To an Athlete Dying Young
Today marks twenty years to the day since the death of Hank Gathers. Still makes me sad.
To an Athlete Dying Young
by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.
On Sunday, March 4, 1990, Hank Gathers collapsed with 13:34 left in the first half of a West Coast Conference tournament quarterfinal game against, just after scoring on an alley-oop dunk that put the Loyola Marymount Lions up 25–13. He was declared dead on arrival at a nearby hospital at the age of 23.
Hank Gathers: February 11, 1967 – March 4, 1990
I know Bill Simmons
It isn’t often that I’m aware of someone long before that person becomes famous. Apart from Adam Sandler and I don’t know who else, there just aren’t many people who hit it big from New Hampshire.
The lack of famous athletes drives the point home. I had to chuckle when, in 1999, Sports Illustrated put together a list of the 50 greatest sports figures ever to hail from the Granite State. A ski coach was ranked #6 (Bob Beattie anyone?), a rower #22 (silver medallist in the men’s four without coxswain) and an umpire at #39 (an umpire?). Ex-Yankee slugger Steve Balboni checked in at #19, and, rather than expounding upon his accomplishments, SI mentions that he struck out 166 times in one season. It’s hard to even say that he hit it big. After all, he didn’t hit much of anything. The editor for The Union Leader newspaper came in at #49. Let me type that again. The editor for The Union Leader came in at #49. The editor for the newspaper? Are you kidding me? A soap box junior division champ rounded out the list at #50. Honestly, I don’t even know what the soap box is. And, couldn’t we have at least had the senior division champ?
I went through and counted how many of these people I had ever heard of. Bear in mind that I love sports and am a New Hampshire native. Well, I counted 9 out of 50. That is 18%. So, yeah, if sports is an indicator of overall famous people, there aren’t any. The most famous person from New Hampshire wasn’t even a person. It was a rock formation on a side of a mountain that looked like a man. Everyone was so excited about rock man, they put it on the license plates, driver’s license, interstate signs, state quarter, state documents and Lord knows what else. This was all well and good until he crumbled to his death back in 2003. The face of New Hampshire disappeared. Now, there is no face of New Hampshire. There is no person, symbol or sports figure (unless you count #11-while-still-in-college Matt Bonner) to rally upon. Even politically, the state is becoming more and more ambiguous. There is no identity. The only thing left is our state motto: “Live Free or Die”. It gives us a toughness. It makes us sound bad. We may have a lot of cows, but at least we know how to drive in the snow.
I say all this because, there is one person I knew before everyone else did. Yeah, you may question how well I knew him. After all, I knew him much better than he knew me. But I knew him. I knew Bill Simmons. I knew him because he wrote out of the overflow of his heart and I read every word.
It was early 1997 and my father had just purchased a Micron computer at Christmastime for over $2,000. I don’t remember much about that computer, except that the monitor was small and the computer was slow. Really, really slow. We went with the America Online trial and I was online before you could say “Prodigy”. I spent a lot of time on the Interwebs in those days. I still do. The only difference now is that I don’t tie up the phone lines. I even started this blog the following summer. Of course, it wasn’t a blog back then. Blogs didn’t exist. But, I did have a space to write down my thoughts, no matter how quirky they may be.
There was a sports channel on AOL. It was called Digital City. Each area had its own Digital City. Because it didn’t have one of its own, New Hampshire had Boston. New Hampshire has always had Boston. There was a sports writer on Digital City Boston who called himself “The Sportsguy”. He was only available on AOL and only in the greater Boston area. It didn’t take long for me to fall in love. I loved how he was different from everyone else. I loved his creativity. I could tell that he didn’t write columns just to get paid. I knew it was something that he loved and was meant to do.
I interacted with Bill regularly. I called him “The Sports Pimp”. I made the mailbag a number of times. Many of my submissions for the “links” column were included. He didn’t have that many followers back then, so he was very accessible. He made it a point to write back to everyone who wrote to him. One time, I emailed him a joke about Todd Day. He wrote back about a game against the Hawks where the C’s were getting crushed but Todd Day made a bunch of 3′s at the end. He wrote how Day had a disgusting “I got mine” look about him during the fourth quarter. As always, I knew exactly what he was talking about. I knew what he was talking about because I was there. March 9, 1997. It was the Sunday before our High School team would play in the state finals. We were at the same game. I wondered what he looked like. I was curious if maybe we had passed by each other in the crowd.
