Wonder Anew

When a man pledges his allegiance to the Kansas City Chiefs, he embarks upon a gut-wrenching journey of heartache and despair.  He is relegated to a nomadic existence amid a Narnian curse, where it is always winter, but never Christmas.

But it was not always so. Great loss may be experienced only after fully tasting the sweet nectar of success (this sentence was written in homage to Mitch Holthus).  And success indeed marked the Chiefs first decade in Kansas City. And it was the Chiefs’ first decade in KC that closely correlated with my own first decade on Earth.

For my generation, growing up with the Chiefs beget a sort of a Wonder Years love affair with the team. It was a love forged on successes surrounding first and fourth Super Bowls and refined on playgrounds and backyards as we chased and tackled each other while wearing jackets and stocking caps of red and gold. It was a love that blossomed as we learned who we were and from where we had come as we began to understand our place in the cosmos.

We learned simultaneously in those days about two evil forces—perhaps the only two evil forces—in the world: the Viet Cong and the Oakland Raiders. But we learned quickly that even though some amorphous villain named Ho Chi Minh was wreaking havoc half a world away, our true wrath should be directed at the evil closer to home.  An evil that invaded our city at least once a year—evil incarnate with names that we would learn to pronounce but never try to spell. Names like Ben Davidson and Fred Biletnikoff and Daryle Lamonica. There were really no bad guys quite like the Oakland Raiders, and pity the poor chump at High Grove Elementary that even hinted at affections  for the silver and black.

At High Grove we had no official school uniform, but an unofficial dress code existed among the males that some sort of Chiefs gear be donned and displayed proudly during football season. Our bedrooms would be virtual memorabilia rooms boasting pennants and posters and every effort would be made cover our mothers’ hideous wallpaper with licensed and non-licensed Chiefs products. For me one relic survives those years—a round wastebasket featuring the Chiefs’  offensive and defensive starters’ headshots, all placed in perfect “X and O” alignment on the can.

Our finest hour was seeing Johnny Robinson sitting on the Tulane Stadium turf pointing his finger skyward as we claimed number one for the first time. Several months later, that same image of Johnny Robinson graced the cover of “Championship,”  a book we all ordered from the Scholastic Book Club catalogue so that we could ever read about that magical season.

For those of us who grew up during those years, there was never any question whether or not we’d be good. No question we’d make the playoffs. Success was assumed and expected, and we had no reason to believe it would ever end.

But it did. One by one our childhood idols left us as their bodies succumbed to inevitable age or were otherwise casualties of the new Arrowhead “turf,” which was virtually indistinguishable from the asphalt paving in the Truman Sports Complex. So the love that had emerged so many years earlier was tested and tried and refined during years of frustration and futility.

Since that time we’ve had years here and there that gave us a reason to hope. Glimpses of past grandeur emerged every now and then, but our hopes were always dashed by a missed kick or an off day or a superior opponent.

The 2012 season marked the low point in the franchise. The season ended 2-14. I was an eyewitness to Romeo Crennel’s last game as head coach as the Chiefs played the Broncos in Denver (see post from December 29, 2012). It was the worst display of football that I ever witnessed in person. The Chiefs looked like they could not wait for the season to end. I believe they disrespected the Broncos by not giving them their best game.

In Denver, I wanted to tear my Chiefs regalia and cry the football equivalent of “blasphemy!” My disgust at what was unfolding before me sent me to one of the bathrooms at Sports Authority Field at Mile High. My misery increased there as I was confronted by a long line and an Intoxicated Bronco fan who defiantly shouted to me: “The Chiefs suck!” I had no retort, and simply applauded his brilliant and insightful assessment of my 2-14 team. They pay big money for such penetrating analysis on the networks, I thought to myself.

Fast forward to last Sunday night. I had not felt great about the Chiefs nine victories during 2013 and was impressed by the Peyton Manning offensive machine that lay in wait for us. I feared a 35-10 defeat, but was pleasantly surprised at several things I saw from the Chiefs and was assured of the mortality of Peyton and the Broncos. So there was in many ways more satisfaction from a 27-17 loss in Denver than in all of the previous nine victories.

