A Love Letter

Ahhhhh.*deep sigh of contentment* Spring Training has arrived. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Cardinal pitchers and catchers have offically reported to prepare themselves for my favorite pastime- a game that has captured my heart, never failing to find a way to break it, but never ceasing to grasp at the opportunities given to lovingly mend the broken pieces and make it whole again. There it's dwelled for what's been years, has always flourished, will reside forever and yet never, ever, outstay its welcome. Elementary but poetic, offering hope and crushing dreams, rewarding but taxing...No words better accomodate what this game means to me beyond the humbly simple, "I love baseball".

I don't know how to compare this to anything else because nothing else compares to baseball. Those unaware of its meaning see it as a ball, bat and group of overgrown children. But for those of us aware of its power, we know that it's tattooed itself into our hearts and minds.

Oh baseball. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

Baseball is the competition, the months of much welcomed warm weather often spoiled with punishing humidity, the days I'll head downtown to see for my own eyes what preparation meant to the team. It's the vendors whose voices refuse to chime in unison, the stadium junkfood that tempts all patrons. Baseball is opening day (better than Christmas), Cardinal fans stubbornly wearing red, the elegant Clydesdales boasting with tradition, organist Ernie Hays and his little jingles we've all memorized and learned to clap with like the puppets we've been trained to be. It's Albert Pujols reliably adding to his unbelievable career, Tony LaRussa's stoic dugout face (yup, even that), the endless nights I'll have something to watch at 7:10 pm and the long drives home where Mike Shannon and John Rooney mercifully keep me company. It's the unneeded but still rewarding post-game interviews that serve as a bonus to that night's win, one last chance to see today's hero taking advantage of his minute to recite as many sports cliches as possible. It's mocking the cynicism of Dan McLaughlin and thanking God for the very existance of Cardinals baseball. And who could forget the overcrowded parking garages following plenty a-post game filled with trapped fans all too eager to honk their joys in fun or their sorrows away...or so I've been told. This is what I've patiently been waiting for since that unusual last day in Pittsburg (oh how we've been spoiled). Of course, it'll be all I wait for even in the relatively short hours between regular season games (please tell me you love me back). It's in the back of my mind all the time,nestled between the area where memories-both relentlessly painful and blissful-cross paths. And it's finally here. At Last.

Clemens the Politician

I didn't watch the Congressional Hearings with McNamee and Clemens today because I didn't really care to. But I am thoroughly impressed with the great lengths at which Clemens is going through to prove his innocence. Do I believe him? No. I don't. Maybe I'm wrong because I believe he's guilty until proven innocent, but I've seen too many lying athletes to believe this one just because he shakes all the congressmen's hands.

It's odd to me that Pettitte would go on record saying Clemens told him he took HGH years earlier while Clemens insists he misheard him. I know if I were such a high profile figure with doubts about my memory, I wouldn't go on record and say I heard the 7 time Cy Young Award winner say something compromising. And the longer Pettitte has talked, the more often he has had time to retract on any of his statements regarding the allegations Clemens took HGH (with Pettitte's wife also backing up her husbands words). But he hasn't. I also think it's odd that McNamee injected Clemens' wife with HGH pior to a photo shoot for Sports Illustrated a few years ago. Did Clemens approve of this? Apparently he "didn't know" and admonished her for doing so after the fact (uh huh). Kind of odd that she would do so once, with his trainer, without him knowing. She already released a written statement saying she regrets it. Is this just one big coincidence that Clemens is the only one who didn't take any performance enhancing drugs? I don't think so. But then again, I could think wrong. McNamee could be wrong. I mean, his stories haven't all been true thus far. Pettitte could of heard wrong. We could all be wrong but Clemens. I just find that highly unlikely.

Perhaps Clemens the politician is doing everything right, but maybe that's because Clemens the player did everything wrong.