Eventually, it became impossible for him to respond to every message. He did such a good job with the columns, his popularity grew and grew. I was pumped when I learned that he was going to be doing an interview on the radio. I remember just about every word he wrote about the time he did a TV spot with Bob Lobel. I was thrilled when I learned that he had signed on with ESPN. This guy I followed from basically nowhere was rising to the top in front of my very eyes. I felt like I was the one being promoted.
Our lives have gone in drastically different directions. Simmons has become a hugely popular writer. His podcast is among the most listened to. His second book just came out. He is a household name. He has a family and now lives in California. He’s even starting to make more and more appearances on TV.
After living in Boston for a number of years, I am back in New Hampshire. I am out of work. I don’t have a family. I ran out of money and am living with my parents. My car is falling apart. I make money by selling sneakers on eBay. I am getting old. My life feels the furthest thing from a success.
I am still very happy that Bill made it so big. There is one part, though, that makes me sad. Bill Simmons has no idea who I am. If I were to meet him, I would be just another of his adoring fans. I wouldn’t be able to talk to him about which of his columns I particularly enjoyed or tell him which of his recurring jokes I like the most. I couldn’t ask him about that girl he wrote about over 10 years ago whom he wasn’t speaking with anymore. There is no way I could communicate everything I would want to communicate in 30 seconds. There is no way he could know me like I know him. I would be just another face in the crowd.
It is a one-sided relationship. Unfortunately, the same can be said about my relationships with many of the people I’ve really cared about. But I know Bill Simmons. I know him and love him the same.
Fantasy Football
Remember that Subway commercial where Reggie Bush tells the kid to stay hungry and eat the sandwich? Well, I ate the sandwich and I am no longer hungry. I am that dog that has lived through one too many thunderstorms and has decided to lie down save for trips to the bathroom and to get water. I was just doing some research for my team(s) and I thought to myself, “Who are these guys?” Seriously. Who in the underworld are these people? Who is Jeremy MacLin? Who is Miles Austin Collie? Who is Hakeem Nicks? Is he related to that singer chick from the 80′s. I don’t know. I don’t know and I don’t care. Fantasy football can go fly a kite! It is a young man’s game and I am no longer a young man.
So, go on with all your hopes and dreams of fantasy football glory. Just show me that same excitement when your team loses in the finals for four straight years and you could have purchased a new car with all the winnings you barely missed out on because it was windy in Chicago and it snowed in Cleveland.
In other news, I love, love, LOVE the remake of this song and everything about this video. In particular, the backup singer at around five and a half minutes has to be an angel. You must watch this.
Remembering Corey Dillon
What is it about being young?
I saw my 9 years of age buddy today. I’ve known him since he was about 4. He loves the Red Sox, Celtics and even the New England Revolution. He plays hockey sometimes, too. He plays shortstop for his baseball team and let me know all about the fall league that is about to begin. He told me about the time he hit a home run. Another time, he hit a triple. He stopped at third because the coach told him to stop, but he knows that he could have made it home safely. His soccer team plays against the older kids. In their last game, he scored the team’s only goal.
There is something about his eyes. They’re subtly wild and dance back and forth. They’re more colorful than most. Something about them screams youth and innocence and hope. He can’t wait for the future. He wonders which major league baseball team he will play for, but has vowed to never play for the Yankees. He wonders if he’ll end up on the same team as his friend.
* * *
I remember carefully studying the seniors during my first year at Boston University. I wanted to know if they were happy. If they were happy, I would know that the school had treated them well. I searched for signs of satisfaction and fulfillment. I figured that I would be in their place in a few years and wanted to get some clues as to my own future. They didn’t look particularly happy, though. They looked kind of stressed and tired. They looked a little beaten up. They looked worn out.
After graduating, I started studying elderly people. I studied people who had done their best to live an upright life. I looked for signs of joy or peace or even happiness. I wanted to know if they had been paid off for their efforts. What exactly was their reward?
* * *
Life takes a toll on everybody. Injuries mess up what was once a promising sports career. A broken relationship brings a level of pain a youngster never knew existed. Friends move away. Loved ones die. Color is drained from the face. Hurt hardens hearts. Bright eyes gradually go dull.
