Who knows how many people actually read this thing, but I wanted to let everyone know that I did not forget about my faithful followers! This fall semester at Bates has been incredibly time consuming, which consequently leaves me with little time to write blogs. But, there is hope...
This semester is almost over (three more weeks, three more weeks, three more weeks...), and after December 11th, I will have so much free time that I will be forced to write frequent blog posts.
The 11th marks the due date of my senior thesis, leaving me with one paper and one final exam before the conclusion of the semester. At 4:30 on Friday, Decemeber 18th, I can safely assume that I will be 7/8ths (semesters) of the way through my college career.
Wow. Time flies.
On that note, time is flying so fast that I need to use as much of it as I can between now and the 11th to ensure that I will in fact reach the 7/8th mark (and hopefully 8/8 by May).
Stay tuned, because I will post frequently throughout the Holidays and will attempt to pick up the pace next semester and post more than just my weekly newspaper column.
I'll leave you with this quote that I find particularly striking:
"The day you take complete responsibility for yourself, the day you stop making any excuses, that's the day you start to the top. " -O.J. Simpson
This is a quote that, while spoken by a horrible person, speaks volumes to what we do as collegiate student-athletes. My coaches posted this outside of our locker room, and it carries a lot of meaning as we attempt to reach our goals in both the short and long term.
Until next time...
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
As Good as Gold
I am not speaking from experience, but I can imagine that it is difficult to be a wife, a friend, a sister and a mother of two incredibly gifted children, yet still find time to speak and present throughout the country, run every day, set an age group record in the New York Marathon, and act as the host of one of the country’s most prestigious 10k road races.
There is only one woman I know who can accomplish all of these things, and I had the incredible opportunity to go for a run with her last Friday morning.
Celebrity athletes amaze me, and even though she is a good family friend and the mother of one of my best friends, Abby Samuelson ’10, Joan Benoit-Samuelson still fits that description. She is like a combination of wonder-woman and Michael Jordan, except she is utterly and uniquely her own superstar.
There is a life-size poster of her in the Freeport Nike factory store, a statue in front of the Cape Elizabeth, ME, town library and an entire building dedicated to her on the Nike campus in Beaverton, OR. Samuelson is the greatest athlete to hail from the state of Maine and if you want to include athletes that have attended a Maine college or university, she still wins with Paul Kariya, a former NHL superstar, a distant second.
Some of you might have had the pleasure to meet her at some point in your lives and some of you might know who she is because of her sparkling career as one of the best marathon runners in the history of the sport. However, running is a sport that gets little attention in our society, and I am confident that many of you do not know Joan Benoit-Samuelson and why she is important.
For starters, she won the gold medal in the first women’s Olympic marathon in Los Angeles in 1984, set the marathon world record in Chicago the following years (it was broken 18 years later in 2003) and is the founder and host of one of the country’s biggest 10k road races – the Beach to Beacon, held in her hometown of Cape Elizabeth.
Take out the gold medals and world records and I might still write this column about her for all she has done for the sport of running and the state of Maine. She has been a tremendous ambassador for both sport and state throughout her exceptional career, and I wanted to share the story of a woman that has impacted all of us whether we know it or not.
While the gold medals and world records are our standard measurements for greatness, they only tell a part of the story with Samuelson and, as a close family friend and friend of her daughter, I wanted to learn more.
I took it into my own hands to get the true story behind Samuelson’s career as a marathon runner, Nike ambassador, and one of the most inspiring athletes of the 1980s.
While I know Samuelson quite well, I can honestly admit that I felt like a child leading up to my morning run. She is a hero of American running, an idol for male and female runners all across the globe, and I, Harry Poole, was the lucky soul that got to go for a one-on-one morning run with her? It did not add up, and I viewed the day as if I was going to play h-o-r-s-e with Michael Jordan, hit some balls at the driving range with Tiger Woods or play home run derby with Albert Pujols.
It had been almost two weeks since her record-breaking New York City Marathon when we met up on Friday morning. Samuelson set a new course record for women over the age of 50 when she ran a blistering 2:49:09 over 26.2 miles.
Do the math. That is 6:27 per mile. That is fast. Faster than a majority of the Bates student body can run one mile. And she is 52.
Even more impressive is that Samuelson has slowed down only 28 minutes since her then world-record time of 2:21:21 set in Chicago in 1985. She has lost just about one minute per mile over the last 24 years – a statistic that defies much of what we learn about human physiology.
So, how does she do it?
The answer is simple, and it has everything to do with her passion for running, her family, and her desire to spread her important messages about life longevity, environmental awareness, and the strength of women in society (prior to her gold medal run in 1984, women were considered too weak to run the marathon distance).
Despite feeling slow and tight on Friday morning, Samuelson mustered the strength to take me on an eight and a half mile loop. We conversed the entire time, and within 20 minutes I learned two important things about her.
First, she does not take shortcuts when she runs. Whether it is literally cutting distance off of a run by taking the shorter of two roads home, or just simply cutting a corner while turning onto a new street, Samuelson does not take shortcuts. If you cannot pick up on the significance of this, then I will tell you that it is also a metaphor for how she has run (pun intended) her life.
Whether it is raising her children to be the best possible kids, being the best possible wife or simply running a loop, shortcuts are not part of her program.
I found this out the hard way.
At every turn, Samuelson would run to the outside of the apex before running across and making her way onto the new street. Like a true champion, I either cut the corner or ran past the turn because I could not tell if she was turning or not.
Second, I learned that she is the most modest athlete that I have ever met. While my list of connections with great athletes is short, Samuelson continually impresses me with her humbleness and interest in matters unrelated to her.
My proof of this statement is that her gold medal is not hung in her bedroom or displayed in a trophy case.
“It is in a junk drawer,” said her daughter Abby, a senior, JA, and two-sport captain at Bates. “If you had asked her to show you, she might not have found it because that drawer is so full of stuff.”
Samuelson dodged many of my questions about her only to ask questions about what was happening in my life. She wanted to know about my thesis, the ski team and my plans for next year (Abby, you lied when you told her that you were the only senior who had no plans).
I eventually got her to talk me through her career, and after listening without interrupting once, I told her that it was an honor for me to run with her.
Samuelson ran the Boston Marathon in the spring of her senior year at Bowdoin College in 1979. She came in as a highly successful collegiate cross-country and track athlete but had no marathon experience.
No one expected her to win the race and take eight minutes off of the women’s course record, but she did. It was here that Samuelson realized her dream as a professional runner.
Similarly, after getting arthroscopic knee surgery 17 days before the Olympic Trials in 1984, no one expected Samuelson to return healthy enough to win the race, but she did.
Nor was she picked as the favorite in the inaugural women’s Olympic marathon in Los Angeles later that year, but she beat all of her rivals by over a minute.
I am running the Boston Marathon this spring, which precisely puts me on the same path as the start of Samuelson’s unforgettable marathon career.
