Is there a God? Maybe. If there's room for Carrottop in this universe there's certainly room for the idea of an omnipotent creator of all. I'm not a religious/spiritual person. But, like most arm-chair philosophers, I find the subject of theology fascinating. I read a quote a few weeks ago I found both enlightining and relevant, and I wish to share it with you.
"Not the least of my problems is that I can hardly even imagine what kind of experience a genuine, self-authenticating religious experience would be. Without someone destroying me in the process, how could God reveal himself in a way that would leave no room for doubt? If there is no room for doubt, there would be no room for me."
This quote is attributed to Frederick Buechner, a famous theologian and writer. It appears at the beginning of John Irving's 'A Prayer for Owen Meany'.
Essentially, Buechner is saying the proven knowledge that "a god" exist in the universe would simply be too much for our fragile psychies to withstand. Our brains would implode. Our skin would bubble. Our hearts would ooze. I agree with Mr. Buechner.
At this point you might be thinking "so what?" Well, this is what I wager. I don't think most people (from the zealots to the atheist) care if there's really a god out there. I think most people rely on the idea that there might be a god out there. To know for sure would ruin everyone's fun. The true believers would sulk cause believing would now be an obsolete practice. The agnostics and the atheists would constantly fear for their souls for not believeing sooner. I would personally lock myself away in a room without windows to make sure I committed no offense that would place me out of favor with the Almighty.
All choice would be eliminated. You would either see every action and choice as predetermined by The Man (or Woman) Upstairs and thus, pointless, or you would spend all of your time thinking about which choice was the "right" one that you would live in fear of making any choices at all. What a said little world that would be.
So, what's the point? What am I getting at? I suppose this was a roundabout way for me to talk about the greatest human paradox. Hope.
Such a powerful little word. I spend much time thinking about Hope. Hope is the most unique of emotions and ideas. The great friend and enemy of the human race. People will fight violently to keep the idea of Hope alive. Hope has saved lives and it has ended them. Hope is creation and destruction.
I believe God is the human need to give tangible reality to the natural emotion we call Hope.
I often joke that humans got the short end of the evolutionary stick. "Yeah we got thumbs and a large brain, but I would much rather have talons or be able to see in the dark!!!" Talons would be cool, but evolution gave us something infinitely more powerful and mysterious. Hope. The idea that something 'better' and 'good' can happen when all evidence suggest that doom is on the horizon. Hope is the ultimate evolutionary trait. A 'predisposed feeling' that tells us survival and social dominace are not the apex of ones worth. A 'sense' that ones life has 'meaning' in the seemingly chaotic blender of existence. Hope beats x-ray vision and super strength all to hell.
And yet, I'm leary of Hope. It hurts as much as it helps. When hope is not realized its ugly cousin, Despair, steps in and destroys lives. False Hope breeds hubris. An unrealistic concept of Hope creates jealousy and anger. But somehow we still need it.
So, it doesn't matter if God really exist. Perhaps He (or She) is up there right now pushing a billion buttons that control all things. Perhaps it's the biggest ruse of all time. Neither scenario means much. What matters is this: Believing in any higher power is about cultivating the instrinsic and necessary emotion of Hope.
Like Buechner said, "If there were no room for doubt, there would be no room for me." Hope can only exist in a world of doubt. Without Hope we might be wiser, but we would not be human.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Who Gives a F*** About Steroids
Let me put this out there. I don't care if athletes use steroids. Let me repeat that. (Clearing throat). I don't care if athletes use steroids. Now, this statement usually illicits booming yawps of rage and confusion. Cries about the 'purity of the game' are slung in all directions. A baby-boomer from the back of the bar spits out stories about 'the game back in his day'...yada, yada, yada. Logic is replaced with the sentimental flood of emotions that have nothing to do with the topic at hand.
I don't think most people really care about steroids. I think most people have convinced themselves to be outraged because it's fashionable and the media discusses it so much it permeates the mind. The arguments most people make concerning the issue are weak and unsubstantial.
The Moral Argument: This mode of thought goes something like this.
Using steroids is a form of cheating. Cheating is wrong. Therefore, the player that uses steroids is a bad person and their career should be seen as tainted.