I wonder how many people are truly happy with how things have worked out for them. Is today really the tomorrow we dreamed about yesterday? It is the future, for sure, but I don’t ever recall dreaming about this. I never signed up for the life I’m living. This was never part of my plans.
* * *
The last chapter of the book of Ecclesiastes begins like this:
Remember your Creator
in the days of your youth,
before the days of trouble come
and the years approach when you will say,
“I find no pleasure in them”1
It goes on to list a bunch of other lousy things that will happen. I’m not sure I understand what this book is saying. Remember God before life begins to suck? Is that the lesson? And isn’t it easier to remember God in the days of your youth? Isn’t it a bit harder to remember God when nothing turns out right? Shouldn’t the warning be to remember God when everything falls apart? And just what are you supposed to do when the days of trouble come? Are you supposed to stop remembering? Is all the remembering you did earlier in life supposed to carry you through? Is all hope destined to end in despair?
* * *
I was in a flower shop recently and marveled at the beautiful flowers. I thought it was rather pointless for them to look so beautiful. 
Like the Ultimate Warrior, flowers have no staying power. In just a few short days, they are dead. Is one single day so important that God would cause the prime of this beautiful little creation to be so short?
Flowers are like running backs. Running backs have 3 or 4 years of glory and are soon forgotten. Just ask Corey Dillon. It wasn’t too long ago that he was a rising star. Nobody really thinks about him much anymore. He is yesterday’s flower. The same fate awaits LaDanian Tomlinson. No amount of rushing yards will bring him immortality. It may take longer, but eventually he will be forgotten like most everybody else. His spotlight is already starting to fade.
* * *
Sometimes, I’m taken aback and the ridiculousness of it all. We get dropped off in our Mother’s wound and are born into a world of confusion. It’s like we entered a game in progress, but no one ever sat down with us to fully explained all the rules. We have so many questions, but have to keep playing the game as we search for answers.
If there is one thing I’m learning more and more these days, it’s that none of us have much of a clue as to what is going on. As Donald Miller puts it, we have the sense that certain events mean something, but we’re not sure what. Ecclesiastes says it this way: No one can comprehend what goes on under the sun. Despite all his efforts to search it out, man cannot discover its meaning. Even if a wise man claims he knows, he cannot really comprehend it. He has set eternity in our hearts, but we cannot fathom what He has done from beginning to end.2
* * *
Maybe one point of remembering is to enjoy what we have while we have it. The Message Bible puts it this way, “Life, lovely while it lasts, is soon over. Life as we know it, precious and beautiful, ends.”3
And, when we get too old to enjoy life as much, it is great to have children around. Maybe it’s a good and okay thing to live vicariously through them every now and then as well. I can’t help but get caught up in their awe of things and I need a picture of those bright eyes to soften my own hardened and jaded gaze. The look of wonder in his eyes couldn’t help but bring back a little of my own.
And, when life as we know it ends, life better than we ever could have imagined can begin. I hope that my little friend eventually comes to know the person who died to secure a place for him in eternity. A place that is a thousand times better than being the starting shortstop for the Boston Red Sox could ever be. It’s the place that his little eyes know he was made for. A place where wilder than the most wild of dreams comes true.
Somewhere Out There
As a kid, I always thought I was behind and needed that extra hour to catch up. Jim Jones once told me, “No matter how many shots you take, somewhere there’s a kid out there taking one more. If you dribble a million times a day, someone is dribbling a million and one.” Whenever I’d get ready to call it a day, I’d think, “No. Somebody else is still practicing. Somebody – somewhere – is playing that extra ten or fifteen minutes and he’s going to beat me someday.” I’d practice some more and then I’d think, “Maybe that guy is practicing his free throws now.” So, I’d go to the line and practice my free throws and that would take another hour. I don’t know if I practiced more than anybody, but I sure practiced enough. I still wonder if somebody – somewhere – was practicing more than me.
- Larry Bird, Drive
As the years go by…
As another NBA season comes to a close, here is a great video of NBA superstars through the years. I love this just as much now as it did when I originally saw it back in 1997. I don’t know what it is, but set just about anything to music and it becomes about 15x more emotional. I miss Larry and Magic and forgot how good Isaiah was. I love Clyde’s finger roll and Kareem’s sky hook. I love the winking, smiling, handshakes, hustle, upfakes, bankshots, crossovers, swishes, fist pumps, teamwork and passion. I love it all.