But sometimes the fear of success looms larger than the fear of failure. In many ways the loss last week in Denver was as comfortable as an old shoe. I realized I had become accustomed to losing and it no longer was the bitter pill it was in 1971. I had become too comfortable with moral victories. I had become content speaking in platitudes.

So we look to the Chiefs’ next six games with hope. Hope that we can observe a team that continues to gel, continues to get better, continues to compete, and gets back to the business of winning. And let losing once again leave a nasty yet unfamiliar taste in our mouths.

Although not eternal or essential, I would like for my children to be re-introduced to the Chiefs, and to get to know them as Champions. I would like for them to experience a little Christmas in what has been their long Chiefs winter.

Maybe, just maybe, they’ll see the Chiefs on Broadway next February 2.

And all the wonder will begin anew.

Pine Tar Memories

It’s nothing like 9-11 or the Challenger explosion, or for others that are older the JFK assassination, but I remember exactly what I was doing 30 years ago today when George Brett made famous a substance called pine tar.

It was Sunday afternoon, a day game, and I was sitting in my grandmother’s hospital room at St. Joseph’s in Kansas City. My grandmother, then well into her nineties, had fallen a day or two before and broken her hip. Many of the family had gathered in her room to wish here a speedy recovery. She, as an avid Royals fan, was undoubtedly supportive of us tuning in to catch the afternoon contest against the hated Yankees.

In the event you don’t know the historical facts of this game, allow me a brief synopsis. The Royals were one out away from losing the series finale against the Yankees by a score of 4-3 when George Brett came to the plate as the Royals final hope.  Rich “Goose” Gossage, the feared Yankee’s closer, had been sent to the mound to notch a save and send the Royals packing. Brett promptly sent the Gossage offering into the right field bleachers for a home run, scoring himself and U.L. Washington to give the Royals a 5-4 lead and a great chance of victory.

Yankee manager Billy Martin had been plotting for several weeks to protest the amount of pine tar Brett applied to his bat. He waited, strategically, however to protest the substance at a time after Brett had done some damage to his team. That time was then, after Brett’s two run shot had put the Royals close to victory.

After the homer, Martin brought Brett’s bat to the attention of the umpiring crew that day, specifically home plate umpire Tim McClelland. After a few minutes of deliberation, measurement (the pine tar exceeded the 18” limit) etc., Brett was called out, the home run being nullified. Game over. Yankees win 4-3.

Brett’s reaction to the call is legendary. At the time my mother, a modest baseball fan, called Brett “a maniac” and thought his reaction unsportsmanlike. Calling Brett’s actions maniacal after the call might be generous. He more closely resembled the demon-possessed “Legion” in Chapter 5 of Mark’s Gospel.  And although my mother was probably right, Brett’s actions are somewhat understandable given his history with the Yankees and given the historically villainous antics of Billy Martin. And besides, my growing up watching George Brett categorically prevents me from criticizing him for anything.

The next day the Royals protested McClelland call. Four days later American League President Lee MacPhail ruled in favor of the Royals. MacPhail, claiming the spirit of the pine tar rule was to keep from gumming up baseballs, ruled the excessive goop gave Brett no advantage in hitting the home run. The game was ruled suspended, and the Yankees and Royals were ordered to resume play with two outs in the top of the 9th. The two teams eventually resumed the game about a month later in front of about 1,200 fans at Yankee Stadium. After a series of Yankee protests and antics, followed by four straight outs, the game was over and the Royals prevailed 5-4 before flying on to Baltimore  for their next series.

In 1983 the Royals were in their prime. The team was three years removed from its first World Series appearance against the Philadelphia Phillies. Although they lost that Series in six games, many of us were relieved just to have had them there. The real victory, it had seemed, was finally beating the Yankees in the American League Championship Series. By 1980 any true Royals fan was hardened and weary from losing three consecutive AL Championship Series to the Bronx Bombers during the late 1970s.