Not a bad a+b=c equation. The problem with this argument does not really lie with the argument itself but with the individuals using the argument. The inherent difficulty with taking the moral superiority approach (and thus displaying outrage for anothers moral insufficiency) is it requires the individual making the argument to have an unblemished moral stature. This is nearly impossible. If Mother Teresa's ghost shows up at my door, that spectre can make this case all she wants. As for the rest of us, moral superiority is a dead end street.
I've heard friends and strangers chastise A-Rod, Bonds and Clemens for their steroid use. However, these same folks have shown similar moral weakness in aspects of their lives. I think most people have cheated, stole or swindled at some point of their journey and yet they conveniently forget those instances when it comes time to whip someone else for their misdeeds.
Occassionally there is an amendment to the 'moral argument' that goes something like this:
"We'll I'm not being paid millions of dollars to do my job and live my life. They should know better because they took all that money."
This sub-argument is down right laughable. When in the course of human events has there ever been a correlation between accumulated wealth and an increase in moral standing? If anything, the exact opposite is true. More money breeds the idea that one is above standard ethical systems. Just ask Enron, O.J, Bill Clinton and George W. Bush.
So, here's the deal. Does the moral argument hold up at its core? Sure it does. The rub? Unless your Jesus of Nazareth you don't get to make it.
The Purity of the Game Argument:
Okay. Say, it's not about such lofty ideals as morals and ethics. Let's say you're one of those that likes to speak of 'the good old days'. Back when 'the game was a game' and 'hitters were hitters' and 'pitchers were pitchers' and there was no need for illegal substances to make the players great.
Uh, newsflash. Those times never existed. The reason players didn't take steroids back in the day is because steroids were not readily available back in the day. I'm not saying that I can prove that Ted Williams or Reggie Jackson would have juiced up, but I can surmise with accuracy that if the temptation was there alot of players would have succumb. It's human nature to want an edge. Not the best aspect of our evolution but it's there and it's there to stay.
As far as other aspects of 'purity'. We're talking about a sport that didn't allow some of the best athletes in the game to play until the more than half way through the century. We're talking about a sport where the best team in the game (some think of all time) successfully threw the World Series. Babe Ruth and Micky Mantle were womanizing drunks. Ty Cobb was a bigot who actively tried to injure players in games. Where is this purity you speak of?
Nostalgia is a dangerous weapon.
There are players over the years that have been shining examples of what it means to be a true athlete. I do want my kids one day to look at these players and emulate them. I will teach them the dangers of steroid use, and I will never believe that athletes that took performance enhancers did so because they were cajoled or manipulated. They made their choices and now they must live with them.
However, the great players, the shining examples are worth our praise because they are the exception not the rule. Athletes are human beings. Having your likeness immortalized outside a stadium does not encase your soul in bronze.
I love this game. I really do. But we must all keep things in perspective. At the end of the day, these men are hitting a small ball with a short stick very far. Our anger is ignited because they are taking substances that allow them to hit a small ball with a short stick more often...
...there are so many more concerns in the world deserving of your outrage.
I don't think most people really care about steroids. I think most people have convinced themselves to be outraged because it's fashionable and the media discusses it so much it permeates the mind. The arguments most people make concerning the issue are weak and unsubstantial.
The Moral Argument: This mode of thought goes something like this.
Using steroids is a form of cheating. Cheating is wrong. Therefore, the player that uses steroids is a bad person and their career should be seen as tainted.
Not a bad a+b=c equation. The problem with this argument does not really lie with the argument itself but with the individuals using the argument. The inherent difficulty with taking the moral superiority approach (and thus displaying outrage for anothers moral insufficiency) is it requires the individual making the argument to have an unblemished moral stature. This is nearly impossible. If Mother Teresa's ghost shows up at my door, that spectre can make this case all she wants. As for the rest of us, moral superiority is a dead end street.
I've heard friends and strangers chastise A-Rod, Bonds and Clemens for their steroid use. However, these same folks have shown similar moral weakness in aspects of their lives. I think most people have cheated, stole or swindled at some point of their journey and yet they conveniently forget those instances when it comes time to whip someone else for their misdeeds.
