Amy Sancetta/Associated Press

Sometimes, people just don’t want to hear the truth.  Most times, that can be said for anyone in almost any situation, but in professional sports, when it’s a player telling fans some version of the truth, and it’s the fans taking the brunt of it, well, then things get a little heated.

Indians closer Chris Perez took some things to heart, and on Saturday (after closing out the Tribe’s 2-0 victory over the visiting Miami Marlins) decided to let it rip (Paul Hoynes of the Plain Dealer has the initial story here).

For the most part, Perez is dead-on.  While the town waits with baited breath for Browns OTAs and mini-camps to start, Cleveland baseball is on a winning path.  The team is heading into their first series with their rival Detroit Tigers at 23-18, in first place by 3 games.

As of Monday, Cleveland sports-talk radio was focusing on something other than the Browns, thanks to Perez.  The Indians are indeed in first-place, and their attendance is indeed 30th out of 30 teams.  It is difficult to find fault in the basis of Perez’s argument.  It’s when you dig a little deeper that you see that some of the reasons don’t hold water.  Being angry and being accurate can be two different things.

Perez’s main argument came from the fans booing him in the tenth inning of Thursday’s game against the Mariners.  Why did they boo him?  Simple; he put two runners on.  He got out of the inning clean, then got what he considered a “mock standing applause.”  Perez has some beef here.  He has converted 13 of 13 saves since blowing the home opener, but, fair is fair, fans have long memories when they want to.     He is tied for second in saves in all of baseball, but he blew the home opener.  For some, that’s enough.  If you aren’t dominant, if you let runners on, fans get nervous.  Then again, fans have long memories when they want to, but short memories when it makes a difference.  Cleveland is the home of closers who don’t always take the easiest way to get the save.  Franchise save leader Bob Wickman was notorious for putting men on before finally putting fans’ nerves to rest and getting out (usually) unscathed.

Where Perez gets a little sketchy is when he mentions that no free agents want to come to Cleveland because the fan base is so fickle.  As Bruce Hooley so eloquently put it on his afternoon radio show on WKNR, free agents care about two things:  the money and winning.  For Perez to (admittedly) guess that free agents don’t want to come to Cleveland because the fans don’t come out to watch is borderline asinine.  Free agents don’t come here because (for the most part) the Indians don’t offer the same types of salaries that other teams offer.  Free agents don’t come here because they know they can get more money somewhere else.

As for a winning culture, well, I think the team is starting to do that.  Locking up young players like Carlos Santana and Asdrubal Cabrera is smart baseball.  Are they star players?  Not yet, but they are building blocks.  Cabrera is batting .309/.404/.504, which puts him in the top three at his position in the American League.  Santana is at .261/.379/.415, again, in the top three at his position in the AL.  Both are above-average fielders and are players Mark Shapiro aggressively went out and got for virtually nothing in 2006 and 2008, something that most fans tend to forget.

Nevertheless, Perez’s anger, at most, is well-founded.  The team is playing well and fans should show their support, if they are truly fans.  It doesn’t hurt that the team has a vocal member of their clubhouse saying what a lot (even if not all) of the team may be thinking.  What Perez does have to remember is that he makes $4.5 million this season.  ”Average Joe Cleveland” doesn’t, so there is a definite disconnect there. What Perez also forgets is that in Cleveland, just like everywhere else, teams are jockeying for an ever-dwindling entertainment dollar.   It isn’t cheap to take your family to the ballpark.  Ticket prices are pretty good, but to park, buy concessions and keep the kids happy is not a cheap endeavor.  Perez also should remember that the fans who are in attendance paid to be there; booing is a right that they pay to have.

Since 1999 (when the Browns came back), the team is 1085-1062 (.505).  The Browns are 68-140 (.327).  Though I know it’s apples and oranges, fans still flock to Browns games for a variety of reasons (some of which I mentioned here), while baseball fans become harder and harder to come by.  So, while the Indians are fighting an uphill battle in an admittedly football town, they’re also fighting a city that’s been fooled before.  Last year, the team got out to a hot start, only to fizzle at .500 at season’s end.  Also, 162 games is a grueling schedule for the casual fan, so not everyone is going to want to go to 82 home games.  Finally, even when they do come, the old philosophy of “everyone supports a winner” starts to come true.  In fandom, you either take the “fair-weather fan,” or you leave them.  For Chris Perez, apparently, he’ll take them.    I say, just keep pitching well, and well, I guess “they will come.”  As for going to him for quote-worthy material, I say keep them coming…any press is good press when your playing second-fiddle.