And oh how the years go by
And oh how the love brings tears to my eyes
All through the changes the soul never dies
We fight, we laugh, we cry
As the years go by…
Tommy Points
I have one thing to say to those non-believers: Don’t ever underestimate the heart of a champion.
- Rudy Tomjanovich
Celtic Pride
As we looked for our seats, we walked past a lot of pictures. There were the legends that I had never seen play – one of whom was a man I had just run into in the bathroom. I pointed him out to my Dad.
“It was a pleasure watching you play, Mr. White”, said my Dad.
“Thank you very much”, said Jo-Jo.
He looked refined. He was decked out in a black suit and had an elegance about him. He carried himself with a sense of dignity and class.
I think back to when I mailed away for Celtics stuff as a kid and received a bumper sticker that said, “Celtic Pride”.
“What does that mean?” I asked my Dad.
I can’t exactly remember his answer, but I think he said something about playing with heart and toughness and never quitting. If you take pride in something, you care. You care about your work. You give it all you have. And then, you keep giving.
I saw a picture of Reggie Lewis after he collapsed in the playoffs again Charlotte. The picture was in black and white. Black and white makes things look so old – like it never happened or was before my time. It wasn’t before my time, though. It was my time.
As a 14 year old kid, Reggie was my world. I loved Larry, but only caught the back end of his career. I was too young to remember the height of his glory days. But Reggie was an up and comer. I had seen his career progress. I loved the way he dunked. I liked his number. I loved his Reebok pump shoes.
Across from Reggie was a picture of Kevin McHale and Bill Walton. I remember waiting forever for Walton to return from his injury. When he finally did return, he wasn’t the same. Kevin was the guy with the long arms and great post moves. My Dad told me about how bigger he looked in person. He was 6’10”. I put Kevin in the “things I cannot fathom category” – kind of like the size of Dominique Wilkins shoes.
I remember listening to the games late at night on my walkman. I had dreams about being at the game cheering the team on. If I was there, I could cheer extra loud. If I cheered loud enough, maybe the team would feel inspired and play better. If the team played better, maybe I could play some kind of a role in helping them win.
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I’ve always loved the Celtics. I found a friend in seminary who knew as much about the Celtics as I did. We fondly recalled the days of Marty Conlon and Brett Szabo and I often couldn’t help myself from breaking out into the Walker Wiggle. Pitino was kind of a let down, but there was that year when O’Brien led the squad to the Conference Finals. It was someone else to see them in the playoffs again. I hadn’t seen them playing this hard since going down swinging to Shaq and Penny in 1995.
It was early 2001 and the Miami Heat were off to a dreadful start. We didn’t care. They were in town to play the C’s and my buddy said we could get tickets by calling the players. He said that a friend of his in New York had done so and had been able to watch a Knicks game. The Miami Heat were in town and he started calling some hotels to see if he could track down the players. He tried a bunch of hotels until I told him to call the Ritz. They had to be staying there.
The first guy he got on the phone was LaPhonso Ellis. LaPhonso was also a Christian, and we tried to use that to our advantage. My buddy told him our situation – that we were a couple of broke seminarians who loved basketball and really wanted to see a game.
“You are Christians? Praise the Lord!” said LaPhonso. Still, he had family in town and didn’t have any tickets remaining.
After Chris Gatling didn’t work out and Alonzo Mourning wasn’t available, I reasoned that our best chance was to find a rookie that nobody had ever heard of. After all, these unknown guys don’t get any attention. Nobody – not even hardcore fans – have any clue who they are. As I read through Miami’s roster, one name stood out. It stood out because it didn’t stand out. The guy was a total no-namer. So, we gave Eddie House a call.
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There were little things that stood out to me tonight. There was KG clapping for the basketball players with Down Syndrome in the “Heroes Among Us” segment. I’m sure they look up to KG. What they may not realize is that KG was looking up to them.
There was an older lady on the jumbotron who couldn’t have been any more excited or happy to be on there. She must’ve been about 75 years old. Still, she was waving her arms like she was a 12 year-old girl.
I remember my Dad repeatedly saying how great it was to see so many people having so much fun. I think about myself, and times I found myself smiling tonight. I wasn’t just making my lips wider, but smiling. I was really smiling. I can’t remember the last time I smiled with my whole body like that.
