When most sports fans are young, a well-meaning adult teaches them not to root against something. It's impolite, and it's against the principles of sportsmanship. A fan's energy should be positive.
For years, I toed that line. I stifled the impulse to hate and complain and rage. It seemed like the right thing to do. From that righteous place, though, I've evolved into someone who not only embraces the negative, but actually roots against an entire city.
As a fan of New York sports teams (Yankees, Giants, Knicks, Rangers circa 1994), I cheer adamantly against any Boston entity. And I mean that broadly. Each morning I look at the stock price of the Boston Beer Company, producer of Samuel Adams, hoping it took an overnight plummet. I'm repulsed by people named Logan and Charles for reasons they can't understand. If a foreign country waged war specifically against Boston and nobody else, I might write a letter to Obama arguing that's it none of our business.
But I'm mostly talking about sports. If a New York club can't win, Boston's failure is the next best thing. (Though getting both in one shot, as in the Greatest Football Game Ever Played, is doubly sweet.) Any qualms about indulging my schadenfreude disappeared long ago.
With that in mind, tonight could be quite special.
First, the Bruins play at home against the Canucks in game four of the Stanley Cup Finals. If they lose, they'll be down 3-1 and in very serious trouble. Second, the Red Sox and Yankees play in the Bronx. If all goes well, both Boston teams will lose miserably and there will be a deep, resounding bitterness in the cradle of liberty. For me, that's the best possible outcome.
But I wasn't always such a low creature.
*
Ten years ago, I had some integrity.
During the fall of my freshman year of college in 2001, a couple of my better friends were Red Sox fans. Needless to say, I couldn't watch game seven of the Yanks-Diamondbacks World Series in their presence. I heard their cheers down the hall as the D-Backs took a 1-0 lead in the sixth, but no matter- I had full confidence we'd pull through. If Jeter's prescient flip against Oakland and the 5-game browbeating of the 116-win Mariners didn't prove our union with destiny, surely the miracle Yankee Stadium home runs off Byung-Hyun Kim, so beautifully timed in the aftermath of 9/11, made the point.
But when the unthinkable happened and Mariano blew his save, the idea of destiny capsized. Loud roars could be heard from the Boston fans down the hall, and like the whistle of an approaching train, they grew louder. "If they come into my room, I'll kill them," I thought. But my friends were too smart. They peeked into the door, shouted "woooo!", and sprinted off before I could jump off my broken futon.
I couldn't understand why it mattered. What did they care if the Yankees lost? The Red Sox were sitting at home with nothing to their name and no World Series title since 1918. But somehow, the loss gave them a sincere (and sinister) feeling of glee.
As it turned out, I'd made a simple error of perspective. In baseball, the sport that mattered most, I didn't know how it felt to face down a rival and lose.
*
The idea of destiny stayed with me. Maybe the Diamondbacks could beat us, but we still had Boston's number. This was reinforced in 2003, when I watched the Game 7 comeback in a room full of Red Sox fans at 4am in Dublin, Ireland. They'd been in fine spirits all game, and all I could do was hold onto my deeply-held faith that for cosmic reasons beyond my ken, the Yankees wouldn't lose.
Aaron Boone's confirmation of that mystic belief in New York supremacy saw me puffing out my chest for a full year. It sounds ridiculous now, but I actually believed the Red Sox, with their high payroll and their consistently strong teams, wouldn't win a World Series in my lifetime. My confidence was so extreme that I bet my Boston friend $500 the dry spell would last at least 50 more years. Can you imagine a worse bet? At best, I'd have made a bit of money when I turned 70. At worst, I'd owe $500 at a time when I didn't have $1.50 for a slice of pizza at night.
2004 opened my eyes to reality. There was nothing special in the air, no religious aura attached to the Yankees that kept them eternally supreme. The humiliating ALCS disaster- an epic breakdown after a 3-0 series lead- was like a divine refutation of everything that was supposed to be true. My lofty fan perch collapsed like a bird's nest at the top of a falling tree.
And slowly, my ideals vanished. I didn't quite understand why, but for the first time in my life I couldn't watch the World Series. When Boston finished their sweep, I finally dared to turn on the tv. Witnessing their long-deferred celebration in St. Louis, I felt a burning hatred. I was a loser at last, and I would be a loser again in the coming years. Red Sox Nation was born, the pink-hat cadre spread across the country, and they shed their woebegone fanbase schtick to co-opt some of our arrogance.
From that point on, I've unabashedly rooted against Boston teams on every occasion. The old virtues of positivity are gone forever. It doesn't matter whether New York is involved or not. It helps, just like it helps to intuitively hate specific players like Kevin Garnett, Josh Beckett, and Jonathan Papelbon. But it's not necessary.
In fact, I actually admire some Boston players- Kevin Youkilis, Ray Allen, Paul Pierce- on an individual level. After the Giants-Patriots super bowl, I made a huge mistake by reading "The Education of a Coach" by David Halberstam, which humanized an otherwise perfect villain in Bill Belichick. Looking at the enemy on ground level is never conducive to hatred.
But none of that matters. When push comes to shove, I'm a fervent anti-Boston partisan, full of frenzy and bile. My prejudice is abstract, persistent, and yes, even fulfilling. To borrow Will Blythe's phrase from his book about the Duke-UNC rivalry, "to hate like this is to be happy forever."
*
On September 7, 2003, when the Patriots lost to the Bills and the Red Sox fell to the Yankees, Bill Simmons called it Black Sunday. On October 7, 2009, the idea was revisited when the Angels finished their first-round sweep of the Sox and the Broncos beat the Patriots.
Tonight, we could have a milder version of those wonderful days. A Stanley Cup could slip from the city's grasp, and the Yankees could widen their AL East lead.
Rooting for disappointment, I realize, is a bit pathetic. Maybe it's poisonous, and maybe it's a corruption of healthy fandom. Maybe I was a better person before 2004, and maybe I should strive to return to that place of quiet dignity.
Then again, this is Boston. Bring on Black Wednesday.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Tuesday Recap
Robinson Cano, Yankee second baseman and my favorite player, went 1-4 against the Boston Red Sox last night in a 6-4 loss. His average is down to .277, and his on-base percentage (OBP) is a meager .316.
No fan- not even a spoiled Yankee fan- has a right to expect a better hitting second baseman than Cano, and let that be a caveat to everything that follows. Because in one critical way, I'm starting to feel like a potential hall-of-famer has become a lost cause.
Forget that his average is well below his season-ending marks of .320 and .319 in '09 and '10. He still has plenty of time to bring it up, and batting average isn't always a great indicator of performance. It's the OBP that's more concerning, and the root of that problem is his strange inability to take a base on balls.
This year, Cano has walked in just 3.8% of his plate appearances. That's 12th-lowest in the majors. With a lesser player, you might interpret that number as an indication that pitchers constantly challenge him by throwing strikes. Not so- Cano actually sees the 35th fewest strikes in baseball. His excellence with the bat means pitchers avoid throwing him strikes, pitching around Cano at the exact rate, coincidentally, as David Ortiz. But though the two players face the same ball-strike ratio, Ortiz walks 10% of the time and has a .390 OBP.
Instead, Cano's low walk percentage reveals a free swinger who has trouble resisting pitches outside the strike zone. The model here is Vladimir Guerrero, another natural talent who currently holds the league's lowest walk rate at 2.5% and has been at or near the bottom of that category for his entire career.
When a player never walks, it diminishes his value. Nobody would deny that Cano is one of the four best hitters on the Yankees (along with Mark Teixeira, A-Rod, and Curtis Granderson), but compare the respective numbers: despite having similar or lower batting averages, all three players are at least 28 points above Cano in OBP. Because they're more selective, they're also rated higher in every overall offensive metric.
But let's forget players of equal quality. Derek Jeter, Nick Swisher, and Russell Martin are all, without question, inferior hitters. But each has a higher OBP than Cano. It gets worse: Jorge Posada is hitting a disastrous .195, but his OBP is only ten points lower! None of these guys hit for the same kind of power, so it would be wrong to say they're more valuable, but it's still insane that someone like Jeter gets on base more often, and it demonstrates the essential problem: Cano isn't maximizing his ability.