Scott Shaw, The Plain Dealer

It’s finally here; the night we’ve all been waiting for, Cleveland fans!  It’s our Super Bowl!  Ladies and gentleman, the 2012 NFL Draft is less than three hours away.  If you believe the hype coming off Cleveland sports talk radio and if you’ve even dared to venture over to the ESPN family of networks, then this is the end all of, well, everything.

I, for one, am just happy that it’s over–for now.  After the Browns make their selection at number four (or who knows where, if they trade up down or just completely out of the draft for that matter), the new debate will begin.  ”Was it the right guy?”  ”Will he help this franchise finally turn around?”

The answer to these, and any other draft-related questions are in fact, a moot point.  The NFL is indeed the king of professional sports in America (sorry, baseball fans.  I may still prefer nine innings, but the majority of American sports fans have the attention span of a gnat, therefore, once a week is fine by them.)  Nevertheless, being king comes with a cost.  I, for one, believe that the casual fan is over-saturated and inundated with “Football!  Football!  Football!”  The Scouting Combine is in February, free agency starts in March and the draft is in April.  Then the regular season starts in September.  Do you know what all this adds up to?  In a town like Cleveland, it adds up to the equivalent of a whole other season.  Let’s face it, Browns fans look more forward to the NFL off season than we do the actual season (I think a combined record of 68-140 since returning in 1999 will do that to you).

So now, thanks the proliferation of redundant sports websites, the elevation to “king” status of Mel Kiper and Todd McShay, and my favorite, the mock draft (versions 1 through 46, it seems like), the NFL Draft has taken on a life of its own.  Don’t believe me?  Then why is it broadcast over three days (including two in prime time)?     So, since it’s our season, don’t you think by now the Browns would be masters of their true season?  Well, since 1999, our first round draft picks have been the following:  Tim Couch, Courtney Brown, Gerard Warren, William Green, Jeff Faine, Kellen Winslow II, Braylon Edwards, Kamerion Wimbley, Joe Thomas, Brady Quinn, Alex Mack, Joe Haden and Phil Taylor.  Four of those players are still with the Browns.  I’m not going to spend the time dissecting each pick that the Browns could have made, mostly because hindsight is indeed 20-20, but, I will say this.  I have absolutely no confidence that the Browns are going to get it right tonight after years of getting it (by the majority) wrong.

I can’t help but think that perhaps, maybe, just maybe, if the Browns can somehow pull it together and make a good draft this year, then we can forget the fact that they take no part in the free agency process (thanks, Frostee Rucker), tend to value guys that no one else values where we draft them (supposedly, we may be drafting your replacement Montario Hardesty) and then don’t hold themselves accountable to the fans they’re trying to cater to (I don’t want those playoff tickets, Mr. Holmgren…and oh, by the way, KJR is on the phone for you, if you have the time to talk to them).  Then again, I am a Browns fan and I’m not so sure I want to continue to give them a pass and just “trust” them.

So, the Browns are almost on the clock, and the next stage in our true season is about to begin.  I for one can’t wait…Check back Sunday for my updated “Mock Draft 1.0.”  I bet I give Kiper a run for his money with my accuracy.

@IndiansGM@MarkShapiro All I want for Christmas is a corner infielder with some pop…& not nearing 40 yrs old. Odds of a Merry Christmas?

Suprisingly, about a day later, I received a response from Shapiro:

@thejasonstout How about Lonnie Chisenhall?

So it goes as an Indians fan.  A non-committal answer; a half-answer at best.  Is Chisenhall a corner infielder? Yes, he plays third base.  Does he have some pop?  Again, yes, but it isn’t a bat to fear in any line up.  So, here I sit, still wondering.  Thanks to social media, we are more and more connected to the teams and players we love and follow each season.  Nevertheless, it can be argued that being this close to those we follow makes for even more heartache, as the bad news comes to us a lot faster. This off-season, the hurt for Tribe fans keeps coming.  First, last Friday, it was announced that Indians’ starting pitcher Fausto Carmona was arrested in his home country of the Dominican Republic for using a false identity.  His name, in fact, is Roberto Hernandez Heredia.  On top of that, he isn’t 28 years old, but is in fact 31.  The final blow comes with the revelation that Heredia may not be available to the Indians’ rotation this entire season (and that’s after the Tribe picked up his option of $7 million in October.)  Has Carmona/Heredia been anything much since his 19-win season in 2007?  No, but in this upcoming season, he would have been a pretty solid number three or four starter in this rotation.

