Tuesday, October 20, 2009

6.7 Seconds

Note: This post features a short story by an up-and-coming writer named Olivia Finley. Yes, she just so happens to be my daughter. This is a great little story that was the product of an assignment in her college class called Writing Fiction. Since it's a story about a football game, it was fair game for publication on this blog. It is reminiscent of other great football stories like Remember the Titans or Friday Night Lights. Like those stories, it's as much about the people as it is the game. I find it astonishing that someone who has never played the game competitively could write about it so accurately and with such intensity.

I think you'll like this story. Let me know if you do by leaving a comment.

Grace and Peace,
Greg

P.S. She didn't want me to post this, but it was my job as her father to do so....

6.7 Seconds
by Olivia Finley

The small town of Stamps, Arkansas was having an unusually cold night, even for November. Out of the 1,910 total population, 1,905 people had gathered at Millbrook Stadium to watch their hometown Express play the Hershburn High Panthers. It was the district playoff game and the Express remained undefeated. So did the Panthers. The victorious team would continue on to State. The hype and competition were nearly tangible.


As a small town, Stamps tended to go through cycles of fads. Several years earlier, a visitor couldn’t walk down Main Street without seeing at least eight people wearing a faux leather jacket with “The Sopranos” imprinted on the back. Not that anyone particularly liked the show, but the jacket had a tough and dangerous tone to it that no one could pass up. And one year after the jackets, every diner in town was serving peanut butter and pickle sandwiches. The general population also ordered a side of jalapeno and blackberry coleslaw for an extra seventy-nine cents. Fortunately, neither the jackets nor the sandwiches lasted long. But throughout Stamps’ mindless wanderings from trend to trend, one thing had remained steadily at the forefront of their thoughts: football. They loved their football. In the town’s eyes, a battle on the gridiron was the equivalent to Roman gladiators, a life or death event. Stamps had a football tradition rivaling that of a Texas high school. It was what steadied and unified them.


The hype and competition were nearly tangible. There were 6.7 seconds left in the fourth quarter. The game had been a close one. Both teams had played exceptionally well and the score was 12-7 Express. The Panthers had the ball at the Express’ four yard line. It was fourth and goal. The Panthers had to go for a six. All the Express had to do was hold them and they would advance to State. Steamy faces glared at each other from both sides of the line of scrimmage.


6.7 seconds.
Blake Thomas couldn’t wait for the game to be over. Blake was a linebacker for the Express, and this was his senior year. He had played all the way up from tiny tot football and was ecstatic about being done. Although Blake was a good player, it was his father who had a love for the game and forced him to play. Blake didn’t necessarily mind football; it was good exercise and usually enjoyable, but he had always wanted to pursue music. He had dabbled around in guitar and cello throughout junior high and high school, but football had never given him a chance to truly excel. So when the season was over Blake was going to dive into serious music lessons and see where that took him.
“Blake, come on man, get focused,” a fellow lineman called over to Blake. He snapped out of his musical daydreaming with a quick double blink. He heard “Crazy Train” being played over the crackly speakers. He listened to the rest of his team on the sideline pounding their thigh pads with a heavy and steady rhythm.
“Hold that line,” the cheerleaders chanted. A siren wailed in the background.


Steamy faces glared at each other from both sides of the line of scrimmage. The crowd in the stands huddled together for warmth. Wispy clouds rose from cups of hot chocolate held by gloved hands. Red noses stuck out from beneath brims of furry hats, and watery eyes looked intensely at the field. The town wanted this game. Although Stamps had a history of winning, they hadn’t been able to grasp the state title in five years. This was the first step up to the pedestal. Everyone knew winning State would cause a celebration bigger than any holiday in the little town. The parents, the coaches, the players: they all knew it. Back on the field, the defenders shifted their weight from side to side in anticipation. Mouth guards clicked against teeth as they were popped in and out.


