Why We Watch Sports

So, how’s your bracket? President Obama went 14-2 yesterday. He’s a real Baraketologist. But when it comes to presidential sporting quotes, check this one out from JKF: “We are inclined that if we watch a football game or baseball game, we have taken part in it.”

Every wife, sister, daughter, and mother of a sport fan should have this quote stuck to their fridges. Ladies, it sums up why we men watch sports.

Playing and watching sports has always been a huge part of my life. If there’s a big game on the flat screen, odds are I’ll be watching. This time of year, nothing’s better than the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament that tipped off yesterday. For the next three weeks, I’ll be taking in the tourney hoping to see something close to the excitement of last year’s championship game.

Remember the shot? In last year’s finale, upstart Butler University nearly upset the Big Bad Duke Blue Devils. Butler’s Gordon Hayward almost sank a half-court shot at the buzzer that would have won the game. Had it gone in, I think we would have seen the single greatest sports moment in history.

For my sister’s sake, let’s break down the play.

First there’s the shot: Half-court shots are for the playground or games of H-O-R-S-E. They go in about as often as Steven Tyler shops at the Gap. They’re dramatic. They embody desperation. The ball is in the air long enough to allow everyone in the crowd to take a deep breath, say a prayer, and pack up their souvenirs to go home.

Then there’s the scenario: It was the CHAMPIONSHIP Game. It was the ending to 65-team playoff for all the marbles. Football games have ended on Hail-Mary bombs, but never the Super Bowl or even a playoff game. Plenty of basketball games have ended on last second three-pointers, even in the NBA Finals, but not a Game 7. And not a half-courter.

Then there’s the teams: This was BUTLER, a team from a non-major conference vs. perhaps the top college basketball programs of the last 25 years. Had Butler won, it would have been a huge upset. Duke was playing in its eighth championship game since 1986. Butler wasn’t a total slouch. The Bulldogs were 33-5 and ranked 11^th heading into the tournament. But schools like Butler don’t win this tournament. We’ve seen our share of Davids toppling their Goliaths, especially during March Madness. But these Cinderellas always run break their glass slippers before the title game.

The most famous sporting upset ever is arguably the 1980 USA Olympic hockey team’s “Miracle on Ice” win over the mighty Soviets. But even that one didn’t end on a desperation slap shot from center ice. That whole hockey game was a miracle. Plus it was a semi-final, not the Gold Medal match.

Baseball over the years has had its share of dramatic moments. Home runs have ended playoff and World Series games. On two occasions homers have ended the World Series itself. But I think Hayward’s Heave would have topped them all. A home run takes a lot of skill. I’m not stepping to the plate and smacking a home run anytime soon. But I could challenge Gordon Hayward to a half-court shot contest and hold my own. Out of ten shots each, we’d both probably sink zero. Half-court shots require about as much luck as they do skill.

So, factoring the luck, the timing, the pressure, and the storyline, Gordon Hayward almost achieved the greatest single sports moment in history. Hayward, now a reserve for the Utah Jazz would have been famous. Books and blogs would have toasted his shot. He would have been king of the talk show circuit. Too bad that “almost” only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Whether it’s the NCAA Basketball Championship or a rec league softball game, all athletes want to be the hero, to be the one to win the game with a final shot, hit, throw, or catch. It’s why we play.

It’s also why we watch. With each televised sporting event, viewers are reliving their childhoods, battling former competitors, dreaming dreams, hoping to be heroes like Gordon Hayward nearly was.

One shining moment at a time.

A Presidential Reunion

If Kevin Costner can gather a bunch of dead ballplayers in an Iowa cornfield, I decided to assemble our former presidents in honor of today’s holiday. Since I live down the road from Richard Nixon’s birthplace and library, I chose his museum as my meeting location. It wasn’t hard to do. I just whispered, “If you overspend, they will come.”

At once, all the deceased presidents materialized in the replica of the White House’s East Room. It was a grand reunion. The recent presidents swarmed the founding fathers. Old friends were reacquainted and rivals made amends. The room was abuzz with debates, discussions, and plain old catching up.

John Adams and his son John Q. Adams spent the most time together. Former generals and war heroes such as Andrew Jackson, U.S. Grant, and Dwight Eisenhower discussed military strategies. FDR was happy to be out of his wheelchair. Washington was admiring everybody’s teeth, Reagan was passing out jellybeans, and Ford was complaining about the state of the Michigan football team.

We toured the museum and library together. Many reminisced when we passed through the models of the Lincoln Sitting Room and the White House family quarters. We walked the grounds and entered Nixon’s childhood house. Taft had to stay outside because he couldn’t fit through the door. Nineteenth-century leaders awed at the sight of Army One, the helicopter in which Nixon left the White House after waving goodbye with hands raised in victory.

Then it was photo time. I took my own Mount Rushmore picture of Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and Teddy Roosevelt. I next shot (with my camera) the four presidents who had been assassinated: Lincoln, Kennedy, Garfield, and McKinley. Then I snapped a photo of the four who died in office: Harrison, Taylor, Coolidge, and FDR. Then, I grouped the nine vice-presidents who assumed office (Can you name them all?). I had the shortest president, Madison at five-foot-four, standing on a chair next to Lincoln, who at six-foot-four was the tallest.

I knew that these dignitaries would soon want to get down to political rhetoric so we reconvened in the East Room for dinner and debates on how to mend the country’s woes. News must travel through the great Oval Office in the sky because each president was up on current events. Soon the war, the economy, the debt, health care, immigration, and education were all being bantered about.

