Unnecessary Roughness

And so are you.


After all of the updates, analysis, and diatribes I’ve absorbed listening to hundreds of hours of sports radio, I’ve come to the following conclusion: Jimbo from Sheepshead Bay doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, and neither do the rest of us.

It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that sports radio is the soundtrack of my life. I began listening to it in Seattle during my interminable commute, and now I tune in while cooking, showering, or otherwise engaged in the banalities of my homebound life. My local station of choice is 1050 ESPN, just as the marketers intended it. With its rap music lead-ins, pop culture savvy, and aggressively boisterous personalities, 1050 has positioned itself as an alternative to stodgy 660 WFAN, where every discussion invariably culminates in a lively game-by-game break down of Phil Rizzuto’s legendary 1950 season. With ESPN, on the other hand, every topic is destined to conclude with a hilarious crack about the Whizzinator. Pick your poison.

Why do I venture over into the rough and tumble world of AM radio when I could be spending my hard-earned leisure time basking in the nurturing hum of NPR? Well, it could be argued that through sports radio I am connected to the Bush-voting, blue collar, exurbanites with whom I might otherwise have little contact. Consider it my one small, David Eckstein-sized blow against the wall separating the red from the blue. Furthermore, while one might assume that my mind would be more fruitfully engaged by, say, Terry Gross’s in-depth interview with Tibet’s most heralded singing bowl player, sports are actually a more illuminating condensation of the zeitgeist. Sport reveals not only the unvarnished truth about contemporary economics, race relations, and class divisions, it also allows for the purest expression of humanity’s capacity for ruthlessness, valor, and grace.

All of the above defenses are potentially valid. In practice, though, modern-day sports are just another outlet for a listless and overindulged public to make uninformed and often hateful personal attacks on strangers. For every moment of on-field heroism (think Kirk Gibson’s walk-off) or off-field camaraderie (more man-to-man hugs were shared the night of Boston’s World Series clinch than in the entire history of Christopher Street) there are millions of petty swipes taken at athletes who were unable to keep their balance on the inhumanly high and precarious pedestals we’ve perched them on.

Perhaps the most vicious (and entertaining) purveyor of this brand of rado demagoguery is Jim Rome. With the help of his “clones,” he takes gleeful aim at the weakest Christians in the Coloseum, from soccer players to Wyatt Sexton to Ashlee Simpson. I recognize that most (but not all) of those pilloried are extremely well-compensated and voluntarily in the crosshairs of the public eye, but does that automatically free us from the bonds of basic human decency (this question applies to you, too, US Weekly readers)?

On a less highfalutin note, how informative is sports radio, and sports media in general? ESPN, in all of its engrossing, ADD friendly glory, spends 80% of its energies dissecting not the athletic merits of a given team or individual, but instead focuses on their inspiring childhood/criminal history/charitable foundation/contract dispute/devotion to fatherhood/latest paternity suit. How much does even the most informed fan actually know, the guy who spends half of the workday tweaking his fantasy team and every other night glued to the TV for the night’s game?

Take the Charlie Villanueva pick. The entire NBA punditry let out a thunderous gasp of horror at the news that the Toronto Raptors had mustered the temerity to defy conventional wisdom (which was concocted from the biased and under-researched opinions of 12 self-absorbed commentators and the millions of fans who depend on them). Answer me this: how can even the most ardent fan claim to know more about the needs of the Toronto Raptors than the management team who ultimately made the decision? Had they watched every game? Been in the locker room? Ridden the bus? Observed practices? Directed individual workouts? Consulted scouts? Met with the owner? All told, he has probably spent, on average, a few hours of his life watching Villanueva play and analyzing his skills. Maybe Chuck will be a bust; it’s all a crapshoot in the end. But should he make it, I’m sure the AM airwaves won’t be ringing with apologies from the contrite fan. Rafael from Little Neck has bigger things on his mind.

Homegirl is CRAZY, yo!

Note: This post is a reaction to a profile of yours truly created by Laura, a lovely and loca friend.