Spring Blossoms Over Bouquets

I saw this tall, burly man with army pants walking around with flowers in his hand and nearly lost it. I actually looked at the ground so he wouldn't see me laughing. I wasn't laughing because he was buying flowers for the little lady, but because he probably feared what would happen if he didn't buy flowers for the little lady. And that's what it boils down to. If a man bought his significant other flowers today and didn't tomorrow, on Valentine's Day, she would probably still be disappointed. Not because she didn't think he loved her, but because she expected him to conform to society's rules and send them Febuary 14. But, hey, if that's what romance is to you...

Side note, I heard a sad, sad statistic yesterday that 15% of single women send themselves flowers on V-Day so they don't feel left out. That's all you need to know to get a sense of what Valentine's Day represents (and that's all you need to know about those women. sheesh).

What gets me more excited than anything else is the prospect of Spring almost within our reach. I am almost certain that warm weather would make me feel 10 million times happier than any bouquet of flowers could. That's right, all I ask for is the Spring! Bring me sunshine and I'm yours forever. I can't even fathom warm weather at this point but I'm going to soldier through this Uranus-like weather. Yes, I will soldier through like a starving pup being chased by a pack of wild hyenas in a bottomless pit of crap. Happy Valentine's Day.

How I Froze to Death

What is this? This is not "cold" weather! This is "let's see how much human beings can tolerate before they're smart enough to move" weather! This is insane! Why I haven't moved to San Diego or Hawaii is beyond me.

I don't think you understand...I am an ARAB. My kind is not used to this....this thing you call "freezing your ass off cold". Don't get me wrong, I grew up in the Mid-west, but what I felt outside today? That is probably what Neptune feels like...

I ignored Pluto cause it's not a planet anymore.

I just missed Uranus! damnit!

You see? You see what the cold is doing to me? I'm making Uranus jokes!

URANUS JOKES!!!

Believe in the Power of the Superbowl Bananas!

Never underestimate bananas ever again. Their shape and most famous consumers have made them the laughing stock of fruit through out the history of man-kind. Never again...never again.

From another blog with the headline "Bananas Propel New York Giants to Upset Victory" comes this:

"But the real secret to the Giant’s success was certainly the bananas that were being brought out to inject the players with potassium in an effort to prevent cramps. The cameras panned on them during the 3rd quarter, giving the announcers some new material for their jawboning bullshit fest."

How Delicious.

Extra! Extra! UPSET FOR THE AGES

My feeling going into the game was, "I'm more of an anti-Patriots fan than a pro-Giants fan". My feelings after that game? I can't help but marvel at the classic that unfolded, from the miraculous-did you just see that?-plays (that elusive Quarterback and That Catch) to everything else in between. Those last two and a half minutes were perhaps among the longest two and a half sports minutes I have ever witnessed. That excitement left me struck to the core, fingers shaking, breath unsteady.

This was a Superbowl that any fan could not only enjoy, but revel in. Even if you are a Patriots fan, admit it. You might not have liked the outcome, but you can appreciate the entertainment it provided the rest of us. Coming from a Rams fan, you should just accept quietly. We, too, know the agony of unfathomable defeat. The bitterness of upset. The rollercoaster of emotions from the highest of the high, to ultimately, the lowest of the low. We felt like Superbowl 36 could not possibly be over when it was. We simply hadn't anticipated a loss. It was like we were just warming up when it ended. If you could've just extended time and let your beloved players fulfill their promise! But no, that's not how it works. And while the Patriots at least had their last shot with the final possession of the football in Superbowl 42, the Rams of Superbowl 36 weren't granted that opportunity. I truely believe that had the high flying Rams of '01 had their own final possession, they could've scored. I'm pretty sure every single defeated Superbowl team feels that way, so you can understand why it's hard to let go. And of course, the Rams didn't get their chance and the Patriots won. I know, I know. I sound like a bitter fan (and perhaps I am). I do realize that's just the way life goes sometimes. Your storybook seasons don't always end your way. It's just another chapter in someone else's happy ending. No matter how much you pray or scream or cry or act humbly, there is no reversal of fortunes. Just another loss to be highlighted in the football reels until the end of time.