Occassionally there is an amendment to the 'moral argument' that goes something like this:
"We'll I'm not being paid millions of dollars to do my job and live my life. They should know better because they took all that money."
This sub-argument is down right laughable. When in the course of human events has there ever been a correlation between accumulated wealth and an increase in moral standing? If anything, the exact opposite is true. More money breeds the idea that one is above standard ethical systems. Just ask Enron, O.J, Bill Clinton and George W. Bush.
So, here's the deal. Does the moral argument hold up at its core? Sure it does. The rub? Unless your Jesus of Nazareth you don't get to make it.
The Purity of the Game Argument:
Okay. Say, it's not about such lofty ideals as morals and ethics. Let's say you're one of those that likes to speak of 'the good old days'. Back when 'the game was a game' and 'hitters were hitters' and 'pitchers were pitchers' and there was no need for illegal substances to make the players great.
Uh, newsflash. Those times never existed. The reason players didn't take steroids back in the day is because steroids were not readily available back in the day. I'm not saying that I can prove that Ted Williams or Reggie Jackson would have juiced up, but I can surmise with accuracy that if the temptation was there alot of players would have succumb. It's human nature to want an edge. Not the best aspect of our evolution but it's there and it's there to stay.
As far as other aspects of 'purity'. We're talking about a sport that didn't allow some of the best athletes in the game to play until the more than half way through the century. We're talking about a sport where the best team in the game (some think of all time) successfully threw the World Series. Babe Ruth and Micky Mantle were womanizing drunks. Ty Cobb was a bigot who actively tried to injure players in games. Where is this purity you speak of?
Nostalgia is a dangerous weapon.
There are players over the years that have been shining examples of what it means to be a true athlete. I do want my kids one day to look at these players and emulate them. I will teach them the dangers of steroid use, and I will never believe that athletes that took performance enhancers did so because they were cajoled or manipulated. They made their choices and now they must live with them.
However, the great players, the shining examples are worth our praise because they are the exception not the rule. Athletes are human beings. Having your likeness immortalized outside a stadium does not encase your soul in bronze.
I love this game. I really do. But we must all keep things in perspective. At the end of the day, these men are hitting a small ball with a short stick very far. Our anger is ignited because they are taking substances that allow them to hit a small ball with a short stick more often...
...there are so many more concerns in the world deserving of your outrage.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A (True) Boston Story
I'm sitting on a bench in a cobblestone intersection of Downtown Crossing. Sometimes, I like to observe the pedestrians and wonder where they are going and where they have been and whether our lives with connect at sometime in the future. I sift through my knapsack in search of a sandwhich I'm sure I forgot to pack.
"Do you have the time?" an old man asks me. I did not see him approach. I find this odd. I usually see everyone approach.
I tell him it's 11:35 a.m. He looks away, seemingly satisfied, but then turns abruptly, eyes bulging.
"Happy Easter," he exclaims. Before I can return the pleasantry, he asks, "Do you celebrate Easter or Passover?"
I tell him 'Easter', even though I have not been to Mass since high school.
"Are you going out?"
I tell him I'm not sure, and I add that I have recently moved to Boston and my family is not near. Throughout the excahnge I'm waiting for the old man to exhibit his true intentions. Perhaps he'll try to covert me to Scientology or stammer out some unforeseeable creepiness. He does neither. Maybe it's the April sun warming our faces that prevents this from happening.
Both of us regard a young woman with long black hair talking with her friends near-by. She smiles and laughs and for a moment I'd give anything to be in on the joke.
"You know my family has lived here for seven generations. My ancestors were born in the Paul Revere house."
I nod and my expression lives somewhere between speculation and awe.
"Should I buy a sports jacket from Fileene's?" He pronounces the retail store, 'Fill-In's'.
I extend him a desultory answer and inevitably comment on the weather. The conversation switches to the cost of living in New York City.
"Do you think I'd be safe going to New York by myself?"
I tell him it depends on the area.
"I thought Giulliani cleaned it all up."
I nod reluctantly, not wanting to spoil things with my opinion of our former mayor.
"So, do you think I'll be safe."
I say 'sure'. This seems to satisfy him.
"One of my ancestors, John C. Moran, came down from Ireland and helped build the New York Transit system."
