator for our caravan. As team president I have the impossible assignment of trying to manage a group of thirty college guys who like to drink and carouse almost as much as they like baseball. We’re set to leave at ten in the morning. The team begins to trickle into my living room, each sporting bags under their eyes. They flop down hard on my garage-sale quality couch and we begin making our gameplans along with our night moves. I give them the line-up in exchange for information on bars or dorms around the field.
There is not enough room in my minivan for our equipment, and not enough common sense in our group to come up with a compromise. Ten minutes later we are on the road. Five grown men, five stuffed bags, and one shared vision of a weekend of total destruction. We spend our time competing for the most horrific and wonderful version of what that might be like. We debate over the radio station, the best route, or where to stock up on more provisions. As expected, we get lost.
But, Big Rapids isn’t the kind of town where you actually need directions anyway. We arrive at the ballpark fifty minutes before game time, and pile out. It’s an old high school field, with pennants flying above the outfield fence. The scoreboard harkens back to when Norman Rockwell was actually painting scenes like this. A red Coca-Cola and yellow Ryder sign surround the smaller ads of the locals. The chiropractor, the dentist, and the VFW all anted up for some exposure. The crowd is sparse. Only the most dedicated friends and family are interested enough to show up. We’ve grown used to the small crowds, lumpy fields, and bad calls. All we want to do is play.
My arm explodes with pain as I throw the first pitch. It catches the corner and the umpire’s numb right hand signals “strike”. I scan the dugout quickly, making a mental note to look for a reliever. Rob is sitting with his hood completely over his head and I can’t make out his eyes. Nick spent a majority of last night icing his right arm and lifting Bud Light with his left. Our left fielder makes a sliding catch to end the inning and we marvel at how far he travels across the frost-covered grass.
We retreat out of the wind and hope for hits, runs, and hot cocoa. There are no girls here, so it’s acceptable for some quasi-cuddling for warmth. Everyone reeks, but no one notices. That’s just typical road-trip smell. We are men without mothers, no common sense to bring enough clean socks and underwear. The smoky stench is a souvenir of last night.
We’re sitting around after a blowout win, waiting for the night to begin. A vote is taken and the nearest Hooters wins. Twenty-six raging young men with uncontrollable appetites for food, drink, and women are not what the hostess wants to see. She is polite enough but her eyes give her away. We all notice the apprehension as she leads us past the smoking section, but none of us are concerned. Our conversation is as refreshing as the beer, our laughter as pervasive as the chicken bones we strew everywhere. We talk about sports, always the safest topic among men. As the drinks fuel our self-confidence, we begin the next phase, obligatory flirtations with the waitress. Her name is Maggie, and unlike the others here, her face is her best physical attribute. I sit with the other veterans and share a silent laugh. Our freshmen have no chance, but they are young and this is their first taste of life on the road. They want to impress the older guys, to experience every exaggerated tale they’ve overheard.
Right fielder Matt stays out of it. Although a meager freshman, he knows he is starting tomorrow, and tells me he’d rather score on than off the field. The road brings out a different person in all of us. For some, the carefree environment is a green light to hedonism. Some become thoughtful and reclusive, staying alone in our rooms at night. They call their girlfriends; then go to bed by midnight. Others open up, revealing aspects of themselves they keep under wraps at home. The road is not forgiving. It puts us together and forces us all to co-exist. Twenty-six different personalities, twenty-six egos, twenty-six personal agendas.
We load the bases in the second inning and Matt comes to the plate. He is a stout freshman with the type of attitude every coach loves. Dives for balls during practice, goes the extra mile. He stands slightly crouched, and shows no sign of anxiety for his first at-bat with the team. The small talk in the dugout ceases for a while and focuses on the field. Walters swings from the heels and connects, sending the ball violently upward against the gray sky. The sound of it colliding with the chain link fence in center field is the best thing we’ve heard all morning. Runners parade to the plate and Matt is hell-bent on third base. He slides headfirst, avoiding the tag and looks over to the dugout with the widest smile I have ever seen on him.
It’s the fourth inning and my arm is screaming that it can’t take much more abuse. My father is leaning against the fence down the first baseline, watching me intently. A heavy black jacket is covering his round frame and a winter cap is pulled snugly down on his round face. I know that if he weren’t here watching me I would pull myself in favor of a healthier teammate. He drove a long way and he is out here in the frigid air, watching his oldest son play his favorite sport. Pride is what is keeping him warm, and pride is what won’t let me climb down off that mound. I throw a hanging slider and the hitter jumps on it with a grunt. As it rockets down the third baseline, I start to hang my head and curse my choice of pitches. In the corner of my eye I see white baseball pants and a green jersey leap and fly completely parallel to the ground. The ball disappears into the tan mitt and the body crashes haphazardly to the hard ground below. I pump my fist and smile as my eyes meet Bolton’s, remembering last weekend.
