Rocky Mountain Sigh

For the first time in several years, I did not attend a Chiefs' game this season at Arrowhead Stadium. There was no particular effort not to attend a home game. I didn't, like many others, decide to boycott the team because of its dismal play. I didn't turn down opportunities to use a friend's ticket, nor did I leave tickets on the dash of my car hoping they would be stolen. It just didn't work out for me to attend a game, and given the team's 1-7 home record this season, I suppose I should consider myself fortunate.

Most people would breathe a deep sigh of relief for sparing themselves a close encounter with the football train wreck that has been the Chiefs' 2012 season. Almost everyone would be relieved that, when asked to choose their favorite 2012 Arrowhead play, they didn't have to choose from among one of Dustin Colquitt's punts. (Football Sidebar: If you are a really good football team, you NEVER have to punt. It's a bad thing to punt alot, unless your offensive strategy is to punt on every down in hopes of coaxing a roughing the kicker penalty). Still others would have been happy that by avoiding all eight Chiefs' home games, they saved themselves enough money to put their first-born through college.

But I'm not any of those people. I don't resemble them at all. I instead am now in Denver preparing  to watch our 2-13 Chiefs take on the playoff-bound Broncos tomorrow afternoon at Sports Authority Field at Mile High. I guess I figured since I'd missed out on so much abuse in the stands this fall at Arrowhead, I would travel 600 miles west to allow 75,000 Coloradans make fun of me in my Chiefs' regalia as Peyton Manning puts on a clinic. As my friend Clay told me, "this will be a lesson in humility."

One might think that in making the decision to travel to Denver that I had availed myself of too much of Colorado's newest cash crop (not cantaloupe). One might think I had already been spending too much time in oxygen-depleted air. Or, one might think I had been invited by my pal John Elway to sit in his private box (okay, maybe not that last one).

But I'm not going to Denver for any of those reasons. I'm going to watch the Chiefs play the Broncos because my sweet daughter Phoebe asked me to go with her. She asked if we could go with her friend Aleana and Aleana's father, Tom (both devout Bronco fans) for a memorable father-daughter weekend culminating with the Chiefs-Broncos game. How could I say no? Public humiliation, private frustration yielding to public anger, and the risk of physical harm are small prices to pay for a lifetime-enduring memory with your daughter.

And after all, this is an NFL football game for pity's sake. It's not like Phoebe wanted me to attend a father-daughter ballet. It's not  like Phoebe wanted me to watch 24 hours worth of Project Runway with her. Phoebe, as her high school football team's statistician, knows football (she can even accurately attribute passing and receiving yards for a hook-and-ladder play). She knows good football and she knows bad football, and we will together enjoy every minute of it--unless we end up not speaking to Tom and Aleana for some reason.

And, in a Jim Carrey-Lauren Holly-Dumb and Dumber sort of way, the Chiefs actually have a chance of winning the game. Wouldn't that be a fitting capstone to a great father-daughter weekend?

So watch for us tomorrow as we risk life and limb to experience football at 5,280 feet. The air will be thin, but the drama thick as we rep our boys from K.C.

We hope to return alive. We hope to return victorious. And we hope to still catch a ride back with Tom and Aleana.  But if we don't, we'll still have each other, and a great non-ballet father-daughter memory.

Friday Night Sights (and Sounds and Smells and Memories)

Friday Night Fans emerge from pick-ups and minivans. Expectantly. Doors Slam. Horns Honk. A crowd gathers, builds, Solidarity forges From  a dusty parking lot. A Setting Sun Slides behind a paint-peeled press box Random lights, atop creosote poles Flicker to life

A Roster Scanned, Noted, as a Sousaphone Bellows

A Flute Shrills, Gazes fixed

On the Stars and Stripes Smoke floats From a Booster Club Grill Popcorn Wafts, Cuts Through Crisp Autumn Air An Unexpected Chill Beckons Blankets and Hoodies and Mittens And Coffee.

Missing Scoreboard Lights Turn a "0" into "3" Zebras Chuckle, Summon Captains to Midfield

A Coin Flutters. Lands Softly on Fescue A Glance to the Flag The Wind Gauged A Decision Deferred Teams taking places

Take It Back!

Who's Got the Hit?!

Wall Right!