I make note of the name without knowing why. Sometimes names can haunt you. I sling my bag over my shoulder and mutter 'Off to work'. We shake hands and I examine his features for the first time. He's all beige and white and hidden emotion.
"Have a good day," he tells me. I tell him to have the same.
I walk into the human traffic wondering about death and life and young girls with black hair.
"Do you have the time?" an old man asks me. I did not see him approach. I find this odd. I usually see everyone approach.
I tell him it's 11:35 a.m. He looks away, seemingly satisfied, but then turns abruptly, eyes bulging.
"Happy Easter," he exclaims. Before I can return the pleasantry, he asks, "Do you celebrate Easter or Passover?"
I tell him 'Easter', even though I have not been to Mass since high school.
"Are you going out?"
I tell him I'm not sure, and I add that I have recently moved to Boston and my family is not near. Throughout the excahnge I'm waiting for the old man to exhibit his true intentions. Perhaps he'll try to covert me to Scientology or stammer out some unforeseeable creepiness. He does neither. Maybe it's the April sun warming our faces that prevents this from happening.
Both of us regard a young woman with long black hair talking with her friends near-by. She smiles and laughs and for a moment I'd give anything to be in on the joke.
"You know my family has lived here for seven generations. My ancestors were born in the Paul Revere house."
I nod and my expression lives somewhere between speculation and awe.
"Should I buy a sports jacket from Fileene's?" He pronounces the retail store, 'Fill-In's'.
I extend him a desultory answer and inevitably comment on the weather. The conversation switches to the cost of living in New York City.
"Do you think I'd be safe going to New York by myself?"
I tell him it depends on the area.
"I thought Giulliani cleaned it all up."
I nod reluctantly, not wanting to spoil things with my opinion of our former mayor.
"So, do you think I'll be safe."
I say 'sure'. This seems to satisfy him.
"One of my ancestors, John C. Moran, came down from Ireland and helped build the New York Transit system."
I make note of the name without knowing why. Sometimes names can haunt you. I sling my bag over my shoulder and mutter 'Off to work'. We shake hands and I examine his features for the first time. He's all beige and white and hidden emotion.
"Have a good day," he tells me. I tell him to have the same.
I walk into the human traffic wondering about death and life and young girls with black hair.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Sentences
I love sentences. I mostly enjoy reading because of sentences. Plot is important. Character development is a necessity, but its the grace of a beautiful sentence that makes the act of reading a nourishing experience.
None of the sentences in the previous paragraph are great sentences (as I'm sure you already knew). I don't think I'll ever write a great sentence, at least, not on the level I'm speaking of. I'm not here to explain what I think makes a great sentence. Such cerebral nonsense is best left to dusty English Departments. We need no knowledge of syntax or grammar to recognize a great sentence when it spits on our face. Hell, you don't even need to know what all the words mean sometimes.
Great sentences are syllabic epiphanies . They conjure emotions and memories. They connect us to the real make believe. A great sentence is a waltz of words. Fat words, small words, shy words and tall words seemingly disconnected, until they meet and begin to dance. Great sentences must be spoken aloud, for they are too raucous to be contained in the mind. A great sentence electrocutes brain waves. A great sentence reads like a photo album.
I could go on, but I won't. Here are a few (very few) favorites. You tell me if you get what I mean...
"He sent it to the government, accompanied by numerous discriptions of his experiments and several pages of explanatory sketches, by a messanger that crossed the mountains, got lost in the measureless swamps, forded stormey rivers and was on the point of perishing under the lash of despair, plague and wild beasts until he found a route that joined the one used by the mules to carry the mail."
"Mother died today, or was it yesterday."
"His people had once been great makers of songs so that everything they did or heard became a song."
"In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the river bank by the boats, in the shade of the sallow wood and the fig tree, Siddhartha, the handsome Brahmin's son, grew up with his friend Govinda."
"Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea."
"It was a face guaranteed to make barroom arguments over batting averages turn bloody."
"The citadel was dark and the heroes were sleeping. When they breathed, it sounded like they were testing the air for dragon smoke."
"Slowly, a bit distracted, he would get up and move among his men, checking the perimeter, then at full dark he would return his hole and watch the night and wonder if Martha was a virgin."
