It's a little embarrassing to admit this, but I will confess it anyway, because here at The Life of Kings, we are all about honesty. So here goes:

You can become jaded about sports when you write about them for a living.

This is likely not breaking news to you; every sportswriter I've ever known has received scores of e-mails, phone calls or handwritten letters over the years (some of which are penned in a beautiful crayon script) accusing them of being a bitter, jaded, no-good S.O.B who is only out to drum up controversy in order to sell newspapers. "Support the home team, you jerk!" we are often told, a statement that makes us wonder if most fans see our true role as little more than the literate, articulate cheerleader.

It's never that simple, of course. Sportswriting is not factory work, but it is a job, much as any other. We do our best to tell it like it is, even when that's unpopular, knowing that the most important thing to focus on when writing the first draft of history (other than double-checking the spelling of names) is to be honest.

Just like your job, there are ebbs and flows, good bosses and bad, memorable days and forgettable ones. And while some people choose to come home from a difficult day at the office (and I use the term "office" loosely) and use sports to escape or unwind, many of us do not have that luxury. We watch games with leads pounding through our heads. Stadiums, frequently, do not make us think about the collective joy that so many experience when they walk through the gates and see the lush green grass or hear the leather ball snapping through the nylon. They remind us of the hundreds of athletes we've had to beg over the years -- literally beg -- for two minutes of their time just to get a quote before our deadline hits. They make us recall nights and weekends spent away from our families, eating awful bar food and praying, before our head hits the pillow, that we will not wake up to learn we've been scooped by the competition.

There is a piece of writing, however, that I read often to help keep my life as a sportswriter and sports fan in perspective. I thought about it again last night as I sat across the street from Wrigley Field, on a rooftop deck with a Coors Light in my hand, and watched the Cubs defeat the Cincinnati Reds 7-4 despite Ken Griffey Jr.'s 595th home run. It was written by Roger Angell of The New Yorker, shortly after the 1975 World Series, in an attempt to explain why Carlton Fisk's home run off the foul pole in Game 6 mattered.

 Angell wrote:

It is foolish and childish, on the face of it, to affiliate ourselves with anything so insignificant and patently contrived and commercially exploitive as a professional sports team, and the amused superiority and icy scorn that the non-fan directs at the sports nut (I know this look -- I know it by heart) is understandable and almost unanswerable. Almost. What is left out of this calculation, it seems to me, is the business of caring -- caring deeply and passionately, really caring -- which is a capacity or an emotion that has almost gone out of our lives. And so it seems possible that we have come to a time when it no longer matters so much what the caring is about, how frail or foolish is the object of that concern, as long as the feeling itself can be saved. Naivete -- the infantile and ignoble joy that sends a grown man or woman to dancing and shouting with joy in the middle of the night over the haphazardous flight of a distant ball -- seems a small price to pay for such a gift.

I was reminded of this not because it's beautiful baseball writing, but because I did something tonight that I've always wanted to do before I die, or before writing about sports turns me cold and bitter: I sang along during the seventh inning stretch at Wrigley Field. And I sang loud, caring very little about how uncool or unprofessional I looked, and at the end, even though I have no allegiance to the Cubs, I hollered out "Let's get some runs!" in my best Bill Murray voice.

It wasn't perfect, of course. Cubs announcer Harry Caray (pictured above) has been dead more than 10 years, and so he wasn't there to lead the crowd in song like he did for countless Cubs games. (Olympic beach volleyball player Misty May-Treanor did the honors.) And I would have preferred to be in the bleachers instead of in a skybox across the street. But it was one more thing I was able to cross off my Sports Bucket List, the list of all the things I want to do before it's too late. Singing along to that song in that park represents a tradition and a passion that words really cannot do justice.

