The Dilly From T-Nilly

Hey! Save Me A Seat!

2009-07-27T17:23:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. There's something I have to get off of my chest that I'm deeply ashamed of. In fact, I've spent the past few weeks debating whether or not I should even speak of it to my close friends and family. You may wonder why, if I'm so conflicted, would I out myself in my (annual) blog post? Well, I challenge you to name one other person who reads this (annual) blog and tell me he/she doesn't fit the category of close friends and family [Sorry Donnie, I've eaten a meal in your house, your lake house, your mountain house, and even your horse ring. Although you weren't there, I'm qualifying you anyway because it's my (annual) blog]. The source of my shame is something I swore I would never do (I know Mormons don't swear, but I did it anyway. Guess what, I drink Coke Zero too). In fact, on several occasions I've found myself judging other people for doing exactly what I'm contemplating. Harshly at times. I wish it were something as simple as a purchase like this, or a deep infatuation with this. But no, my disgrace emanates from an act far more heinous than love of 80's butt rock. I'm considering jumping on a bandwagon.

In the world of sports, there is nothing that will bring you more derision from fellow sports-lovers than bandwagon jumping. What's worse, the team to whose horse I'm considering hitching my wagon is none other than the New York Freakin' Yankees. Just reading that line makes me want to pour bleach into my own eyes. The Yankees? Really? The Evil Empire? The team about which I myself have made countless 'best team money can buy' jokes? The Yankees?

Yep, the Yankees. Here's the deal. Unlike basketball (Jazz) and college sports (Utes, Deacs, Heels, 'Horns, Banana Slugs), I've never really had a baseball team to pull for. Sure there were the Texas years with the Rangers, but I was never fully invested because football always comes first in Texas (and second through fifth). I tried the Padres on for size and had to take them right back because nobody should hate themselves as much as is required to cheer for the Padres. It's unhealthy. There was the Angels when my man Chone (we always pronounced it 'Choe-nee' whereas it's actually pronounced the same as 'Shawn') Figgins started playing for them, but that was just because his name was Chone Figgins. I even went the rounds with the Mariners in the Griffey years, but then they traded him away along with any possible reason to cheer for them.

So here I find myself living in the world's #1 media market. It all started innocently enough. Shortly after we arrived, a genuinely nice guy (or an insidiously cunning n'er do well, you be the judge) gave us two tickets to the Yankees-Blue Jays game in the Bronx on the fourth of July.

Quick fact: If there's one thing I love in life aside from my family and meatloaf, it's 'moments'. You could even argue one of the main reasons I love sports so much are the 'moments'. I'm constantly on the lookout for reasons to create 'moments' (it drives my wife crazy). So,

Yankee's + Fourth of July + Biscuit + Emilee = moment

Seemed like a logical equation to me. Had I only anticipated the self-loathing that would soon be my constant companion, I could have spent the day getting glared at by the snotty clerks in Bloomingdale's. Or, even enjoying the various odors that you can only find during the summer in The City.

As it turns out, this is the Yankee's first season in their new stadium. As you can tell from the video, there are royal families in this world whose palaces aren't as stunning as this place. There were tributes to history and tradition everywhere you turned. Significance oozed from the cracks in concourse floor. The only other time I've ever felt that sensation was when I walked the halls of the Dean Dome in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

As we made our way to our seats there was an electricity in the air that can only be created certain places, on certain days, and in certain situations. The new Yankee Stadium, a breezy 75 degrees, our nation's birthday, and going against one of the game's most dominant pitchers, just so happens to be such a combo. Oh yeah, did I happen to mention it was my son's first major league game? It's like the fates were openly mocking me at this point.

I should make it clear right now that I went to the game intending to be, and remain, perfectly neutral. Switzerland, taupe, and the 'N' on your car's gear selector had nothing on me. But as the first few innings wore on, I found myself coming out of my seat a little further as each Yankee fly ball drifted closer and closer to the outfield. I was giving little fist pumps each time Jeter turned a routine ground ball. I let out small groans each time the Blue Jays scored a run or saved a home run. By the time the Yanks rallied to tie the game in the bottom of the seventh inning I was openly jumping up and down yelling at A-Rod, booing every call against the Yankees even when they were obviously correct, high-fiving middle-aged dudes wearing brand new Mark Teixeira jerseys. And basically acting like any other guy named Vinnie who grew up within a popup of E 161st street. I couldn't help it. Frankly, I didn't really want to.

