A Heavy Burden

You ever wonder about those athletes in the Olympics who are the lone representatives of their countries? The ones who are the only carriers of their national colors? You see it in the summer Olympics- the ones that come to my mind are often runners from small African countries. You can also find them in the Winter Olympics, with people from hot and tropical countries preforming in freezing cold temperatures. TIME Magazine had a great article about such Olympians. Here's their intro:

"Earlier this week, Prawat Nagvajara realized how badly he needed to talk to his coach. His cross-country skiing sprint event was imminent, but he couldn't get his preparation straight. "My coach is trying to explain to me something about the body building up lactic acid," he said, looking a little confused. "I have got to get straight what happens, how to warm up, how to prepare. I have to call her again."

This is not your average Olympian talking, but then Nagvajara, 43, isn't actually a world-class athlete. The first person ever to represent Thailand at a Winter Games, he was lapped and eliminated from his first event, the 30km, less than a third of the way through. Even in the relatively short time he spent on the Soldier Hollow course, he had time to fall, have the wind knocked out of him, get cramps and lose his goggles.

Nagvajara grew up in Bangkok playing keyboards in a teenage rock band; he was 18 before he ever saw snow. By entering the Olympic Games, he has joined an elite club: he is one of 11 athletes who are the sole representatives of their countries at these Salt Lake City Games."

I wonder what they really feel, competing against athletes much stronger, faster, better funded, and more popular than they are. Often they don't perform well enough to have a spot on the medal podium.

Would it make a difference if they were playing on their home turf?

How did Tim Henman beat Carlos Moya? Moya is younger, faster, and has had more success overall than Henman. In recent years, while Moya hasn't dominated in the way that Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal, or Andy Roddick have, he's played stronger and more consistent than Henman. Moya has won a Grand Slam event; Henman has had to settle for runner-up several times.

For all intents and purposes, Moya was the stronger player on Monday- he was ranked much higher on the ATP list (#22 vs. Henman's #74). Moya was up on Henman 2 sets to 1, and had a 4-2 lead in the fifth set; Henman blew four match point opportunities beforeplay was suspended due to darkness. Moya should have won. But he didn't. Why?

I think it's because Henman is British.

While nationality rarely, if ever, affects physical ability, it has eveything to do with heart and will, especially if you're Tim Henman, playing in your home country, with a thousand or more Brits screaming your name as if you'd just defeated the French in war (and that's just in the stadium).

As England's lone hope for their first Wimbledon crown since 1936 and the only decent Brit male in the last couple of decades, a lot rides on Tim's shoulders every time he serves and volleys. His bests shot was against Goran Ivanisevic in the 2001 Wimbledon semifinals; the latter won the emotional match for his only career Grand Slam.

I can't imagine what that feels like- both the pressure of knowing that everyone in Her Majesty's kingdom is counting on you to bring national pride back to Wimbledon, and the thought that every game you win sends the entire crowd into frenzied "Henmania." There's a spot at Wimbledon unofficially named "Henman Hill."

That's got to put a lot on him, but I can't help but think that's what gave him the will and heart to battle a younger and better player for five sets, the last of which went twice as long as any normal set. Henman was three games from losing the first-round match, but fought tooth and nail to tie the set before play was suspended, and then to outlast Moya the next day 8-6.

With guys like Federer and Nadal and Roddick and Blake and 73 others better than Henman (make that 72, now that Moya is gone), Tim has a huge mountain to climb to get to the summit of Wimbledon glory. He always has. I hope he gets there just once before age and injury catch up to him.

He deserves it more than anyone.

Yeah, It's OId, But Has Anything Changed?

I wrote this a little over a year ago on a free Fox Sports blog, and it's funny just much it could apply today:

June 13, 2006

The Rocket Man Blasts Off Again...But Who Cares?

I bleed red and white for the St. Louis Cardinals. I also happen to bleed blue for the Yankees. How on earth could someone who claims to respect baseball cheer for the Yankees, you ask? Simple. The Yankees have the richest history in baseball. They also have the largest pocketbook. I don't claim to be a Geroge Steinbrenner fan by any means, except the caricature on Seinfeld. But I love the team. I love watching Derek Jeter play shortstop. I love watching Bernie Williams crush the ball out of the park. I love watching Jorge Posada gun a base thief down. And like all pitching officianados, I love Mariano Rivera's unhittable cutter.