These were bitter defeats, but the Royals fortunes had turned with the beginning of a new decade. The team would flourish during the first half of the 80s, culminating with its only World Championship in 1985.

So in 1983 we were almost smack dab in between the franchise’s two World Series appearances. And although the bitter defeats at the hands of the Yankees had become less raw with the passing of time, the loathing of George Steinbrenner’s franchise in the Big Apple had not. Simply put, it was impossible to bleed Royal Blue and have any affection for pinstripes.

The Pine Tar Game would not have had the same significance, the same drama, had it been played against the Seattle Mariners or the Cleveland Indians. Such drama was apropos for baseball’s most famous venue—Yankee Stadium.

Further, the game would not have been the same had the almost ten years of history between the two teams not been what it was. Neither team liked the other much. Billy Martin relished the chance to foil George Brett. Brett relished the opportunity to punish the Yankees. He got especially pumped to face the fireballer Gossage. The pine tar home run was reminiscent of a similar shot Brett had hit off Gossage at Yankee Stadium to put the Royals into the World Series in 1980. The stage was set. That sort of drama brought my family together around a hospital television set and for a couple of hours allayed the suffering of my ailing grandmother.

As I look back on that game in 1983 I miss several things. I miss pine tar. It’s still used I guess, but Brett should have had his own brand. Everyone has to wear batting gloves these days. Brett liked the feel of the bat in his bare hands. He questioned the manhood of the guys who were afraid to bloody or dirty their hands.

I miss Brett’s passion. Maniacal?  At times. I’m not sure I want to show the pine tar video at a Little League parents meeting. But, I never saw anyone play harder than Brett and care more about the outcome of the game than did he. That factor appears to be missing in a lot of players today.

I even appreciate Billy Martin. Any good story must have a villain. Billy Martin played the villain, par excellence. He was even a villain among his own team sometimes. But even more than a villain, he was a competitor. His competitive fire might have rivaled Brett’s. The pine tar characters could not have been cast any better from a Hollywood casting director.

What good stories must have even more than a villain is redemption. Sent packing a loser on July 24, 1983, George Brett had hit, what one broadcaster called “the only game losing home run in history.” And although Lee MacPhail acknowledged Brett’s actions that day warranted ejection (some accounts had him watching the resumed game at the airport), MacPhail redeemed Tim McClelland’s call and rightly restored George Brett’s home run—one of 317 in his career—to its rightful place in the record books.

I listened to many Royals games with my grandmother. I fondly remember her repeatedly telling me her favorite player was John Mayberry. The pine tar game was probably the last game I watched or listened to with her. She declined steadily after the broken hip and died the next year.

I’m thankful to George Brett and Billy Martin and Goose Gossage and even Tim McClelland, for giving my family one of the most memorable games in baseball history.

Guest Post--by Sandee Finley

Laces and Threads by Sandee Finley


My husband still tells people he married me because of my spiral pass. You might say it was inescapable.

Football brought me to Kansas City when I was nearly two and my dad, a small town Alabama boy and newly signed Dallas Texan, left the South to become a charter member of the Kansas City Chiefs. As I would later write in high school, football was his ticket, and mine, to the big city. That was in 1963 and, these many seasons later, I can't help but wonder how football can mark a life, or at least a memory.


The first boy I ever loved was Chris Faros, the high school player who lived next door and taught me to keep my fingers wrapped around the laces. I was five. I grew up to be the grade school girl playing backyard football who made the boys cry. He grew up to be a college coach and lost his life when his plane crashed on a recruiting trip for Memphis State. Although we were only neighbors for five years and he has been gone for thirty, I still catch my breath a bit when I drive past his house, just down the road from where my boys practice.


When I was seven, Daddy was the starting right tackle for the Super Bowl champions. I watched the game at a family friend's house. I don't remember the game as well as I do the signs and banners that decorated our small ranch home on Red Bridge Road when the team returned from New Orleans . Or as well as I remember the 1971 Christmas game against the Miami Dolphins. Fans still remember Jan Stenerud missing the kick in overtime; I remember listening to Donny Osmond sing "I Knew You When" on my new record player while my mom and older brother, Rusty, were at Municipal Stadium. I do remember other games, at Municipal and later Arrowhead--sitting with the other players' families, drinking hot chocolate from a thermos, wearing baggies inside our boots to keep our feet warm, yelling "charge" in response to Tony DiPardo's trumpet call.