The ninth inning came and went with the score tied 5-5. So did the tenth and the eleventh. Each time the Yankees came up to bat I found myself trying to will them to victory with the fervor I usually reserve for those moments like Utah 48, School-Down-South 24 (how's that for a gratuitous shot). It wasn't that I was just caught up in the momentary excitement. And it wasn't that I was afraid to ride home on the subway with a bunch of angry and intoxicated Yankee fans (at least not entirely). It was more than that. I wanted the Yankees to justify my suddenly irrational fanaticism. I wanted them to give me a reason to care. I wanted them to give me a moment.

And they did. In the bottom of the 12th, Hip-Hip-Jorge Posada singled in A-Rod for the game-winning run. We went wild. The perfect ending to a near perfect game on an absolutely perfect day.

Now I'm not saying I've taken my seat on the pinstripe bandwagon. I have too much pride (or deeply rooted insecurities) to do that. And as an added sucker punch, the Yankee's have turned up the bandwagon dial by cranking off an eight game winning streak to take over first place in their division. Regardless of all that, since July 4 I've watched more baseball than I had in the previous 10 years. I'm staying up much later than I should to watch SportCenter. I even find myself checking espn.com for updates during my morning poop. I care again. I can talk baseball with my little brother when he calls (although, he's a big Red Sox fan, so that introduces another layer of complexity into the situation). Maybe it's a passing fancy and I'll get over it when NFL players report for training camp this week (you just felt butterflies, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU??). But I doubt it. It feels different this time.

No matter what, I'm intrigued to see where this new infatuation takes me over the next few weeks. Who knows, this may be the catalyst for me to make regular blog updates. Hey, I told you this was serious.

Back Again For The First Time

2008-06-29T13:38:00.000-07:00

My deepest apologies to all for the short (yes short, three months and a week is actually quite short from an eternal perspective) layoff between blot posts. I wish I had a better excuse than "I've been busy," but my excuse isn't even that good since I spend a large amount of time sitting on the couch waiting for little biscuit to wake up so we can play the wobble-wobble game. Since it's been so long, I'm going to try something a little different than a normal blog post. We'll call it My Two Cents and it will basically consist of numerous random and likely unrelated comments on whatever tickles my fancy. Hopefully it will be entertaining, but I make no guarantees. Actually, I'll make one guarantee: Shaq really regrets being caught on tape with that rap about Kobe (note: I didn't say he regrets saying it, just getting caught on digital video)

Let's spend some cash:

Let's reach way back to March Madness. Yes, I won, and yes it was just as sweet as I thought it would be (literally, Lis sent me a candygram as my prize). Not to mention the joy of seeing one of the greatest Championship games ever. Bill Self (Kansas coach) is lucky I still won the pool though. This is the first year I can remember that I didn't pick Rock, Chalk, Jayhawk for the Final Four and if they'd cost me the crown I probably would have driven to Lawrence and
"doctored" the water in his office cooler. Take that to mean what you will.

Whoever came up with those "Viva Viagra" spots should be beaten. I’ve spent considerable time mulling this over and I can’t possibly come up with a more ridiculous and unrealistic scenario than a bunch of middle-age musicians sitting around a barn/studio/garage jamming about their ED. And if you think I’m bitter because I saw the newest of these spots today and I haven’t been able to get the song out of my head in spite of two hours of Guitar Hero, well, you’re right.
If there’s a better way to spend a Saturday night than having dinner with some good friends and then playing Rock Band until you sweat like Steven Tyler in rehab, then I haven’t found it.

So Wimbledon started. Yep, that about sums it up.

If I were to grade the Celtics-Lakers NBA Finals, I’d have to give it an Incomplete until the Lakers show up. Anyone who thinks Kobe is in the same league as MJ is either a moron, or a Laker’s fan (insert editor’s mark to show that those two terms are actually synonymous—boo-ya!)

There’s predictable, there’s blatantly predictable, there’s egregiously predictable and then there’s the Utah Jazz drafting a big white dude with an Eastern European name who’s known for his jump shot more than his ability to play down low in the NBA draft. If Mormons were allowed to gamble, I would be wiping my son’s tushie with $100 bills rather than baby wipes after betting on this.

What is the purpose of the door close button on elevators and why do I always end up riding with someone who insists on pushing it after every stop? Does the 2.46 seconds it may or may not shave off of the programmed door shut time really impact your life that much. Are you going to use that time to be 2.46 seconds more productive at work? Do you really hate the idea of someone else squeezing on the elevator within those 2.46 seconds that much? What am I missing here?

I’m sure Earl Woods was immeasurably proud of his son Tiger “don’t call me Eldrick” Woods after the way he spent Father's Day overpowering the U.S. Open field on a bad knee. But I guarantee you he was no more proud than I was to see my little man try to stuff his whole fist in his mouth and come up only a pinkie short. Fatherhood rocks!

