I do not watch television news. I listen to NPR every morning, and check internet news sites throughout the day. If you know me, then you are aware I hate hearing about weather and rely solely on the weather beacon for updates. One of the reasons I hate local news is that everything has to relate back to Iowa. Every flimsy Iowa link to world events is touted and discussed ad nauseam. It's ridiculous.
That being said, I am now going to tout my flimsy link to the Philadelphia Phillies. Hooray for hypocrisy! Not being able to root for the Yankees, the Cubs, or the Dodgers left me in a bind. I love baseball, and I desperately want to care about who wins the series. Right now my biggest concern is Boston not being in it, but hopefully that won't be a problem for long. Now, why am I rooting for the Phillies? They are the reason I love baseball.
In 1993 I was 11. I don't remember paying much attention to baseball, or particularly caring about it at all. For some reason my family got swept up in that series. Probably my dad was watching it and we all just got hooked. A bitter rivalry formed. My sister, dad, and I were for the Phillies. We laughed and cheered, and Dykstra was our hero. My mom and brother were for Toronto. We mocked them. When the Phillies lost my sister cried and my brother got a Toronto hat he would wear for the next ten years. I learned how much you can care about something you didn't even know existed the week before.
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Friday, October 17, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Patriot Act-ing
Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary defines patriotism as:
Pa·tri·ot·ism: love for or devotion to one's country.
I prefer Oscar Wilde's definition:
"Patriotism is the virtue of the vicious."
Last night I had a surreal experience. Before I get to that let me explain the back story.
When 9/11 happened I lived in Cedar Rapids and worked at Buffalo Wild Wings. Every Thursday was Karaoke night. It was a fun time with big rowdy groups, and always got a little crazy. One night a few months after 9/11 things seemed well on there way to the usual chaos. Then a strange thing happened. A little boy, six years old, got up to sing. He perched on a bar stool and soulfully belted out Lee Greenwood's "Proud To Be An American". I dutifully walked around trying to get drink orders, but no one spoke. When I asked people if they needed anything they would just lift a finger, a silent shh on their lips. Some were openly crying. I finally just stopped and watched, wondering why I wasn't as moved as everyone else clearly was. When he finished the crowd erupted, then things got back to normal.
Seven years later I'm back at Buffalo Wild Wings, this time just a customer. I of course want to watch baseball. Everyone else, it seems, is there for the Olympics. Groups of men in their twenties, another in their late thirties are suddenly experts on gymnastics, and can tell a breaststroke from a freestyle. The whole place erupts when America does well, and more disturbingly, when another country does poorly. These are guys that probably never went to their daughters ballet recitals, yet something brings them out on a Tuesday night to cheer for people they had never met, the only connection being that they happen to exist in the same country.
Am I the only one that doesn't get this? And wouldn't it have been more patriotic to be cheering for what I was watching, good old American baseball?
Pa·tri·ot·ism: love for or devotion to one's country.
I prefer Oscar Wilde's definition:
"Patriotism is the virtue of the vicious."
Last night I had a surreal experience. Before I get to that let me explain the back story.
When 9/11 happened I lived in Cedar Rapids and worked at Buffalo Wild Wings. Every Thursday was Karaoke night. It was a fun time with big rowdy groups, and always got a little crazy. One night a few months after 9/11 things seemed well on there way to the usual chaos. Then a strange thing happened. A little boy, six years old, got up to sing. He perched on a bar stool and soulfully belted out Lee Greenwood's "Proud To Be An American". I dutifully walked around trying to get drink orders, but no one spoke. When I asked people if they needed anything they would just lift a finger, a silent shh on their lips. Some were openly crying. I finally just stopped and watched, wondering why I wasn't as moved as everyone else clearly was. When he finished the crowd erupted, then things got back to normal.
Seven years later I'm back at Buffalo Wild Wings, this time just a customer. I of course want to watch baseball. Everyone else, it seems, is there for the Olympics. Groups of men in their twenties, another in their late thirties are suddenly experts on gymnastics, and can tell a breaststroke from a freestyle. The whole place erupts when America does well, and more disturbingly, when another country does poorly. These are guys that probably never went to their daughters ballet recitals, yet something brings them out on a Tuesday night to cheer for people they had never met, the only connection being that they happen to exist in the same country.
Am I the only one that doesn't get this? And wouldn't it have been more patriotic to be cheering for what I was watching, good old American baseball?
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