The only difference? Well, I will let you figure that out.
There is only one woman I know who can accomplish all of these things, and I had the incredible opportunity to go for a run with her last Friday morning.
Celebrity athletes amaze me, and even though she is a good family friend and the mother of one of my best friends, Abby Samuelson ’10, Joan Benoit-Samuelson still fits that description. She is like a combination of wonder-woman and Michael Jordan, except she is utterly and uniquely her own superstar.
There is a life-size poster of her in the Freeport Nike factory store, a statue in front of the Cape Elizabeth, ME, town library and an entire building dedicated to her on the Nike campus in Beaverton, OR. Samuelson is the greatest athlete to hail from the state of Maine and if you want to include athletes that have attended a Maine college or university, she still wins with Paul Kariya, a former NHL superstar, a distant second.
Some of you might have had the pleasure to meet her at some point in your lives and some of you might know who she is because of her sparkling career as one of the best marathon runners in the history of the sport. However, running is a sport that gets little attention in our society, and I am confident that many of you do not know Joan Benoit-Samuelson and why she is important.
For starters, she won the gold medal in the first women’s Olympic marathon in Los Angeles in 1984, set the marathon world record in Chicago the following years (it was broken 18 years later in 2003) and is the founder and host of one of the country’s biggest 10k road races – the Beach to Beacon, held in her hometown of Cape Elizabeth.
Take out the gold medals and world records and I might still write this column about her for all she has done for the sport of running and the state of Maine. She has been a tremendous ambassador for both sport and state throughout her exceptional career, and I wanted to share the story of a woman that has impacted all of us whether we know it or not.
While the gold medals and world records are our standard measurements for greatness, they only tell a part of the story with Samuelson and, as a close family friend and friend of her daughter, I wanted to learn more.
I took it into my own hands to get the true story behind Samuelson’s career as a marathon runner, Nike ambassador, and one of the most inspiring athletes of the 1980s.
While I know Samuelson quite well, I can honestly admit that I felt like a child leading up to my morning run. She is a hero of American running, an idol for male and female runners all across the globe, and I, Harry Poole, was the lucky soul that got to go for a one-on-one morning run with her? It did not add up, and I viewed the day as if I was going to play h-o-r-s-e with Michael Jordan, hit some balls at the driving range with Tiger Woods or play home run derby with Albert Pujols.
It had been almost two weeks since her record-breaking New York City Marathon when we met up on Friday morning. Samuelson set a new course record for women over the age of 50 when she ran a blistering 2:49:09 over 26.2 miles.
Do the math. That is 6:27 per mile. That is fast. Faster than a majority of the Bates student body can run one mile. And she is 52.
Even more impressive is that Samuelson has slowed down only 28 minutes since her then world-record time of 2:21:21 set in Chicago in 1985. She has lost just about one minute per mile over the last 24 years – a statistic that defies much of what we learn about human physiology.
So, how does she do it?
The answer is simple, and it has everything to do with her passion for running, her family, and her desire to spread her important messages about life longevity, environmental awareness, and the strength of women in society (prior to her gold medal run in 1984, women were considered too weak to run the marathon distance).
Despite feeling slow and tight on Friday morning, Samuelson mustered the strength to take me on an eight and a half mile loop. We conversed the entire time, and within 20 minutes I learned two important things about her.
First, she does not take shortcuts when she runs. Whether it is literally cutting distance off of a run by taking the shorter of two roads home, or just simply cutting a corner while turning onto a new street, Samuelson does not take shortcuts. If you cannot pick up on the significance of this, then I will tell you that it is also a metaphor for how she has run (pun intended) her life.
Whether it is raising her children to be the best possible kids, being the best possible wife or simply running a loop, shortcuts are not part of her program.
I found this out the hard way.
At every turn, Samuelson would run to the outside of the apex before running across and making her way onto the new street. Like a true champion, I either cut the corner or ran past the turn because I could not tell if she was turning or not.
Second, I learned that she is the most modest athlete that I have ever met. While my list of connections with great athletes is short, Samuelson continually impresses me with her humbleness and interest in matters unrelated to her.
My proof of this statement is that her gold medal is not hung in her bedroom or displayed in a trophy case.
“It is in a junk drawer,” said her daughter Abby, a senior, JA, and two-sport captain at Bates. “If you had asked her to show you, she might not have found it because that drawer is so full of stuff.”
Samuelson dodged many of my questions about her only to ask questions about what was happening in my life. She wanted to know about my thesis, the ski team and my plans for next year (Abby, you lied when you told her that you were the only senior who had no plans).
I eventually got her to talk me through her career, and after listening without interrupting once, I told her that it was an honor for me to run with her.
Samuelson ran the Boston Marathon in the spring of her senior year at Bowdoin College in 1979. She came in as a highly successful collegiate cross-country and track athlete but had no marathon experience.
No one expected her to win the race and take eight minutes off of the women’s course record, but she did. It was here that Samuelson realized her dream as a professional runner.
Similarly, after getting arthroscopic knee surgery 17 days before the Olympic Trials in 1984, no one expected Samuelson to return healthy enough to win the race, but she did.
Nor was she picked as the favorite in the inaugural women’s Olympic marathon in Los Angeles later that year, but she beat all of her rivals by over a minute.
I am running the Boston Marathon this spring, which precisely puts me on the same path as the start of Samuelson’s unforgettable marathon career.
The only difference? Well, I will let you figure that out.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
More Important Than the Win
What a game. Down by 10 early in the second quarter, but clawing back to within three at the half. Down by 10 again halfway through the third quarter but within three just 20 seconds later. Down by another ten early in the fourth quarter before storming back to win by four.
This, fellow Bobcats, was only part of the story that unfolded on Saturday at the historic Garcelon Field.
No, Garcelon Field is not where Penn State, Ohio State, Texas, Florida or LSU play. It is not the home of a dynamite college football program and it has seen just 299 victories in the program’s 114 year history.
Garcelon Field is our home football stadium and since it was built in 1899, it has seen great players and fans come and go. After our football team sent Bowdoin back to Brunswick licking their wounds after a 28-24 loss, the stadium said goodbye to another generation of those players and fans.
Wait, what’s that? We won? Yes, we won and that joke is old. Sure, the program’s history is not dazzling. There is no disputing that. We all know that a two-win season is a good season. No one expects to run the table and go an unprecedented 8-0 because that has never happened here (although the 1946 team went 7-0).
But I am not here to talk about wins and losses. The football team showed something on Saturday that I have not seen in many home football games. They showed more resilience, fight and effort than the opponent. They overcame turnovers, missed routes and dropped passes. They showed pride and that pride was, above all, more important than the outcome of the game.
They could have let up at any difficult moment on Saturday, but it was not an option. With 15 seniors playing the final home game of their Bates careers, losing was not a thought in their minds. They could have played Texas, Florida or even the New England Patriots, and I can all but guarantee you that the team would have put forth the same effort (though we know the result would undoubtedly be different).
