What factors as success is different for different people. Some people see being successful as having a healthy and happy family. Some people see it as financial security and luxury. Some people see it as kicking ass at co-ed softball. I am not one to decide which of these is more valid and therefore more successful. But it does provide some illumination for the case of the Cincinnati Bengals.
In one of George Carlin's prolific rants about sports, he discussed the fact that the players were the only ones essential to the game. He said if the fans went home, the tickets weren't sold, the guys would go play ball in an empty lot, just as it all started. George's problem was with the owners- whom he hated even more than fans and media. And when you take a closer look at Mike Brown, you're going to see his point.
Mike Brown has made his decision on success, and it has more to do with the cash than rings. Most NFL teams have 4-6 scouts who go to colleges, other teams, semi-pro leagues and the like to recruit new talent. The Bengals have one- the rest of the recruitment is done by coaches, who really have better things to do. Like figure out how to win games.
Mr. Brown is also a major proponent of revenue sharing- generally a popular opinion among small-market team owners. However, other small-market owners aren't as thrilled with Mike, because he declined the $100+ million the team could have garnered for naming rights to the stadium and was happy to let the residents of Hamilton County pay for the stadium (without so much as a 25% off coupon so any of them could actually attend a game).
Is success putting butts in the seats and selling jerseys? Because if that is the case, Mike Brown is all sorts of successful. But if it is winning and pride and Super Bowl rings (and the resulting increase in revenue across the city when there's a team to cheer), well... Mighty Mike has struck out (or thrown an interception- there's just not an appropriate football analogy... at least I kept it in sports).
It's disheartening to the Bengals fan (as indicated by sites like this) to see this sort of behavior by someone who is really the descendant of football royalty as far as Ohio is concerned. But the amazing thing about fandom is that there is always hope. Once you become a true fan of a team, it tugs at your heartstrings for life. You try to turn away. You vow to never watch another game. You seek out a different team to love. But you always come back. As much as you try, you can't quit them. They complete you.
I'll still watch the games. I'll still be a Bengal fan, because I'm not a fan of Mike Brown. I'm a fan of dorky little Shayne Graham, and stereotypical handsome quarterback Carson Palmer, reformed prodigal son Chris Henry, and my personal favorite, Mr. Personality- so full of himself but still in on the joke, Chad "Johnson" Ochocinco.
I am not a fan of Mike Brown. I'm not a fan of the HamCo Commissioners who kowtow to his every wish. And honestly, I'm not a fan of the fans- who want everything for nothing, and complain bitterly when it's their own heart they are choosing to putting on the line.
That being said- WHO DEY!
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
once upon a time
I'm not sure there is anything equivalent for people who don't follow sports. There is no other interest that arouses such passion. You can be really into music- but it's different to be putting your hopes and dreams, heart and soul, and personal joy or sorrow on the line for an athlete. Someone you will likely never meet. Someone who doesn't give 2 shits about you. Like that dreamy quarterback in high school, they don't know you exist- but literally.
Sportsophilia is a disease that usually only afflicts men. However, every so often, a female can fall victim to the as yet incurable and untreatable condition. I am one of those women. I love sports. I have favorites, and I am most capable of watching channels other than ESPN or CBS. But last night, when I was flipping back and forth between the Reds game and the Bengals preseason game, while following the Tigers/Royals game online, my friend can attest to the fact that while she was telling me... um... something, that even the most minute error in officiating by an NFL referee will take all of my attention. (But seriously- no flag?!). That is probably what makes it difficult for people to understand that while I feel the joy of victory and agony of defeat, I still can be a girly girl wearing makeup and stocking up on vintage jewelry. I'm a contradiction in action, so whether you first learn of my sports fascination or my obsession with makeup and accessories, the other is going to come as a surprise.
Therefore, when I visited Columbus in June and had an opportunity to attend a PGA golf tournament Sunday afternoon, my friends were confused by my hyperventilation. I never dreamed I would get to go to a PGA event, much less enjoy these particular circumstances.
As a matter of the world, where you have to know someone to get just about anything, a friend of a friend had a friend who lived on the golf course where the tournament was taking place. They offered us a place to park, and their passes to get on the course. They lived on the 15th fairway. As we parked and walked around to the backyard, near the edge where it kissed the fairway, Tiger Woods was striding down the fairway. From that point, the only thing I could say was, "holy shit holy shit holy shit."