A Prayer For Protection

A Prayer For Courage A Prayer For Mercy

A Long Looping Whistle

The Thud of the Kick

The Crowd Comes to Life

Ripping Flesh

Crackling Plastic

Muffled Groans From the Bottom of the Pile

Turf Yielding Dew

Cleats Raking Mud

Ball!

Crossbuck

Stunt

Reverse! Yellow Flags Raining

Triple 38!

On Two-ON TWO!

Don't Jump!

Green 18!

Huh-Hut! He Jumped!

A Horn blows. Gasping boys gather wits, strength, stamina Head up a long hill to A Locker Room's Stench A Smiling Father, A Pretty Dress Floats Wobbling on Squeaky Trailer Wheels A reprieve, a respite, a Chalk Talk Searching for courage, endurance, hope Coaches coaxing same For the Final Act

New Life Redemption A Cadence

Deception Counter

Audible

Separation

Daylight!

Daylight Gone.

Read First

Pitch It!

Run to the Sticks! Get Out of Bounds! The Clock Won't Stop Oskie! Pick Six! Sell the Run! Stay Home! On The Roof! Another Prayer For Protection

Staring Down Trepidation Discovering Courage Displaying Character

Boys Becoming Men

Men, In the Stands, Once Again Boys

Mothers Holding Nurturing Breaths

Wondering Where the Time Has Gone

A Gatorade Bath

Dumped in Jubilation

A Broken Clipboad Slammed in Despair A Season Ends Of Football. Of Life.

Thoughts on Albert Pujols

As fellow Missourian Mark Twain cautioned his readers before embarking into The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, you'll be hard-pressed to find a motive, moral, or plot in what I'm about to write. And although I won't threaten to shoot or banish you, and have no prosecutorial authority than I know of, I will save you some time if you want to quit reading now and go back to doing whatever it was you were doing before landing on this blog.

In the interest of full disclosure, I am not a St. Louis Cardinals fan. I'm not for a variety of reasons. First, I'm a fan, because of geography mostly, of the Kansas City Royals. And as has been aptly stated under greater inspiration than that found here, it is impossible to serve two masters.

But beyond that, I am slow to let loose of grudges forged as far back as 1980, when most of my college friends (those from St. Louis) rooted for the Phillies in the World Series against my beloved Royals.

The pain increased after the 1985 World Series, as it became apparent that many of my friends would forever focus their wrath on my Boys in Blue, instead of directing at where it (sort of) rightfully belonged--Don Denkinger. (Editor’s Note: Watch ESPN's The Top Five Reasons You Can't Blame Don Denkinger).

The last straw may have been a few years ago when some of my Cardinal fans friends went with me to a Royals game and rooted for the (then) hapless Tampa Bay Rays. I thought, 'Hey, root for your team, not against mine!'

So I've got all this baggage, and my point is that I'd probably not root for the Cardinals in the World Series or Playoffs unless they were playing the Yankees. That's a character flaw, I know. I'm working on it.

But hopefully more than being a Royals fan, I'm a baseball fan. And what happened today makes me sad. I loved watching Albert Pujols play baseball, and I loved watching him play it in St. Louis. I was happy for my friends. They had something special.

I believe Albert Pujols, more than any other player in Major League Baseball, was inextricably linked to the team with which he played, and by extension to the city and region in which he played. As a passing observer located some 250 miles to the west, Albert Pujols was St. Louis to me. Albert Pujols was the Cardinals to me.

If I was playing random word association, I'd more likely shout out "Pujols!" when someone said "St. Louis" than "Barbeque" when someone said "Kansas City." And that's from someone with no dog in the fight, even from someone who might have been a little jealous.

Deep down as a Missourian I'd have liked to seen Pujols finish his career in St. Louis. I grew up idolizing George Brett and when I was in high school I went to an open house in a housing subdivision to meet him one time and get his autograph. I'd see him around town occasionally. Kansas City loved (and still loves) him because our home became his home. He finally settled down here--raised his family here (I know, his wife had something to do with that).

I grieve a little bit today for St. Louis in that they won't be able to grow up and grow old with Albert Pujols the way I have with George Brett. I grieve a bit even for those St. Louisians who waste their time hating the hapless, perennially losing Kansas City Royals. If you're a true baseball fan, that's something you just "get," no matter who you root for day-in and day-out.

Extremely few major leaguers, or athletes from any sport, play their entire careers for one team anymore. I'd like to think some of them really want to though. I'd like to think many of them fall in love with their fans and their communities to a degree that their cost-benefit analyses would not consist of only monetarily quantifiable components.