The next bit of hurt came today with the announcement that the Detroit Tigers signed first baseman Prince Fielder to a nine-year, $214 million contract.  Now, let’s get this out of the way:  I in no way thought the Indians could have signed Fielder (more on that in a bit), but to see a division rival bring in such a power bat (one of your most glaring needs) while your team lays dormant, practically in the equivalent of the fetal position, it’s difficult to not just fall out of your chair and join them in said position.

So the question:  ”Why so angry if you knew the Indians wouldn’t even look at him?”   Well, it all started when I was told to read Moneyball by Michael Lewis for a class I was taking to finish up my degree.  Moneyball, for any of you who aren’t sure, is the story of Billy Beane, the Oakland Athletics General Manager, and how his ideas on how to build a team, while innovative and new, showed success.  More importantly, Lewis shows how possible it is, when doing the research that Beane and his team did (and more importantly still do), you can build a “small-market team” into a contender on a budget.  Well, apparently, the Cleveland Indians can’t do that.

Ever since Larry Dolan bought the franchise in 2000, the team has found varying success.  This came on the heels of a run of about six years of division titles, two pennants, and in 1997, one out away from a World Series title.  Many homegrown stars, or talent that Indians GM Mark Shapiro got in trade were either traded away when it became apparent they couldn’t or wouldn’t re-sign with the team (C.C. Sabathia, Cliff Lee).  Perhaps even worse, most of the talent the Indians took back for some of their proven stars haven’t exactly panned out.   So, there’s the rub.  The Tigers get Prince Fielder and widen the gap in the A.L. Central.  Still think I’m overreacting?  ”He’s just one player.”  Right.  He’s also a difference-maker.  A guy who has AVERAGED .280 37 HRs 106 RBIs 32 2Bs.  His OBP is only .390, but is OPS is .920 and his slugging is .540.   Do you know what that all means?  He’s one hell of a hitter.  Our first basemen for the majority of last season was Matt LaPorta.  Comparatively speaking, LaPorta isn’t Prince Fielder, which in fairness isn’t the problem.  LaPorta isn’t even Lou Collins (shout-out to all the Little Big League fans.)  LaPorta hit .247 with 11 home runs and drove in 53.  Even more depressing is that he got on base a whopping 29% of the time and slugged a mediocre .412.  So, have the Indians addressed this glaring deficiency?  Well, define “addressed.”

The Tribe have signed to minor-league contracts (with invitations to Spring Training) six position players and traded for another.  None of them primarily play first base.  Does that mean that none can transition there?  No.  Ask Billy Beane about Scott Hatteberg.  Nevertheless, with a quick perusal of who the Indians have signed or traded for, you don’t exactly see any possibilities; no Hattebergs.   Felix Pie, Aaron Cunningham, Ryan Spillborghs, and Fred Lewis all play the outfield (and, if you really think about it, it seems as if the Indians primary offseason interest always lies in stockpiling below-average or past their prime outfielders.  Nevertheless, with the injury history to our outfield, maybe one of those guys will pan out.)  Jose Lopez has played 37 games in his career at first, so I guess he might be able to play there in a pinch–if he makes the team.  The Indians also made the inspiring move of signing 36-year old short stop Julio Lugo, and if he makes the team out of spring training, will play the pivotal role of this year’s Adam Everett.  That’s exciting, Tribe fans.

In short, the story always remain the same.  The Indians farm system took a hit with the Ubaldo Jimenez trade, but perhaps either Nick Weglarz or LeVon Washington will be ready to join the outfield in a couple of years (not likely with Washington, but perhaps Weglarz).  Even so, neither really excites that much with the bat.  Casey Kotchman is still available as a free agent signing, but again, he’s really not that much better than LaPorta.  Antonetti could still surprise and make a trade for a bat, but that seems very unlikely.  So, that brings me back full circle.   The offseason, the Hot Stove season, is nonexistent in Cleveland.  What that means more than ever is that when other teams get set to face the Indians line-up, there is no one bat that can strike fear in opposing pitchers.  There is no Albert Belle or Manny Ramirez or Jim Thome coming to the plate, Tribe fans, and in case you haven’t noticed, the Cleveland Indians brass and ownership don’t seem to care either.  So sit back and look forward to another “Indian Summer,” with a second-place finish at best, thanks to the ineptitude or inability to make this team better consistently.  Either way, it’s the fan that loses, and Larry Dolan doesn’t care.