I kept texting my buddy who happened to be one section over and about 15 rows down. Every once in awhile he would look back to make eye contact. “Are you seeing this?”, he seemed to be saying. “Yes”, I nod. I am taking it all in.
There is my Dad next to me, getting so excited after each 3-point shot that went in. Just like I can’t remember the last time I really smiled, I can’t remember the last time I saw him so into something. Sometimes the world is full of people desperately in need of some fun.
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I think about the song, “Young Turks” by Rod Stewart. One of the lyrics say “Young hearts be free tonight, time is on your side”. I think often about feeling old and wishing I were younger. Time is not on my side anymore. For me, time is quietly slipping away like air through a tire you didn‘t realize had a hole. Time is fading away for Jo-Jo. Time is fading away for my parents. Time already passed for Reggie Lewis and many of the people whose picture on the wall I couldn‘t even recognize.
As we walked back to our car, I saw something on the side of the road that said, “The Best Neighborhood this Side of Heaven”. I thought this was kind of an outrageous claim. Still, when I think back on the joy and excitement, I wonder if it is that far off.
It’s sort of like when they used to play the “Boom, Boom, Boom” song at Fenway Park. Someone had just hit a home run and the home team was rolling right along. Everyone danced. Strangers gave each other high-fives. You could forget your troubles for a little while. Things were going good and everything was going to be alright. It was a taste of what we were meant for and all know is missing.
And then there was the game itself. You can read about it in the newspaper or watch the highlights on TV. You can see that Rondo had 12 assists in the first half or Eddie’s postseason career-high 31 points. Just know that what you read isn’t the whole picture. Some things can’t be captured in a box score or 30-second highlight clip.
I’m glad that there are things that I still care about. The Celtics are one of those few things.
I can’t really tell you why I care about them so much, just as you can’t always explain why or how you fall in love. All I can tell you is that the pride means something to me. I think it also means something to Eddie House – who went from being a stranger to having his name chanted long after the game ended by fans shuffling down the stairs. Or, Brian Scalabrine who went from being the team mascot to, by playing his heart out, becoming a valued and respected member of the team.
The pride isn’t just about winning over the fans, it’s about believing in yourself when nobody else does. It’s about being able to look at yourself in the mirror when you shave in the morning. It’s also about playing your heart out and, if you must go down, going down swinging.
There is so much more that I could say, but it is late and I am very tired. I leave you with one last thought. The 75 year-old lady having the time of her life on the jumbotron taught me something about age and youth.
Young hearts were free tonight.
A tribute to Sal
This note is loosely based on the career of Sal Fasano and the Jeff Pearlman article linked below.
http://www.rd.com/your-america-inspiring-people-and-stories/baseball-player-contemplates-steriod-use/article89787-1.html
He doesn’t know what to think anymore or how to act or what he’ll do in a few years. He scatters seed, but doesn’t see much fruit. You see, when you put in so much work, you need reassurance that the effort was worthwhile. It’s like growing rotten tomatoes or babies who never smile. It’s like fairy tales with unhappy endings or no ending at all. The promising star gets lost in the divine shuffle and struggles to find his way in a world that has long since moved on without him, without even giving him a second thought.
He was a promising young athlete 15 years ago. A catcher. Rated Rookie, Future Star – You name it. You might have even separated his card from your stack. “This one”, you said, “could be worth something”. You put it in a case or perhaps one of those glossy pages with the other standouts. “This guy”, you said, “has a future”. The sky was the limit for Sal.
Every year you realized that you were outgrowing your hobby. Cards were big in middle school, but you knew that people never brought them into high school. You knew it would be a survival of the fittest and you had to survive. There would be no more lunchtime trading sessions. Others moved on to cigarettes and parties and fast cars. You changed on the outside, but couldn’t grow up on the inside. Every morning you ran to get the newspaper to check for the box scores. Two hits for this guy – his value is sure to go up. An injury to that guy and we’ll never know what player he might have become. Neither will he.
He travels from ballpark to ballpark by bus now. He plays before small crowds. He’s 36. He knows when to call a slider and how to calm down a young pitcher. He looks old for his age. He’s run down and has $20 to spend each day on fast food. His knees don’t hold up as well as they did in his early days. He needs extra time to stretch before the game and takes extra time to sign autographs after the game. Of course, not nearly as many people are asking for that signature. He often wonders why anyone would even want it.