Many will undoubtedly say, wishfully, that Pujols will one day retire as a Cardinal. Maybe 10 years from now he'll sign a contract for a day and hold a press conference at Busch Stadium to retire....

Maybe he will, but it won't be the same. For St. Louis, it won't be as sweet as it was with Musial. Maybe he'll come home one day, but it will be hard to forget that he had a fling with another before he did. St. Louis will still feel the betrayal, at least a little bit. And, by that time, Little Leaguers in St. Louis looking for an idol will have fixed their gaze on someone else.

I told you I didn't have a moral or a plot or a motive in writing this. The internet is undoubtedly ablaze at this moment with people either saying Pujols is greedy or that you can't blame him--you'd do the same thing. I guess none of us will have to make that call for ourselves or our family.

I could say a lot about small markets vs. big markets and the economics of baseball. I could talk about Moneyball and how the book was better than the movie but that both captured the feeling that many players have become Kelly Girls taking a summer job rather than long term fixtures in their communities. If we’re honest, however, it’s never that simple. And by saying those or other things, I'd end up trying to identify a moral. And then you'd have to banish me.

All I have to say, really, is that today, despite having much more important, even eternal issues to tend to, I'm a little bit sad for St. Louis.

And I'm a little bit sad for baseball too.

Rich Mullins, Kansas Jayhawks, and the Imperishable Wreath

Today the under-performing Kansas Jayhawks lost once again in the NCAA tournament to an over-achieving mid-major. If you're a KU fan these losses don't get any easier to take. And, like every other year, I walk away from the television set unsettled and bothered.

I'm bothered that a bunch of McDonald's All Americans can miss more free throws than the guys in the over-50 league at the YMCA. I'm bothered that I wasted yet another March weekend watching basketball on pins and needles when I could have been making sure my zero-turn mower will work in April. I'm bothered that my tournament bracket is in a lower percentile nationally than my 5th grade Iowa Test of Basic Skills. I'm bothered (a lot) that other teams' fans seem to take more joy in a KU loss than a win for their own team.

But perhaps what bothers me most is the simple fact that I am bothered at all. I care too much. My hope, unfortunately, rests too much upon the outcome of a game played and coached by people that I do not know. My affections are misplaced; my joy (or sorrow) dependent upon the results of a contest in which I have no control.

When the pain cuts acutely, I realize that I've put my hope in something that cannot ultimately satisfy. I've sought a counterfeit joy and trusted in a temporal vapor. It seems that in any adversity, no matter how apparently insignificant (e.g. a basketball game), our idols are exposed. We may not worship a golden calf, but we seek joy, acceptance, comfort, peace, and security in things that are fleeting, in "stuff" that is passing away.

The late Christian artist Rich Mullins, in his song If I Stand, penned these words: "The stuff of Earth competes for the allegiance I owe only to the Giver of all good things."  God was merciful to me today in bringing this song to mind when I turned on my ipod after the game. He was also gracious to remind me that even more dangerous than the idolatry exposed in me after a troublesome loss, is the less obvious idolatry that goes unnoticed after a glorious victory.

You might think my conclusion to all of this introspection would be a suggestion to jettison all sports and to pursue a life of contemplative reflection on  loftier things. It's not. I think sports are certainly one of the pleasures with which God has richly blessed us. But his blessings, unchecked, can become our most deadly adversaries.

I find it ironic that the Apostle Paul often used athletic metaphors to drive home his most critical spiritual points. And while I don't suggest this means Paul gave tacit approval to sports, he certainly acknowledged them as part of his society and evidently thought they provided illustrations with which his audience would be familiar.   In I Corinthians 9:24-25 he writes: "Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable." (ESV)

And it's in Paul's words that I'm brought back to the root of my problem and the source of my disappointment. I've chased after the perishable wreath--the wreath, along with this year's (and 2008's) NCAA Championship trophy, that will eventually burn with all the temporal "stuff" of this Earth.

So let us pursue the imperishable wreath. Let us pursue the prize being guarded in Heaven which, as the Apostle Peter said, is "imperishable, undefiled, and unfading" (I Peter 1:4).

I'm sure I'll watch the tournament again next year and chances are I will be bitterly (hopefully less so) disappointed again. But I trust that disappointment, along with all others, will point me to Jesus Christ, the lamb whose blood ransoms me, and the only true One who will never disappoint.