September 8, 1995.  I had never been a part of something so electric, nor have I ever been since.  I sat, on the third base side of the cathedral of the Cleveland Indians, Jacob’s Field, with my mom and dad.  I was twelve years old, and already had a steady understanding that this night was beyond special; this night was 41 years in the making.  The Cleveland Indians were standing on the doorstep of their first division title in a very long time.  And I was there.

I, like many boys my age, watched the game intently, trying to figure out whose swing I would emulate at my next little league game, or how I’d wear my socks, over or under my pants.  Both questions were answered by the same player; I’d wear my socks over my pants, and I’d take the signature point-at-the-pitcher-with-my-bat my first time up.  I wanted to be Jim Thome.

That night was nothing really special.  Thome went 0-4 with a strikeout, but I didn’t remember that until I just looked it up.  What I did remember was the final at-bat, or at least the result.  Jeff Huson, the Orioles third-basemen (and the part I didn’t remember) popped up to Thome at third base, in foul territory, and with a close of the glove, the stadium erupted

To me, this was the defining moment of what was the renaissance in Indians’ baseball.  Even more importantly, this was the start of a Hall of Fame career.  Nearly 16 years to the day after I witnessed one historic night, fans in Detroit got to witness another as Thome hit his 600th career home run.  As only the eighth member of this exclusive club, Thome’s accomplishment was met with little fanfare, which was both an indictment on where the sport of baseball has gone in recent years and also to what kind of player Thome is in the pantheon of greats.

Last September, me and my seven closest friends and family made the journey to Progressive Field.  The Tribe was already well out of it, but they were playing the Twins, the latest home for Thome.  What we got that night was a two-hour rain delay and a 12-inning game, that ended in a way that was only fitting for the way the day went.  To be sitting in a stadium, that once boasted over 400 consecutive sellouts, with about 2,000 of your nearest and dearest unknown acquaintances, was sobering.  What was more sobering was with the swing of a bat, the game was effectively over in the top of the 12th instead of the bottom.  The man swinging the bat?  That would be Thome, and his monster shot of Justin Germano received a standing ovation…and he played for the opponent.

Earlier this week, Indians general manager Chris Antonetti made a move that showed his and the organization’s desire to push for this season, even if it may realistically out of reach.  As a fan, to see number 25 back in an Indians jersey is beyond a level of excitement that occasionally permeates a city desperate for reasons to cheer.  His first game back was highlighted with a “Welcome T’home’” theme, and was more than likely an unforgettable night for fans in attendance and those who watched on television.  The team won, and it had one of its heroes back, so we can ignore his 0-4 night (along with those 2 Ks) because that’s who Thome is; he’s the antithesis of what some have come to admire in this game.  He’s not what most think of when they think of a larger than life athlete that overshadows a team.  No, Jim Thome appears to be what he’s always been:  an unassuming giant among men, whose journey to Cooperstown gets to take a detour through Cleveland once again.  I for one will be the one standing and watching, giving respect to a man that has built himself a legacy by his terms…and in this game, there really shouldn’t be any other way.

Savage died in a car accident after an apparent heart attack while driving on Friday.  In the time that has passed, more than enough stories have appeared somewhere, some covering what I wanted to cover (Bill Simmons and his usual gold can be found here) while others went where I didn’t have the resources to cover (Jeff Pearlman’s brilliant piece on SI.com).  Instead, I’ll go a mix of nostalgia and try to fill in the blanks of where his death has truly left me.

I was a child of the eighties, so wrestling was still cool.  Some of my fondest memories of growing up were going to the old Richfield Coliseum with my grandpa and dad to watch the WWF live events.  I was lucky enough to see Andre the Giant wrestle “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan from seats only a couple of rows back (Andre was truly a giant, especially when you’re five or six years old.)  I got to see the likes of Jake “The Snake” Roberts, Bad News Brown and “The Million Dollar Man” Ted DiBiase up close and personal because my dad used to take me around back at the Coliseum where the wrestlers would enter the building and fans were desperately trying to get an autograph.  And I saw the “Macho Man.”