We walked to a break in the plastic temporary fence and had the ushers check our passes, and my giant purse. Told I couldn't bring my cell phone, I dropped it on the ground and promised to be back for it. They put a tag on my purse to show it had been searched; the tag is still on my bag. I followed Tim to the 15th green, where I watched Tiger Woods sink a putt, and then walk by me- nothing between us but 3 feet of air. I followed Tiger to the 16th tee, and stood at the front of the crowd to watch him tee off. Then I made my move.
I was headed to the 18th green. I wanted to watch Tiger finish this thing. He was still a shot or two back. I figured I'd get a better spot if I went then instead of moving with Tiger. My friends were staying at the 16th tee to see other players play through- I couldn't fathom why. Tara went with me, but I lost her after about 10 minutes. All I could see was the green and wait for Tiger's ball with its Nike swoosh.
We waited. Another coupling played through. 20 minutes or so later, a small white sphere dropped in front of us onto the green. It rolled to a stop about 2 feet from the hole. Everyone was buzzing- was it Tiger's? It had to be Tiger's. How will we know if it's Tiger's? Someone with a contraband cell phone made a call. It was Tiger's.
Tiger's short birdie putt on 18 was what won him the tournament. It wasn't just amazing because he's my favorite golfer. It's pretty much understood that he is the greatest to ever play the game. I love watching golf. My heart stops and starts with the rough, the hazards, and the greens. I love other sports too- baseball, football, and hockey in particular. But I got to watch one of the greatest athletes of all time do what he does best- win. And there's just no concert or movie that can compete with the vicarious emotion of an athlete's true passion for the game.
But in any case- the serendipitous unfurling of events that led me to land at the 18th green was what was the most memorable. Up until the last moment, I didn't think it was possible. But it was- and that's the thrill of victory.
_______________________
Postscript: The kind lady and gentleman working the break in the fence delivered my phone to the friend's house, worried that I would forget it or it would be lost or stolen. Those people rock.
Sportsophilia is a disease that usually only afflicts men. However, every so often, a female can fall victim to the as yet incurable and untreatable condition. I am one of those women. I love sports. I have favorites, and I am most capable of watching channels other than ESPN or CBS. But last night, when I was flipping back and forth between the Reds game and the Bengals preseason game, while following the Tigers/Royals game online, my friend can attest to the fact that while she was telling me... um... something, that even the most minute error in officiating by an NFL referee will take all of my attention. (But seriously- no flag?!). That is probably what makes it difficult for people to understand that while I feel the joy of victory and agony of defeat, I still can be a girly girl wearing makeup and stocking up on vintage jewelry. I'm a contradiction in action, so whether you first learn of my sports fascination or my obsession with makeup and accessories, the other is going to come as a surprise.
Therefore, when I visited Columbus in June and had an opportunity to attend a PGA golf tournament Sunday afternoon, my friends were confused by my hyperventilation. I never dreamed I would get to go to a PGA event, much less enjoy these particular circumstances.
As a matter of the world, where you have to know someone to get just about anything, a friend of a friend had a friend who lived on the golf course where the tournament was taking place. They offered us a place to park, and their passes to get on the course. They lived on the 15th fairway. As we parked and walked around to the backyard, near the edge where it kissed the fairway, Tiger Woods was striding down the fairway. From that point, the only thing I could say was, "holy shit holy shit holy shit."
We walked to a break in the plastic temporary fence and had the ushers check our passes, and my giant purse. Told I couldn't bring my cell phone, I dropped it on the ground and promised to be back for it. They put a tag on my purse to show it had been searched; the tag is still on my bag. I followed Tim to the 15th green, where I watched Tiger Woods sink a putt, and then walk by me- nothing between us but 3 feet of air. I followed Tiger to the 16th tee, and stood at the front of the crowd to watch him tee off. Then I made my move.
I was headed to the 18th green. I wanted to watch Tiger finish this thing. He was still a shot or two back. I figured I'd get a better spot if I went then instead of moving with Tiger. My friends were staying at the 16th tee to see other players play through- I couldn't fathom why. Tara went with me, but I lost her after about 10 minutes. All I could see was the green and wait for Tiger's ball with its Nike swoosh.
We waited. Another coupling played through. 20 minutes or so later, a small white sphere dropped in front of us onto the green. It rolled to a stop about 2 feet from the hole. Everyone was buzzing- was it Tiger's? It had to be Tiger's. How will we know if it's Tiger's? Someone with a contraband cell phone made a call. It was Tiger's.