I was already pissed about the firecrackers. For the first hour or so her delight was endearingly childish, a nostalgic reenactment of forgotten Fourth of July joys. At some point, though, my ears began to ring, my feet started twitching, and my nerves became as combustible as the brittle fuses attached to the tiny little bombs that alerted every disgruntled Valencian to the pack of rowdy and violent young Americans who, for all they knew, were celebrating the unpopular war on Iraq our government had initiated that very day. I tried to reason with Laura and her diminutive sidekick James, but they were not in a reasonable mood. So my companion and I left the raucous pack to take in the burning piñatas on our own.

Not quite as drunk as we hoped to be in spite of prodigious efforts, the two of us returned to the town square in time for the burning of the last statue. Just as the crowd was reaching critical mass and the figure was about to be lit, I noticed a commotion behind me. At first it was difficult to figure out exactly what was going on, but then I heard a distinctive drawl that immediately alerted me to two distressing facts: Laura was not only drunk (hence the reemergence of the Texas accent), she was almost certainly smack dab in the middle of whatever disturbance was currently attracting so much attention from the drunken and listless mob that engulfed us.

Reluctantly, I pried my way through the crowd and inserted myself into the conflict. I don’t recall the circumstances that precipitated the confrontation, and because of my skepticism of Laura’s self-exculpatory version of the story, a serious of random memories will have to suffice: someone up in a tree; greasy Spanish teenagers; a general feelings of hatred from the crowd; and, more vivid than anything, Laura in a rage - defending her turf, sticking up for her friends, and maintaining her honor, even in the face of insurmountable odds and great physical danger. She may have been completely insensible, but even after the situation had been defused and Laura had run off into the night, I never doubted her sincerity or good intentions.

***

From the very start I knew that Laura was crazy, and I am certain that a confidential poll of her friends would reveal that I am not alone in this assessment. The accused, however, takes great offense at this notion, and demands evidence of her insanity. After weeding through a vast trove of material, I usually light on the Las Fallas incident as my most watertight argument. Upon further reflection, though, I’ve come to realize that this story is not an indictment of Laura, but an unqualified acquittal. In the midst of her irrationality, I now see the passion, tenacity, loyalty, and character that endear me to her. So, Laura, the next time I call you crazy, take it as a complement. As we both know, emotional stability is overrated.

Tupac said it better, but...

I forgot my mother’s birthday. No clue at all. In fact, if she hadn’t offhandedly mentioned it during our weekly phone conversation, it is quite possible that I would have gone another year without noticing my lapse.

When I realized how badly I had fucked up I groaned silently but didn’t interject with an apology, which would have only made things worse. I had actually communicated with her during the week, probably on her birthday, but our discussion was limited to the logistics of the money she was transferring into my bank account. By all rights she should have been furious. I’ve done this before, both to her and my father. It’s tempting to chalk it up to a genetic difficulty remembering dates, but I’ve certainly never forgotten my own birthday. In fact, I went to great lengths to ensure that no one else would forget, annually initiating a nuanced promotional campaign complete with a countdown and stirring but inaccurate testimonials lamenting the plight of those poor souls fated to share a birthday month with baby Jesus.

While I am certainly a particularly heinous offender, I take some small comfort in the fact that even the most devoted mama’s boys are incapable of fully repaying the great debt they owe their mothers. I could measure my mother’s love for me in many ways, either through second chances granted, slights absorbed, or leaps of faith taken, but perhaps the most tangible example of her devotion was the odometer on our long-retired family van.

I grew up in the country, and almost every activity my siblings and I were involved in required at least a half-hour of driving, one way. There were guitar lessons, baseball practice, ballet lessons, soccer practice, etc. She even had to drive us home from school every day because the small Catholic elementary school we attended did not operate buses. When I began spending an hour and a half behind the wheel each day to get myself to and from high school I gained a partial understanding of the depth of her sacrifice, but even then I didn’t have to contend with a backseat of noisy brats (well, except when I was driving my friends around). And who would have faulted her for cutting back on the activities, or sending us to a local public school? At some point my mother’s love for her children exceeded her innate maternal instinct and became something more profound; she ultimately achieved a level of selfless devotion more moving than saintliness because of its deceptive banality.