To go slightly deeper into the stats, Cano swings at 40.5% of all pitches outside the strike zone, ninth-highest in baseball. The league average is 29.5%. Last year, he swung at 36% of pitches outside the zone, but posted a very good .381 OBP since he hit for a higher average and took more walks (and was also a bit luckier on batted balls). This year, pitchers are more content than ever to pitch around Cano and take a risk that he'll show some rare discipline. It's paying off- his overall performance has sharply declined.
In a perfect world, Cano would improve his selectivity and become a more valuable commodity. But you have to wonder- are his natural abilities predicated on being a free swinger? Would he lose his greatness if he started playing cautious? And maybe it's a self-selecting problem; maybe because he can hit just about anything, he's learned to swing at just about everything.
As with incorrigible flailers like Vlad Guerrero, I get the sinking feeling we'll never know.
Here's what happened Tuesday:
-Thanks to the heroics of a febrile Dirk Nowitzki, the Dallas Mavericks mounted another late comeback to beat the Miami Heat 86-83 and even the NBA finals. After being criticized for supposedly shrinking under pressure, LeBron James scored just 8 points, none of which came in the tense fourth quarter. It wasn't a big deal, though, since unlike many professional athletes, James doesn't have an ego.
-In one of the best pitchers' duels of the year, Carlos Carrasco led the Cleveland Indians to a 1-0 win over Francisco Liriano and the Twins. Cleveland manager Manny Acta said the game represented a changing of the guard in the AL Central. "Minnesota's time has come and gone," he said, "This year, we're going to get embarrassed by the Yankees in the playoffs."
-The New York Mets managed a rare win at Miller Park on the strength of Jose Reyes' two-run triple. The Brewers are now 21-8 at home, but only 13-19 on the road. Advanced metrics show the disparity is due to the hitter-friendly layout at Miller Park and the severe clinical depression suffered by all other players when they set foot in Milwaukee.
-Other winners from last night who will never sniff another World Series included Baltimore, Washington, Pittsburgh, and Toronto.
-Isiah Thomas is reportedly on the short list of potential Detroit Piston coaches. "It seems like a harmless idea," said Detroit president Joe Dumars, just before he poured water over his laptop computer for absolutely no reason.
-Vancouver Canuck Aaron Rome is suspended for the rest of the Stanley Cup Finals for an illegal hit on the Bruins' Nathan Horton. Is it just me, or is this a cynical move by the NHL to land another television viewer?
-Last, Ohio State star Terrelle Pryor has decided to forgo his senior season as the Buckeye quarterback. "Academically, I've accomplished everything I could," said the three-time national collegiate quiz bowl champion. Pryor plans to use the money from his MacArthur Foundation genius grant to finish up some mathematical theorems and write an historical novel about the McKinley assassination.
Some thoughts on Boston's big night coming up in the afternoon...
No fan- not even a spoiled Yankee fan- has a right to expect a better hitting second baseman than Cano, and let that be a caveat to everything that follows. Because in one critical way, I'm starting to feel like a potential hall-of-famer has become a lost cause.
Forget that his average is well below his season-ending marks of .320 and .319 in '09 and '10. He still has plenty of time to bring it up, and batting average isn't always a great indicator of performance. It's the OBP that's more concerning, and the root of that problem is his strange inability to take a base on balls.
This year, Cano has walked in just 3.8% of his plate appearances. That's 12th-lowest in the majors. With a lesser player, you might interpret that number as an indication that pitchers constantly challenge him by throwing strikes. Not so- Cano actually sees the 35th fewest strikes in baseball. His excellence with the bat means pitchers avoid throwing him strikes, pitching around Cano at the exact rate, coincidentally, as David Ortiz. But though the two players face the same ball-strike ratio, Ortiz walks 10% of the time and has a .390 OBP.
Instead, Cano's low walk percentage reveals a free swinger who has trouble resisting pitches outside the strike zone. The model here is Vladimir Guerrero, another natural talent who currently holds the league's lowest walk rate at 2.5% and has been at or near the bottom of that category for his entire career.
When a player never walks, it diminishes his value. Nobody would deny that Cano is one of the four best hitters on the Yankees (along with Mark Teixeira, A-Rod, and Curtis Granderson), but compare the respective numbers: despite having similar or lower batting averages, all three players are at least 28 points above Cano in OBP. Because they're more selective, they're also rated higher in every overall offensive metric.
But let's forget players of equal quality. Derek Jeter, Nick Swisher, and Russell Martin are all, without question, inferior hitters. But each has a higher OBP than Cano. It gets worse: Jorge Posada is hitting a disastrous .195, but his OBP is only ten points lower! None of these guys hit for the same kind of power, so it would be wrong to say they're more valuable, but it's still insane that someone like Jeter gets on base more often, and it demonstrates the essential problem: Cano isn't maximizing his ability.
To go slightly deeper into the stats, Cano swings at 40.5% of all pitches outside the strike zone, ninth-highest in baseball. The league average is 29.5%. Last year, he swung at 36% of pitches outside the zone, but posted a very good .381 OBP since he hit for a higher average and took more walks (and was also a bit luckier on batted balls). This year, pitchers are more content than ever to pitch around Cano and take a risk that he'll show some rare discipline. It's paying off- his overall performance has sharply declined.
In a perfect world, Cano would improve his selectivity and become a more valuable commodity. But you have to wonder- are his natural abilities predicated on being a free swinger? Would he lose his greatness if he started playing cautious? And maybe it's a self-selecting problem; maybe because he can hit just about anything, he's learned to swing at just about everything.
As with incorrigible flailers like Vlad Guerrero, I get the sinking feeling we'll never know.
Here's what happened Tuesday:
-Thanks to the heroics of a febrile Dirk Nowitzki, the Dallas Mavericks mounted another late comeback to beat the Miami Heat 86-83 and even the NBA finals. After being criticized for supposedly shrinking under pressure, LeBron James scored just 8 points, none of which came in the tense fourth quarter. It wasn't a big deal, though, since unlike many professional athletes, James doesn't have an ego.
-In one of the best pitchers' duels of the year, Carlos Carrasco led the Cleveland Indians to a 1-0 win over Francisco Liriano and the Twins. Cleveland manager Manny Acta said the game represented a changing of the guard in the AL Central. "Minnesota's time has come and gone," he said, "This year, we're going to get embarrassed by the Yankees in the playoffs."
-The New York Mets managed a rare win at Miller Park on the strength of Jose Reyes' two-run triple. The Brewers are now 21-8 at home, but only 13-19 on the road. Advanced metrics show the disparity is due to the hitter-friendly layout at Miller Park and the severe clinical depression suffered by all other players when they set foot in Milwaukee.
-Other winners from last night who will never sniff another World Series included Baltimore, Washington, Pittsburgh, and Toronto.
-Isiah Thomas is reportedly on the short list of potential Detroit Piston coaches. "It seems like a harmless idea," said Detroit president Joe Dumars, just before he poured water over his laptop computer for absolutely no reason.
-Vancouver Canuck Aaron Rome is suspended for the rest of the Stanley Cup Finals for an illegal hit on the Bruins' Nathan Horton. Is it just me, or is this a cynical move by the NHL to land another television viewer?
-Last, Ohio State star Terrelle Pryor has decided to forgo his senior season as the Buckeye quarterback. "Academically, I've accomplished everything I could," said the three-time national collegiate quiz bowl champion. Pryor plans to use the money from his MacArthur Foundation genius grant to finish up some mathematical theorems and write an historical novel about the McKinley assassination.
Some thoughts on Boston's big night coming up in the afternoon...
Rooting for a Black Wednesday
When most sports fans are young, a well-meaning adult teaches them not to root against something. It's impolite, and it's against the principles of sportsmanship. A fan's energy should be positive.