Savage was almost always secondary to Hulk Hogan.  Hogan was always telling me to “Say my prayers, take your vitamins,” while Savage would just rant and rave and act like a lunatic during his interview times.  But when he was in that ring, man he could keep your attention.  Savage flew; he literally flew.  The top ropes where his home away from home.  At this time, the “sport” was mostly lumbering men power slamming their opponents and lethargically getting through the matches.  Savage was leaping around, inside and out of the ring, making his opponents pay.  Like most things in life, it wasn’t until later that I realized just what I had missed when I was younger.  His match with Hogan at Wrestlemania V was epic, but mostly because of Savage’s performance.  His match with Ricky Steamboat at Wrestlemania III is still considered one of the top five matches of all time.  His battles with Roberts, the Ultimate Warrior and Ric Flair, in hindsight, were some of the best performances the ring had ever seen.

I just know now, when I watched Monday Night Raw (the WWE’s flagship television show) this past Monday night, I waited for the inevitable video tribute, then felt my eyes actually well up with tears.  Though many scoff at professional wrestling, many of the industry have lost their lives to a variety of circumstances.  Many of these men and women are addicted to painkillers and other forms of medications to help deal with the pain, sprains and breaks they suffer from performing in this “fake” sport.  Also, unlike other sports, professional wrestling has no union to support them; wrestlers are considered “independent contractors.”  They do have contracts with their companies, but have to pay for travel, rental cars, accommodations and food.  More importantly, getting health insurance is a difficult game to play when you’re in this business.  Savage outlasted a lot of his peers, living to age 58, then dying in a random accident (the coroner’s report was inconclusive as to whether or not he had a heart attack and his remains were cremated, making any further analysis impossible.)  On the flip side, I understand that these performers choose this line of work, just like the rest of us in our chosen fields, so the hardships they endure in no way needs to lead to drug addiction, steroid abuse, alcohol abuse, etc.  Nevertheless, more men have died in this profession than all the major sports in America “before their time” combined.

I found myself reminiscing and revisiting memories from my childhood that I had long forgotten.  I also know that when a cultural icon dies, it leads one to view his or her own mortality, whether for a second or longer, in a more serious light.  All I pray is that others learn from this loss, and more importantly, remember the man that was macho; who could spin a tale with his eyes and the words of madness, all while dropping an elbow from the heavens in which he now resides.  Rest in Peace, Randy, and I just remembered:  “Oooooohhhhh Yeeeeeeahhh!”

I’ve written about heroes, and I’ve written about false idols; I’ve written about trust and honesty.  The last few days have been, well, interesting, and today just added some kindle to an all ready smoldering fire.  I got to work today and found out that my team teacher was leaving in two weeks.  He had found another job and was moving on.  There’s nothing really out of the ordinary there, but it definitely gave me pause when I found out where he was working.  He was moving on by going where I started out in childcare; he was going to work for an individual who taught me all that I know about being a school age teacher.

So my mind turned to the troubles weighing on me this week.  My team teacher is a good young man.  He’s a father, a soon-to-be husband, and he had absolutely no experience in childcare.  So for the last seven months, he has watched how I work, mimicked how I’ve taught, and followed my example on a daily basis, just like I did when I started in this business.

We all have mentors and role models, and not just in our work or education.  We have those that we look up to in all aspects of our lives.  We look to others to see how they live their own life, follow the examples they set, and are let down when they don’t live up to the expectations we place on them, good or bad.  We know that no one is perfect, but when someone does something or says something that makes you pause and wonder aloud:  “What just happened?,” we’re not always sure what to do.

We may cry out, we may unintentionally hurt them, we may even verbalize how we feel in a way that makes them feel attacked, but all we’re really doing is trying to figure out just why someone we trust and look up to expects us to bend without breaking.  We wonder why the third base coach leaves us hanging, forcing us to decide whether or not we can beat the relay throw.  More times than not, our decision to run may have been right, but the third base coach is going to ask why we didn’t follow his signal and “hold up.”  Not all decisions are good ones but the greater problem involved can’t be ignored or deflected all to score a run.

I’m going to miss my team teacher, because I truly feel as if God gave me an opportunity to teach someone things about life, and how to impart them to not always willing or ready young minds.  But even still, there are people who want to teach you things and you’re ready and willing, but sometimes meanings get lost in the shuffle.  People get hurt and hurt in response because that is inherently human.  All we can do is just listen and pray that God will continue to lend His strength and motivation…even when we ignore His signal to slide.