Tiger's short birdie putt on 18 was what won him the tournament. It wasn't just amazing because he's my favorite golfer. It's pretty much understood that he is the greatest to ever play the game. I love watching golf. My heart stops and starts with the rough, the hazards, and the greens. I love other sports too- baseball, football, and hockey in particular. But I got to watch one of the greatest athletes of all time do what he does best- win. And there's just no concert or movie that can compete with the vicarious emotion of an athlete's true passion for the game.
But in any case- the serendipitous unfurling of events that led me to land at the 18th green was what was the most memorable. Up until the last moment, I didn't think it was possible. But it was- and that's the thrill of victory.
_______________________
Postscript: The kind lady and gentleman working the break in the fence delivered my phone to the friend's house, worried that I would forget it or it would be lost or stolen. Those people rock.
Friday, August 14, 2009
soccer it to me
The people have spoken. Today's blog will be about soccer. I don't really know anything about soccer (except they seem to have the best looking athletes- David Beckham, Cristian Ronaldo- I mean, seriously). But I don't have to know anything to talk/write about something (there are a great number of radio and tv hosts who prove that point every day).
The big question about soccer has always been whether Americans will ever support soccer- not just as football/futbol, but as a valid sport. There is the big 3- baseball, football, and basketball- and really, everything else is going to be shoved into the last 12 minutes of SportsCenter. Hockey is momentarily interesting (when there is a fight), golf can get some viewers (as long as Tiger is playing), and many people consider driving a sport when it's done in an oval at 200+ miles per hour. But really, they are just events- instead of actual sports.
I've had a hard time with soccer myself. I went to an indoor soccer game when Cincinnati had its own pro team (the Silverbacks). I didn't really understand why they fell down so often. Nobody really seemed to be watching the game either. I surely didn't understand why people in South America were killing each other over soccer games- I mean, it's not even a sport, right?
More recently, I've started watching a game here and there. And like most things, the more I've learned about the game, the more fun it is to watch. But more than that- the intrigue stems from the passion of the fans. The first time I was watching a game, I was wondering if there was a giant swarm of bees somewhere near the microphones. Someone filled me in about the kazoo things. I was amazed. That is 90-minutes-plus of humming. That is dedication.
It's more than that- people live and die (often literally) by these teams. Just watching them makes it more exciting. And it's a soap opera- fans have thrown vomit at players. Vomited into a cup, and then threw it at a player. That's beyond dedication and bordering on psychosis. I've realized that soccer is more of a holistic spectator sport. I have to watch the players. But I also have to watch the fans. I have to watch the sweat that glistens not only the players' faces, but the fans as well. The beauty of being a sports fan is the vicarious fulfillment of glory through the players. The glory is exponentially heightened when there are thousands of people humming in kazoos, screaming, sweating, possibly vomiting, and feeling every emotion that we normally reserve for our most prurient relationships.
I'm not sure Americans are ready for that kind of passion though.
The big question about soccer has always been whether Americans will ever support soccer- not just as football/futbol, but as a valid sport. There is the big 3- baseball, football, and basketball- and really, everything else is going to be shoved into the last 12 minutes of SportsCenter. Hockey is momentarily interesting (when there is a fight), golf can get some viewers (as long as Tiger is playing), and many people consider driving a sport when it's done in an oval at 200+ miles per hour. But really, they are just events- instead of actual sports.
I've had a hard time with soccer myself. I went to an indoor soccer game when Cincinnati had its own pro team (the Silverbacks). I didn't really understand why they fell down so often. Nobody really seemed to be watching the game either. I surely didn't understand why people in South America were killing each other over soccer games- I mean, it's not even a sport, right?
More recently, I've started watching a game here and there. And like most things, the more I've learned about the game, the more fun it is to watch. But more than that- the intrigue stems from the passion of the fans. The first time I was watching a game, I was wondering if there was a giant swarm of bees somewhere near the microphones. Someone filled me in about the kazoo things. I was amazed. That is 90-minutes-plus of humming. That is dedication.
It's more than that- people live and die (often literally) by these teams. Just watching them makes it more exciting. And it's a soap opera- fans have thrown vomit at players. Vomited into a cup, and then threw it at a player. That's beyond dedication and bordering on psychosis. I've realized that soccer is more of a holistic spectator sport. I have to watch the players. But I also have to watch the fans. I have to watch the sweat that glistens not only the players' faces, but the fans as well. The beauty of being a sports fan is the vicarious fulfillment of glory through the players. The glory is exponentially heightened when there are thousands of people humming in kazoos, screaming, sweating, possibly vomiting, and feeling every emotion that we normally reserve for our most prurient relationships.