For years, I toed that line. I stifled the impulse to hate and complain and rage. It seemed like the right thing to do. From that righteous place, though, I've evolved into someone who not only embraces the negative, but actually roots against an entire city.
As a fan of New York sports teams (Yankees, Giants, Knicks, Rangers circa 1994), I cheer adamantly against any Boston entity. And I mean that broadly. Each morning I look at the stock price of the Boston Beer Company, producer of Samuel Adams, hoping it took an overnight plummet. I'm repulsed by people named Logan and Charles for reasons they can't understand. If a foreign country waged war specifically against Boston and nobody else, I might write a letter to Obama arguing that's it none of our business.
But I'm mostly talking about sports. If a New York club can't win, Boston's failure is the next best thing. (Though getting both in one shot, as in the Greatest Football Game Ever Played, is doubly sweet.) Any qualms about indulging my schadenfreude disappeared long ago.
With that in mind, tonight could be quite special.
First, the Bruins play at home against the Canucks in game four of the Stanley Cup Finals. If they lose, they'll be down 3-1 and in very serious trouble. Second, the Red Sox and Yankees play in the Bronx. If all goes well, both Boston teams will lose miserably and there will be a deep, resounding bitterness in the cradle of liberty. For me, that's the best possible outcome.
But I wasn't always such a low creature.
*
Ten years ago, I had some integrity.
During the fall of my freshman year of college in 2001, a couple of my better friends were Red Sox fans. Needless to say, I couldn't watch game seven of the Yanks-Diamondbacks World Series in their presence. I heard their cheers down the hall as the D-Backs took a 1-0 lead in the sixth, but no matter- I had full confidence we'd pull through. If Jeter's prescient flip against Oakland and the 5-game browbeating of the 116-win Mariners didn't prove our union with destiny, surely the miracle Yankee Stadium home runs off Byung-Hyun Kim, so beautifully timed in the aftermath of 9/11, made the point.
But when the unthinkable happened and Mariano blew his save, the idea of destiny capsized. Loud roars could be heard from the Boston fans down the hall, and like the whistle of an approaching train, they grew louder. "If they come into my room, I'll kill them," I thought. But my friends were too smart. They peeked into the door, shouted "woooo!", and sprinted off before I could jump off my broken futon.
I couldn't understand why it mattered. What did they care if the Yankees lost? The Red Sox were sitting at home with nothing to their name and no World Series title since 1918. But somehow, the loss gave them a sincere (and sinister) feeling of glee.
As it turned out, I'd made a simple error of perspective. In baseball, the sport that mattered most, I didn't know how it felt to face down a rival and lose.
*
The idea of destiny stayed with me. Maybe the Diamondbacks could beat us, but we still had Boston's number. This was reinforced in 2003, when I watched the Game 7 comeback in a room full of Red Sox fans at 4am in Dublin, Ireland. They'd been in fine spirits all game, and all I could do was hold onto my deeply-held faith that for cosmic reasons beyond my ken, the Yankees wouldn't lose.
Aaron Boone's confirmation of that mystic belief in New York supremacy saw me puffing out my chest for a full year. It sounds ridiculous now, but I actually believed the Red Sox, with their high payroll and their consistently strong teams, wouldn't win a World Series in my lifetime. My confidence was so extreme that I bet my Boston friend $500 the dry spell would last at least 50 more years. Can you imagine a worse bet? At best, I'd have made a bit of money when I turned 70. At worst, I'd owe $500 at a time when I didn't have $1.50 for a slice of pizza at night.
2004 opened my eyes to reality. There was nothing special in the air, no religious aura attached to the Yankees that kept them eternally supreme. The humiliating ALCS disaster- an epic breakdown after a 3-0 series lead- was like a divine refutation of everything that was supposed to be true. My lofty fan perch collapsed like a bird's nest at the top of a falling tree.
And slowly, my ideals vanished. I didn't quite understand why, but for the first time in my life I couldn't watch the World Series. When Boston finished their sweep, I finally dared to turn on the tv. Witnessing their long-deferred celebration in St. Louis, I felt a burning hatred. I was a loser at last, and I would be a loser again in the coming years. Red Sox Nation was born, the pink-hat cadre spread across the country, and they shed their woebegone fanbase schtick to co-opt some of our arrogance.
From that point on, I've unabashedly rooted against Boston teams on every occasion. The old virtues of positivity are gone forever. It doesn't matter whether New York is involved or not. It helps, just like it helps to intuitively hate specific players like Kevin Garnett, Josh Beckett, and Jonathan Papelbon. But it's not necessary.
In fact, I actually admire some Boston players- Kevin Youkilis, Ray Allen, Paul Pierce- on an individual level. After the Giants-Patriots super bowl, I made a huge mistake by reading "The Education of a Coach" by David Halberstam, which humanized an otherwise perfect villain in Bill Belichick. Looking at the enemy on ground level is never conducive to hatred.
But none of that matters. When push comes to shove, I'm a fervent anti-Boston partisan, full of frenzy and bile. My prejudice is abstract, persistent, and yes, even fulfilling. To borrow Will Blythe's phrase from his book about the Duke-UNC rivalry, "to hate like this is to be happy forever."
*
On September 7, 2003, when the Patriots lost to the Bills and the Red Sox fell to the Yankees, Bill Simmons called it Black Sunday. On October 7, 2009, the idea was revisited when the Angels finished their first-round sweep of the Sox and the Broncos beat the Patriots.
Tonight, we could have a milder version of those wonderful days. A Stanley Cup could slip from the city's grasp, and the Yankees could widen their AL East lead.
Rooting for disappointment, I realize, is a bit pathetic. Maybe it's poisonous, and maybe it's a corruption of healthy fandom. Maybe I was a better person before 2004, and maybe I should strive to return to that place of quiet dignity.
Then again, this is Boston. Bring on Black Wednesday.
For years, I toed that line. I stifled the impulse to hate and complain and rage. It seemed like the right thing to do. From that righteous place, though, I've evolved into someone who not only embraces the negative, but actually roots against an entire city.
As a fan of New York sports teams (Yankees, Giants, Knicks, Rangers circa 1994), I cheer adamantly against any Boston entity. And I mean that broadly. Each morning I look at the stock price of the Boston Beer Company, producer of Samuel Adams, hoping it took an overnight plummet. I'm repulsed by people named Logan and Charles for reasons they can't understand. If a foreign country waged war specifically against Boston and nobody else, I might write a letter to Obama arguing that's it none of our business.
But I'm mostly talking about sports. If a New York club can't win, Boston's failure is the next best thing. (Though getting both in one shot, as in the Greatest Football Game Ever Played, is doubly sweet.) Any qualms about indulging my schadenfreude disappeared long ago.
With that in mind, tonight could be quite special.
First, the Bruins play at home against the Canucks in game four of the Stanley Cup Finals. If they lose, they'll be down 3-1 and in very serious trouble. Second, the Red Sox and Yankees play in the Bronx. If all goes well, both Boston teams will lose miserably and there will be a deep, resounding bitterness in the cradle of liberty. For me, that's the best possible outcome.
But I wasn't always such a low creature.
*
Ten years ago, I had some integrity.
During the fall of my freshman year of college in 2001, a couple of my better friends were Red Sox fans. Needless to say, I couldn't watch game seven of the Yanks-Diamondbacks World Series in their presence. I heard their cheers down the hall as the D-Backs took a 1-0 lead in the sixth, but no matter- I had full confidence we'd pull through. If Jeter's prescient flip against Oakland and the 5-game browbeating of the 116-win Mariners didn't prove our union with destiny, surely the miracle Yankee Stadium home runs off Byung-Hyun Kim, so beautifully timed in the aftermath of 9/11, made the point.
But when the unthinkable happened and Mariano blew his save, the idea of destiny capsized. Loud roars could be heard from the Boston fans down the hall, and like the whistle of an approaching train, they grew louder. "If they come into my room, I'll kill them," I thought. But my friends were too smart. They peeked into the door, shouted "woooo!", and sprinted off before I could jump off my broken futon.