Bolton is a junior who looks more like a lumberjack than a third baseman. His strong jaw line is covered in hair the color of the Georgia red clay infield at our home park. Everyone ribs him about his backpack. It’s more suited for a hike through the Adirondacks than carrying odious socks and weathered mitts. He is a good kid though, and plays his position like a frantic goalie defends his net. Last week Bolton made two crucial errors, costing us the game. The look on his face told me he knew he had let us down, and the genuine hurt in his eyes was moving. We drove back to our hotel in virtual silence except for the radio. In the backseat he looked out the greasy window, not looking at anything in particular, lost in thought.
“I’m sorry guys,” he said in a meek voice at a stoplight. Glancing in the rearview mirror I saw his head turn from the window and towards his teammates.
Our burly, bearded first baseman was the first to respond.
“It’s fine, dude. If I hadn’t stranded all those runners we never would have been in danger.”
“Even still, there is no excuse for me to fuck it all up like that. Things started moving in high speed after the first one. It’s like…like I had cement in my shoes.”
Bolton’s words strike a resounding chord in all of us. We’ve all been the goat, the one who blew it for our team. Maybe some more than others, some not for a long time, but we’ve been there.
“Bolts, we got a game tomorrow and you are playing third base,” I tell him. “We all know you are the best guy we have out there, and two errors isn’t going to change that. Now let’s go back to the hotel, get a shower, a case, and move on.”
Our passion burns so brightly on the field that sometimes it blinds us from the simple fact that it is a game. Win or lose, the world isn’t going to end. The road magnifies our successes and failures. There is all night to revel in glory, or a whole night to stew in anger and missed opportunities. Teammates on the road together need to let them know there is always another game, another shot at redemption. Bolton just got his.
We are winning 3-1 in the top of the sixth. Matt steps into the box with two outs. The thought of his clutch hit is still resonating in the pitcher’s mind as he unleashes a fastball that seems to have sonar. It follows Matt’s head as he attempts to duck and makes a sickening hollow sound as it hits just left of our school logo. He slumps to the ground as his parents hold their breath and hope for the best. Surges of testosterone blend with instincts to protect our teammate. Baseball, for all its reputation as a gentleman’s game, has a seedy underbelly on and off the field. The unwritten rules are just as important as the ones on record. They’ve just violated one by throwing above the shoulders. Angry shouts and threats explode from our dugout and the air becomes thick with tension. The umpire issues an icy stare and stern warning to their pitcher. The red in my teammates faces is now more rage than cold. Our desire to win is as strong as our anger.
It’s the bottom of the seventh and I make the decision. There’s nothing left in the tank. Rob has been loosening up and says he’s ready to go. The last three outs are the hardest to get. Rob is the quintessential goofball. Seventy-five inches of disproportions. Arms drooping at his sides, lanky body bouncing awkwardly as he runs. His head goes from side to side like a bobble head. Closers in baseball are eccentric. It takes a special breed to handle the pressure. Rob has just enough screws loose to fit into the role. He is just as clueless as the batter about where one of his pitches is going to land. There is no finesse as his right arm whips forward. Catchers have the largest gloves of anyone on the diamond, but ours still can’t stab Rob’s first pitch. Bits of gravel elevate as the ball hits three feet in front of the plate.
Rob will make a great older man. The four big loves in his life are food, beer, sleep, and sports. His needs are not complicated, and the road affords him all he ever needs. Maybe that’s the reason we all have so much fun. Because of the simplicity of our life. Essentially we do what we want.. We’re hungry, we eat. Thirsty, we drink. Horny, we barhop. It’s appropriate that the guy who most personifies our road trips is called on to win it for us. He strikes out the first two batters with curveballs that make their knees buckle. We love every minute of it, each man coming up with different slang for his pitch.
“Nice yakker, Robby!”
“Thataway to twist, Rob-O!”
“Captain Rob Hook, baby!”
Feeding off the energy, Rob mows the last guy down, and poses after striking him out. This show of cockiness pisses off our opponents, but we couldn’t care less. They are the enemy; the only ones who matter on the road are your mates. We pound fists and slap asses, congratulating each other on another victory. We’ve won the game, but there is a greater reward. The boys have another night on the road, more chances to get in trouble.