You started making teams. You started getting popular. You knew there was a strong link between the two. You even started drawing attention from the women. Things didn’t always go your way, but you were blessed. You really were. There were even younger fans who wanted your autograph. You wanted it so bad that you couldn’t relax. You showed flashes every now and then, but you knew you were better than others thought you were. You always had to prove yourself. Just knowing that you were good wasn’t enough. You wanted others to know. You needed others to know. But I know everything and I’m proud of you anyway.
He had a feeling things were headed south. He started getting bounced from team to team and could never seem to get his break. “If only I could have one more chance,” he thought to himself, “one more shot in the bigs to show what I can do”. Like coming indoors on a sunny day, he could still see the sun but he knew it was fading away. Management kept breaking their promise just as his peers kept breaking the rules. He thought about taking that stuff too, but he couldn’t go there. He couldn’t disrespect the game like that. He needed to be able to look in the mirror. Still, he saw bodies being transformed over the course of the offseason and those same guys being chosen over him.
You had a sense at orientation that you had picked the wrong college. “What becomes of the brokenhearted” was playing on the radio as you entered the city on that first trip to school in the fall. You had an eery feeling that the song would be closely tied to your fate over those next four years. You didn’t have much of a choice now, because it was the only place you could afford. It took years for the pieces to be put back together. They’re still not fully together. You’re still not sure if they ever will be. Sometimes, though, the fragments are worth more than the whole.
He’s not sure when exactly he knew that his dreams would never come true. Instead of his tire bursting, it was more like a slow leak. He alternates between feelings of anger and sadness and loneliness. When he’s back at the hotel room, sometimes he has to turn off the TV if the Royals are playing. It’s almost too much to watch. For the most part, he is empty inside. He tries to hold on to what little joy he has left and help his team. “It’s just not the same”, he thinks. “It’s just not the same.”
You played it safe for awhile and were content to stay under the radar. You finally started taking chances again. You knew you had to keep trying. And you did try. You tried and tried and tried. Even though your efforts didn’t seem to accomplish much, you gave it all you had.
He’s not sure how many more years of ball he has left in him. He’s played for 23 different teams and seen so many players come and go. Deep inside, though, he still loves the game. Maybe he just didn’t have the talent. One thing is for sure though, he always had the heart.
You were cleaning up the basement when you came across it. Though the world moved on without him, he still found a place separate from the pack. You thought about how you could deeply know a stranger, even though you didn’t know him at all.
He travels from minor league stadium to minor league stadium thinking that the game has passed him by. Maybe it has. But you know that despite his career .211 batting average, it wasn’t a waste. His idea of failure isn’t yours and even though he never got to fully show the world what he could do, you’re proud of him anyway.
As your lives intersect once more you think about hope and loneliness and doing the right thing and fairness and getting old and sunflower seeds and late nights on the road. There is something about him that you will always remember. Though the baseball card magazine says he is worth 3 cents, to you he is worth a whole lot more. And somewhere along the line he made a difference – to the young pitcher and old collector. At the end of the day, the difference means a lot more than the batting average. Somehow, you draw strength from that.
And you wonder what does become of the brokenhearted.
And you think about Sal.
Saying Goodbye to the 2008 Red Sox
Growing up as a Boston sports fan in the 80’s and 90’s wasn’t exactly easy. There was the whole Bill Buckner thing. Clemens could never seem to win the big game. My favorite player on my favorite team in my favorite sport suddenly collapsed dead in a gym one day of an irregular heartbeat in July of 1993. The Patriots were atrocious. Do people remember how bad they were? I remember how excited I was when they almost beat the Giants in their last game of the season in 1990. Winning this game would have put them at 2-14 for the season rather than 1-15, but the Giants were a good team and even though they were probably sitting half their team, I took this as a huge positive sign for the 1991 season (To my credit, the Pats did go 6-10 in 1991). I did witness a Celtics championship, but I was only 7 years old and was still trying to figure out why Dennis Johnson’s nickname was “DJ”.