I couldn't understand why it mattered. What did they care if the Yankees lost? The Red Sox were sitting at home with nothing to their name and no World Series title since 1918. But somehow, the loss gave them a sincere (and sinister) feeling of glee.
As it turned out, I'd made a simple error of perspective. In baseball, the sport that mattered most, I didn't know how it felt to face down a rival and lose.
*
The idea of destiny stayed with me. Maybe the Diamondbacks could beat us, but we still had Boston's number. This was reinforced in 2003, when I watched the Game 7 comeback in a room full of Red Sox fans at 4am in Dublin, Ireland. They'd been in fine spirits all game, and all I could do was hold onto my deeply-held faith that for cosmic reasons beyond my ken, the Yankees wouldn't lose.
Aaron Boone's confirmation of that mystic belief in New York supremacy saw me puffing out my chest for a full year. It sounds ridiculous now, but I actually believed the Red Sox, with their high payroll and their consistently strong teams, wouldn't win a World Series in my lifetime. My confidence was so extreme that I bet my Boston friend $500 the dry spell would last at least 50 more years. Can you imagine a worse bet? At best, I'd have made a bit of money when I turned 70. At worst, I'd owe $500 at a time when I didn't have $1.50 for a slice of pizza at night.
2004 opened my eyes to reality. There was nothing special in the air, no religious aura attached to the Yankees that kept them eternally supreme. The humiliating ALCS disaster- an epic breakdown after a 3-0 series lead- was like a divine refutation of everything that was supposed to be true. My lofty fan perch collapsed like a bird's nest at the top of a falling tree.
And slowly, my ideals vanished. I didn't quite understand why, but for the first time in my life I couldn't watch the World Series. When Boston finished their sweep, I finally dared to turn on the tv. Witnessing their long-deferred celebration in St. Louis, I felt a burning hatred. I was a loser at last, and I would be a loser again in the coming years. Red Sox Nation was born, the pink-hat cadre spread across the country, and they shed their woebegone fanbase schtick to co-opt some of our arrogance.
From that point on, I've unabashedly rooted against Boston teams on every occasion. The old virtues of positivity are gone forever. It doesn't matter whether New York is involved or not. It helps, just like it helps to intuitively hate specific players like Kevin Garnett, Josh Beckett, and Jonathan Papelbon. But it's not necessary.
In fact, I actually admire some Boston players- Kevin Youkilis, Ray Allen, Paul Pierce- on an individual level. After the Giants-Patriots super bowl, I made a huge mistake by reading "The Education of a Coach" by David Halberstam, which humanized an otherwise perfect villain in Bill Belichick. Looking at the enemy on ground level is never conducive to hatred.
But none of that matters. When push comes to shove, I'm a fervent anti-Boston partisan, full of frenzy and bile. My prejudice is abstract, persistent, and yes, even fulfilling. To borrow Will Blythe's phrase from his book about the Duke-UNC rivalry, "to hate like this is to be happy forever."
*
On September 7, 2003, when the Patriots lost to the Bills and the Red Sox fell to the Yankees, Bill Simmons called it Black Sunday. On October 7, 2009, the idea was revisited when the Angels finished their first-round sweep of the Sox and the Broncos beat the Patriots.
Tonight, we could have a milder version of those wonderful days. A Stanley Cup could slip from the city's grasp, and the Yankees could widen their AL East lead.
Rooting for disappointment, I realize, is a bit pathetic. Maybe it's poisonous, and maybe it's a corruption of healthy fandom. Maybe I was a better person before 2004, and maybe I should strive to return to that place of quiet dignity.
Then again, this is Boston. Bring on Black Wednesday.
The Mistakes of the American Soccer Missionary
A week after the Champions League final, at a time in America when soccer has managed a tenuous security while remaining in the background, I’ve been thinking about the process by which we convert ourselves to the sport. Television exposure is a positive step, but word-of-mouth support is what soccer needs to reach the mainstream. There’s plenty of willing witnesses, so why is it such an incremental revolution? Where does their failure lie?
I've found three problems with the American soccer missionaries.
1 - Rarely- so rarely- have they been converted from Our Sports. I've never heard anyone talk about how they used to be a football fanatic but have decided soccer is the better game.
Instead, you get the sense that ardent soccer fans in America have always felt alienated by the sports we love. Particularly football, and I say that because football seems to be soccer’s most direct competition, the bloodiest theater of the war. The missionaries will tell you about football. Football is slow and littered with interruptions. Football has about 12 minutes of ball-in-play action in any given three-hour game. Football is regimented, restricted.
But the lack of love weakens their credibility. If I'm a drug addict seeking redemption, I want to hear from the addicts who have recovered, not from the righteous Mormon at my door who's never touched a drop of alcohol. If Terry Bradshaw phoned me up and spoke about his conversion to soccer, I'd be interested. Less so for the self-assured hipster who never succumbed to the old gridiron faith.
If you missed that magic, how am I supposed to trust you?
2 - The missionaries say that soccer is the world's most popular sport. And, to be fair, they're 100% right. It's beyond dispute.
By using this argument, though, they ignore the impressive American capacity for believing in our own superiority. And I'm not targeting some Tea Party stereotype here; I'm also including myself.
When the missionaries talk about soccer’s popularity, they believe they’re presenting a compelling argument. Hey, morons, listen: a whole world of humans is in love with this game. And for all we know, Earth is the only place in existence with sentient beings. So what we're really saying is that, quite possibly, this is the most-loved sport in the entire universe. And not just now, but ever. In the whole expansive history of space and time, soccer is number one.
The logic seems sound. But what they're doing is giving Americans an easy excuse to dismiss soccer and believe more fully in our own ignorance. We’re quite comfortable with the idea that our country is wiser than the rest of the world, and, by extension, the universe. By telling us that everyone else disagrees, the missionaries confirm an existing prejudice: everyone else is kind of an idiot.
3 - They talk about soccer as ‘the beautiful game.’
I've come to the conclusion that soccer is, in fact, beautiful. But it's beautiful in the way that life is beautiful, which is to say: not very often.
Imagine a friendly alien comes down to Earth. You’re eager to show him around, because look at all the civilization! Look at the great buildings, and the great cities, and the beautiful countryside, and the culture, and everything!
So you take the alien to New York City. You land just about dusk, and there, sitting on the sidewalk, is a homeless man. And not some profound, sagacious homeless man who dispenses pearls of wisdom; no, this is a homeless man who, for the sake of argument, has just lost control of his bowels. And he's kind of moaning in this awful, suffering way, and there are flies buzzing around his head. Then a woman walks by with her kid. She's wearing a red business suit, and her black pumps are clacking on the concrete, and she says, "oh, that's disgusting" loud enough for the homeless man to hear. "Come on, Jeremy," she commands her child.
The boy is about 9 years old. He seems totally unaffected by the homeless man, and he gives an entitled giggle just before shoving a fistful of candy into his mouth. The two leave, and just then, a car full of teenagers races past. One of them leans out the window, screams "get a job!", and throws an empty whiskey bottle at the homeless man's head.
You turn to the alien. "I swear," you say, "that’s not what it’s like here."
"No, I’m sure it’s great," says the alien. "Still, it’s getting late..."
It's the same story with soccer. Someone preaches about how, despite the scarcity of goals, the flow of the game is beautiful, even sublime. So you finally watch a match, and...
80 minutes pass with no goals. Both teams play cautious, and the few offensive advances are snuffed out. In the 85th minute, the most annoying player on the team you like less pretends to be tripped in the penalty box. The replay shows he wasn't touched, but he rolls around holding his knee, face contorted in agony, his free arm shaking in a gesture of dramatic supplication, exhorting God or the referee to answer the injustice. The referee, if not God, is fooled. Penalty awarded. The player pops up as though he's never experienced anything less than perfect health. He buries the penalty, and the game ends 1-0.
Here’s the point: you can't talk about the beauty of soccer. It will undermine itself every time.