Each tells a tale of its own entire. Now if we could only learn to speak this way all the time.
None of the sentences in the previous paragraph are great sentences (as I'm sure you already knew). I don't think I'll ever write a great sentence, at least, not on the level I'm speaking of. I'm not here to explain what I think makes a great sentence. Such cerebral nonsense is best left to dusty English Departments. We need no knowledge of syntax or grammar to recognize a great sentence when it spits on our face. Hell, you don't even need to know what all the words mean sometimes.
Great sentences are syllabic epiphanies . They conjure emotions and memories. They connect us to the real make believe. A great sentence is a waltz of words. Fat words, small words, shy words and tall words seemingly disconnected, until they meet and begin to dance. Great sentences must be spoken aloud, for they are too raucous to be contained in the mind. A great sentence electrocutes brain waves. A great sentence reads like a photo album.
I could go on, but I won't. Here are a few (very few) favorites. You tell me if you get what I mean...
"He sent it to the government, accompanied by numerous discriptions of his experiments and several pages of explanatory sketches, by a messanger that crossed the mountains, got lost in the measureless swamps, forded stormey rivers and was on the point of perishing under the lash of despair, plague and wild beasts until he found a route that joined the one used by the mules to carry the mail."
"Mother died today, or was it yesterday."
"His people had once been great makers of songs so that everything they did or heard became a song."
"In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the river bank by the boats, in the shade of the sallow wood and the fig tree, Siddhartha, the handsome Brahmin's son, grew up with his friend Govinda."
"Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea."
"It was a face guaranteed to make barroom arguments over batting averages turn bloody."
"The citadel was dark and the heroes were sleeping. When they breathed, it sounded like they were testing the air for dragon smoke."
"Slowly, a bit distracted, he would get up and move among his men, checking the perimeter, then at full dark he would return his hole and watch the night and wonder if Martha was a virgin."
Each tells a tale of its own entire. Now if we could only learn to speak this way all the time.
Friday, May 1, 2009
What I Want Said At My Funeral.
A tall, beautiful woman approaches the podium. She is in her 50s but appears younger. Her eyes are the color of Caribbean sunsets. The scent of East Asian spices follows her wherever she goes.
She scans the hundreds of faces in the crowd. For a moment, she looks away, as though she might start to cry, but she collects herself and begins...
"I did not know this man who lies before us. He was an enigma to us all, right down to that final moment when he steered that passanger jet full of terrorists into the steely faces of Mount Rushmore. In the end, I don't think Josh wanted to be understood, but loved, really loved. The way Wesley loved Buttercup in 'The Princess Bride', or vice versa I suppose.
Josh was not always a gracious or kind man. We all remember the time he made Kate Winslet drink all those shots of tequilla. We lost a fine actress that night. And who can forget that fateful day he assassinated the Vice-President over a hand of Texas Hold 'em. He lost many friends during his three year stint as the self proclaimed overlord of the Galapogos Islands, nearly pushing civilization to the brink of World War V.
But we have not gathered here to persecute the man, but remember him. The man he was at his finest. The man that legalized marijuana in thirty-eight states. The man who succesfully brought Rod Serling, Abe Lincoln and the Notorious B.I.G. back from the dead just so he could roll with hottest entourage of all time. The man who helped eradicate malaria, won two Pulitzer Prizes and impregnated both Olsen twins at the same time.
Let us sing his song here and now. Oh, Joshua. One of the Almighty's beautiful wayward creations..."
Uncontrollable sobs fill the Church...but then movement...from the casket. A newly zombified Josh Rodriguez stumbles from the casket to the ground. The crowd, at first hushed and stunned, watches the creature stand upright and shamble towards the preacher. The preacher tries to run, but is pulled down to the prestine marble floor and devoured greedily by Zombie Josh. Perfect shrieks echo off acoustic angles. The mob rushes for the exit, stomping and kicking and lunging for fresh air and sanity.
Only the beautful woman at the podium remains. She sighs, smirks, peers at the well fed Josh and ask, "Death wasn't a good enough finale?"
We are the stars of our lives. Ask yourself each day, 'Would anyone want to watch my life if it were on screen?'