He rose  the topic of discussion a while back of whether or not we as sports fans are just bitter or have taken it to the next level of idolatry and frustration over our false idols failures.  He drove home the point with these words:

“We live in an area in which people dedicate their entire lives to sport shrines and athletic idols. People dedicate more time to watching sports, thinking about sports, listening to sports, reading about sports, fantasizing about sports, than loving their own families or living their own real lives. These same people (many “Christian”) will take to the streets to flip over cars for wins or loses. They burn gear, hurl venom-filled curses, wishing evil on players and owners. Oftentimes their own. People are so foul-mouthed blind stinking drunk you fear to take your children to professional sporting events. Then there is how we handle the wins when they do come. Specifically for this area the one good team we have (OSU) we place so much false bravado and immature expectations on that even winning contains the familiar taste of bitterness. There it is. There is the key word. This area is bitter. I don’t know what is worse the way we talk about our teams when we lose or our opponents when we win. It is obnoxious and juvenile.”

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that not only is he right, but the sadness that enters my heart because of it is almost too much to bear.  As a society, we crave entertainment, and with sport, we get just that, entertainment combined with competition (another of America’s vices).  We are a nation of fans; most of us live and die with the start or finish, not of an actual season, but of a major league.  I know some fans who live and breathe professional football, then move right into the NBA season, followed by baseball season, which in turn goes right back into football season.  It isn’t necessary to know when the solstices or equinoxes fall anymore, all you need to know is when opening day is.

I suppose I should take a moment to interject that I myself love most sports.  I couldn’t wait until this baseball season began, but I waited with a renewed sense of spirit.  To me, baseball is a right of passage; a renewal of things past as sons go with fathers to the ballpark to witness feats of greatness and awe.  I still watch the game like my dad taught me to.  I watch the whole game; I don’t go for the socializing that happens in the stands.  I watch the pitcher go through his motions between batters and watch as he jogs off the field between innings, careful not to step on the foul line as he crosses.  I watch the outfielders shift with each hitter, remembering their scouting reports of the hitter’s tendencies.  I listen to the crack of the bat and watch the whole of the infield and outfield as it moves in its previously hinted at dance of getting the runner out.

I don’t go to drink as much as I can before the seventh-inning cutoff, or see how many hot dogs I can get through before the game is over.  I don’t go to call each member of the opposing teams anything more than “bums” or boo their ability to take a win from the home team.  The umpires might feel my wrath as I silently curse their blown call that may take away a sure win, but I will never hold a grudge for more than the length of the game because that is what it is.  It’s a game.  But in Cleveland, at some point, sport became life.

The lovable losers that we are, or at least have been painted as in the national media has brought us a slew of new feelings of feebleness or uselessness.  The economy in Cleveland has been hit hard, and with losing sports franchises, people aren’t spending the money that they used to.  But still, there are times when we know that we’re going to lose a game, a series, or even a whole lot of games.  Nevertheless, we rant and rave about owners not spending money to bring the right players in, drafting wrong or making bad trades.  So that makes me think; who are we watching for anymore?  Are we watching out of enjoyment or with a sense of entitlement that we ourselves have never earned?  We want a winner because no one wants to lose, but do we deserve a winner just because we’ve never had one?

Sports figures have long been equated to modern-day gods.  Though with each fallen hero, we get closer and closer to the truth that sits right in front of us.  These are mere men; not only are they not gods, but the days we spend worshiping them and there acts take us further and further away from the things in life that are worth worshiping.  The one true God performs miracles of the heart for those willing to let Him in.  I’ve never seen a man lead his team to victory and proclaim it done by a hand not his own, nor have I watched the celebration that follows not turn to debauchery and a steady dose of sin, all in the name of victory.

We are the lovable loser, led to believe that we are fated to fail at every turn in sport because we are not meant to have the ultimate victory of championship come to us.  When you really think about it, is that so bad?  Let’s face it.  No one likes to lose, and we would love to be able to watch the entertainment presented to us with the hope of it going on for as long as it can.  But, in the end, the only true enjoyment is in knowing that you are worshiping a God who has forgiven your trespass as you trespass against Him by worshiping a false idol, one who happens to wear a uniform.  Or better yet, enjoy the game before you without making it so serious that it surpasses that in life that truly is.

I’m ready for the season, but would gladly put it aside for the opportunity to “play catch” with my Father…

I am in no way condoning or pardoning Ramirez’s use of performance enhancing drugs (PEDs), but as a good buddy and I have talked about at length, the Steroid Era was what it was/is, and frankly, we all went to the ballpark and cheered on the home runs; to look down our noses now and waggle a finger in shame is not only hypocritical, but asinine.  Were any of the players right for using and abusing?  The simple answer is “no,” but in life, there are no such things as simple answers to loaded questions.