I think every sports fan -- even those of us who write about sports and have gone many places and seen many things -- has at least a rough mental checklist of the stuff they'd like to cross off, especially if time and money were not the deciding factor. And those checklists reflect our personal tastes and eccentricities. I've played baseball with a group of kids, using only a stick and a balled-up sock, in one of the poorest neighborhoods in San Pedro de Macoris in the Dominican Republic, and I've covered an NFL playoff game. Both were once on my list, but for different reasons. I'm going to throw out five more of my own for this week's edition of The Big Five, and then you feel free to list yours. There are no wrong answers, only events that, for whatever reason, inject you with enough excitement or curiosity that you feel free to experience the ignoble joy that is caring. 
 

5. A Wimbledon final on Centre Court: I was a below average tennis player in high school without much of a backhand or a credible second serve, but Pete Sampras mesmerized me as a young man by winning seven Wimbledon titles. Centre Court was a cathedral to him, an I've always wanted to sit quietly and hear the thwack! of a running forehand.
 

4. Attend a bullfight in Spain: The folks at PETA may fire off a few angry emails if they see this one, and they probably should, because bullfighting is brutal. But for every fool like me who read "The Sun Also Rises" and fell hard for Hemingway's charms, the lure of red wine, cigars and matadors is too strong.

3. Take part in the pre-race prayer at the Daytona 500: I'm not much of a religious man, nor do I follow NASCAR. But after reading Sunday Money by Jeff MacGregor, truly one of the best sports books of the last 15 years, I started to understand why the Daytona 500 (and other NASCAR races like it) are such an important part of the complicated fabric that is American culture. Read the book, even if you don't have any interest in stock car racing. It's like listening to music.

2. Spend an afternoon at the College World Series in Omaha, Neb.: Supposedly, it's one of the most unique and fun atmospheres in sports. Someday I want to drink beer, eat a chicken sandwich that some friendly stranger has cooked in the parking lot, and root for a team I have no connection to whatsoever.

1. Eat pimento cheese sandwiches at Amen Corner:  This last one is cliché, but it's cliché for a reason. Doesn't matter who's playing, as long as I got to hear one Augusta birdie roar.

Your turn.  

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 2:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)
                    

Today, we continue with one of our regular features here at The Life of Kings: The Big Five. Every few days, we pick a subject, sometimes at random, and either rank something, or throw out an argument and use five points to make our case. With everyone from your bookie to your grandmother -- which, for some of you, may be one and the same -- picking Tiger Woods to win the Masters this year, allow me to make the case for why you should, instead, pull for Phil Mickelson.

1. The Elvis Factor: A few years ago in the pages of The Sun, I made the argument that Mickelson fans were the Elvis fans of the golfing world while Tiger Woods fans were more likely to call themselves Beatles people. I still think it holds up. Of course the Beatles are cooler. They represent the pinnacle of artistic achievement. Tiger has John's arrogance and imagination, Paul's genius and flair, George's courage when it comes to risk-taking and like Ringo, he's a goofy-looking guy who married a babe in Elin. (Although to be fair, Phil married out of his league too.) But no matter how much you respect the Beatles, for some of us, there is just something about Elvis. He's got charm and charisma, and even if some folks think it's phony, it always feels genuine to the people he looks in the eye and connects with. So what if he's a little out of shape? He just wants to entertain. And he always does. Sometimes that means Heartbreak Hotel on the back nine. And sometimes it's Good Rocking Tonight. Either way, you get your money's worth.

 

2. He's an Equipment Mad Scientist: Phil will once again carry two drivers in his bag this year at Augusta, a tactic that helped win his second Masters title in 2006. In the last few weeks, he's tried about three different putters. You know why that's cool? Because every hacker playing his own personal goat track around the country knows what it feels like to hit their buddy's driver flush or bomb in a long one with a borrowed putter and wonder, "Could this be the club I've been looking for my whole life?" The entire equipment industry survives because of people like Mickelson, tinkering madmen (and women) who are always thinking in the back of their minds, "My swing is pretty good. I just need to find the right club to go with it." This kind of reasoning is completely foolish, of course, but I can relate to it. In my basement, and in the trunk of my car, there are the dusty carcasses of old clubs I cursed out one too many times, then banished, swearing I would never let them back into the light to shank another day. Eventually, I'll dig them out and convince myself, "You know, I used to hit this pretty good." And after two or three beers, I will.