6.7 seconds.
Dallas Andrews, the Express’ quarterback and a senior, stood on the sideline praying to someone that the defense would hold. He was too entranced by the tension to join his team in the yelling and pounding. Instead he whispered, “Be firm. Don’t let them move. Be firm. Don’t let them move.” He said this, half hoping it would supernaturally empower his teammates, or maybe cause a brick wall to appear where players once stood. Dallas had adopted the town’s view of football at the age of six, when his father first threw him a foam ball. Ever since then he had worked his hardest to become the best. He had earned the position of the Express’ starting quarterback as a sophomore, something he wouldn’t let any of his fellow players forget if they questioned his authority. And he wanted State more than anything. He wanted to go out in a riotous fashion, being remembered as the guy who led his team undefeated to the championship. He’d be holding the trophy in the picture that would go in the hallway trophy case in school. And he knew that was about all the fame he would ever have. Dallas understood that he wasn’t a smart kid; he struggled in all of his classes and had no college future. He was too small to quarterback at a university. He knew he’d be the seventy-five year old man sitting on his front porch with his buddies, recalling every play they ever executed in high school. He’d stay in Stamps his whole life and probably work in the feed store or at some other low-paying job. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be a farmer. Was it too much to ask for that patch on his letterman’s jacket? These thoughts rumbled through his head as his eye was caught by light flicked off a cheerleader’s gold pom. The aroma of upturned dirt and grass seeped up into his nose. “Don’t let them move,” he said. It started to rain.


Mouth guards clicked against teeth as they were popped in and out. The Stamps High faculty members had a reserved area in the bleachers and were sitting there looking critically at the players and coaches below them. Only they knew the true importance of this game for their head coach, Daniel Shaw. Although he had taken the Express to many victories over his eight year coaching career in Stamps, the fact that he hadn’t won a championship in five years was disturbing to the townspeople, and more particularly to the school’s authorities. If this season was, in their words, a failure, he would have to be let go. No one wanted this to happen. In fact, everyone loved Coach Shaw, but no one cared about character when the trophy case was empty. They would do what had to be done. The principal scrutinized the field, knowing his decision would be made by the next play. The players assumed the three-point position.


6.7 seconds.
Coach Shaw looked from his clipboard, to his shoes, to his players on the field. He loved those boys; they were his family. He had moved to Stamps nine years earlier to get away from the house where his wife died. He didn’t have any children, or any attachment to his former residence in Little Rock, so he left and found a small house in quirky little Stamps. Nothing there was entangled with memories. He liked that. Soon word got out around town that he had coached football at Valleypoint High School, one of the best schools in the state and known for their excellent athletic programs. Stamps’ school board intended to fire their current head coach because his win-loss record wasn’t up to par, so they needed a replacement for the next season. Daniel Shaw was their first choice and he needed a job. He gladly accepted and finished his first season with a state title. The school board reveled in its fortunate decision. Coach Shaw had had many successful seasons since that first one, and even won another championship two years later. He invested so much time into his players on and off the field that they thought of him more as a father than anything else. He taught his boys that winning was important, but not if it was attained without sportsmanship and good character. Coach Shaw wanted his team to succeed that night; however, he would still be proud of them even if they didn’t win. He looked up to the black sky after he felt a rain drop hit his hand. “Nothing like trying to stop them in the mud,” he said to his defensive coordinator. He returned his focus to his players and smiled. “Let’s go boys,” he thought to himself.


The players assumed the three-point position. Muscles tensed. The crowd leaned forward in anticipation. The past three downs the Panthers had attempted running plays, all of which had failed to reach the end zone. The defense knew a pass was coming. The Panthers’ quarterback grunted “Blue 22, hut hut!” The center safely hiked him the ball and the quarterback stepped back to throw. The defense backed up to cover the pass. That’s when the draw happened. Out of nowhere, the running back sprinted toward the quarterback and took the hand-off. He then angled agilely across the goal line for the six winning points. The buzzer sounded. That was the game; the Express had lost. After shaking hands with the Panthers, Coach Shaw gathered his downcast team around him. “Listen boys,” he said, “You really proved yourselves out there tonight. I don’t want you to think about what you accomplished on the scoreboard, but what you accomplished on the field. I couldn’t be happier with the effort you put forth this game and the entire season. I know this is a disappointing loss, but it’s not the end of the world. I won’t keep you boys because I know me lecturing is the last thing you want to hear right now. So let’s keep working and we’ll get them next year.”
Next year.

Friday, October 9, 2009

The Twinkies and Greinke



My brother is on an Alaskan cruise, so he gave me a week's worth of his Royals season tickets. In the spirit of Beaver Cleaver, my immediate reaction was "Gee Wally (not my brother's real name), do I half ta go?" I endure enough pain, torment, and blown saves during the day not selling commercial real estate, so I was not necessarily excited about continuing the frustration after hours at Kauffman Stadium.