I can't tell you that Barcelona's passing really was an elevated art form last Saturday; that they played like the whole match was choreographed and they could choose when to score, but that the ballet only called for three goals. That even David Villa, the player who I kind of hate based on a gut reaction to his face, scored the most beautiful goal of all on a curling kick to the top right corner.
With soccer, the experience is everything. The words accomplish nothing. I might as well try to explain the feeling of laughter, or bore you with the ridiculous plot of a dream that shook me to the bone.
I've found three problems with the American soccer missionaries.
1 - Rarely- so rarely- have they been converted from Our Sports. I've never heard anyone talk about how they used to be a football fanatic but have decided soccer is the better game.
Instead, you get the sense that ardent soccer fans in America have always felt alienated by the sports we love. Particularly football, and I say that because football seems to be soccer’s most direct competition, the bloodiest theater of the war. The missionaries will tell you about football. Football is slow and littered with interruptions. Football has about 12 minutes of ball-in-play action in any given three-hour game. Football is regimented, restricted.
But the lack of love weakens their credibility. If I'm a drug addict seeking redemption, I want to hear from the addicts who have recovered, not from the righteous Mormon at my door who's never touched a drop of alcohol. If Terry Bradshaw phoned me up and spoke about his conversion to soccer, I'd be interested. Less so for the self-assured hipster who never succumbed to the old gridiron faith.
If you missed that magic, how am I supposed to trust you?
2 - The missionaries say that soccer is the world's most popular sport. And, to be fair, they're 100% right. It's beyond dispute.
By using this argument, though, they ignore the impressive American capacity for believing in our own superiority. And I'm not targeting some Tea Party stereotype here; I'm also including myself.
When the missionaries talk about soccer’s popularity, they believe they’re presenting a compelling argument. Hey, morons, listen: a whole world of humans is in love with this game. And for all we know, Earth is the only place in existence with sentient beings. So what we're really saying is that, quite possibly, this is the most-loved sport in the entire universe. And not just now, but ever. In the whole expansive history of space and time, soccer is number one.
The logic seems sound. But what they're doing is giving Americans an easy excuse to dismiss soccer and believe more fully in our own ignorance. We’re quite comfortable with the idea that our country is wiser than the rest of the world, and, by extension, the universe. By telling us that everyone else disagrees, the missionaries confirm an existing prejudice: everyone else is kind of an idiot.
3 - They talk about soccer as ‘the beautiful game.’
I've come to the conclusion that soccer is, in fact, beautiful. But it's beautiful in the way that life is beautiful, which is to say: not very often.
Imagine a friendly alien comes down to Earth. You’re eager to show him around, because look at all the civilization! Look at the great buildings, and the great cities, and the beautiful countryside, and the culture, and everything!
So you take the alien to New York City. You land just about dusk, and there, sitting on the sidewalk, is a homeless man. And not some profound, sagacious homeless man who dispenses pearls of wisdom; no, this is a homeless man who, for the sake of argument, has just lost control of his bowels. And he's kind of moaning in this awful, suffering way, and there are flies buzzing around his head. Then a woman walks by with her kid. She's wearing a red business suit, and her black pumps are clacking on the concrete, and she says, "oh, that's disgusting" loud enough for the homeless man to hear. "Come on, Jeremy," she commands her child.
The boy is about 9 years old. He seems totally unaffected by the homeless man, and he gives an entitled giggle just before shoving a fistful of candy into his mouth. The two leave, and just then, a car full of teenagers races past. One of them leans out the window, screams "get a job!", and throws an empty whiskey bottle at the homeless man's head.
You turn to the alien. "I swear," you say, "that’s not what it’s like here."
"No, I’m sure it’s great," says the alien. "Still, it’s getting late..."
It's the same story with soccer. Someone preaches about how, despite the scarcity of goals, the flow of the game is beautiful, even sublime. So you finally watch a match, and...
80 minutes pass with no goals. Both teams play cautious, and the few offensive advances are snuffed out. In the 85th minute, the most annoying player on the team you like less pretends to be tripped in the penalty box. The replay shows he wasn't touched, but he rolls around holding his knee, face contorted in agony, his free arm shaking in a gesture of dramatic supplication, exhorting God or the referee to answer the injustice. The referee, if not God, is fooled. Penalty awarded. The player pops up as though he's never experienced anything less than perfect health. He buries the penalty, and the game ends 1-0.
Here’s the point: you can't talk about the beauty of soccer. It will undermine itself every time.
I can't tell you that Barcelona's passing really was an elevated art form last Saturday; that they played like the whole match was choreographed and they could choose when to score, but that the ballet only called for three goals. That even David Villa, the player who I kind of hate based on a gut reaction to his face, scored the most beautiful goal of all on a curling kick to the top right corner.
With soccer, the experience is everything. The words accomplish nothing. I might as well try to explain the feeling of laughter, or bore you with the ridiculous plot of a dream that shook me to the bone.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Monday Recap
Over the past two weeks, I've been covering a murder trial as part of my internship with the Charlotte Observer. I spend most of the day at the courthouse, and so far they haven't gone past the jury selection process.
In North Carolina, there are only two possible punishments if someone is found guilty of first-degree murder: life in prison without parole, or death. In terms of the jury pool, this means that anyone with a moral opposition to the death penalty is automatically excused. If a juror can't sentence a person to die, he's not fit to serve.
Forgetting the merits of capital punishment for a moment, what really bothers me are the people I've watched who can't seem to get out of jury duty. It's clear from their behavior that they don't want to sit around for two months on a murder case, but they're too dense to use the obvious death penalty excuse. It's like watching a rat in a maze; you see the easy exit from above, but the rat just kind of bumbles around against the walls going nowhere.
The unhappy jurors will be up there in the box, looking peeved, telling the judge and attorneys that they have three kids and were supposed to have the summer off and even booked a Princess cruise for late June and may be slightly ADD to boot. They'll list a thousand irrelevant excuses, but when the attorney asks them point blank if they can be impartial and resolve their other issues, they sigh, slouch in their seat, and say, "I guess so."
Meanwhile, they've watched a parade of fifteen other potential jurors get excused for not believing in the death penalty. Yet nowhere along the line did they begin to devise their own strategy! "God, this judge is a stone wall. Does he understand I booked a Princess cruise??"
These are the people who will be deciding the fate of a man's life. The two important facts about them are:
1- They're incapable of simple problem solving.
2 - They believe in the death penalty.
Plus, they'll probably be mad at the defendant for ruining their summer. If I were him, I'd just ask for the lethal injection now.
Maybe I'm a bad American, but I would absolutely lie to be excused. I'd say I was in favor of drowning house pets for sport if it kept me from serving on a murder trial, even though after studying that issue I think I'm opposed in most situations.
On to Monday's action:
-The Bruins decimated the Canucks 8-1 in game 3 of the Stanley Cup Finals, and now trail 2-1 in the series. In related news, I've come up with a great idea to get hockey back on track in America: a 7-foot player. Think of it! You find a big gangly one who can't really skate and put him out there for a few minutes each game to get knocked around a bit while zany saxophone music plays over the PA system. Maybe the fans can throw a squid at him, or something.
OKAY, SO IT'S NOT A GREAT IDEA, BUT I THOUGHT THEY WERE DESPERATE!
-Cliff Lee earned his fifth win of the year with a 7-inning, 10-strikeout performance against Los Angeles. Due to an arcane loophole in the California legal system, the lefty ace now owns 51% of the Dodger franchise. He received the good news after the game and immediately announced his intention to have an affair with Jamie McCourt.
-Despite a strong showing from Michael Pineda, the Mariners lost 3-1 to the Chicago White Sox. John Danks (1-8) lasted into the eighth inning for his first win of the season. Though his statistical worth is still less than that of an average replacement player, Danks is now slightly more valuable than an average rusted statue.
-Minnesota sent Cleveland to their fifth straight loss by a score of 6-4. The Indians' lead on the Tigers in the AL Central has now slipped to a game and a half. In South Asia, however, the Indians are doing quite well against the tigers, holding a substantial 1.15 billion lead.