With an estimated 1,800 people watching the final home game of the season, the Bobcats were out to show everyone that we are not the joke of the NESCAC. These guys were not playing for a spot in any sort of playoff, championship or post-season award ceremony.
But they won, and as the excitement of the game became almost unbearable in the fourth quarter, I saw 1,800 people act like this was the Super Bowl. It was not, but for the first time in my four years at Bates, I can honestly say that I was amazed by the atmosphere at Garcelon Field.
When Bowdoin had their golden opportunity to take the lead 30-28 with 4:06 remaining (all they needed was one measly yard), people in the stands started the universal sports chant of “DE-FENSE, DE-FENSE!” When the Polar Bears got the ball back with 2:16 remaining, the crowd did their best to distract Bowdoin’s offense by stomping its feet on the bleachers to emulate the sound of thunder.
Whether or not the chants or noise making were heard on the field is neither here nor there. What matters is that for once, we as a student body showed some serious support for a team not named men’s basketball (you know you guys hoard the fan support, Chris Wilson ’10).
For a while this fall, it felt like we came to accept mediocrity as a collection of fans. While our fall sports collectively had an extremely disappointing season, I cannot say that we did much on our part to help them out.
I am not a model citizen by any means, and if you need clarification on that you can call my mother at 207-846-6…yeah right.
But I will admit that I tried to support our athletic teams as best I could. My friends and I often discussed our school’s frustrating fall sports records. We did not do so because we enjoyed trash-talking our teams when they lost, but rather because we wanted to see some change. We noted the lack of wins, but also the lack of fan support.
While the former is what we all care about, the latter is directly related. Our support can and will help our teams win games in the future. Still aren’t convinced? Just ask football Tri-Captain Tom Beaton ’10.
“It was awesome to see all of the support that the parents and fans gave,” said Beaton. “To be honest that support truly does make a difference to the players on the field.”
I was not on the field on Saturday, but I was in the stands and it was louder than I have ever heard. When Bates took their first lead of the game with 9:39 remaining following an interception returned for a touchdown by defensive lineman Tyler Kuehl ’12, the stadium exploded. People took out their phones and immediately called their napping friends to force them out of the comfort of their dorm rooms to watch what would be a thrilling end to a hard-fought football game.
The team did not take the field with the idea of proving themselves to anyone. Few of you believed in them anyways.
They played the game to salvage a season marked by close games, blown leads and inconsistent play, but more importantly to honor the leadership provided by those 15 seniors – most notably Tri-Captains Kyle McAllister ’10, Beaton and Matt Sherburne ’10.
If you thought McAllister, Beaton and Sherburne were going to walk away from the final home football game of their careers with a loss, I hope you witnessed them every time they came off of the field.
While Sherburne was out with an injury, he was the emotional leader of the team. He was at every practice and game throughout the season, and his presence was undoubtedly felt on the sidelines on Saturday.
McAllister showed more energy than I have ever seen from one player, delivering big hits and running of the field with tremendous high fives and adrenaline pumping screams.
Beaton played with his usual composure and showed the Polar Bears that height is overhyped in the NESCAC – just ask their defense how he burned them for nine catches, 152 yards and one long touchdown reception.
Although this column speaks to the football team, it is intended to spread throughout Bates athletics. Our combined men’s and women’s soccer, field hockey, volleyball, and football NESCAC record stands at an embarrassing 5-39-1 (the fate of another win lies in the hands of the Football team at Hamilton on Saturday). While that is nothing to write home about (at least positively), not one of the athletes on any of those five teams enjoys losing.
Our football team put the silver lining on a fall filled with athletic struggles. I am not sure if it was Midnight Madness or the Powder Puff football games that got this school fired up for our sports, but I do know that Saturday is a day that will stick out to me when I think of the events I attended in my four years at Bates.
Winter sports are up next, and we are starting with a clean slate. We are 0-0-0 in the NESCAC and I am giving you all another shot to show other schools what we can do.
After all, the NCAA rated Alumni Gymnasium as one of the toughest places for opponents to play.
Take that for what it is worth.
This, fellow Bobcats, was only part of the story that unfolded on Saturday at the historic Garcelon Field.
No, Garcelon Field is not where Penn State, Ohio State, Texas, Florida or LSU play. It is not the home of a dynamite college football program and it has seen just 299 victories in the program’s 114 year history.
Garcelon Field is our home football stadium and since it was built in 1899, it has seen great players and fans come and go. After our football team sent Bowdoin back to Brunswick licking their wounds after a 28-24 loss, the stadium said goodbye to another generation of those players and fans.
Wait, what’s that? We won? Yes, we won and that joke is old. Sure, the program’s history is not dazzling. There is no disputing that. We all know that a two-win season is a good season. No one expects to run the table and go an unprecedented 8-0 because that has never happened here (although the 1946 team went 7-0).
But I am not here to talk about wins and losses. The football team showed something on Saturday that I have not seen in many home football games. They showed more resilience, fight and effort than the opponent. They overcame turnovers, missed routes and dropped passes. They showed pride and that pride was, above all, more important than the outcome of the game.
They could have let up at any difficult moment on Saturday, but it was not an option. With 15 seniors playing the final home game of their Bates careers, losing was not a thought in their minds. They could have played Texas, Florida or even the New England Patriots, and I can all but guarantee you that the team would have put forth the same effort (though we know the result would undoubtedly be different).
With an estimated 1,800 people watching the final home game of the season, the Bobcats were out to show everyone that we are not the joke of the NESCAC. These guys were not playing for a spot in any sort of playoff, championship or post-season award ceremony.
But they won, and as the excitement of the game became almost unbearable in the fourth quarter, I saw 1,800 people act like this was the Super Bowl. It was not, but for the first time in my four years at Bates, I can honestly say that I was amazed by the atmosphere at Garcelon Field.
When Bowdoin had their golden opportunity to take the lead 30-28 with 4:06 remaining (all they needed was one measly yard), people in the stands started the universal sports chant of “DE-FENSE, DE-FENSE!” When the Polar Bears got the ball back with 2:16 remaining, the crowd did their best to distract Bowdoin’s offense by stomping its feet on the bleachers to emulate the sound of thunder.
Whether or not the chants or noise making were heard on the field is neither here nor there. What matters is that for once, we as a student body showed some serious support for a team not named men’s basketball (you know you guys hoard the fan support, Chris Wilson ’10).
For a while this fall, it felt like we came to accept mediocrity as a collection of fans. While our fall sports collectively had an extremely disappointing season, I cannot say that we did much on our part to help them out.
I am not a model citizen by any means, and if you need clarification on that you can call my mother at 207-846-6…yeah right.
But I will admit that I tried to support our athletic teams as best I could. My friends and I often discussed our school’s frustrating fall sports records. We did not do so because we enjoyed trash-talking our teams when they lost, but rather because we wanted to see some change. We noted the lack of wins, but also the lack of fan support.