She scans the hundreds of faces in the crowd. For a moment, she looks away, as though she might start to cry, but she collects herself and begins...
"I did not know this man who lies before us. He was an enigma to us all, right down to that final moment when he steered that passanger jet full of terrorists into the steely faces of Mount Rushmore. In the end, I don't think Josh wanted to be understood, but loved, really loved. The way Wesley loved Buttercup in 'The Princess Bride', or vice versa I suppose.
Josh was not always a gracious or kind man. We all remember the time he made Kate Winslet drink all those shots of tequilla. We lost a fine actress that night. And who can forget that fateful day he assassinated the Vice-President over a hand of Texas Hold 'em. He lost many friends during his three year stint as the self proclaimed overlord of the Galapogos Islands, nearly pushing civilization to the brink of World War V.
But we have not gathered here to persecute the man, but remember him. The man he was at his finest. The man that legalized marijuana in thirty-eight states. The man who succesfully brought Rod Serling, Abe Lincoln and the Notorious B.I.G. back from the dead just so he could roll with hottest entourage of all time. The man who helped eradicate malaria, won two Pulitzer Prizes and impregnated both Olsen twins at the same time.
Let us sing his song here and now. Oh, Joshua. One of the Almighty's beautiful wayward creations..."
Uncontrollable sobs fill the Church...but then movement...from the casket. A newly zombified Josh Rodriguez stumbles from the casket to the ground. The crowd, at first hushed and stunned, watches the creature stand upright and shamble towards the preacher. The preacher tries to run, but is pulled down to the prestine marble floor and devoured greedily by Zombie Josh. Perfect shrieks echo off acoustic angles. The mob rushes for the exit, stomping and kicking and lunging for fresh air and sanity.
Only the beautful woman at the podium remains. She sighs, smirks, peers at the well fed Josh and ask, "Death wasn't a good enough finale?"
We are the stars of our lives. Ask yourself each day, 'Would anyone want to watch my life if it were on screen?'
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Why We Really Love Fantasy Baseball
This second millions of baseball fanatics are 'stattracking' in front of PC's and laptops. Some squint their eyes to check their Blackberries in the back corner dank of a dive bar. Others sit on misshapen stools scanning the ESPN ticker with the visual salivation of a Wall Street stockbroker. Somewhere relationships are collapsing, responsibilities are being ignored and hungry children remain unfed...all because of Fantasy Baseball.
And I love it.
Note: This post is not designed to convert those who 'Don't Get' the wonder that is Fantasy Sport. If you belong to this brood you probably 'Don't Get' The Godfather, Bob Dylan or Andy Warhol either. Please stop reading and go enjoy a Fast and Furious movie. If this sounds snobbish, it is. Fantasy sport is an elitist practice and Fantasy Baseball is the most bourgeois of them all.
All sports are debated ad nauseum in the backyards and barrooms of the world but none with such arrogant finality as Baseball. Every baseball fan worth their weight in crackerjacks is certain they know who's the best player in each position, who's going to take the Series and why everything you think sucks. There's always room for debate (that's half the fun) but there is rarely room for assent. Friends and neighbors agree to disagree and the game seems destined to remain a draw...but of course there are no draws in baseball, and this is when Fantasy strolls to the plate. Its mission: To hit an upper deck shot that seperates the Hall of Famers from the Minor Leaguers.
All fantasy owners know (at least I hope) that they have no real bearing on the success or failure of any individual player. They all understand that some degree of chance is involved in the summer long struggle to first place. So why play? What's the reward? Is it simply bragging rights or some predetermined sum of money?
No.
We play to answer one question. Who is the best Student of Baseball?
Student of Baseball? What a pretentious term. Would you actually refer to yourself as a Student of Baseball? Damn right I do. I also refer to myself by another pretentious term, 'Winner'.
Most fantasy owners like to think of themeselves as objective students of the Game. They believe their analysis of a particular team or player is not rooted in personal bias but in an objective critique of our National Past Time. Even if their calculations prove incorrect (or flat out wrong) they can always say, 'Hey man. I never said it exactly like that' or 'You just must have heard me wrong, buddy'. Fantasy unmask such lies.
