My husband Larry is a rabid sports fan. For an LSU, Saints, Falcons, or UGA game, he dresses head to toe in team colors and insignia: hat, shirt, shorts, and shoes. He stays up ungodly hours to watch the end of a Braves game. He watches golf with his eyeballs glued to the screen. He stands during football games, argues with the refs, yells at players, and grabs his head like he’s having a seizure. I don’t understand.
I spent $300 at Dollar General in Loreauville on LSU and Saints attire for him. The shocked sales clerk saw three loaded shopping carts and danced on the counter. Larry swears that the she was awarded Salesperson of the Year.
I have tried to watch sports with him. Golf is sleepy boring. Announcers speak in hushed tones. Complete silence for long minutes when the golfer aims for that tiny circle in the ground. Sleep-inducing.
Football , I’ve decided, is every man’s desire for Stone Age aggression to prove his strength and stamina. I cannot watch a football game without hearing bones crunch, heads pound, and backs crack. How can any wife, mother, or girlfriend view their men being attacked with such brute force? Although, I did watch every minute of the Super Bowl this year and reveled in the Saints’ big win.
And, my least favorite . . . baseball. Spit and scratch. Disgusting. What kind of message about civility and health does chewing tobacco, spitting on the ground, and moving parts around send? I am convinced that’s why the Brits don’t play baseball. I actually composed a passionate but direct letter to the Baseball Commissioner voicing my concern. Larry subtly suggested I table it until we discussed the discussion [laughter] it would provoke.
And the game’s not over when the game’s over. Broadcasters spin statistics and dissect plays in jock talk for hours following the game. They pretend to be scientists: the impact of the climate on Friday’s game . . ., kinesiologists: that player can leap, spin and fly . . ., and sociologists; the entire country is betting on the odds on Super Bowl day. Excuse me. They’re all last generation former pro players.
But I did read MONEYBALL anyway. And I liked it. It’s not a page-turner but a worthy read. It’s about the game of BASEBALL. Lots of talk about trading, stats, and jock speak.
The premise of this book chronicles the unique strategy used by Billy Beane, General Manager of the Oakland Athletics, to elevate a poor team with a small payroll by using a different yardstick for success.
In the 2002 Billy Beane, a former pro baseball player, performed a science experiment with amateur draft players. Scouts swore to avoid qualities in players described as Rockhead, Soft, Wimp,or the worst . . . Bad Makeup [unsolvable problem.] The Oakland A’s had little money as compared with the Yankees, but each year they won more and more games. Unlike other GMs, Billy Beane hung around the clubhouse. He was resourceful, intelligent, and could scare the living lalalala out of his biggest players. He refused to watch a game during play, but viewed it carefully while he broke things in his office. He ran the show “like a Hollywood producer.” He called Miguel Tejada “Mr. Swing at Everything” and threatened to send him back home to the Dominican Republic. He was capable of humor citing that a player named Furbush should be drafted just because of his name. But Billy was capable of compliments “Great at bats” or “I love your approach,” and players like Scott Hatteburg said Billy created a sense of team for the players.
The Oakland A’s managed to have the best pitchers in the American League. Billy‘s team was playing a different game. A superior manager who used science, worked cheaply, was offered the spot as GM for the Red Sox. He turned it down citing his regret that early in his career he’d signed with the Mets instead of attending Stanford. He wanted to find better ways to build a great ball club with little money and find ballplayers’ virtues.
Good read.
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