While the former is what we all care about, the latter is directly related. Our support can and will help our teams win games in the future. Still aren’t convinced? Just ask football Tri-Captain Tom Beaton ’10.
“It was awesome to see all of the support that the parents and fans gave,” said Beaton. “To be honest that support truly does make a difference to the players on the field.”
I was not on the field on Saturday, but I was in the stands and it was louder than I have ever heard. When Bates took their first lead of the game with 9:39 remaining following an interception returned for a touchdown by defensive lineman Tyler Kuehl ’12, the stadium exploded. People took out their phones and immediately called their napping friends to force them out of the comfort of their dorm rooms to watch what would be a thrilling end to a hard-fought football game.
The team did not take the field with the idea of proving themselves to anyone. Few of you believed in them anyways.
They played the game to salvage a season marked by close games, blown leads and inconsistent play, but more importantly to honor the leadership provided by those 15 seniors – most notably Tri-Captains Kyle McAllister ’10, Beaton and Matt Sherburne ’10.
If you thought McAllister, Beaton and Sherburne were going to walk away from the final home football game of their careers with a loss, I hope you witnessed them every time they came off of the field.
While Sherburne was out with an injury, he was the emotional leader of the team. He was at every practice and game throughout the season, and his presence was undoubtedly felt on the sidelines on Saturday.
McAllister showed more energy than I have ever seen from one player, delivering big hits and running of the field with tremendous high fives and adrenaline pumping screams.
Beaton played with his usual composure and showed the Polar Bears that height is overhyped in the NESCAC – just ask their defense how he burned them for nine catches, 152 yards and one long touchdown reception.
Although this column speaks to the football team, it is intended to spread throughout Bates athletics. Our combined men’s and women’s soccer, field hockey, volleyball, and football NESCAC record stands at an embarrassing 5-39-1 (the fate of another win lies in the hands of the Football team at Hamilton on Saturday). While that is nothing to write home about (at least positively), not one of the athletes on any of those five teams enjoys losing.
Our football team put the silver lining on a fall filled with athletic struggles. I am not sure if it was Midnight Madness or the Powder Puff football games that got this school fired up for our sports, but I do know that Saturday is a day that will stick out to me when I think of the events I attended in my four years at Bates.
Winter sports are up next, and we are starting with a clean slate. We are 0-0-0 in the NESCAC and I am giving you all another shot to show other schools what we can do.
After all, the NCAA rated Alumni Gymnasium as one of the toughest places for opponents to play.
Take that for what it is worth.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
An Afternoon With Tony Hawk...Sort Of
How many chances in your life will you get up close and personal with an athlete who played a major role in transcending and globalizing his or her sport? Not many, unless you have unlimited funds and can pay your way through the cracks.
I have never had the chance, and that is precisely why I dropped everything last Monday and drove down to the
I am not a skateboarder, cannot ollie for the life of me and definitely cannot ride in a half pipe, but I am a sports fan and thus know that Tony Hawk is one of the most influential athletes of the last ten years for singlehandedly globalizing the sport of skateboarding. Think I am crazy for saying that? Think twice and buckle up to find out why.
After some short research, I learned that skateboarding was invented in the 1950s when
Simply put, skateboarding was a lost sport from its conception in the ’50s until Tony Hawk burst onto the scene in the early ’90s. Throughout its history, the sport has battled with its identity. It has been a long standing debate between different types of aesthetics.
’80s skaters lived in a transition period where no one knew what was cool. Marked by florescent colors and tight jeans, skaters were lost.
Then came the ‘90s and skateboarding finally found its identity.
Tight jeans faded out and baggy clothes made their way to the forefront of skate culture (though that has switched again over the last five years). After the ’80s, your clothes, style and hair did not matter as much because skateboarding became about Tony Hawk. Whatever Tony wore was in, whatever Tony did was cool, and whatever Tony said was right.
Skateboarding fluttered on the line of popular and unpopular sports for over forty years, but as soon as Tony Hawk won his first Summer X-Games gold in 1995, the future was made. He became noticed and quickly became the face of a sport in desperate need of a role model.
When I think of skateboarding, I instinctively think of Tony Hawk. How many other modern-day athletes have impacted his or her sport in the same way? I can think of four more with ease, as Michael Jordan, Lance Armstrong, Tiger Woods and Kelly Slater are all synonymous with their sports. After that, it becomes ambiguous. Throw in the Williams sisters, Shaun White, Usain Bolt, Wayne Gretzky and Michael Phelps and there you have my list of athletes who have played the biggest role in globalizing sports over the last two decades.
He may not be the best athlete on the list, but in terms of his worldwide influence on skateboarding, Hawk earns his place in the top-ten among the likes of those big-name athletes.
Who cares if he cannot run a sub-10 second 100 meter dash, win seven Tour de France titles or rule the NBA for the rest of time? Not me, because Tony Hawk has solidified his place as a phenomenal athlete and instrumental piece of the history of sport in the
What was his recipe to greatness? For starters, he won nine X-Games gold medals, three silvers and two bronzes between 1995 and 2002, completed the first ever 900 (that’s two and a half rotations) and he started a video game title that produced 15 different games.
If that is not enough, he has taken on the role as an ambassador for The Truth’s tobacco education campaign as it tries to spread awareness for the dangers of cigarettes, smoking and other tobacco products.
The Truth brought its campaign to the Northeast last week and teamed up with Hawk’s Birdhouse Tour to add some flair to their message. While there were speakers and other entertainers on-site at
He is older and, based on a history of serious crashes, probably more frail. But that did not stop him from pleasing the crowd as he gapped a six-foot channel from one side of the hollow bowl to the other (really sick, bro).
Like a true competitor, Hawk tried the trick close to a dozen times before he successfully landed to a loud applause from the crowd of Lewistonians and a few Bobcats. A few small tricks later, and Hawk made his way through the crowds and into the plush Quicksilver RV.
To my surprise, there was little advertising for this event. I did not read about it online, see it on the news or even catch wind of the event until I called one of my friends to see if he wanted to take part in a sport almost as chill as skateboarding – rollerblading.
He declined and told me to hustle down to
Thankfully I listened, and although I am not that chill, cannot do cool tricks and definitely do not have skater style; I soaked in the afternoon as if I had nothing else to do.
Like a true journalist, I had thoughts of exactly how I was going to approach Tony or anyone else in his posse for a quick interview. I planned the whole conversation out in my head, and was ready to pounce as soon as I saw him finish his session.
I would like to say that I was brave and approached Tony for an interview, but I did not. On my way to intercept him before he made it back to the RV, I froze and beelined it straight to my car and back to campus.
That was probably my only chance to ever talk with Tony Hawk, and I dropped the ball. If that was any indication of my life as a journalist beyond The Bates Student, it was a bad omen.
On my way to watch his greatness, I called my mom to tell her that I was going to try to get an interview.
I jumped the gun. On my way back to campus, I dejectedly called her and explained that I was a wimp.