I remember thinking that if just one of my teams won a championship I would be satisfied. Like any Cubs fan will tell you, I wasn’t sure if it would happen. Or, maybe it would happen and it would be an experience that my great-great-grandchildren would never forget. Even if it did happen, I wasn’t even sure what the ramifications would be. I started wondering if curses actually did exist and how you would go about breaking them – if indeed you could break them. Mostly, though, I resigned myself to the belief that nothing would go my way and something bad would always happen no matter how much things seemed to be going well and I would always be frustrated and get my heart broken. It was the same for my dating life, so I figured that was just the way things were. My life script was “good things turn bad” and my motto became, “don’t expect anything good to happen because you’ll just get disappointed and it will just hurt more”. I knew that heartache was inevitable, so I just concentrated on ways to manage pain.
They say that a lot of times things happen when you least expect it. Sometimes, just when you think things can’t get any worse, they don’t get any worse. Sometimes, too, they get even better than before they got bad. It’s like when the Celtics got the #5 pick in the lottery last year instead of the number #1. If they hadn’t got the #5 pick they wouldn’t have traded for Ray Allen and if they hadn’t gotten Ray Allen then Kevin Garnett wouldn’t have joined the team and if Kevin Garnett hadn’t joined the team James Posey probably wouldn’t have wanted to play here either. Maybe getting the #1 pick and drafting Greg Oden would have worked out, but he did spend his entire rookie season on the disabled list and I would probably still be using green17 as my password for everything.
Not a whole lot was expected of the Patriots in 2001. When Drew Bledsoe was knocked out of the second game and the Pats started out 0-2, a whole lot less was expected. But the kid Brady had a few surprisingly good games and showed remarkable resiliency and guts and fire and determination and suddenly the Pats started stringing “W’s” together. I think everyone was blindsided with the Patriots success that year. Needless to say, when Vinatieri knocked in that field goal I was elated. Like Jim Valvano, I was at a complete loss for how to even celebrate and was looking around the room at people in disbelief. I was convinced that something bad was going to happen. Something bad always happened. But, that night, only good things happened. They changed the complexion of Boston sports. We weren’t losers anymore. We started believing that anything could happen. We slayed Goliath. We were the champs. I say “we” because they were my team. Whether the record was 1-15 or 18-1, I was with them all the way.
Soon, the Red Sox followed the Patriots success. Eventually, the Patriots became Goliath and other teams were trying to knock them off. Even the Celtics got in on the action after a 20 year layoff (I guess 20 beats 86). At one point last year, the Red Sox were in the world series and the Patriots and Celtics were undefeated. I don’t know how life was a sports fan can get much better than that.
Still, if there is one thing I’ve noticed, it’s that the one championship wasn’t enough. Soon, I wanted more championships and championships on top of championships and championships on top of different teams on top of consecutive championships. The thrill of victory is terrific, but it isn’t lasting. There is an unquenchable thirst for more and I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing. The championships quench the thirst for winning for a little bit, and then we get thirsty again.
When I was little I used to ask my father who would win if the Patriots played the Celtics. I was always frustrated that he could never give me a straight answer (they do play two different sports after all). It’s almost as if I wanted there to be a winner of winners and champion of champions. A clash for the ages that would result in a final and permanent winner where the thirst for more would be quenched.
I suppose the disciples didn’t think things could get any worse when Jesus was crucified. There was great confusion and sorrow and sadness and frustration. People started questioning meaning and purpose and His whole trip to the earth seemed like one big let down. Good things turned bad. They turned very bad. The hope for mankind came and was treated wrongly and beaten up and tortured and crucified. It was the greatest injustice in the history of history, and all signs pointed to the belief that the mission of Christ had failed.
It’s interesting that the greatest defeat was also the greatest victory. If you take the most final type of loss, you end up with death. If you defeat death, you get the most final type of victory. I was hopeful that the Red Sox would win tonight and advance to the World Series. It breaks my heart that they didn’t. But I know this time around that even if they did win it all I would want the same thing again next year.
I still believe that good things turn bad. The Garden of Eden was good and sin came into the world and made things bad. But Jesus came into the world as well and because of what he did, bad things are turning good again. The loss tonight will sting for some time, but the only contest that really matters has already been settled. He won the greatest victory of all time bringing the greatest satisfaction by enduring the greatest defeat and the final whistle blew when he said it was finished.
He came and He is coming again to bring rest to longing hearts full of desire for what we all know is missing and what we search for even in baseball games and late nights on the couch. When we are reunited, those who follow Him won’t even be close to being let down.
“Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.” – Romans 5:1-5