Every season Fantasy rewards the diligent student with the golden star of a few extra stolen bases. It pats on the head with a ten strikeout complete game. It adds on a large helping of RBI doubles...and to the dunces it taketh away.
Fantasy reminds the students in the back of the class how drafting personal favorites (Jeter in the 3rd round) is the act of an amateur. It scolds the trouble makers who accept wayward trades based on name alone (Berkman for Joey Votto. I'll take that deal. Who's ever heard of Joey Votto?) It drums the knuckles of delinquents that drop aces after a few poor starts (Who knew C.C. would turn it around?).
We love Fantasy Baseball because it is braggadocious machismo made concrete. Fantasy transforms the abstractness of heated debate into a tangible gauge of certainty. It says the players I think have the most individual all around value actually do have the most individual all around value. My make-believe would tronce your make-believe.
Fantasy is a material barometer of sports knowledge superiority.
As I stated before, a bit of fortune and unpredictabilty always play a part in the grand drama. The Fantasy Gods can be fickle. But let me leave you with a quote from one of my favorite flicks.
"Why do you think the same five guys make it to the Final Table at the World Series of Poker EVERY YEAR? What, are they the luckiest guys in Vegas?"
Think it over class.
Dismissed.
And I love it.
Note: This post is not designed to convert those who 'Don't Get' the wonder that is Fantasy Sport. If you belong to this brood you probably 'Don't Get' The Godfather, Bob Dylan or Andy Warhol either. Please stop reading and go enjoy a Fast and Furious movie. If this sounds snobbish, it is. Fantasy sport is an elitist practice and Fantasy Baseball is the most bourgeois of them all.
All sports are debated ad nauseum in the backyards and barrooms of the world but none with such arrogant finality as Baseball. Every baseball fan worth their weight in crackerjacks is certain they know who's the best player in each position, who's going to take the Series and why everything you think sucks. There's always room for debate (that's half the fun) but there is rarely room for assent. Friends and neighbors agree to disagree and the game seems destined to remain a draw...but of course there are no draws in baseball, and this is when Fantasy strolls to the plate. Its mission: To hit an upper deck shot that seperates the Hall of Famers from the Minor Leaguers.
All fantasy owners know (at least I hope) that they have no real bearing on the success or failure of any individual player. They all understand that some degree of chance is involved in the summer long struggle to first place. So why play? What's the reward? Is it simply bragging rights or some predetermined sum of money?
No.
We play to answer one question. Who is the best Student of Baseball?
Student of Baseball? What a pretentious term. Would you actually refer to yourself as a Student of Baseball? Damn right I do. I also refer to myself by another pretentious term, 'Winner'.
Most fantasy owners like to think of themeselves as objective students of the Game. They believe their analysis of a particular team or player is not rooted in personal bias but in an objective critique of our National Past Time. Even if their calculations prove incorrect (or flat out wrong) they can always say, 'Hey man. I never said it exactly like that' or 'You just must have heard me wrong, buddy'. Fantasy unmask such lies.
Every season Fantasy rewards the diligent student with the golden star of a few extra stolen bases. It pats on the head with a ten strikeout complete game. It adds on a large helping of RBI doubles...and to the dunces it taketh away.
Fantasy reminds the students in the back of the class how drafting personal favorites (Jeter in the 3rd round) is the act of an amateur. It scolds the trouble makers who accept wayward trades based on name alone (Berkman for Joey Votto. I'll take that deal. Who's ever heard of Joey Votto?) It drums the knuckles of delinquents that drop aces after a few poor starts (Who knew C.C. would turn it around?).
We love Fantasy Baseball because it is braggadocious machismo made concrete. Fantasy transforms the abstractness of heated debate into a tangible gauge of certainty. It says the players I think have the most individual all around value actually do have the most individual all around value. My make-believe would tronce your make-believe.
Fantasy is a material barometer of sports knowledge superiority.
As I stated before, a bit of fortune and unpredictabilty always play a part in the grand drama. The Fantasy Gods can be fickle. But let me leave you with a quote from one of my favorite flicks.
"Why do you think the same five guys make it to the Final Table at the World Series of Poker EVERY YEAR? What, are they the luckiest guys in Vegas?"
Think it over class.
Dismissed.
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