Tony Hawk scared the daylight out of me, but for some reason it was entirely OK. I witnessed one of my top-ten most influential athletes right here in
I am sure he could have made a lengthy list of places he would choose to skate and
Much like his competitive drive that gave him countless bruises and cuts when he tried to gap the channel at
Why? Because he is Tony Hawk and he knows full well that everyone will listen.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Angel in the Outfield
Shortly after midnight on April 9, 2009, the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim’s franchise was changed forever. Nick Adenhart, the 22 year-old super-prospect, had just pitched his fourth career game, and did so admirably.
After making his first opening day roster, Adenhart was slated to be the third starter in an injury depleted Angel’s rotation. His future was brighter than the 80s and no one knew that better than himself, his teammates and his coaches.
Just hours after the game, a drunk driver ran a red light and killed Adenhart and two of his friends. Tragedy shocked the sports world the following day.
For the Angels, the 2009 season became difficult and unusual. April no longer seemed like their favorite time of year after the dreadful morning phone calls they all received on April 10th.
They longed for normalcy. They waited for their teammate to show up every day at the ballpark, and everyday he was not there.
“We lost a brother," center fielder Torii Hunter said in an ESPN interview two weeks ago. “He was here and then he was gone. None of us had ever been through anything like that. We walked around in a daze, like we were numb.”
Nick Adenhart did everything right. He pitched six shutout innings in his fourth major league start, spoke with reporters, showered and left the ballpark. In an instant, his life, career and dream were gone.
Upon losing a teammate, friend and valued part of the organization, the Angels paid tribute to Adenhart throughout the season. They left his locker un-cleaned in their locker room. They hung his jersey in that locker and even brought a jersey with them on road games. They had a picture of Adenhart placed on their centerfield wall alongside his name and number. They made a shrine outside the home-plate entrance to the stadium. He was everywhere, and that is just how the Angels envisioned things.
The organization went to greats lengths to make sure that Nick Adenhart was included in all parts of their unforgettable season. He was the motivator, the encourager and the Angel in the outfield (literally). Centerfielder Torii Hunter visited his mural on the centerfield wall before every game, his locker left untouched but open for players to visit throughout the season.
Before the season started, the Angels looked like a powerhouse and a major threat to my beloved Boston Red Sox. On April 10th, the day after Adenhart’s death, no one knew where this team was headed. On April 11th, they beat the Red Sox, and I was thankful.
After that game, the team struggled. They were lost and they wore their hearts on their sleeves. It looked like somebody else was going to win the American League West for the first time since 2006 and everyone knew why. Baseball became secondary to what they were experiencing, and it gave their division rivals a leg up.
"It hit all of us all at once," Hunter said. "We realized in a way we never really had before that life was so much more important than baseball and we took that on the field with us, I think. It was rough. We struggled."
But they never gave up. They struggled for a month before coming together and finding ways to win even if they did not have the best team on the field. Baseball became a game of grit, will and desire. It was emotionally draining, but the players found their love of the game.
The 2009 Angels showed the world that you do not need an Albert Pujols or a C.C. Sabathia to succeed.
You need a team, a doorstep collection basket for egos and a damn good manager.
In the middle of May, the Angels realized that they had all of these things and then some. They had Adenhart. They were not dealing with prima donnas like Manny Ramirez or crybabies like Kevin Youkilis.
Manager Mike Scioscia will surely win his second Manager of the Year award for the way he unified a collection of superstars and became their mentor and friend. Along with writing the lineup card, calling for shifts, aligning the infield and outfield and putting in substitutes, Scioscia became the gentleman’s gentleman.
Did he ever make excuses? Not once. Did he want to win? Of course, but he understood that his players were bruised and battered mentally and sometimes physically. He did not take the approach of the Chicago White Sox’s manager Ozzie Guillen and apologize to his fans for how crappy his team was.
Instead, he waited for the right time and talked to his players about how privileged they were to play Major League Baseball. He told them not to forget Adenhart’s competitiveness and desire to win. He told them that Adenhart would want the Angels to give it everything they had for the rest of the season.
More importantly he told them to take a deep breath and play baseball.
“It hurt so much. It was a crushing blow," Hunter said. "But it taught us how much we meant to each other. How much we felt for Nick and how much we felt for each other. There is a closeness with us I've never felt before. We lift each other up. Truly. We have each other's backs. All the way. Every time we step on the field we have a different fire. We're trying to do it all together. We're sad. We're so sad. But there is a fire in us, too."
The Angels are the epitome of team. They are unlike any professional sports team I have ever watched. They have no individuals who place themselves higher than anyone else, and in professional sports that is a huge statement. With everyone on the same page, they rallied for the remainder of the season. Even when players were hurt or they were longing for their teammate, they found it in themselves to win games.
On September 29th, 2009, the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim won their third straight division title. They did so with pride and they celebrated in memory of their lost teammate: They said a prayer for Adenhart in front of his locker, they paraded out to the centerfield wall and gathered around his picture, and they drank to his memory.
While I was not there, I can almost guarantee you that the Angel’s division clinching celebration was emotional. Really emotional. More emotional than those Saturday night celebrations we have when we don’t even win.
I was originally going to write this column about the shock I felt when I saw the images and video clips on ESPN and ESPN.com following the Angels celebration, but I changed my mind.
I was irked when I saw the picture of the team holding Adenhart’s untouched jersey and dousing it with champagne and cheap beer.
It was too ironic. I thought to myself, “Adenhart was killed by a drunk driver, and these idiots are soaking his memory with champagne and beer.”
But it was an emotional tribute, a way to include Adenhart in what the rest of the guys were doing.
While I do not think the media should have published this image, and should have instead left it untouched and only in the team’s memory, I understand why people have been angered.
After reading an ESPN article about their season by Eric Neel, I realized I could not criticize this team for celebrating in that way. Their emotions got away from them, but that is entirely OK. Everything they did on the night of September 29th was in respect and memory of their fallen angel, Nick Adenhart.
The Angels play the Red Sox this week in the American League Division Series. While I will be rooting for my hometown team, I can honestly say that I will not be sad if the Angels eliminate them from the playoffs.
They deserve to win the World Series, and if they do, I will pour one out for Nick Adenhart.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Who Let the Dog Out?
This is my most recent sports column from The Bates Student. It will probably be met with plenty of controversy, especially over the title. But hey, what fun is a newspaper if you do not get cranky letters to the editors?
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I believe in second chances. When someone screws up, they should absolutely be reprimanded and punished. Heck, to get the point across that some things are just not OK, punish them brutally. But when a person messes up, serves his time and has to live with the consequences of a poor decision for the rest of his life, I feel that that person should be given an opportunity to prove that he learned.