-Plaxico Burress was released from prison yesterday. In his first moments as a free man, he told reporters it was a "beautiful day." Moments later, New York City mayor Michael Bloomberg fined him $5,000 for commenting on the weather without permission.
-Finally, USC was officially stripped of its 2004 national title. The punishment stemmed from rules violations committed by Reggie Bush. As per BCS policy, the vacant national championship will go to Notre Dame, who in 2004 finished 6-6 under Tyrone Willingham.
Soccer content is on the way this afternoon.
In North Carolina, there are only two possible punishments if someone is found guilty of first-degree murder: life in prison without parole, or death. In terms of the jury pool, this means that anyone with a moral opposition to the death penalty is automatically excused. If a juror can't sentence a person to die, he's not fit to serve.
Forgetting the merits of capital punishment for a moment, what really bothers me are the people I've watched who can't seem to get out of jury duty. It's clear from their behavior that they don't want to sit around for two months on a murder case, but they're too dense to use the obvious death penalty excuse. It's like watching a rat in a maze; you see the easy exit from above, but the rat just kind of bumbles around against the walls going nowhere.
The unhappy jurors will be up there in the box, looking peeved, telling the judge and attorneys that they have three kids and were supposed to have the summer off and even booked a Princess cruise for late June and may be slightly ADD to boot. They'll list a thousand irrelevant excuses, but when the attorney asks them point blank if they can be impartial and resolve their other issues, they sigh, slouch in their seat, and say, "I guess so."
Meanwhile, they've watched a parade of fifteen other potential jurors get excused for not believing in the death penalty. Yet nowhere along the line did they begin to devise their own strategy! "God, this judge is a stone wall. Does he understand I booked a Princess cruise??"
These are the people who will be deciding the fate of a man's life. The two important facts about them are:
1- They're incapable of simple problem solving.
2 - They believe in the death penalty.
Plus, they'll probably be mad at the defendant for ruining their summer. If I were him, I'd just ask for the lethal injection now.
Maybe I'm a bad American, but I would absolutely lie to be excused. I'd say I was in favor of drowning house pets for sport if it kept me from serving on a murder trial, even though after studying that issue I think I'm opposed in most situations.
On to Monday's action:
-The Bruins decimated the Canucks 8-1 in game 3 of the Stanley Cup Finals, and now trail 2-1 in the series. In related news, I've come up with a great idea to get hockey back on track in America: a 7-foot player. Think of it! You find a big gangly one who can't really skate and put him out there for a few minutes each game to get knocked around a bit while zany saxophone music plays over the PA system. Maybe the fans can throw a squid at him, or something.
OKAY, SO IT'S NOT A GREAT IDEA, BUT I THOUGHT THEY WERE DESPERATE!
-Cliff Lee earned his fifth win of the year with a 7-inning, 10-strikeout performance against Los Angeles. Due to an arcane loophole in the California legal system, the lefty ace now owns 51% of the Dodger franchise. He received the good news after the game and immediately announced his intention to have an affair with Jamie McCourt.
-Despite a strong showing from Michael Pineda, the Mariners lost 3-1 to the Chicago White Sox. John Danks (1-8) lasted into the eighth inning for his first win of the season. Though his statistical worth is still less than that of an average replacement player, Danks is now slightly more valuable than an average rusted statue.
-Minnesota sent Cleveland to their fifth straight loss by a score of 6-4. The Indians' lead on the Tigers in the AL Central has now slipped to a game and a half. In South Asia, however, the Indians are doing quite well against the tigers, holding a substantial 1.15 billion lead.
-Plaxico Burress was released from prison yesterday. In his first moments as a free man, he told reporters it was a "beautiful day." Moments later, New York City mayor Michael Bloomberg fined him $5,000 for commenting on the weather without permission.
-Finally, USC was officially stripped of its 2004 national title. The punishment stemmed from rules violations committed by Reggie Bush. As per BCS policy, the vacant national championship will go to Notre Dame, who in 2004 finished 6-6 under Tyrone Willingham.
Soccer content is on the way this afternoon.
The Toughest Man in Sports
On the third match point of his excellent semifinal win against Novak Djokovic on Friday, Roger Federer delivered an ace that was nearly as scorching as his reaction.
Djokovic, a thoroughly unlikable rubber-band-man who will probably take over the world #1 ranking this summer, was riding a 41-match victory streak to start the year, second in history only to John McEnroe’s 42. Before the final point, he motioned to the line judge to quiet the excitable crowd. His rigid face betrayed the awful tension.
But Federer looked calm. When he served his ace, he didn't leap in celebration or crumple to the ground. Instead, he stalked toward the net, a tight smile on his face, and spun his finger in the air. Then, looking straight across the court, he nodded defiantly before unleashing a primal scream and swatting a ball into the stands. It was the inner badass revealed.
(Skip to the 0:20 mark of the video below.)
The rare outburst showed the intense competitive drive of the man many consider the greatest player in tennis history. When everything clicked, in 2003, he went on a seven-year tear that would net him an all-time best 16 grand slam singles titles. Many of those came under conditions of intense pressure, and his excellence was never in doubt.
*
Which makes it so incredible, and so unbelievable, that Rafael Nadal routinely batters him into submission on the grand slam stage.
Yesterday’s championship was just the latest example of Nadal’s dominance. The Spaniard is now 17-8 against Federer in his career, and 7-2 in grand slams (for perspective, Federer is 14-1 in grand slam finals against everyone else). The clay surface, of course, makes up the bulk of the difference- the two are dead even at 4-4 on hard courts, and Federer leads 2-1 on the Wimbledon grass- but in recent non-clay majors, Nadal has still been the better man.
During the match, the sportswriter Joe Posnanski tweeted this: “If the scariest thing in sports is an opponent who never stops coming, the scariest player in sports might be Rafa Nadal.”
His relentlessness is certainly a virtue; he pounded Federer’s backhand all match, using heavy topspin to jam his opponent and expose a very slight weakness. That unceasing quality stems from his toughness- the primary reason for Nadal’s supremacy.
Consider this: at the end of the third set, Federer had won 117 points to Nadal’s 116. He had long stretches of brilliance where it looked like he wouldn’t lose a point, much less a game. Yet he dropped the first two sets, and came dangerously close to losing the third. As usual in these matches, the points of highest tension told the story; Nadal’s sense of momentum, as well as his preternatural ability to steel himself and raise his game when backed against a wall, gave him the edge.
Three moments in particular stand out.
1 – First set, Nadal down 2-5 and facing a set point on his serve. After a short rally, Federer attempted a drop shot. It landed an inch wide, and Nadal held serve.
To that point, Federer had played with a unusual looseness. McEnroe wondered if the pressure of facing Nadal on clay had vanished now that he’d won a French Open (in 2009). But after the hold, when Nadal pressed Federer and forced a break, it became clear that the nerves persisted. For the first time, we saw that peculiar look that Federer only gets against Nadal- his face goes stern, he sets his jaw, and he retreats into himself as though his pride has been hurt and he’d sooner die than admit it. Nadal won the next four games and took the set.
2 – Second set, tiebreaker. Federer had played a beautiful stretch to even the set after an early break. By the skin of his teeth, Nadal managed to avoid a second break and eke into the tiebreaker. But despite the backslide, he recovered to cut Roger off at the knees, taking the first four points on the way to winning the breaker 7-3.
3 – Fourth set, 0-0, Nadal serving down 0-40. Federer was riding another impressive stretch that earned him the third set. Now, in the fourth, Rafa looked lost and hopeless on his own serve. He was on the cusp of a match-altering reversal until he dug deep, saved all three break points, and managed an unlikely hold in the face of the Federer tidal wave.
These moments, small in the grand scheme, broadcast a crucial signal to the opponent – no matter how great you play, I cannot be broken. The missed opportunity clearly weighed on Federer. He won just one more game on the way to dropping the final set 6-1.