We get back into town Sunday night just as the sun is setting. The amber hues are outlining the horizon. Two of the guys are passed out in the back, attempting to catch up on all the missed sleep. We are talking about the trip, savoring every last minute of our freedom. Once back, reality will be on us like an inside fastball. No one really cares that we lost in the finals earlier that day. The car lets out a relieved sigh as I pull into the drive and turn off the engine. They unpack the equipment, looking slightly dustier and more worn-out than four days ago. The guys don’t look much better, each with greasy hair and faces that haven’t touched a razor since we left. I give a ride home to Eric, who has been on the team with me for the past three years. He has been on every trip I’ve made.
“I’m getting too old for this stuff,” he says.
“Yeah, you and me both,” I reply, looking at the creases under my eyes and feeling the exhaustion in my body.
“I was kidding, if I ever stop enjoying the trips you have my permission to kill me.”
We are in front of his apartment and he hops out.
“Oh yeah, and one more thing,” he says. “You smell horrible, take a shower.”
The one where I figure out how to use Blogger again
I'll just say it.
Far, far less people will be reading this.
I'm very, very OK with that.
After some 18 months running the Chicago Sun-Times' most Erin Andrews-heavy blog, I made a somewhat big -- well, to me it was -- decision to pull the plug on the very vehicle that often times made my job worth doing.
And now I'm back on Blogger.
From the outhouse to the penthouse and back to the outhouse.
Except this time, I brought a proverbial magazine.
The reasons behind the decision aren't too personal to share, but they are probably best left between myself and the company (don't worry there are no Jayson Blair-like hijinx afoot).
There have been countless good things to come out of the Sports Pros(e) expansion, but a few of the negative aspects factored mightily into the call.
First, people are absolutely brutal. While we routinely turned in monthly page-view totals in the hundreds of thousands, we were never able to get a good core group of commenters. Because a vast majority of the traffic came from Google and other search engines, we got a lot of one-and-doners.
Anyone who has ever combed the comment section of news sites knows that there is a good deal of venom and vitriol swirling about. In my experience, the comments on blogs are even worse than print articles.
I like to think the best of people, but some of the hateful and ignorant garbage can really take a toll day in and day out. If you've read one way-off-topic diatribe against something, you've read them all.
This, of course, isn't the only reason.
Another is that my writing has suffered. It's gotten short, choppy and far too easy to consume -- like a crouton. Some people might not notice, but for people who care about their craft, seeing it suffer is a big, fucking deal. Hopefully, I can get back to where I want to be in that arena.
I'll continue to write daily, both here and more frequently in print.
I really want to thank those who have made stopping by Sports Pros(e) part of their day, those who have weighed in, and those who've shared kind words with me. I truly, truly appreciate your time.
Far, far less people will be reading this.
I'm very, very OK with that.
After some 18 months running the Chicago Sun-Times' most Erin Andrews-heavy blog, I made a somewhat big -- well, to me it was -- decision to pull the plug on the very vehicle that often times made my job worth doing.
And now I'm back on Blogger.
From the outhouse to the penthouse and back to the outhouse.
Except this time, I brought a proverbial magazine.
The reasons behind the decision aren't too personal to share, but they are probably best left between myself and the company (don't worry there are no Jayson Blair-like hijinx afoot).
There have been countless good things to come out of the Sports Pros(e) expansion, but a few of the negative aspects factored mightily into the call.
First, people are absolutely brutal. While we routinely turned in monthly page-view totals in the hundreds of thousands, we were never able to get a good core group of commenters. Because a vast majority of the traffic came from Google and other search engines, we got a lot of one-and-doners.
Anyone who has ever combed the comment section of news sites knows that there is a good deal of venom and vitriol swirling about. In my experience, the comments on blogs are even worse than print articles.
I like to think the best of people, but some of the hateful and ignorant garbage can really take a toll day in and day out. If you've read one way-off-topic diatribe against something, you've read them all.
This, of course, isn't the only reason.
Another is that my writing has suffered. It's gotten short, choppy and far too easy to consume -- like a crouton. Some people might not notice, but for people who care about their craft, seeing it suffer is a big, fucking deal. Hopefully, I can get back to where I want to be in that arena.
I'll continue to write daily, both here and more frequently in print.
I really want to thank those who have made stopping by Sports Pros(e) part of their day, those who have weighed in, and those who've shared kind words with me. I truly, truly appreciate your time.
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