Ramirez had a swing to be admired.  While his work-ethic and his “Manny Being Manny” was at times tiresome and apparently weighed on his teammates and coaches (Jeff Passan of Yahoo! Sports’ scathing article here), Ramirez could still flat-out hit.  PEDs don’t teach you how to swing; they don’t improve your hand-eye coordination.  Hands down, Manny Ramirez is the best right-handed hitter of my generation.  End of story.

At least, when it comes to how he played the game.  The original story for me was one I read two weeks ago (and can be found here).  When I think of heroes and the game I love above all others, I think of one man:  Jim Thome.  Other than Ramirez, there were very few players who to me epitomize what a baseball player was supposed to be.  Thome could hit, was a solid defender (at both corners of the infield no less), and perhaps most importantly, didn’t ever seem to view himself as above the game he played.  Sure, he had the “aw shucks” approach, but you can tell that he’s not dumb.  He has a high baseball IQ and has been a tireless leader in any clubhouse he’s in.

When he left the Indians in 2003 to join the Phillies, I followed him.  It was the first time my allegiances migrated with a player.  I still loved the hometown Indians (and they forever will be my favorite team), but that’s how much I respected Thome and what he stood for as a baseball player.  Sure, he took the money and ran, but, at that stage of his career, the Indians weren’t going to match such an offer and it’s always nice to feel wanted.  Thome’s years in Philadelphia were superb until injuries caught up with him.  Facing being replaced by Ryan Howard, the Phillies traded him to the White Sox.  (My allegiances stayed with Thome and the Phillies separately; I will never root for the Chicago White Sox.)  His stat line and playing time decreasing, I still watched every chance I got to see a great hitter chase milestones in the twilight of his career.

Then came September 2010.  In my own personal life, things were changing dramatically.  But, on September 11, I went up to Progressive Field with five of my closest friends and my absolutely closest friend, my dad, to watch the Indians play the Twins.  The stadium was practically empty, thanks in part to it being September and the Indians being out of the pennant race by May, coupled with a wonderful two-hour rain delay.  Nevertheless, when a certain Twin came to bat, the few left at Progressive Field stood and clapped.  I briefly sat about twenty rows behind home plate that day, and had my phone at the ready to take a few snaps whenever Thome came to the plate.  It took very little to realize that I was seeing my favorite player at my favorite sport, for what could be perhaps the last time.  And he didn’t disappoint.  He was 1-4 with a solo home run (no. 587 of his career).

In life, heroes are only what we make them out to be.  Many argue that sports figures should not be heroes.  But I argue that, especially with baseball, it is difficult to not find heroics in America’s Pastime.  Even with the ever-included asterisk at the ready, baseball players are still folk heroes.  Sure, media has grown to a point where you don’t hear about said feats through the newspapers or by word of mouth, or by the radio that just happened to carry that game that day.  You hear about it that night on ESPN or online then forget about it the next day.  That’s what sensory overload in America is right now.  But, for me, two men will forever be my benchmarks for what made baseball the greatest game in the world.  It created heroes for entirely different reasons, but I still believe in what a hero could be.  My children and grandchildren will be reared on stories, pictures, video, whatever of the two greatest hitters of my generation because they were my heroes…and that’s enough for me.

Sure it’s only a line from a movie (The Sandlot, 1993), but the silence coming from 2501 Allen Avenue on the Southeast side of Canton can be overwhelming to those who grew up there.  From 1989-1996, summers spent here were nothing short of magical, as the likes of Albert Belle, Manny Ramirez, Jim Thome started their careers here.  “Here” is Thurman Munson Memorial Stadium. 

Sure, there are random games still played on this field.  High school playoffs, Malone University, the current tenants, the Ohio Men’s Senior Baseball League and the newly forming Ultimate Baseball League.  Is it good that the stadium is getting used?  Of course.  But, what’s more important is that ask most around Stark County and the man it’s named for is a mystery.

This is where I’m going with this.  I remember asking my dad who Thurman Munson was when I went to the stadium to watch the Canton/Akron Indians.  My dad, who watched Munson play for the Yankees in the 70s told me, and explained to me that he was from Canton and died in a plane accident at the Akron/Canton airport.  My dad also made it sound like Munson was a pretty good ballplayer.  My inherent interest in baseball and reading lead me to read everything I could find about Munson and how he played and who he was.  I was excited to learn that his wife and children still lived in Canton and that his son Mike went to GlenOak High School, where I would later attend. 