Yes, in this instance I am alluding to the overly-talked about Michael Vick. You all know the story: Vick was convicted for running a dog fighting operation on his property in 2007, killed a handful of dogs (the number varies depending on which source you read), got busted, lied about it until his nose resembled Pinocchio’s and served eighteen months in prison. Throw in the fact that Vick must recover from bankruptcy and live the rest of his life with myriad protesters, an insurmountable level of guilt and haunting memories from one enormously poor decision, and it is safe to say his life will never be the same.
I cannot tell you how many opinion pieces I have read since the middle of summer about the return of Michael Vick. Many of you have probably read the same amount and are sick of them just like me. I hate myself for devoting a column to the scumbag, but with all of my might, I am writing this to publicly show that I am glad he is back in the NFL following his 2009 debut on Sunday (because my endorsement means a lot to Vick and the Philadelphia Eagles).
I loved the guy’s style of play before he became one of the biggest screw ups in the NFL — though Adam "Pacman" Jones or Danté Stallworth could rival him for this prestigious title.
He was electric, young and seemed to have his head on his shoulders when playing the game of football (minus that one time in 2006 when he gave the double middle finger to his home fans after a loss to the New Orleans Saints). He had it all, and then it all went downhill in a hurry.
But Vick served his time. His life was drastically changed after his two-year prison sentence, and there is no way he can escape his troubled past and tarnished reputation. Michael Vick made those decisions, and Michael Vick has to live with them for the rest of his life. He will forever be linked to his immaturity, selfishness and overall stupidity that sent him to rock bottom, and there is no questioning that.
We can hate him for his actions and we can talk about how horrible he is, but doing so will not change a thing. Michael Vick is returning to the NFL with a rediscovered passion for football and an entirely new outlook on life.
In a "60 Minutes" interview in August, Vick publicly expressed his feelings about his mistakes and his time in jail for the first time.
"It's no way of, you know, explaining, you know, the hurt and the guilt that I felt. And that was the reason I cried so many nights. And that put it all into perspective," said Vick. "I was disgusted, you know, because of what I let happen to those animals. I could've put a stop to it. I could've walked away from it. I could've shut the whole operation down."
He did not shut the whole operation down, and while the "ifs" have run rampant through Vick’s mind, he knows there is no turning back the clock.
"I felt the guilt and I knew I was guilty, and I knew what I had done," he said. "And, not knowing at the time that, you know, actually telling the truth may have been better than, you know, not being honest. And it backfired on me tremendously."
Vick did a lot wrong in the time before his ultimate sentence—so much wrong, in fact, that whatever he does right for the rest of his life might not matter to some people.
That is foolish.
How can Stallworth drive drunk, kill a man and get off with 24 days in jail? I could care less about his honesty and his professionalism in dealing with the issue. He killed a person and somehow served 17 months fewer in jail than Vick.
Something is wrong with our legal system and this certainly highlights whatever it is.
In no way am I comparing drunken driving, murder and dog fighting. I am not saying that Vick deserved less time, but for Stallworth to be slapped with 24 days is literally getting away with murder.
Stallworth messed up and handled it well. Vick messed up and handled it horribly.
I am not here to criticize Vick’s morals or Stallworth’s incident. That is a different debate altogether. All I am saying is that the guy has served his time and will suffer the consequences for the rest of his life, regardless of what good comes his way. So with two years of prison under his belt and a lifetime full of regret ahead, he should at least be allowed to play the game that gave him so much (and that he said he took advantage of at times).
NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell’s decision to re-instate Michael Vick was met with immense scrutiny; however, it is time that the general public look behind Vick’s morals and give him a second chance to prove himself as a player and a person.
When he was in the league, free of major legal troubles (there were some minor side issues), he was criticized for lacking the work ethic and passing efficiency needed from a pure quarterback to ever win a Super Bowl title.
When he was out of the league and sleeping in prison beds, he was criticized for having no morals and no self discipline.
All criticisms might be accurate — but they are old. They do not pertain to the Michael Vick you will see turning heads for the remainder of his NFL career, and he will be the first to tell you so.
"I was lazy. You know, I was the last guy in the building, first guy out," said Vick. "I know that. You know, I hear everything that people say. And that hurt me when I heard that, but I know it was true."
Vick has matured. He has changed. He has learned. And while he might not yet be faster or stronger than he was when he last played in 2006, he is ready to move on from his past — both on and off the field.
He probably will not start a game at quarterback in 2009, but that does not mean that his role with the Philadelphia Eagles is limited.
Instead of slotting him in as a pure passer, the Eagles can now take advantage of his college-style play and natural athleticism and use him as a "wildcat" quarterback. He can throw if he wants to throw, run if he wants to run and you might even see him lined up next to DeSean Jackson at wide receiver.
After all of the hustle and bustle, cat and mouse and "will he? won’t he?" talk this summer, Vick returned to the field on Sunday for the first time in 1,000 days. The last time he played? His current employers, the Philadelphia Eagles. Ironic? Indeed. Storybook ending? Not even close.
The numbers were underwhelming as Vick took nine snaps, threw two incomplete passes, rushed once for seven yards and lined up once as a slot receiver. Thankfully for him, no one was banking on him to win. This was not the Super Bowl nor was Vick the key to victory. His numbers did little to affect the flow of the game, but that is not what was important.
This was the first of many hurdles in the return of Michael Vick. His stats do not matter right now. Instead, making the most of his incredible opportunity will be most telling.
Thank you, Roger Goodell. It felt great to see one of the greatest athletes of my generation take the field again.
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I believe in second chances. When someone screws up, they should absolutely be reprimanded and punished. Heck, to get the point across that some things are just not OK, punish them brutally. But when a person messes up, serves his time and has to live with the consequences of a poor decision for the rest of his life, I feel that that person should be given an opportunity to prove that he learned.
Yes, in this instance I am alluding to the overly-talked about Michael Vick. You all know the story: Vick was convicted for running a dog fighting operation on his property in 2007, killed a handful of dogs (the number varies depending on which source you read), got busted, lied about it until his nose resembled Pinocchio’s and served eighteen months in prison. Throw in the fact that Vick must recover from bankruptcy and live the rest of his life with myriad protesters, an insurmountable level of guilt and haunting memories from one enormously poor decision, and it is safe to say his life will never be the same.
I cannot tell you how many opinion pieces I have read since the middle of summer about the return of Michael Vick. Many of you have probably read the same amount and are sick of them just like me. I hate myself for devoting a column to the scumbag, but with all of my might, I am writing this to publicly show that I am glad he is back in the NFL following his 2009 debut on Sunday (because my endorsement means a lot to Vick and the Philadelphia Eagles).
I loved the guy’s style of play before he became one of the biggest screw ups in the NFL — though Adam "Pacman" Jones or Danté Stallworth could rival him for this prestigious title.
He was electric, young and seemed to have his head on his shoulders when playing the game of football (minus that one time in 2006 when he gave the double middle finger to his home fans after a loss to the New Orleans Saints). He had it all, and then it all went downhill in a hurry.