*
And even this record of tested mettle doesn’t tell Nadal's full story. There’s also the Paris crowd. McEnroe and Mary Carillo generously attributed their overwhelming support of Federer to his fluency in French, but the truth is that the Roland-Garros partisans have always been against Nadal.
He’s lost just once in his career in Paris, to Robin Soderling in 2009, and during that match the French threw their full support behind the Swede. Nadal’s coach, his uncle Toni, was so infuriated that he called the French ‘conceited’ and said they hated it when a Spaniard won. In fact, the record of the fans' dislike goes back to Rafa's first year, when play was actually stopped while the crowd booed an umpire who made a call favoring the teenager. Sunday, he earned only scattered applause on most of his points while Federer was cheered with throaty roars. Essentially, he won a road match.
There’s also the fact of his humility. It’s easy to call him a ‘warrior,’ with the aggressive style and the muscular frame, but the truth is he’s saddled by very human doubts. Earlier in the tournament, he told reporters frankly that he didn’t think he could win the tournament. In 2009, in the 5th-set of an epic Australian Open semifinal against Fernando Verdasco, the pressure was so intense that Nadal began to quietly cry on the court.
Unlike a stereotypical warrior, Nadal's success comes without an ironclad self-belief. He's never putting on a show- simplicity is the only display.
*
The odd paradox of Roger Federer is that although he’s widely considered the greatest tennis player of all time, it’s also true that he’s not the greatest player of his own time. That title belongs to Nadal, and it’s already too late in the game for the order to change.
Facing a hostile crowd, riddled with doubts, and flailing at times against the sporadic genius of Federer, Rafa still managed to win the points that mattered and raise his sixth Coupe de Mosquetaires. He’s carved his legacy from a toughness exceeding anything of its kind in the modern sports landscape.
But it’s a fortitude built on humanity. In 2009, crying to himself in the fifth against Verdasco, he ignored the nerves to win a five hour epic. The next day, he topped Federer in the final, and when that incredible performer cried his own tears on center court, Nadal put one arm around the shaking shoulders of his rival and spoke words of consolation.
When Rafa is gone- and in tennis, that day could come too soon- it's worth remembering the grace that went with the grit.
Djokovic, a thoroughly unlikable rubber-band-man who will probably take over the world #1 ranking this summer, was riding a 41-match victory streak to start the year, second in history only to John McEnroe’s 42. Before the final point, he motioned to the line judge to quiet the excitable crowd. His rigid face betrayed the awful tension.
But Federer looked calm. When he served his ace, he didn't leap in celebration or crumple to the ground. Instead, he stalked toward the net, a tight smile on his face, and spun his finger in the air. Then, looking straight across the court, he nodded defiantly before unleashing a primal scream and swatting a ball into the stands. It was the inner badass revealed.
(Skip to the 0:20 mark of the video below.)
The rare outburst showed the intense competitive drive of the man many consider the greatest player in tennis history. When everything clicked, in 2003, he went on a seven-year tear that would net him an all-time best 16 grand slam singles titles. Many of those came under conditions of intense pressure, and his excellence was never in doubt.
*
Which makes it so incredible, and so unbelievable, that Rafael Nadal routinely batters him into submission on the grand slam stage.
Yesterday’s championship was just the latest example of Nadal’s dominance. The Spaniard is now 17-8 against Federer in his career, and 7-2 in grand slams (for perspective, Federer is 14-1 in grand slam finals against everyone else). The clay surface, of course, makes up the bulk of the difference- the two are dead even at 4-4 on hard courts, and Federer leads 2-1 on the Wimbledon grass- but in recent non-clay majors, Nadal has still been the better man.
During the match, the sportswriter Joe Posnanski tweeted this: “If the scariest thing in sports is an opponent who never stops coming, the scariest player in sports might be Rafa Nadal.”
His relentlessness is certainly a virtue; he pounded Federer’s backhand all match, using heavy topspin to jam his opponent and expose a very slight weakness. That unceasing quality stems from his toughness- the primary reason for Nadal’s supremacy.
Consider this: at the end of the third set, Federer had won 117 points to Nadal’s 116. He had long stretches of brilliance where it looked like he wouldn’t lose a point, much less a game. Yet he dropped the first two sets, and came dangerously close to losing the third. As usual in these matches, the points of highest tension told the story; Nadal’s sense of momentum, as well as his preternatural ability to steel himself and raise his game when backed against a wall, gave him the edge.
Three moments in particular stand out.
1 – First set, Nadal down 2-5 and facing a set point on his serve. After a short rally, Federer attempted a drop shot. It landed an inch wide, and Nadal held serve.
To that point, Federer had played with a unusual looseness. McEnroe wondered if the pressure of facing Nadal on clay had vanished now that he’d won a French Open (in 2009). But after the hold, when Nadal pressed Federer and forced a break, it became clear that the nerves persisted. For the first time, we saw that peculiar look that Federer only gets against Nadal- his face goes stern, he sets his jaw, and he retreats into himself as though his pride has been hurt and he’d sooner die than admit it. Nadal won the next four games and took the set.
2 – Second set, tiebreaker. Federer had played a beautiful stretch to even the set after an early break. By the skin of his teeth, Nadal managed to avoid a second break and eke into the tiebreaker. But despite the backslide, he recovered to cut Roger off at the knees, taking the first four points on the way to winning the breaker 7-3.
3 – Fourth set, 0-0, Nadal serving down 0-40. Federer was riding another impressive stretch that earned him the third set. Now, in the fourth, Rafa looked lost and hopeless on his own serve. He was on the cusp of a match-altering reversal until he dug deep, saved all three break points, and managed an unlikely hold in the face of the Federer tidal wave.
These moments, small in the grand scheme, broadcast a crucial signal to the opponent – no matter how great you play, I cannot be broken. The missed opportunity clearly weighed on Federer. He won just one more game on the way to dropping the final set 6-1.
*
And even this record of tested mettle doesn’t tell Nadal's full story. There’s also the Paris crowd. McEnroe and Mary Carillo generously attributed their overwhelming support of Federer to his fluency in French, but the truth is that the Roland-Garros partisans have always been against Nadal.
He’s lost just once in his career in Paris, to Robin Soderling in 2009, and during that match the French threw their full support behind the Swede. Nadal’s coach, his uncle Toni, was so infuriated that he called the French ‘conceited’ and said they hated it when a Spaniard won. In fact, the record of the fans' dislike goes back to Rafa's first year, when play was actually stopped while the crowd booed an umpire who made a call favoring the teenager. Sunday, he earned only scattered applause on most of his points while Federer was cheered with throaty roars. Essentially, he won a road match.
There’s also the fact of his humility. It’s easy to call him a ‘warrior,’ with the aggressive style and the muscular frame, but the truth is he’s saddled by very human doubts. Earlier in the tournament, he told reporters frankly that he didn’t think he could win the tournament. In 2009, in the 5th-set of an epic Australian Open semifinal against Fernando Verdasco, the pressure was so intense that Nadal began to quietly cry on the court.
Unlike a stereotypical warrior, Nadal's success comes without an ironclad self-belief. He's never putting on a show- simplicity is the only display.
*
The odd paradox of Roger Federer is that although he’s widely considered the greatest tennis player of all time, it’s also true that he’s not the greatest player of his own time. That title belongs to Nadal, and it’s already too late in the game for the order to change.
Facing a hostile crowd, riddled with doubts, and flailing at times against the sporadic genius of Federer, Rafa still managed to win the points that mattered and raise his sixth Coupe de Mosquetaires. He’s carved his legacy from a toughness exceeding anything of its kind in the modern sports landscape.
But it’s a fortitude built on humanity. In 2009, crying to himself in the fifth against Verdasco, he ignored the nerves to win a five hour epic. The next day, he topped Federer in the final, and when that incredible performer cried his own tears on center court, Nadal put one arm around the shaking shoulders of his rival and spoke words of consolation.