3. His caddy will, mostly likely, not threaten to kill anyone. If there is one thing that truly keeps me from embracing Tiger Woods, it's his meathead caddy Steve Williams. Obviously, Williams is very good at his job. Hiccup during Woods backswing and Williams will dunk your head in a pond and possibly try to drown you, then laugh as he tosses you on the bank, gasping for air, giving you a quick cleat to the groin before he jogs up the fairway to catch up with Woods. (This may be a slight exaggeration. For a different opinion, check out ESPN.com's Wayne Drehs profile of Williams here.) In my eyes, Stevie comes off as nothing but a country club thug. Instead, give me the cool, quiet calm of Jim "Bones" McKay. Sometimes, Mickelson will convince himself that he can do something stupid (but awesome) such as skip a ball -- using a three iron -- off pine straw, across a pond, and onto the green 160 yards away. Only Bones can talk him out of this. I cannot put into words how difficult that is to do with Phil. Bones could probably talk George W. Bush out of invading Iran. Considering that Mickelson is friends with George H.W. Bush, perhaps this can be arranged.

4. Because sometimes, his gambling pays off: In 2000, Mickleson believed the Ravens could win it all even before you did. You may already know the story, but in case you don't, it's worth repeating. Mickelson laid down $20,000 on the Ravens to win the Super Bowl at the beginning of the season. He liked Billick. He liked the defense. When they won it all, he took Vegas for $440,000, and had the casino stuff all the money is pillow cases for him to take on the plane. This is what makes Mickelson awesome. He literally sees himself as Sky Masterson from Guys and Dolls. If he saw two moths in the locker room, he'd bet $1,000 on which one was going to eat a hole in John Daly's shirt first. On the course, the same is true. In 2004, when he won his first major, he started his back-nine charge by firing at the pin on Hole No. 12. Nobody fires at the Sunday pin on that hole. It's a sucker placement. Mickelson did. And he drained the birdie putt. The Amen Corner crowd went bonkers. Golf is supposed to be exciting like that. Sometimes, damn the percentages, you've got to go for it. If for no other reason than to keep us from dying of boredom.

5. Tiger needs a rival, because worshiping him like he is a deity makes me want to ralph in the azaleas: You know who is insufferable? The golf fan who doesn't know Carmilo Villegas from Carmelo Anthony, but he can't wait to tell you how awesome Tiger Woods is. People who are really into Tiger Woods but don't follow golf are like people who are really into U2, but don't listen to much music. I don't blame U2, because I respect them, and celebrate a majority of their catalog. I just can't stand it when their fans act like U2 discovered rock music. Jack Nicklaus was an incredible golfer in his time, and Ben Hogan and Bobby Jones were outstanding long before Jack came along. Tiger understands this. Many of his fans do not. I want Phil to win because I want many of these people to be disappointed. They are bandwagoners. They were Yankee fans in the late 1990s, Cowboys fans in the mid-90s, and Bulls fans before that. If the Orioles keep winning, they'll buy a Markakis jersey, then brag about how they drafted him for their fantasy team. They'll have the nerve to call him a "sleeper."

No thank you. It's more fun to cheer for imperfection. Because when Phil starts firing at pins, tipping his cap, rolling in long putts, jiggling as he walks up the fairway, trying to convince Bones to let him go for the green out of a fairway sand trap, I don't sit there in awe the way I do when I watch Tiger.

I think: Damn this guy looks like he's having fun.

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 10:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)
                    

With this post, and the news that American tennis star Andy Roddick just got engaged to model Brooklyn Decker, we're going to begin what we hope will be a regular feature here at The Life of Kings: The Big Five.