Enjoy this Rich Mullins video from 1987 where he sings If I Stand....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_K93ebKnmhs&feature=BF&playnext=1&list=QL&index=1

Moving Day

Saturday of the U.S. Open is known as "Moving Day," because it is the day each player attempts to make his charge so that he will be in the best possible position to win on Sunday. If you're not within striking distance by the end of the day Saturday, then you won't be in contention for the Championship Sunday. It will be interesting to see who makes a charge today to position themselves within reach of the Title tomorrow.

I spent much of Thursday and Friday of the Open following Kansas Citian Tom Watson. Watson, at 60, was older than the combined ages of his playing partners Rory McIlroy (21) and Ryo Ishikawa (18).   Watson quipped Thursday on the 1st (10th) tee: "I'm playing with my grandkids here." He then asked them good naturedly "How many U.S. Open's have you played in?" This brought a few laughs as Watson reminded the gallery he'd played in 32. If I hadn't heard him say it I would have thought he was trying to get inside the young guys' heads. I think it was his way of settling them down a bit and saying "hey, it's no big deal, go out there and have fun."

Watson seemed to enjoy playing with the youngsters and was reported to be very impressed with Ishikawa and even said that he reminded him of himself at 18. Ishikawa put on a display for the living legend Watson as the Japanese teenager shot a one under 141 over the first two rounds tying him for second place.  McIroy struggled both days shooting 75-77 and missed the cut at +10.

One of the reasons I followed Watson Friday was that I thought it might be his last U.S. Open and would likelly be the last opportunity I would have to see him play competitively. However, Watson's even par round of 71 was just good enough to keep him above the cut line and keep him at Pebble Beach over the weekend. So...we'll have an opportunity to follow him some more.  Players making the cut had to be in the top 60 (plus ties) or within 10 strokes of the leader. Watson's +7 was exactly 10 shots behind leader Graeme McDowell who is at -3.

Watson's round included three birdies and three bogeys. His putter failed him on the bogeys and also kept him from grabbing a couple other birdies when his play tee-to-green put him in position to do so.  A particularly impressive birdie came on the 495 yard par 4 10th hole. Watson's 3 was well below the average score of 4.375 for the field on that hole.

Pebble Beach Exceeds Expectations

Or who shut in the sea with doors when it burst out from the womb, when I made clouds its swaddling band, and prescribed limits for it and set bars and doors, and said, 'thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stayed?'  Job 38:8-11

It seems like every time we turn around someone is trying to sell us some type of product, service or person. These sales pitches bombard us daily, and are chock full of spin, embellishment and hype--many the brainchild of some ad agency's high dollar marketing campaign. These systematic assaults have left us largely jaded and grossly underwhelmed when we eventually encounter the focus of the hype.

Today I encountered Pebble Beach Golf Links for the very first time. I'd been told things like "it is breathtaking" and "you won't believe how beautiful it is." I usually thought to myself 'I bet it's nice, but it can't be that nice.' I reasoned that at some level Pebble Beach was just another "product" being over-billed by the media and golf establishment and that it would be certain to fall short of expectations. I was wrong.

The English language sometimes falls short when called upon to adequately describe a product of God's creation. Our language has met its match at Pebble Beach. Words like "breathtaking" and "beautiful" don't scratch the surface of what I saw today. Pebble Beach, if anything, is under-hyped. Perhaps those that come here year after year take it for granted and have lost a little of the wonder that comes with the certain astonishment of a first encounter.

Pebble Beach has been called the "greatest meeting of land and sea." It's hard to dispute this claim when looking out at the Pacific Ocean as its waves crash the shore beneath the 7th green. We know God created the Monterey Peninsula, but we must also acknowledge its designers Jack Neville and Douglas Grant, who, being created in God's image, wonderfully reflected their Creator in fashioning this property into arguably the best golf course in the world.

Some other first impressions and observations of Pebble Beach and today's practice round...

• I knew a good bit about holes 17 and 18. These are nice golf holes, but numbers 6-9 were especially surprising and certainly more beautiful than 18. These really caught me by surprise.
• Hole 17 is relatively flat. When I've watched it on television over the years I had gotten the impression that it had a pretty steep decline from tee to green toward the ocean. Not so.
• U.S. Open caps are expensive. The merchandise tents were asking $34 a piece.
• The rough looks pretty wicked and the greens appear postage stamp sized.
• Kenny Perry has lost a lot of weight.