My mother, originally a tap dancer and softball player, became, and remains, an enthusiastic and educated football fan. She can still read a defense better than most quarterbacks. Like her, I became a zealous spectator, and gave up most of my playing to take up cheering for my brother and his buddies in little league, junior high, and finally, high school. Friday night football became more sacred than Sunday afternoons. Sports stories were more glorious than the writers who wrote them, and even I was more excited about a Bulldog win than the Quill and Scroll Gold Key I received for feature writing. Our team was good and fast and confident. Rusty wore number 8 and ran the wishbone offense as the quarterback. He could best be described as the golden boy who enjoyed a little tarnish. A loss to Hickman Mills High kept us from the State playoffs his senior year . The defeat was staggering then and somehow still stings today. My husband, Greg, also played on that team and later that year, lost his best friend and teammate Bill, who died after collapsing at a practice for the Big Brothers All-Star game. I had been cheering for Bill since he and Rusty had played in the little league Super Bowl together as Cy Young Hardmen.


That next winter, I watched Rusty as a Razorback cause a fumble against the University of Alabama in the Sugar Bowl and then watched him slowly drift away from, and, for a time, even hate, the sport that had defined him. Had attempted to define us all. Christopher, my younger brother, played in high school as well, and though a quick and lean cornerback, he found more space to breathe on a surfboard.


My dad made a name for himself in the car auction business while I headed to Alabama to discover a new direction among the people and places of my parents. I was a freshman at Auburn, Daddy's alma mater, when I received a call from my mom to tell me that a friend and former Chief had taken his life and that of his wife. I began to understand that these men were not retired, but were rather giving up a life and the light it had offered. I played in the intramural football championship game that year--Greeks vs. Independents-- and also learned that SEC football requires a date with a fraternity boy, a preppy dress, and a deep seeded hatred for the opposing team. I rather quickly made my way back to the Midwest to get serious about a degree in writing and to hang out with the football team at K-State.


Although I lost my bearings and some of my affection for football in my early twenties, I didn't lose my strong, accurate arm and I used it to clinch a proposal from a college kicker who also happened to be my brother's favorite high school receiver. We are now raising five children who, though groomed to be golfers, have come to love the sport of my father. I am now the crazy woman, wearing her son's jersey and snapping pictures on the sidelines, cheering in the end zone. I cried the first time I saw my oldest son in full pads. I can't really remember what I did after I watched my younger boy kick the winning field goal at a football tournament in Florida with his grandfather in the stands. I might be most proud that my three girls can throw a better spiral than mine, make an open field tackle, and kick an extra point.


I come to the game now as the daughter of a retired NFL player, a sister of brothers who both embraced and fought against a legacy, a wife of a straight-on kicker, a mom of passionate players, and a mostly grown up version of that five year old who wanted to play but mostly wanted to be noticed . Daddy has been inducted into two Halls of Fame, but has lost some of the fire that makes football fun. He reminisces most, not about college ball or the pros, but about his high school days and the greatest coach he ever had. We lost Rusty a year and a half ago, not to football, but in some ways I believe he was a casualty of the sport. However, in the last few football seasons before he died, he paced the sidelines with Greg and talked a little trash as he watched my boys take the field. He was at his best in those moments and he finally seemed at ease being himself under the lights.


Football isn't a metaphor for my life--but rather a frame or a reference point for the wins and losses that have shaped me. All roads lead back to a football field in a mill town in Alabama where Daddy first wore leather helmets that didn't have face masks. Or maybe to the backyard across from the Methodist Church where I learned to decipher plays drawn with Chris's finger in his palm. I've lost some speed in my step since then and my moves aren't really moves at all any more. But if I get my fingers around the laces just right and I plant my foot, I can still throw the ball.

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