Every few days, we'll pick a subject, sometimes random, and rank it accordingly. It might be as important as The Five Greatest Orioles of All Time, or as trivial as The Five Best Villains in a Sports Movie. Today, we begin with the trivial in honor of Mr. Roddick and the beautiful game of tennis. For whatever reason, tennis wives always seem to have an extra dash in visibility that the devoted spouses of athletes in other sports don't seem to get. You can't watch a men's tennis tournament without the camera panning to a player's wife or girlfriend, and she always seems to be biting her lip, furiously clapping her hands between points. It's awesome. It's what makes tennis equal parts soap opera and sporting event. There is no place to hide in the stands of Centre Court. In the spirit of 40-Love, we give you:

The Five Most Beautiful Tennis Wives or Girlfriends

5. Camille Neviere, former girlfriend of Marco Baghdatis: Neviere, apparently a French model, burst onto the scene during Baghdatis' run to the final of the 2006 Australian Open. The cameras were showing her so much, we practically saw more of her than we did Marco. The two are supposedly no longer together, but as these pictures (which appear to be all safe for work) suggest, they'll always have Melbourne.

4. Jennifer Scholle, former girlfriend of James Blake: Most of the pictures of Ms. Scholle, who posed for Maxim a few years ago, are a bit too randy for me to link to, but pop her name into a Google Image search and you'll understand what I'm talking about. Ms. Scholle is some kind of model/actress, and seems to feel fairly comfortable being interviewed in a skimpy swimsuit, according to this YouTube clip. Sadly, it didn't work out between she and Blake, but he moved on to another babe, soccer star Heather Mitts, until they recently broke up as well. Seriously, much respect, Mr. Blake.

3. Steffi Graf, wife of Andre Agassi: You might consider this ranking too high, but I do not care one bit. Mrs. Agassi is classy and classical, and had more game than Maria Sharapova or Anna Kournikova can ever dream of. In addition to having the most Grand Slams in history, she also has the best legs in the history of tennis. Graf was also one of the first female athletes to pose for Sports Illustrated's Swimsuit issue, and proof that muscles were incredibly sexy -- way sexier than stick figure models eating celery and boiled carrots to stay thin.

2. Brooklyn Decker/Mandy Moore: Out of respect to Roddick, we'll give him a dual entry here, one for his future wife (Decker) and one for his former girlfriend (Moore). Ms. Decker may be one of the most beautiful women on the planet, but Moore gets extra points for her comedic turn on Scrubs, one of the most underrated comedies in TV history. Moore managed to make awkwardness seem sexy on Scrubs, and gets extra points for never going the Britney Spears route. Decker gets extra points, though, for her appearances on SI.com this season, where she picked football games against the magazine's venerable handicapper Paul Zimmerman, a favorite scribe of Life of Kings.

Roddick may never match Roger Federer's game, but it's clear he's got plenty of game in the romance department.

1. Bridget Wilson (Sampras): Admittedly, this ranking is based, in part, on the unconditional love I have for the Adam Sandler movie Billy Madison ("How 'bout you Sideburns? You want some of this milk?"), but Mrs. Sampras is a study in class, grace, humor and beauty. She performed credibly in the movie Higher Learning, and even did a nice job playing Matthew McConaughey's fiancee in The Wedding Planner. That's right, I sat through The Wedding Planner. I'm not (totally) ashamed to admit it. Plus, who could ever forget the scene where she climbed into Billy Madison's pool and smacked him around until he broke out in song.

Sampras never really got his due for being as good as he was during his career. It seems like people have already decided Federer is the Greatest of All Time, forgetting all those years when Pete dominated. Unfortunately, it seemed like the only time the public truly seemed in awe of him were the multiple occasions when he thumped Agassi in Grand Slam finals. I guess Sampras' reward is that, despite the fact that he's nerdy and balding, he's married to someone this stunning. Game. Set. Match.

Honorable Mention: Marat Safin's harem of blonds that sits court side at most of his matches; Brooke Shields; Boris Becker's ex-wife Barbara Feltus; Tommy Haas' actress girlfriend Sara Foster; Miss Universe Natalie Glebova, wife of Paradorn Srichaphan.

Because we at least pretend to care more about words here at Life of Kings than we do pictures of half-naked ladies, here is some recommended reading: David Foster Wallace's incredible profile of Roger Federer from the New York Times PLAY Magazine. Possibly one of the best sports features of the last few years.

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 8:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)