Loving the Yankees began with Don "Mr. Baseball" Mattingly. Why did I love him more than any other current ballplayer as a kid, save the Wizard? Probably because his name was etched into my little ball glove. But I also feel like my love comes because my dad's favorite boyhood ballplayer was Mickey Mantle.

Rooting for the Bronx Bombers also meant rooting for Roger Clemens at one point. After his illustrious start in Boston and those few years in Toronto, the Big Rocket came to the Big Apple. THe moments were great. I remember being at Yankee Stadium when Clemens took the mound against the Braves in interleague play. I remember how the fans booed him because he wasn't David Wells. Then there was the Subway series incident with that poor, traumatized and notorious piece of a bat, thrown mercilessly by the Rocket. Oh yeah, there was a catcher invloved there somewhere too.

But the big and bright stars at night called to Roger, so he went to Houston. At 40+ years old, he helped pitch the Astros to their first World Series ever. We'll have mercy on Astro fans and not mention about the outcome.

Then he tried to retire. And is now coming back. Cue Chris Farley:

"Hey, dad, I can't see too good. Is that Air Jordan over there?"

I respect Clemens. I respect his talent. I hope to be able to throw a ball at all when I'm 40. He can still gun it in there. And it's cool that he's coming back for another year.

But why the circus? Why keep a running pitch count after the first pitch, during a minor league game on ESPN? Why even show it on ESPN, except for as highlights?

I don't care for Barry Bonds, but I understand why we saw every at bat until he hit #715. I don't understand why we watched every strike and ball and earned run the Rocket handed out in a minor league game. Sure, it would have been the thrill of a lifetime to hit against Clemens. I just don't want to see that over the other, far more interesting baseball games going on at the same time. Maybe if he would have pitched a no hitter or shut out. But he didn't. I'm not even saying "Show the Cards," because they lost that day. But show something interesting to more people than Clemens, his family (except his son, who has seen what the Rocket can offer and sent it deep), and a guy in my Journalism program.

Roger, I welcome you back to baseball. I look forward to Pujols taking your fastball into the left field bleachersin September. I look forward to watching you pitch, because even though you are older than almost everyone playing the game (except Julio Franco, who is older than baseball), you still got it. But so do a lot of other people. And they didn't hold out until the All-Star break to decide, "Eh, if Jordan can come back 76 times, surely I can throw a ball or two more."

BSU Oklahoma Fiesta Bowl Highlights

Most amazing bowl game ending ever!

I Live For This

Baseball season is here again.

Nothing I've ever experienced evokes so many vastly different emotions in such a short time span. In one split second, you go from the top of the highest mountain in the world to the bottom of the lowest pit in existence. Or vice versa. It just depends on whether your dugout says "Home" or "Away."

Just ask Brad Lidge. Game 5 of the 2005 NLCS. After Chris Carpenter gave up a devastating go-ahead home run to Lance Berkman, the Astros had a 4-2 lead and were one out away from their first trip to the World Series. Then Albert Pujols did what he does best- silencing home team crowds. One swing shut up thousands of Houston fans in a split second. Houston would eventually recover...the next game.

But Brad Lidge learned what Yogi Berra so casually stated: "It ain't over 'til it's over."

Just ask Adam Wainwright. After Yadier Molina broke a 1-1 tie in Game 7 of the 2006 NLCS, the Cardinals had a 3-1 cushion. Wainwright had plenty of breathing room. Then he gave up back to back singles to Jose Valentin and Endy Chavez. Two outs and one walk later, the bases were loaded for Carlos Beltran. Beltran had burned the Cardinals more and worse than any other player in recent playoff history. In 2004, he hit a home run in each of the first four games of the NLCS against the Cardinals. He hit 3 home runs against the Redbirds in 2006- 7 playoff home runs in the last 3 years against St. Louis. If there was one person the Mets wanted at the plate (and one person Wainwright wouldn't want to face), this was him. In true hero fashion, though, Wainwright sat Beltran and the Mets down with three straight strikes and hushed the Amazin' fans for the winter.