I know the awful pain you are in, but alas, I cannot feel sorry for you. It hasn't been pretty for a few years now. Following their defeat of the Rams, New Englanders took on the role of a spoiled overnight child star. There was no graciousnous. They couldn't simply appreciate their good fortune in beating the heavily favored Rams and shut up. They had to mock us. Rams fans, on the other hand, while not perfect, will tell you they appreciate the great game the Tennessee Titans helped us deliver in '99. We felt fortunate enough to win after the season we had the year before. We appreciated it and walked off into the sunset. I never went out of my way to gloat to Titans' fans. Instead, I'd always wanted to get their perspective on that last courageous drive.

I've listened to New England's cocky fans revel in our own uncensored shock and others' misery for too long. I've watched the oversaturated media coverage of your own victories repeatedly shown until I've taken up the habit of turning away whenever I see another Superbowl 36 highlight reel coming on. I've seen New England fans gloat over one too many Superbowl (and World friggin' Series) victories to feel sorry for them. Perfection will not be yours. Not this year. The only blemish in your win-loss column happened to be the most important and largest you'd like to erase. A superbowl loss.

On the other side of that is the jubilant winner, of course-a side the New England Patriots have become accustomed to being on. I'd like to extend a whole hearted congratulations to the Giants. Rather than belittle their victory into a Patriots' loss, or say they had one too many balls bounce their way, I believe the better team won tonight. As a St. Louis Cardinals fan, I cannot articulate how frustrating it is to still hear people claim the '06 Cardinals were the worst World Series team to win and they just got lucky. But luck can only carry you so far as you allow it. Yes, the Cardinals were lucky. But every sports team that has ever won a championship has had luck on their side. Look no further than the Patriots-Raiders AFC championship, where, were it not for the "tuck rule", the Raiders probably would've been the victors. This year's Patriots would not have been undefeated until this point had it not been for luck. But although it is an important factor, you cannot win on luck alone. Winning championships are about hard work, taking advantage of the opportunities granted to you and, yes, even luck. The planets were simply aligned for the Giants.

I appreciated this game for all that was riding on it. For the supreme beings that were the Patriots and the belittled underdogs, an unfamiliar territory for a NY team, in the Giants. The game did not let down. It built and built until a climactic ending left us all breathless, a silent shock more resounding after time had run out than any screaming heard during regulation.

And how do you describe that play? The one in which Eli Manning escaped in a magician-like manner. There you saw him, about to tumble down with the Giants' season, and there you didn't, escaping and slipping through the battle weary hands of a half dozen Patriots. On third-and-5 with 59 seconds remaining, the ball sailed through the air covering 32 yards and, as if prompted by a sheer fear of God, David Tyree made one of the most breath-taking catches in modern NFL history on the biggest sports stage. With Rodney Harrison, the leader of the Patriots' Defense covering him, Tyree reached up to seal the Giants' fate, finger tips securing a football over the back of his head in an astonishing play that could half jokingly and half seriously be called back-breaking. The rest is literally history. And just like that, David Tyree will remain legend for the rest of his life no matter what happens here on out. Ask Mike Jones.

Do I feel a slight redemption for our own Superbowl loss? Perhaps. Will I sleep better tonight knowing the fans of New England can finally remember what losing in a heart-breaking fashion feels like? *smile* But is this about six years ago? No. It's about now. The Patriots lost, the dynasty has ended, the empire has fallen. Forget 19-0. The only numbers that count are Giants 17, Patriots 14.

My sister sauntered into my room well after the game had ended, still in shock, still happy beyond the smile that graced her face, and jubilantly proclaimed, "I wonder how they (Patriots' fans) are going to sleep tonight? I hope they have nightmares."

But I think it's safe to say, following one of the greatest upsets in Superbowl history, they've already had one.