Several presidents took the floor. Many founders marveled that the nation had grown and thrived beyond their wildest hopes and prayers. Madison praised both the changes and stability of the constitution. Monroe beamed about the super power that America had become. Jefferson raved about the progress and equality that had been achieved for women and African-Americans.

Everybody agreed that President Obama has his hands full, maybe as much as anyone going back to FDR. The talking went on for hours. There wasn’t any finger pointing, but nothing was getting accomplished. Voices started to rise, some even yelling. The mood of the room had dramatically shifted. It was becoming a shouting match. I looked over at Lincoln, who was sitting as quietly as a spectator at a tennis match. I rushed to his side, imploring him to do something.

He nodded, grabbed Teddy Roosevelt’s riding stick and brought the room to order by whacking it violently against his chair. I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say. He cleared his throat, “Gentlemen, our host would like to say a few words.” He looked at me.

“What? Me? No, I’m not very political. You say something,” I told him. “Something magical, something Gettysburg address-ish!”

“No, son, you brought us here. What would you do if … if you were one of us?”

What should I say? My mind raced. I love America, but it’s so upside down. Baseball players make more per inning than teachers do in a year. Our inner cities are warzones, but we have thousands of troops overseas. Our prisoners, illegal aliens, trees, and whales have more rights than the unborn. Banks get bailed out, but our schools are broke. Radical Islam isn’t a threat, but Sarah Palin is. We send spacecraft to Mars, but we can’t stop drugs from crossing our borders. A college freshman knows not to spend more than he earns, but the government doesn’t. Religious freedoms upon which this nation was founded are taken away by the unreligious and given to those who hate America. Bags don’t fly free anymore.

I didn’t have any answers. So I said, “Maybe we should do what they did before Continental Congress sessions.”

“What’s that?” Lincoln asked.

“Pray.”

“I knew you’d have the answer,” he said.

All heads bowed. Just then, Washington stood. He walked over to Lincoln and I. “Mind if I lead us?”

Happy Birthday Neb

I’ve never had to be my brother’s keeper. I don’t have one, at least not a biological one. Most of my best friends have brothers. I have 36 first cousins and all but five us have a brother. King Solomon knew a thing or two about brothers. In Proverbs 18:24 he wrote, “One who has unreliable friends soon comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”

Since I don’t have a brother, let’s talk about sisters. No one will ever confuse me with Ol’ Solomon but I do know a thing or two about sisters. And one of mine is having a birthday today. Jennifer Anne. The Neb. Nebbie. Nebulon. Nebulous. She’s always had nicknames. Jennoochka as our dad called her. Jeffiner, was mom’s term of endearment. To me she was Jen. Jen became Ben. Then Jen-ben. After a subtle switcheroo, Neb was created (It’s just Ben backwards).

Shortly after her birth my parents decided to develop their inner farmer and we moved from the suburbs to the quiet and lonely countryside 30 miles outside of Detroit. We were the Clampetts in reverse, without the money. We had chickens, rabbits, ducks, and the meanest guinea hens you’ve ever seen. We had a pond that wasn’t made out of cement. Our neighbors were cows. Literally. My nearest school buddy was a 30-minute drive away. So Neb and I grew up playing together. We designed roads and cities in the sand box, went sledding in the winter, and built Lincoln Log forts for my legions of army men.

For someone who hates athletics, she was the perfect sport growing up. We created numerous games to occupy our time, most of which included either tackling her or hitting her with a ball. One such invention was called “Bean the Dude.” I would give her a head start and she would start running around the outside of our house. I would then take off chasing her and once she was in my crosshairs I would fire my Nerf football at her backside as she tried to scurry to safety around the next corner. It was great practice for hitting the downfield receiver in my school-yard football battles with the guys.

Eventually, we grew out of our childhood games and soon thereafter my admiration for her started taking off like our national debt. She deftly toned her knack for comedic timing. She started developing skills in drama, music, and art. By the time she was in high school I saw someone who had more talent in her pinky toe than I did in my whole body. You should see her impersonations. She’s a human juke-box when it comes to song lyrics. She’s the funniest person I know. She could put Conan, Letterman, and Leno to shame. Regis should be calling her to be his replacement.

By the time she was studying at UC Santa Barbara she was no longer the little kid I had to play with but the sister I couldn’t wait to visit. I relished our times to eat out in Isla Vista, walk State Street, or just catch a movie.

Then came the roommate years during which she miraculously didn’t kill me despite my numerous attempts to explain sports to her. With her back in Los Angeles for the last decade I’ve watched her grow from a college grad into a human resources guru. I’ve seen her shun grief like a would-be tackler and go on with her wedding only weeks after our mother’s death. I’ve marveled as she’s become a mom to a pair of beautiful children, raising them while working full-time and taking classes at night. Next month, she’ll begin a new adventure when she starts her nursing program. “Nurse Neb” has a nice ring, no?

I’ll never forget how my dad announced her birth to me. Still in my pajamas, I sat sleepily on the top step in our Grand Rapids home one cold January morning to find him bounding up on all fours to meet me at eye level. “I have good news and bad news,” he said. “The good news is that mom had the baby last night. The bad news is that … it’s a girl.”

At five and half years old, I must have been wishing for a brother. That’s one wish I’m so glad didn’t come true. Even though I am very thankful for my many reliable friends, there is only one Neb who sticks closer than a brother.