I'm not sure Americans are ready for that kind of passion though.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
getting it out of the way
It's only 9:30, so I cannot promise I will be at my most brilliant. I am not a morning person. But we'll give it a go.
So I've been considering why women have such issues with self-esteem. And not just the body image bullshit, but genuinely thinking they aren't cool enough or funny enough or smart enough or generally awesome enough to deserve being treated really well. I don't mean just by men, either. Women treat other women like crap, and feel like they deserve to be treated crappy as well. I can't tell you how many of my female friends are surprised when I make every effort to be a good friend to them (I try to be a good friend to my male friends as well). Why would you be surprised that I will help you move, or drive you to pick up your car after it gets towed, or give you a pep talk after a bad day? That's what friends are supposed to do. Women have such low self-esteem that they don't even truly believe they deserve love from their friends, much less potential suitors.
I'm not sure where my high self-esteem came from (and that's not saying I don't have my faults and insecurities- I'm just confident in them). I have a couple guesses- I could just be totally narcissistic. My other option is that while my parents didn't necessarily tell me I was God's gift to the planet, they did always support my decisions. whether it be getting a tattoo or going to grad school. Having someone tell you that your ideas are great all the time (even the ones which turn out to be epic failures) does bolster the self-confidence. These guesses are not mutually exclusive, by the way. I could very well be a narcissist with emboldening parents (the two together makes a lot of sense, actually).
I realize I'm not the cutest girl or the skinniest girl (although I do have a body dysmorphic disorder I call anti-rexia: I think I'm skinnier than I am). I'm not the smartest or the funniest (although I would wager to guess I am in the top 5). But when it comes down to how you treat people and how you let them treat you, it is in the confidence and the self-esteem. I behave as though I am totally awesome, and it becomes reality. I try to improve myself (with varying results), and I'm happy about the progress I have made. I try to be a good friend, and I definitely have more work to do, but I do my best. I deserve it. And so do you.
__
Postscript:
I am reminded of an excerpt from a commencement speech given by- I think Bill Cosby, but maybe Oprah (Oprah says all wise things). Paraphrased, it said: someday, you will have an idea. You will go to someone and say I have a great idea. They will say, no it's not. Go back to your cube. And the question becomes: who do you believe?
Peace out, kids
So I've been considering why women have such issues with self-esteem. And not just the body image bullshit, but genuinely thinking they aren't cool enough or funny enough or smart enough or generally awesome enough to deserve being treated really well. I don't mean just by men, either. Women treat other women like crap, and feel like they deserve to be treated crappy as well. I can't tell you how many of my female friends are surprised when I make every effort to be a good friend to them (I try to be a good friend to my male friends as well). Why would you be surprised that I will help you move, or drive you to pick up your car after it gets towed, or give you a pep talk after a bad day? That's what friends are supposed to do. Women have such low self-esteem that they don't even truly believe they deserve love from their friends, much less potential suitors.
I'm not sure where my high self-esteem came from (and that's not saying I don't have my faults and insecurities- I'm just confident in them). I have a couple guesses- I could just be totally narcissistic. My other option is that while my parents didn't necessarily tell me I was God's gift to the planet, they did always support my decisions. whether it be getting a tattoo or going to grad school. Having someone tell you that your ideas are great all the time (even the ones which turn out to be epic failures) does bolster the self-confidence. These guesses are not mutually exclusive, by the way. I could very well be a narcissist with emboldening parents (the two together makes a lot of sense, actually).
I realize I'm not the cutest girl or the skinniest girl (although I do have a body dysmorphic disorder I call anti-rexia: I think I'm skinnier than I am). I'm not the smartest or the funniest (although I would wager to guess I am in the top 5). But when it comes down to how you treat people and how you let them treat you, it is in the confidence and the self-esteem. I behave as though I am totally awesome, and it becomes reality. I try to improve myself (with varying results), and I'm happy about the progress I have made. I try to be a good friend, and I definitely have more work to do, but I do my best. I deserve it. And so do you.
__
Postscript:
I am reminded of an excerpt from a commencement speech given by- I think Bill Cosby, but maybe Oprah (Oprah says all wise things). Paraphrased, it said: someday, you will have an idea. You will go to someone and say I have a great idea. They will say, no it's not. Go back to your cube. And the question becomes: who do you believe?
Peace out, kids
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
day 2
This thing is already a drag. In retrospect, the nap might have been a bad idea- or at least not the most productive use of my time. Plus, it was one of those naps where you wake up feeling like you've been dead for six or eight days. I can't move my arms or legs. I can't open my eyes. And my brain has no intention of working for at least a couple hours.