As it turned out, I could only go to two of the six games, the first being this past Sunday where my expectations of utter frustration were fulfilled. Among other things, I was treated to the Minnesota Twins' 8-run 7th inning which featured Michael Cuddyer's two home runs, a feat not accomplished in the major leagues since David Ortiz did it for the Red Sox last year. I also endured the Royals feeble attempts at a sacrifice bunt while observing the Twins' perfect execution of this most basic of baseball fundamentals.
Other lowlights included a drunken Twins fan who insisted on remaining shirtless for most of the game. He kept waving his Twins hat throughout the game while turning around so that the sun could fully burn his massive girth. To my surprise, when he finally put on his shirt it was a George Brett Royals jersey. I'm not sure to whom the most dis-service was delivered. Was it the Royals jersey to the Twins cap or the Twins cap to the George Brett jersey?

To pass the time I surfed my Blackberry to see how many games the Royals were out of first place as I wondered if they had yet been mathematically eliminated. I then learned from mlb.com that the Royals were about 19 games out of first place and maybe five games out of 4th place in the AL Central. They own the worst record in the American League but are some three games better than the Washington Nationals of the National League. As if this were not depressing enough, I saw that the Royals were 24 games out of the wild card playoff race. So let's get this straight, it is five games harder to be the 4th best team in the American League than it is to be the Division leader and presumably third best team? Oh well, at least we're better than the Nats.

When the game was over the drunken Twins fan pulled a little broom out of his back pocket to celebrate his team's sweep of the American League's worst team. It was a little wimpy broom, smaller than the whisk broom that the umpires might use during the game. Although it takes a little nerve to bring any broom to the opposition's ballpark, if you're going to be that brazen you should not apologize for it with a whisk broom and come with an industrial strength broom. Crocodile Dundee would have not approved. But this guy had the ultimate defense. If anyone ever considered hitting him he'd pull out his George Brett jersey. A Royals' fan hitting someone in a George Brett jersey is worse than a guy hitting a girl with glasses. It simply cannot be done.

Mourning turned to dancing though when I went to last night's (Tuesday's) pitching gem offered up by the Royals' ace, MVP, all-world, hope-for-the-future, and walk-on-water stopper Zack Greinke. Greinke amassed 15 strikeouts during his 8 innings of work. This total eclipsed his previous personal best of 11 K's and broke Mark Gubicza's Royals' record of 14 set in 1988.

Greinke has changed the way I watch a baseball game at Kauffman. I used to plan trips to the bathroom, concession stand, and miniature golf course around the opposing team's at-bat. I used to want to watch the Royals attempt at offense and wasn't too interested in watching them in the field. After all, I know what it looks (and feels) like to miss a cut-off man. However, with Greinke on the mound, I now will not leave my seat while he is pitching. I'm content to hear the Royals at-bat over the radio play-by-play in the men's room or watch it standing in line at the concession stand. I'll be perfectly fine missing a grand slam or a hit-and-run or even a perfectly executed sacrifice bunt, but I won't miss a Greinke pitch. They are too beautiful to watch, especially the slider that was responsible for most of last night's strikeouts.
Greinke has become a sport within a sport. His pitching is so phenomenal that you forget that he's a play within a play. He's a Mid-Summer Night's Dream. And even though the Royals are entrenched in a bomb of a 2009 production, the Act that is Zack Greinke stands alone.

And last night, that was enough.



Tom Watson: Some Final Thoughts

I exchanged emails Monday with my friend Allen Reed from Lawrence, Kansas. The topic was of course Tom Watson and the beauty of what he had accomplished over the weekend in Scotland. It seemed like for both Allen and me, Tom Watson's effort had rekindled passions and emotions for sports which had at some level subsided as we've gotten older.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about Watson's run at the Open Championship was the way it bridged generations. When we talk to our sons and daughters about great athletes of our youth, we typically have to compare them with a modern-day athlete for a frame of reference. We may tell our children about Bret Saberhagen or Steve Busby and make comparisons with say, Zack Greinke . They may ask us if Len Dawson was better than Trent Green and we try to frame the greatness we witnessed in our youth against something they can grasp today.