Even then, I still only knew what I read and eventually was able to see with the advent of more and more historical sporting events played on the ESPN family of networks and beyond.  What did I learn?  The man could hit.  And he could catch a game of baseball.  It was said repeatedly that he was a natural leader and helped navigate the crazy times in New York and dealing with the constant Steinbrenner drama and the incoming Reggie Jackson.

Nevertheless, he’s not known now and we have a run-down cathedral with his name nowhere to be found.  What do heroes have to do to be remembered?  Should we build a statue in his honor?  Should we have a Thurman Munson Day, where kids get off school and local businesses put his number (15) in their shop windows?  Would it make any difference?  Today, heroes and legends are what we make of them.  In sports, though athletes should never be role models (see:  Barry Bonds, Tiger Woods, Ben Roethlisberger), but their on-field/court heroics help their legends grow exponentially, especially with the ridiculous amount of media coverage for a game.  But this doesn’t make them legends, and it especially doesn’t make them heroes. 

If a man like Thurman Munson played today, it is probably safe to say that he would just blend into the crowd and would never be considered special because he wouldn’t be the typical New York athlete.  But that’s what made him who he was.  He played the game because he loved it and was good at it.  He lived a quiet life here in Canton; that’s what he loved about coming back here.  The endorsements and the fanfare weren’t what made him a hero.  Sadly, in death, his Yankee brethren honor him with his number retired in centerfield, his locker empty and kept the way he left it all these years later and he was the last captain of the most storied franchise in sports until Derek Jeter.  In Canton, he’s a memory, and not even one that can be heard outside of 2501 Allen.  Then again, maybe that’s how he would want it.

Nevertheless, things have been coming to fruition in my life.  For starters, I was supposed to be married going on five months.  Instead, I find myself in a relationship with an entirely different person than the one who was to be my wife, and am a better man for it.  Without going into extreme and extraneous detail, the woman I was supposed to marry wasn’t who I thought she was, and we never married.  That was seven months ago, and at the time, I never thought my life would get better, let alone change in any positive way.  What I’ve found is that was an extremely bitter and self-serving way to view how my life was changing.  It did me no good to think that way.  Instead, especially in the last few months, I’ve found purpose and meaning in even the smallest of instances, and am blessed because of it.

Secondly, I was supposed to be starting a truly new adventure career-wise.  So far, (and perhaps now never) this has not happened.  Instead, I found myself moving noticeably “backwards” when it came to my career.  It was supposed to be temporary, but instead, it seems more and more each day like something perhaps more permanent.  Though it may not be perfect, it is something that not all in our country in this day and age could ask for:  a steady paycheck and a chance to make my way in the world.  For this, I am eternally grateful, even if it wasn’t what I was expecting or frankly hoping for.  But there are still things to come.

With each passing day, I find myself stronger, even when weak.  Thanks to my brother C.J., I find myself in the midst of writing my first non-fiction book.  He came up with the idea months ago with the plan for us to work on it together, the best that we can  and see where it goes.  I started out strong, but immediately fell apart and deleted the entire thing.  Then, my second draft went to my editor and brother Tim, who, as only Tim can, told me in all honesty, I was missing my own point.  So I started over again and found a rhythem that can only come from God.  I haven’t kept up with it nearly enough, but when I do go back to it, I find comfort in my words because I know that He is putting them on my heart and asking me to share them with whomever will read them later on.

In other words, there is a time and place for any and all emotions and feelings that come into your mind.  The beauty is that time and place is always.  Learning to let go, and truly let God, put my mind at ease and allows all of those emotions to flood over me on a daily basis.  It has helped me be a better friend, a better employee, a better son, and most recently, a better boyfriend.  Learning to have that most important of relationships on God’s terms has been new, exciting, and eye-opening.  Taking the time to read together, worship together, pray together, and do devotionals together has taught me (and by extension, the “us” that is building) to take my time, open my eyes and enjoy whatever it is that He throws at me.  Because no matter how you look at it, He only “throws” you those curveballs to make sure you’re not crowding the plate; that you’re not blind to the pitch count and you’re ready to truly move forward in His grace and motivations.

So, my friends, what things are there to come in your life, and are you as ready as you should be?