This will be short- I am preparing to celebrate a friend's birthday, and she deserves more attention than this blog does. However, I feel like I'm making progress by not blowing it off. Give me a couple more weeks and I might be used to this. Or not.
A final thought- why are men's restrooms always the first down the hall at public places. And are pregnant women particularly agitated? (Please note that I refrained from the obvious pun).
This will be short- I am preparing to celebrate a friend's birthday, and she deserves more attention than this blog does. However, I feel like I'm making progress by not blowing it off. Give me a couple more weeks and I might be used to this. Or not.
A final thought- why are men's restrooms always the first down the hall at public places. And are pregnant women particularly agitated? (Please note that I refrained from the obvious pun).
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
a practice in futility
In an attempt to determine whether it is possible for me to motivate and discipline myself, I am trying to write on my blog every day for the next 30 days.
It's not just me who is unable to motivate me. It's rare that someone or something can spur me to any sort of ambitious action. I'm a lifelong slacker- a "just enough" kind of person. Further effort just seems unnecessary and possibly wasteful.
Plus, I like writing and the whole Twitter thing is fun, but it's kind of like- you don't stop eating real macaroni and cheese just because you can get a single serve made in the microwave. I think it's a valid mode of communication, but is certainly not sufficient.
So, we'll see how hard I have to work to find something to say every day. I'm not really sure how this whole motivation thing works- or self-discipline. Part of the reason I'm not the best teacher is because discipline is just a sort of foreign concept for me. Like money having intrinsic value. Like eating mashed potatoes. I just don't get it.
I guess I wonder when it might be that I'll be a grownup. I feel like I haven't started really living my life yet- like I'm still a kid. I suppose the first step is admitting you have a problem. Hi, my name is Dale, and I'm addicted to being in a state of arrested development where I want none of the responsibilities of being an adult and none of the limitations of being a child. Apparently, I don't get to do this forever. What a freaking bummer.
I suppose that I could do a reward system for meeting my goals. Or maybe learn to be ambitious. Is it learned? Are people inherently ambitious? Is there a career where my removed nature would be encouraged or at least tolerated? Can my inability to take most things seriously ever be an asset?
I'm pretty sure that I could write a book that would have the opposite effect of the Who Moved My Cheese? and the 7 Habits of Highly Effective People kinds of books. Like it would make everyone just want to sit around and chat and possibly take a nap or play some board games. Businesses would go bankrupt within days. But there would probably be fewer arguments.
Well, Day 1 is successful. I actually had thought about wanting to do this earlier this morning. While I was taking my evening shower, I found myself considering putting off starting it until tomorrow. The first day of this experiment and I was already procrastinating.
This is not going to be easy.
It's not just me who is unable to motivate me. It's rare that someone or something can spur me to any sort of ambitious action. I'm a lifelong slacker- a "just enough" kind of person. Further effort just seems unnecessary and possibly wasteful.
Plus, I like writing and the whole Twitter thing is fun, but it's kind of like- you don't stop eating real macaroni and cheese just because you can get a single serve made in the microwave. I think it's a valid mode of communication, but is certainly not sufficient.
So, we'll see how hard I have to work to find something to say every day. I'm not really sure how this whole motivation thing works- or self-discipline. Part of the reason I'm not the best teacher is because discipline is just a sort of foreign concept for me. Like money having intrinsic value. Like eating mashed potatoes. I just don't get it.
I guess I wonder when it might be that I'll be a grownup. I feel like I haven't started really living my life yet- like I'm still a kid. I suppose the first step is admitting you have a problem. Hi, my name is Dale, and I'm addicted to being in a state of arrested development where I want none of the responsibilities of being an adult and none of the limitations of being a child. Apparently, I don't get to do this forever. What a freaking bummer.
I suppose that I could do a reward system for meeting my goals. Or maybe learn to be ambitious. Is it learned? Are people inherently ambitious? Is there a career where my removed nature would be encouraged or at least tolerated? Can my inability to take most things seriously ever be an asset?
I'm pretty sure that I could write a book that would have the opposite effect of the Who Moved My Cheese? and the 7 Habits of Highly Effective People kinds of books. Like it would make everyone just want to sit around and chat and possibly take a nap or play some board games. Businesses would go bankrupt within days. But there would probably be fewer arguments.
Well, Day 1 is successful. I actually had thought about wanting to do this earlier this morning. While I was taking my evening shower, I found myself considering putting off starting it until tomorrow. The first day of this experiment and I was already procrastinating.
This is not going to be easy.
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