But last weekend, watching the events at Turnberry, it was different. Father and son could both marvel at Watson in real time. It was like I was watching Watson with my 14-year-old as a 14-year-old myself. It was as if my 17-year-old and I were high school golfing buddies both watching our idol at the same time. Imagine watching with your son this coming October as George Brett suits up to go 4 for 4 with a walk-off home run in game 7 of the World Series. Imagine traveling to Arrowhead with your son in January to watch Len Dawson conduct a game-winning drive to beat the Raiders in the AFC championship game. That's what it was like last weekend. We didn't have to tell them how good Watson was. Watson showed them. And he showed them better than our words and stories could have ever done justice.

I think the beauty of what Watson did over the weekend is that he brought each of us back to a time when things were just a little bit simpler. He brought us back to a time that contained the priceless expectations of youth—a time where our tomorrows far outnumbered our yesterdays. And while going there, Watson let me bring my sons along with me.

The Lesson That is Tom Watson

The numbing sadness of Tom Watson's playoff loss to Stewart Cink in the Open Championship has not yet begun to subside. For a little over three days we dared to dream what was not just improbable, but by all accounts impossible. The Kansas Citian's bid to become the oldest major champion in golf, at just shy of 60 years of age, would not have been considered a plausible plot for even a Disney fairy tale. At age 59 (and 300+ days) you're just supposed to show up and give the fans a bit of nostalgia. You're supposed to just show your face so that fathers and grandfathers can point you out and tell their children and grandchildren that you are a living legend standing before them. Then, on Saturday after you've missed the cut, you're supposed to take your place in the broadcast booth and commentate and critique and reminisce.

But Tom Watson was not content to play the role of elder statesman or broadcaster this past weekend at Turnberry Golf Club on the western coast of Scotland. He showed up to compete, and on Thursday he said he felt like he was playing well enough to win. Then, he looked like he could make the cut. Then, he looked like he actually could win. Then, we believed he must win. We dreamed the impossible dream right along with him. And we were swept away by something of which our minds could have never conceived. We were swept away by what seemed like certain destiny, something that we were sure we wouldn't witness again in our lifetimes. As one national writer said yesterday….Watson was on the "precipice of the greatest accomplishment in the history of golf."

But we fell from the precipice into the chasm below as a missed par putt on 18 and four abysmal playoff holes unfolded before us. And our dreams were dashed. And now the pain of what might have been cuts deeper because we dared to dream it. We lament that it would have been better for Watson to have not made the cut. We cry foul. And if we had believed in something that many call the "golf gods," we'd shake our fist at them in anger. We wonder if it would have been better to not have been swept away by the dream in the first place than to awake to its gut-wrenching conclusion.

I must confess that I don't believe in the golf gods. I believe in the one true God that gives and takes away for His good pleasure, and I'm not going to speculate on how much (or if) He cares about golf's major championships. But one thing is certain, on a human level Tom Watson taught us many things over these last few days.

Tom Watson taught us the value of never giving up and of never letting anyone tell you you're too old to play competitively. He taught us the value of staying in good physical condition and of staying sharp mentally. He reminded us that golf is a "gentleman's game" and that one can be the fiercest of competitors while still being an exemplary sportsman. He showed us that golf truly is a "lifetime sport" and can be enjoyed in a multi-generational fashion.

But the lesson that is Tom Watson transcends the golf course. It transcends sports. Watson taught us this week that life is to be lived from the cradle to the grave. He taught us that we should dream big dreams. He taught us to live for as long as we have breath to breathe. Maybe after watching Tom Watson this weekend it will be a little easier to get out of bed tomorrow morning. Maybe we can push through the arthritis or the pulled muscle or other little ailments that have held us back. Maybe someone will start writing that book they've always wanted to write. Maybe someone will take up a new hobby they thought they had been too old to begin. Maybe someone will go back to school to pursue and education they had to put on hold for some reason. Maybe someone with cancer will be inspired the way Watson inspired Seve Ballesteros, who after suffering through four surgeries for a malignant brain tumor, says Watson has caused him to dream of coming back to St. Andrews in 2010 to compete in the Open to thank the fans who've supported him over the years.

There was a little piece of all of us that trod Turnberry's fairways this weekend with Tom Watson. And because of Tom Watson, we can wake up tomorrow morning and dare to dream a little bigger.