That's all for today. We'll try to write some more each day. In the meantime, take a look at some other photos from today's practice round.

Note: This piece was posted simultaneously on our sister blog http://www.finleyriver.com/. There because it's supposed to be funny. Here because it's sports.

Ah, Pebble Beach…the greatest meeting of land, water, and unadulterated greed. As we prepare for this week’s United States Open, to be held at the venerable Pebble Beach Golf Links, imagine the following exchange taking place in a bedroom near a master bath....


===============================================

“Hi honey, I’m home!” says husband to wife.

“You’re late dear!” says wife to husband. “I tried to call you but your phone just went to voicemail. I was worried sick! Did you have to work late again?”

“No dear,” says husband, “remember, I went to the U.S. Open today. We discussed that this morning at 3:57 a.m. while I was leaving for the airport.”

“Oh that’s right sweetie,” says wife, “You’ll have to forgive me, my Advil P.M. was still hard at work keeping me comatose when you kissed me goodbye. That seems like yesterday!”

“Well, sweet cakes, that’s because it was yesterday,” says husband. “It’s now 1:45 a.m. on Friday. Yesterday was mostly Thursday!

“Why, I declare,” says wife to husband, “I guess it is Friday. At least you can sleep-in tomorrow and go to work late.” (The wife’s voice fades as the husband steps in the shower near the master bath)

The husband eventually emerges from the shower, shaves, and puts on new golf attire. “Honey, I’m off again to the Open. I’ll be home again in about 22.5 hours. Would you mind washing this plaid Izod outfit you bought me at the thrift store? I want to wear it again Saturday.”

“Saturday?!” The wife sits bolt upright in bed. “What do you mean Saturday?” Her slumber is now supplanted by slow burning but accelerating wrath.

“Would you rather I wore it Sunday? I can wear the argyle Satur-“

“Sunday?!?” The wife gasps. “But that’s Father’s Day! You were supposed to assemble the grill we bought you then cook for the neighborhood!”

“Darling, we’ve been over this a thousand times. I’m commuting this year to the United States Open. I went to great lengths to explain this to you while you were alphabetizing the spices a few weeks ago.” The husband reaches into his briefcase to reveal a camouflage dossier and travel itinerary. “Once again, our recreation budget would not allow me to book an affordable hotel room within 100 miles of the Monterrey Peninsula. I had two free flights on Southwest and found deals on two other airlines for $300 each—round trip. One night at the Monterey Marriott is $757.78. I sleep about as well on the plane as I would at the Marriott. So…I’m commuting. Now give me a big smooch and fry a couple of eggs over easy…please honey lover?!”
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If the above scenario seems far-fetched, think again. If this story’s dialogue seems slightly over-the-top, you’re right. But only the wife’s anger at her husband has been embellished under the umbrella of “literary license.”

You see, golf fans everywhere who would like to attend this great golf tournament are being forced to reconsider because of the outlandish and opportunistic price gouging perpetrated by the hospitality industry in and around Pebble Beach and the larger Monterey/Carmel/Pacific Grove area of California. Even thought tickets to the event are reasonable and at least three airports—San Francisco, Oakland, and San Jose—offer travelers reasonable airfares, the tournament attendee is slapped in the face when attempting to find a room—any room— in an inn.

Even rooms at Motel 6, the brand whose spokesman Tom Bodett promises to “leave the light on” for you, have been going for rates exceeding $300 per night. So much for “economy lodging.”

So why wouldn’t an astute golf fan consider community to the Open to avoid paying these outrageous room charges and their accompanying “hospitality taxes?” I believe the idea has merit.

Originally at this point in this “essay” we had planned to demonstrate the infinite wisdom demonstrated by commuting to Pebble Beach this year. However, in the interest of sound journalism we must confess that the idea has a few holes. Not the least of which we’ve discovered is traffic, drive time, traffic, unprecedented inconvenience, and the lack of a direct flight from Kansas City International to Pebble Beach’s number 1 Fairway.

So I’ll leave it to Michael Lewis (The Blindside, Moneyball) to research the market inefficiencies of commuting to Pebble Beach from Garden City, Missouri. For now, we’ve done our job. We’ve floated the idea out there for the general public and academia to digest.

Thus, instead of flying home tomorrow night after Day 1's competition, we'll just sing to our GPS System: Do you know the way to San Jose?