COMMENTARY: Contempt for the Field of Dreams

As I grow older, I find it harder and harder to appreciate big American-based events like the World Series and the Super Bowl. Sure, I enjoy watching them for the love of the game and all that, but they just don’t mean as much as they used to.

I remember the first baseball game I ever watched. I must have been 3 years old. Kansas City was playing the Toronto Blue Jays. I remember that game because I didn’t understand what the hell was going on. Men in white and baby blue ran back and forth on white lines (think Astroturf) that seemed to go nowhere, and I was confused. I was also a toddler and my cognitive apparatus wasn’t strong enough to figure things out. But I’m sure that was the moment I fell in love with sports.

I remember sitting in my basement, transfixed by the television as officials reversed an Art Monk touchdown in Super Bowl XXVI. I wasn’t even 9 years old, but even then I knew I was watching a defining moment in football history.

I remember-and I’ll only admit this once-I actually transcribed (and I mean word for word) the first quarter of that great Super Bowl.

It was a funny sight for sure; watching John Madden and sidekick Pat Summerall as their heads bounced up and down in slow-mo. I’d play a few seconds, pause, write, then play a few seconds more. I was obsessed.

We all grow up, I guess. Now, instead of admiring sports and the many stars, I write about them. I try to find wit, to sharpen it slowly and swing it mightily at teams and players that deserve it. It’s a fantastic job. One I’m paid a princely sum to do. (Not really.)

And as an aside, I’ll take this opportunity to mention that this sports section is looking for a few good writers. You know you’re interested (you wouldn’t be reading this piece otherwise), so drop us a line and we’ll set things up.

Anyway, my point is that I’ve grown apathetic over the years. It’s a different type of feeling – one different than growing out of Santa Claus, or growing into girls.

There’s too much hype, too much pomp surrounding what should be a pleasant afternoon at the ball park. We’ve moved from high points watching “Iron Man” Cal Ripken Jr., and chasing Sammy Sosa and Mark McGuire as they swung for the Roger Maris record.

Now we’re in quagmire. There’s the Balco scandal that won’t go away. Kenny Rogers, who has a horrible postseason record, went 3-0 this year with 23 consecutive scoreless innings, leading the Detroit Tigers to the dance. Cinderella story, right? No. Turns out he juiced baseballs.

Worse, when the um-

pires were notified of Rogers’ pine tar hijinks, they didn’t walk to the mound to see what’s what. Rogers subsequently pitched the game of his life.

After the game, the coaches and umpires and Rogers all told different stories to the media. And they all played as if nothing happened. What does it say about the state of the country when accused cheaters are allowed to keep playing? Would we rather not know?

Unfortunately for Rogers, FOX cameras picked up the “brown spot”-most definitely pine tar-on his pitching hand. And when checking old film, it became clear that Rogers had the mystery spot on his hand during his other appearances this postseason.

Which, of course, explains how a known postseason choker can turn around his career numbers on a dime.

But we’ll never really know the truth.

I haven’t decided if this is just the way things are-the way things are supposed to be-or if this is symptomatic of our crumbling civilization.

I don’t think I want to know.