Subnote: Yes, I know Earl Woods is dead. How dare you question my knowledge of the mortality of one of mankind’s greatest sports dads. The man was a visionary. No on else in 1978 was setting their three year-old son up to be the most famous 401(k) plan ever. Genius I say, genius!

I’m two years into my fantasy baseball experiment and the results are mixed. On the one hand, I’m winning my league, so that’s nice. But on the other hand, fantasy baseball requires more maintenance, care, oversight and attention than Lindsay Lohan’s reputation.

I just spent 25 minutes attempting to come up with a joke about this, but sometimes, comedy just writes itself.

That about covers the high points of the last few months. Like I said, I’m sorry for the delay and I’ll try to do better next time. One last thing though. This is supposed to be a space where I write my opinions and observations about all-things sports. However, the only things going on this time of year are baseball (which I don’t follow too closely other than my fantasy team and for the sake of my marriage I don’t even follow that too closely), NASCAR (possibly the most environmentally unfriendly sport the world has to offer), a little golf sans Tiger Woods (yawn), and that’s about it (as I implied earlier, tennis doesn’t count anymore since it shares the same level of relevance as Ricky Martin). Therefore, if you have any suggestions for topics, bring 'em on. I have a few in my hip pocket, but if there’s anything you’d like my perspective on (and frankly I don’t really know why you do, but I’m flattered nonetheless) let me know and I might even get it done before gas hits $10/gallon.

The Premiere

2008-03-22T19:38:00.000-07:00

Hey there. Welcome to the BigTNilly sports blog. I call it a sports blog because at the moment, that's the only thing I really intend to write about in this space. You can count on an occasional cameo by some non-sports musings here and there, but for the most part, sports are what you're going to get here. This is something I've thought about doing for quite some time now, but yesterday, my sister-in-law (we'll call her Bean) gave me the kick in the pants I need to man up and get it done (you can also count on innumerable lousy sports cliches here as well). Basically she told me that if I wrote a sports blog, she'd read it. I'm that easy. Frankly Bean, I'm not so sure you won't be the only one.

My first post will focus on one of the most sacred and hallowed of American institutions: March Madness. If you think I'm exaggerating the meaning of the greatest sporting event of them all, check out this New York Times article that claims this rite of spring will cost businesses $1.2 billion in worker productivity during the next three weeks. That's more than the GDP of a few countries you've actually heard of.

The reason I wanted to start this blog today is so I don't miss the opportunity to crow to the world that after the first stanza of this year's tourney, I am currently atop the standings of the annual in-law pool for the first time since they generously (and misguidedly?) welcomed me into their fold. Will this dominance last? Not likely (thanks for nothing USC and Clemson), but I'll take whatever I can get. Now my zeal for piling it on may have you thinking that I don't like my in-laws (couldn't be further from the truth), we have some serious cash at stake (nope, Mormons don't bet), or that the winner has supreme bragging rights (getting warmer). But the real reason I care so much more about this pool than any other, is I happen to be the lone Ute in a sea of Cougars. Yep, that's it.

You see, I managed to marry into a family full of people who attended my alma matter's most bitter rival. The Duke to my Carolina if you will (I have some tremendous parallels between BYU and Duke I'll share in a later post). Even better, I happened to join them just as BYU began a run of dominance that causes me to spend three or four minutes staring at my inbox before I'll open an e-mail from anyone associated with the school down south. If you were to take away the Urban Meyer years, I would have to fake a mutant form of bronchitis before every family gathering. Generally, they're quite genial and don't give me too much grief about it, but as any fan that has endured a prolonged spanking by a bitter rival knows, no matter how hard you fight it, you can't help but feel a little inferior when you're standing in a room full of people who can always come back at any crack you make by saying, "4th and 18", leaving you with no retaliation. It's like when you go to a buddy's wedding reception after he married a girl you dated and when you shake his hand, you look him in the eye and he looks away because you both know who kissed her first.

Is this line of thinking completely irrational? Mos def. Crazy? Probably. But sports make normal and even high-functioning human beings do completely crazy and irrational things. Irrational things like taking a seven week-old baby to an 85 degree arena complete with blaring music and 15,000 screaming people consistently pouring shots of Southern Comfort into their Diet Coke--a Southern athletic event tradition--just because you got free tickets on the second row to a couple of guaranteed blowouts. Did I mention we didn't even take the kid to church for the first six weeks of his life for fear of exposing him to the elements? Or that we had to park a quarter-mile from the arena and carry him in on a warm spring day?

Irrational as it may be, for 16 beautiful hours that irrationality gave me hope that I can stand tall at the next family reunion (even more cougars at these things). Of course that hope is currently being crushed as my bracket becomes toilet paper at the hands of Stanford, Wisconsin, Michigan State, and (gasp) Texas A&M.