Carry a Big Stick

We all must part or join at some point, through the vicissitudes of time or the mistakes that estrange us from one another. King James leaves Cleveland for Bosh and Wade in South Beach, home of the family friendly hotels across the street from the all-night clubs. Cliff Lee goes from Seattle to pitch in Texas, where he will wilt in the southwestern sun. The Cubbies can’t score a run against the eephus-pitching Vicente Padilla of the LA Dodgers, costing us a big payday (for entertainment purposes only).

Our episodes are epic. Why! We recall them better than who’s the pitcher after the All-Star break for the Queens County Dodgers/Giants, i.e., the New York Metropolitans, a senior circuit baseball club that disturbs its fans with streaks of brilliance and abysmal failure.

Fail or triumph, we must. We are creatures who resemble our primate cousins when we bare our teeth in screams of agony or delight and see them in slow motion HD TV. Our fourth cousin, once removed, Mr. Donovan of the United States soccer team, resembled the great ape when he pounded the rebound into the goal against Algeria in the silly game known as futbol. Why doesn’t anyone pick the darn thing up and throw a forward pass, as Teddy Roosevelt commanded?

The taverns and ristorantes were filled to the gills in our corner of Brooklyn with folks enamored of the play-not-to-lose game called, accurately, futbol. We must admit, these guys are fine athletes, but c’mon man, take a shot now and then. And who was the fellow with the hair who couldn’t head the ball into the goal on a corner. Maybe he needed a haircut.

Meanwhile, the most exciting futbol game around is being played by “hosers” in North America’s northernmost nation. Our beloved Alouettes recovered mightily in the 4th quarter to win the day against the Eskimos, who seemed to have the upper hand. More than one man in motion is exciting. Teddy Roosevelt, where are you?

The Credit

There are missed chances and then there are missed chances.

Aging Mr. Posada fails to glove a pitch and his New York Highlanders fall to the rival bloody ankles of Boston on opening night. Oh well, one hundred and sixty-one games to go, and Mr. Posada will catch again tonight.

Young Mr. Hayward of Butler launches a half-court last-gasp shot that just rims out and the Dukes of Hazard claim the NCAA Division 1 men’s championship. No rematch, but at least the Bulldogs covered the spread (for entertainment purposes only).

It makes one wonder how old and young men handle failure. Mr. Posada has World Series rings galore in his jewelry box and will likely get another. He’ll be fine.

Meanwhile, Mr. Hayward will probably replay that last three seconds in his head to the grave. But he earned a place in sports history.

“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly,” wrote Teddy Roosevelt (OK, Dick Nixon quoted him, too).

The credit. Raise your head up, young man. Mr. Posada of the Highlanders will catch pitches from Mr. Burnett, who isn’t exactly simpatico with his battery mate, in their second game of the year tonight (take the bloody ankles tonight for entertainment purposes only).

Mr. Hayward, however, will find a cure for cancer, if not the common cold or financial derivatives. Even if he doesn't, he can know he was valiant.