But Vick served his time. His life was drastically changed after his two-year prison sentence, and there is no way he can escape his troubled past and tarnished reputation. Michael Vick made those decisions, and Michael Vick has to live with them for the rest of his life. He will forever be linked to his immaturity, selfishness and overall stupidity that sent him to rock bottom, and there is no questioning that.
We can hate him for his actions and we can talk about how horrible he is, but doing so will not change a thing. Michael Vick is returning to the NFL with a rediscovered passion for football and an entirely new outlook on life.
In a "60 Minutes" interview in August, Vick publicly expressed his feelings about his mistakes and his time in jail for the first time.
"It's no way of, you know, explaining, you know, the hurt and the guilt that I felt. And that was the reason I cried so many nights. And that put it all into perspective," said Vick. "I was disgusted, you know, because of what I let happen to those animals. I could've put a stop to it. I could've walked away from it. I could've shut the whole operation down."
He did not shut the whole operation down, and while the "ifs" have run rampant through Vick’s mind, he knows there is no turning back the clock.
"I felt the guilt and I knew I was guilty, and I knew what I had done," he said. "And, not knowing at the time that, you know, actually telling the truth may have been better than, you know, not being honest. And it backfired on me tremendously."
Vick did a lot wrong in the time before his ultimate sentence—so much wrong, in fact, that whatever he does right for the rest of his life might not matter to some people.
That is foolish.
How can Stallworth drive drunk, kill a man and get off with 24 days in jail? I could care less about his honesty and his professionalism in dealing with the issue. He killed a person and somehow served 17 months fewer in jail than Vick.
Something is wrong with our legal system and this certainly highlights whatever it is.
In no way am I comparing drunken driving, murder and dog fighting. I am not saying that Vick deserved less time, but for Stallworth to be slapped with 24 days is literally getting away with murder.
Stallworth messed up and handled it well. Vick messed up and handled it horribly.
I am not here to criticize Vick’s morals or Stallworth’s incident. That is a different debate altogether. All I am saying is that the guy has served his time and will suffer the consequences for the rest of his life, regardless of what good comes his way. So with two years of prison under his belt and a lifetime full of regret ahead, he should at least be allowed to play the game that gave him so much (and that he said he took advantage of at times).
NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell’s decision to re-instate Michael Vick was met with immense scrutiny; however, it is time that the general public look behind Vick’s morals and give him a second chance to prove himself as a player and a person.
When he was in the league, free of major legal troubles (there were some minor side issues), he was criticized for lacking the work ethic and passing efficiency needed from a pure quarterback to ever win a Super Bowl title.
When he was out of the league and sleeping in prison beds, he was criticized for having no morals and no self discipline.
All criticisms might be accurate — but they are old. They do not pertain to the Michael Vick you will see turning heads for the remainder of his NFL career, and he will be the first to tell you so.
"I was lazy. You know, I was the last guy in the building, first guy out," said Vick. "I know that. You know, I hear everything that people say. And that hurt me when I heard that, but I know it was true."
Vick has matured. He has changed. He has learned. And while he might not yet be faster or stronger than he was when he last played in 2006, he is ready to move on from his past — both on and off the field.
He probably will not start a game at quarterback in 2009, but that does not mean that his role with the Philadelphia Eagles is limited.
Instead of slotting him in as a pure passer, the Eagles can now take advantage of his college-style play and natural athleticism and use him as a "wildcat" quarterback. He can throw if he wants to throw, run if he wants to run and you might even see him lined up next to DeSean Jackson at wide receiver.
After all of the hustle and bustle, cat and mouse and "will he? won’t he?" talk this summer, Vick returned to the field on Sunday for the first time in 1,000 days. The last time he played? His current employers, the Philadelphia Eagles. Ironic? Indeed. Storybook ending? Not even close.
The numbers were underwhelming as Vick took nine snaps, threw two incomplete passes, rushed once for seven yards and lined up once as a slot receiver. Thankfully for him, no one was banking on him to win. This was not the Super Bowl nor was Vick the key to victory. His numbers did little to affect the flow of the game, but that is not what was important.
This was the first of many hurdles in the return of Michael Vick. His stats do not matter right now. Instead, making the most of his incredible opportunity will be most telling.
Thank you, Roger Goodell. It felt great to see one of the greatest athletes of my generation take the field again.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Long Awaited Update
Wow, I really dropped the ball. It has been almost a month since I last posted. If you were having a panic attack and wondering whether I would ever be back on this beast, have no fear. I will blame the hiatus on the start of senior year. It has been, without question, one of the most exciting but hectic few weeks of my life. I really cannot imagine what the last few weeks will bring.
With that being said, I do not have enough time to dig into my creative side and pull out some new material. Instead, I will post my first column of this years Bates Student (our student run newspaper). As Managing Sports Editor, I get to write a weekly column. So, have a look below.
While all of you might not go to Bates, you might be able to connect with this on some level.
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Fall is almost to here and there is no denying that fact. There are certain indicators of the coming autumn season every year, and I am beginning to take note of many of them:
The mornings and nights are getting cold. Really cold. Like I can see my breath cold. I am a cross-country skier and I still think it is ludicrous.
The trees on the quad are slowly starting to turn into those euphoric pictures in the Bates magazines that we all gawked at when we were pre-frosh. Really though, is fall foliage on the quad our biggest pitch to potential students? I know it is pretty, but…
Apple cider is back in Commons, though it is so damn good that it runs out far too often. On a similar level, the McIntosh apples are on the verge of excellent and that is an added bonus to the Commons experience.
The 80s dance just happened and while some of us opted for flannels, sweatshirts and sweatpants for Sunday brunch attire, there were a few stragglers that missed the memo and kept the party alive with their short shorts, vibrant shirts and weird hats (Brendan Julian, you looked good).
Lastly, there is that fall aura circulating about campus with complaints of too much homework, not enough sleep, jibber-jabber about our slow start to the fall sports seasons and the big Homecoming Weekend.
Ah yes, sports. That is what this column is supposed to be about anyways. Not the weather, pretty trees, apples or the 80s.
What can we expect from the upcoming Homecoming Weekend? If you came from a high school bigger than Bates, your homecoming was probably significantly different than what you will experience. We have no homecoming dance and no homecoming king or queen (Sylvan Ellefson if you are reading this, you know you would have won at least two out of your four years here). We do not win every single year nor do we pack our stands to their maximum capacity. But that can change.
While our fall sports have been hindered by slow starts, Homecoming Weekend can serve as a jumpstart to a hot-streak. Men’s soccer is 0-3, women’s soccer is 1-1-1, field hockey is 0-4, volleyball is 4-2 and football has yet to start. Bad news, right? Yes, but do not push the panic button just yet. A healthy dose of alumni, tailgating and home field advantage is just what the Bobcat ordered.
The Trinity College Bantams make the drive from Hartford, CT this weekend to take on our Bobcats in men’s and women’s soccer, football and field hockey. I have a friend that plays for the Bantams men’s soccer team and I will be sure to tell him that the Bobcats are hungry to scratch. What better animal to feast on than a lousy rooster?