When Rafa is gone- and in tennis, that day could come too soon- it's worth remembering the grace that went with the grit.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Weekend Recap
My mom called this weekend to tell me a fascinating story about my stepfather. He's a retired teacher living in upstate New York, and, judging by his recent behavior, he's more than a little bored.
He was at home browsing the newspaper last week when he came across the obituary of a man named Victor who had lived about 40 miles south. He and Victor shared the same last name, and my stepfather suspected it might be his deceased grandfather's brother. (My initial reaction: my stepfather is north of 60, so how old was this guy? 130?) Mind you, he didn't know for sure. It was a vague, unconfirmed memory of a first name, and he'd never met the man or anybody else from that side of the family.
Now, imagine yourself in that situation. Assuming you didn't just move on to the sports page like a normal person, and assuming curiosity got the better of you, would you:
A) Check out the names of the person's surviving relatives and look them up in the white pages.
B) Call the funeral home to find family contact information.
C) Call up the family members you DO know and see if you can trace it that way.
D) Dig out your best suit from the closet and head down to the funeral unannounced.
As you can probably guess, he chose D, which is absolutely incredible to me. What's your opening line at the church in that situation? "Hi there...sorry about your loss. I might be your fourth cousin. Is anybody here really into genealogy?"
If someone approached me with that pretense at a funeral, I'd automatically suspect it was a pervert who preyed on the grieving or someone trying to get free food. And I'm not sure which is more offensive.
But somehow, things went smoother for him. As insane as the idea was, it turned out he really had found a forgotten side of the family, and they welcomed him with open arms and invited him to- no joke- a "family tree party." He dragged my mother along on Saturday, and everyone loved him.
So, good for my stepfather, who I'll now be using as inspiration for a screenplay called "Funeral Crashers." It's a heartbreaking tale of lonely souls who seek companionship through other people's deaths, and will star Crispin Glover as every character (especially the cadavers).
The weekend in sports was less eventful than any family tree party I can imagine, and included far fewer pistol duels.
-In Game 3 of the NBA finals last night, the Miami Heat held on for an 88-86 win in Dallas. They're now up 2-1 and have reclaimed home court advantage in the series. Across the country, Americans expressed joy that their favorite basketball team was doing so well and would probably win a championship. And by "Americans," I mean "people from Miami." And by "expressed joy," I mean "didn't realize the season was still happening."
-At Roland-Garros, Rafael Nadal defeated Roger Federer in four sets for his 6th French Open title. His lifetime record against Federer is now 17-8, and 7-2 in grand slams. The victory disappointed French fans, who boisterously supported Federer for a litany of reasons that definitely had nothing to do with their deep historical hatred of the Spanish.
-Vancouver took a 2-0 lead in the Stanley Cup finals with a overtime win against Boston. The sudden death session lasted just 11 seconds before Alex Burrows scored a wraparound goal for the Canucks, who now lead the series 2-0. NBC executives expressed gratitude that their ratings were only terrible for an extra 11 seconds, but asked both teams to please end their games in regulation or, if possible, earlier.
-Shin Soo-Choo has admitted that his DUI conviction is affecting his performance on the field, and Indians manager Manny Acta has moved him down the lineup. "I have two different countries, so I worry about more fans," Choo said of his recent struggles. As of press time, he seemed not to understand that getting a DUI is Cleveland's main coming-of-age ritual for males, and that everybody is really proud of him.
-Albert Pujols hit an extra-innings walk-off home run against the Cubs for the second straight game Sunday. "It's a big game and a big win," Pujols said. "It doesn't matter what you do as long as you don't embarrass yourself out there." He then repeated the words "embarrass yourself" and gave a long, meaningful look at the Chicago Cubs.
-In NBA news, Mike D'Antoni says he feels "confident about his future with the Knicks." He was careful to clarify, however, that he doesn't feel confident about the actual future of the Knicks themselves; he just thinks James Dolan will probably hire him again, and asks that you respect his family's privacy during this difficult time.
-Last, an ESPN headline claims the U.S. women won on a late goal against Mexico. Experts believe this was either in soccer, field hockey, normal hockey, or the ancient Aztec sport "Tlachtli" where the losing captain is beheaded in public.
More on the French final this afternoon...
He was at home browsing the newspaper last week when he came across the obituary of a man named Victor who had lived about 40 miles south. He and Victor shared the same last name, and my stepfather suspected it might be his deceased grandfather's brother. (My initial reaction: my stepfather is north of 60, so how old was this guy? 130?) Mind you, he didn't know for sure. It was a vague, unconfirmed memory of a first name, and he'd never met the man or anybody else from that side of the family.
Now, imagine yourself in that situation. Assuming you didn't just move on to the sports page like a normal person, and assuming curiosity got the better of you, would you:
A) Check out the names of the person's surviving relatives and look them up in the white pages.
B) Call the funeral home to find family contact information.
C) Call up the family members you DO know and see if you can trace it that way.
D) Dig out your best suit from the closet and head down to the funeral unannounced.
As you can probably guess, he chose D, which is absolutely incredible to me. What's your opening line at the church in that situation? "Hi there...sorry about your loss. I might be your fourth cousin. Is anybody here really into genealogy?"
If someone approached me with that pretense at a funeral, I'd automatically suspect it was a pervert who preyed on the grieving or someone trying to get free food. And I'm not sure which is more offensive.
But somehow, things went smoother for him. As insane as the idea was, it turned out he really had found a forgotten side of the family, and they welcomed him with open arms and invited him to- no joke- a "family tree party." He dragged my mother along on Saturday, and everyone loved him.
So, good for my stepfather, who I'll now be using as inspiration for a screenplay called "Funeral Crashers." It's a heartbreaking tale of lonely souls who seek companionship through other people's deaths, and will star Crispin Glover as every character (especially the cadavers).
The weekend in sports was less eventful than any family tree party I can imagine, and included far fewer pistol duels.
-In Game 3 of the NBA finals last night, the Miami Heat held on for an 88-86 win in Dallas. They're now up 2-1 and have reclaimed home court advantage in the series. Across the country, Americans expressed joy that their favorite basketball team was doing so well and would probably win a championship. And by "Americans," I mean "people from Miami." And by "expressed joy," I mean "didn't realize the season was still happening."
-At Roland-Garros, Rafael Nadal defeated Roger Federer in four sets for his 6th French Open title. His lifetime record against Federer is now 17-8, and 7-2 in grand slams. The victory disappointed French fans, who boisterously supported Federer for a litany of reasons that definitely had nothing to do with their deep historical hatred of the Spanish.
-Vancouver took a 2-0 lead in the Stanley Cup finals with a overtime win against Boston. The sudden death session lasted just 11 seconds before Alex Burrows scored a wraparound goal for the Canucks, who now lead the series 2-0. NBC executives expressed gratitude that their ratings were only terrible for an extra 11 seconds, but asked both teams to please end their games in regulation or, if possible, earlier.
-Shin Soo-Choo has admitted that his DUI conviction is affecting his performance on the field, and Indians manager Manny Acta has moved him down the lineup. "I have two different countries, so I worry about more fans," Choo said of his recent struggles. As of press time, he seemed not to understand that getting a DUI is Cleveland's main coming-of-age ritual for males, and that everybody is really proud of him.
-Albert Pujols hit an extra-innings walk-off home run against the Cubs for the second straight game Sunday. "It's a big game and a big win," Pujols said. "It doesn't matter what you do as long as you don't embarrass yourself out there." He then repeated the words "embarrass yourself" and gave a long, meaningful look at the Chicago Cubs.
-In NBA news, Mike D'Antoni says he feels "confident about his future with the Knicks." He was careful to clarify, however, that he doesn't feel confident about the actual future of the Knicks themselves; he just thinks James Dolan will probably hire him again, and asks that you respect his family's privacy during this difficult time.
-Last, an ESPN headline claims the U.S. women won on a late goal against Mexico. Experts believe this was either in soccer, field hockey, normal hockey, or the ancient Aztec sport "Tlachtli" where the losing captain is beheaded in public.
More on the French final this afternoon...
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