Of course, I take both of my parents equally for granted, but somehow I feel less guilty about neglecting my father. Is Oedipus to blame? Perhaps, but more likely this stems from the fact that we are both men (or perhaps “males” would be more appropriate, considering my lingering adolescent self-absorption), and even though I am still light years away from any rendezvous with paternal responsibility, I can primordially relate to his experiences. Mom, on the other hand, remains a complete mystery. In sum: happy birthday.

If Oprah can do it...

Let the P. Diddy cracks begin: I am officially an entrant in the 2005 New York City Marathon. It’s gonna be tough, but I’m confident in my abilities, and rumor has it that my Kenyan competitors have slowed down considerably following Congress’s worldwide steroid crackdown. So I’m pretty much a sure thing to win it all.

I’m not sure how I got to this point. I first began hitting the treadmill solely because it was the most efficient means of burning calories, which is the key exercise requirement for metrosexuals such as myself. As I became faster, I began to look forward to those last few minutes of a run, where I would bump up the speed as high as I could handle and flail away, flinging sweat and frightening everyone else in the cardio room (although I harbor the secret suspicion that the females present (who I surveyed semi-surreptitiously in the mirror) were intrigued by my masochistic virility). Eventually I began to savor even the exhaustion and soreness.

Even as I developed into a Treadmill God, the thought of competitive running never entered my mind. Instead, befitting the pattern of my life, I was spurred into action by a sense of inadequacy prompted by the threatening ambitions of a friend. I was incredulous at the news that he had signed up for the marathon: he rarely ran; smoked more than a suicidal emphysema patient; and drank nearly as much as me. Goddamnit, there is only room for one on this road to redemption.

So I signed up and waited anxiously for the lottery. I started running in the park on Saturdays, which, incidentally, is enjoyable for a number or reasons:
1) Passing slow people makes you feel better about yourself.
2) Aside from visiting Times Square and laughing at the tourists, there is no better way to feel like an actual New Yorker.
3) You can spend the rest of the weekend guiltlessly abusing yourself; after all, you ran 10 miles this morning, right?

The marathon gradually assumed greater importance as the lottery neared and I realized that training for the marathon would inject my life with meaning it otherwise lacked.
“So, Ryan, what are you up to these days? Have you reined in your spending? Explored job prospects? Pursued your writing goals?”
“Well, no, but I’m training for the marathon.”
“Seriously? Damn, yo. How long is that again?
“26 miles. 26.2, actually.”
“Wow. You amaze me, Ryan.”

So I’ve been accepted, and now all my poor friends are going to have to put up with self-aggrandizing complaints about my rigorous training program and gnarly feet. But the real question is, am I running towards my goals, or away from them? That's exhibistentialsim for 'ya.

Lil' Ghetto Boy

Note: The clown in the above picture is not me.

Living in New York City, or, rather, Harlem, has turned me into an asshole. Allow me to clarify – living in the ghetto, where conventional standards of personal accountability are inefficient and counterproductive, has fertilized the seeds of hostility that were planted during a childhood of suburban repression and macho posturing. I’m not proud, but at least I’m honest.

I now flip off cabdrivers who honk when I cross against the light. I grimace at the stench of the scavengers gathered at the recycling depot I pass every morning on my way to the 125th Street Station. I silently curse the massive ass of the woman impeding my hurried progress. I jostle people in the subway.

Intellectually, I recognize that aside from making life unpleasant for others, my demeanor ultimately contributes to my own unhappiness. It comes down to impatience - an unwillingness to take into consideration the plight of your counterparts. Just as my bad attitude is largely the result of my upbringing and early environment, so too is your poor physical health and gnarly b.o. most likely the product of bad childhood eating and grooming habits. I propose we meet halfway on this: I’ll try to be less of a jerk if you lay off the horn, early-morning cans of King Cobra, and McDonalds. Deal? Deal.