Baseball is a game of streaks and slumps.

Just last year, two Philadelphia Phillies, Jimmy Rollins and Chase Utley, came noticeably close to breaking Joe DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak.

On the other side of the coin are the Chicago Cubs. Talk went on for years about the "Curse of the Babe" that haunted the Red Sox and kept a title out of Beantown for 86 years. But the Cubbies have suffered a championship drought since 1908, the longest title slump in all of the four major American sports (MLB, NFL, NBA, NHL).

But like the Red Sox (and the White Sox the next year), one season can turn things around.
Speaking of turnarounds, it's amazing to me what a change of scenery can do.

Just ask Jeff Weaver. In 2006, he was signed for one year (and $8.5 million) by the Angels. After being the foundation of the 2005 Dodgers rotation, he tanked, posting a 3-10 record with a 6.29 ERA in the first half. He was traded to the Cardinals- to add insult to injury, his slot in the rotation was given to his younger brother Jered. And then he became on of the Cardinals' most reliable pitchers. He pitched solid baseball, got several key wins that allowed a slumping St. Louis club to tumble and stumble into the playoffs, and pitched an amazing Game 7 in the World Series, helping the Cardinals clinch their first title in 24 years. The last time they won, I was 5 months old.

Baseball is a game that attacks the senses.

The crack of a baseball bat is unlike any other sound in the world. Often you could close your eyes and tell it's a home run just from the sound. The sound gives it away.

There's all the smells. Like "Shoeless Joe" Jackson, in Field of Dreams, have you ever held a glove to your face? There's something wonderful about the smell of broken-in leather. Or the smell of the fresh-cut outfield grass. Or the smell of hot dogs and roasted peanuts.
Then there are the memories.

One of the greatest times for me as a baseball fan was 1998. Mark McGwire came over from the A's the year before. A home-run hitter for his entire career, he had come dangerously close to breaking Roger Maris' single-season home run record of 61, set in 1961, by knocking 58 out of the park. So from opening day in 1998, all eyes were on Mark as the chase began. As the season progressed, the tension mounted, made more so because Sammy Sosa of the Cubs was only the smallest step behind McGwire.

September 8, 1998, found me at marching band practice in the evening. My only contact with the game came because one of the trumpet players had smuggled in a small radio. In the middle of practice, a cry went up from the trumpet section- "HE DID IT!!!" McGwire had broken the record. When I got home, I recorded every sportscast I could from local news. The next day I bought every newspaper I could find for the article clippings. I still have them in a plastic storage container in my room, along with the commemorative issue of Sports Illustrated. I pinned the articles to my bedroom wall, creating a mural of pictures and editorials and news stories about the event.

And steroids or not, controversy or not, for me, that is one of the greatest moments of baseball for me, because I lived it in my own small way.

Greater than that was the 2006 Cardinals World Series run. Being a student enrolled at the MU School of Journalism, and being in the Sports Reporting class that fall, I got to go to Games 3 and 4 of the Division Series against the Padres. Not only that, I got to go onto the field as the teams were taking batting practice. I could have spit on Jim Edmonds or Jose Vizcaino. I could have reached out and poked David Wells. I got to talk to Cardinals reliever Tyler Johnson. I sat in on press conferences with Tony LaRussa and Chris Carpenter.

Better than that was going to cover Games 3 and 5 of the World Series. We didn't have press access, but I got to report just outside Busch Stadium. I got to talk to people about ticket prices during Game 3.

Better than that, I was standing outside the stadium when Wainwright struck out Brandon Inge to clinch the Series. I was there when pandemonium erupted on the streets, people screamed and cried and cheered, and fireworks exploded over Busch Stadium. And I got to report on it.

That will be with me forever.

I live for this game. I live for Cardinal baseball on KFRU and Mike Shannon's gravel voice. I live for an Albert Pujols home run, a David Eckstein double play, a Chris Carpenter strikeout, or a Jim Edmonds diving catch.

I live for this.