Without a homecoming dance, we can shift our attention to the three battlegrounds known as Russell St. Field, Campus Avenue Field and Garcelon Field (can we do something about the lame names of the first two?).
While Trinity storms into Lewiston with just three combined losses from their soccer, field hockey, football and volleyball teams, the Bobcats are eager to score goals, touchdowns and points with a vengeance.
I cannot tell you the amount of times I have heard my friends or parents ask, “what happened?” after a Bobcat loss. I have no answers. It seems that lately things have not been going our way, but that is also the age-old excuse. If I could somehow analyze every game and inject my knowledge into each coach’s gameplan, I would do so in a heartbeat.
That being said, we can add a lot to each game just by showing up. First-years, take my word for it: Saturdays with multiple sporting events taking place are awesome. Drink a little extra water before you go to bed on Saturday and you will be ready to be a sports fan. Do not lose your voice shouting like a wild-man or woman at a party. Save it for some extreme heckling of Bantams instead. Betsy Weidner is the Bobcat Wrangler this weekend and you better do as she says.
I wrote a column last year criticizing our school’s fan spirit. Aside from Parents Weekend and NESCAC basketball games in Alumni Gymnasium, it was pretty poor. Do I feel the same to this point in 2009? Yes. Can it change? Absolutely. Do I think we have the least supportive fan groups in collegiate sports? No.
That award can go to Bowdoin.
I attended the Bates men’s soccer game at Bowdoin last week and was relieved to see that they have worse attendance levels than us. Between the group I went with, a group of Bates kids already there, my old high-school’s varsity soccer team and my parents, I think we could have outnumbered the number of Bowdoin kids in the stands.
Not only were they few in numbers, but their cheering and heckling was as bad, if not worse than ours.
Last year’s Managing Sports Editor, Mac King, wrote a column about the art of heckling. I almost copied and pasted that into this space because my computer died halfway through writing my own words that I refused to re-write everything. After wasting six hours of my Sunday on the couch, I succumbed and started to type.
Mac taught me a lot last year—namely how to successfully streak during pub crawl in front of the security department and Dean Tannenbaum (Keith, you will remember that kid forever). My mom just screamed thinking that I will actually be that guy. Do you really think I would do that,
Mom?
Seriously though, Mac taught me a more valuable lesson throughout the year: how to be a great sports fan at Bates.
There are not enough of us, and I am trying to convince you guys to indulge yourself in a Bates athletic event once a weekend. It takes two hours out of your day and who knows, you might actually enjoy the game. You might see a bicycle kick, a hailmary or a buzzer beating shot. Sports are spontaneous and that is what makes them great.
All tangents aside, our athletic teams need support this weekend. We have won one NESCAC competition over the first two weeks of the fall sports seasons. Not good enough.
Can fans win a game? Absolutely not. Can we give our home teams an advantage? Without a doubt. I know Garcelon Field is a far cry from the New York Jets’ stadium, but call up Tom Brady and ask him if the crowd played a factor in his sub-par performance last Sunday. I can guarantee he will say yes, hang up on you in an instant and have a hit-man at your doorstep in two hours.
There are going to be tons of alumni roaming about the athletic facilities, so why not come out of your dorm, catch some rays and let your voice go hoarse? I do not consider myself an artist in the realm of heckling, but I do know that it is far more effective and a lot less ridiculous if there are multiple people taking part.
It would be great to see our teams come away from Homecoming Weekend with multiple wins against a school that has tremendous athletics. Trinity is no slouch, but we can be just as good. They might be big, fast and strong but we do not want to be embarrassed during our homecoming by the Trinity College Bantams.
Seriously, a rooster? Come on, let’s do something different for a weekend and show that we are not the laughing stock of the NESCAC.
Come out on Saturday and give them the ol’ big cat scratch.
With that being said, I do not have enough time to dig into my creative side and pull out some new material. Instead, I will post my first column of this years Bates Student (our student run newspaper). As Managing Sports Editor, I get to write a weekly column. So, have a look below.
While all of you might not go to Bates, you might be able to connect with this on some level.
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Fall is almost to here and there is no denying that fact. There are certain indicators of the coming autumn season every year, and I am beginning to take note of many of them:
The mornings and nights are getting cold. Really cold. Like I can see my breath cold. I am a cross-country skier and I still think it is ludicrous.
The trees on the quad are slowly starting to turn into those euphoric pictures in the Bates magazines that we all gawked at when we were pre-frosh. Really though, is fall foliage on the quad our biggest pitch to potential students? I know it is pretty, but…
Apple cider is back in Commons, though it is so damn good that it runs out far too often. On a similar level, the McIntosh apples are on the verge of excellent and that is an added bonus to the Commons experience.
The 80s dance just happened and while some of us opted for flannels, sweatshirts and sweatpants for Sunday brunch attire, there were a few stragglers that missed the memo and kept the party alive with their short shorts, vibrant shirts and weird hats (Brendan Julian, you looked good).
Lastly, there is that fall aura circulating about campus with complaints of too much homework, not enough sleep, jibber-jabber about our slow start to the fall sports seasons and the big Homecoming Weekend.
Ah yes, sports. That is what this column is supposed to be about anyways. Not the weather, pretty trees, apples or the 80s.
What can we expect from the upcoming Homecoming Weekend? If you came from a high school bigger than Bates, your homecoming was probably significantly different than what you will experience. We have no homecoming dance and no homecoming king or queen (Sylvan Ellefson if you are reading this, you know you would have won at least two out of your four years here). We do not win every single year nor do we pack our stands to their maximum capacity. But that can change.
While our fall sports have been hindered by slow starts, Homecoming Weekend can serve as a jumpstart to a hot-streak. Men’s soccer is 0-3, women’s soccer is 1-1-1, field hockey is 0-4, volleyball is 4-2 and football has yet to start. Bad news, right? Yes, but do not push the panic button just yet. A healthy dose of alumni, tailgating and home field advantage is just what the Bobcat ordered.
The Trinity College Bantams make the drive from Hartford, CT this weekend to take on our Bobcats in men’s and women’s soccer, football and field hockey. I have a friend that plays for the Bantams men’s soccer team and I will be sure to tell him that the Bobcats are hungry to scratch. What better animal to feast on than a lousy rooster?
Without a homecoming dance, we can shift our attention to the three battlegrounds known as Russell St. Field, Campus Avenue Field and Garcelon Field (can we do something about the lame names of the first two?).
While Trinity storms into Lewiston with just three combined losses from their soccer, field hockey, football and volleyball teams, the Bobcats are eager to score goals, touchdowns and points with a vengeance.
I cannot tell you the amount of times I have heard my friends or parents ask, “what happened?” after a Bobcat loss. I have no answers. It seems that lately things have not been going our way, but that is also the age-old excuse. If I could somehow analyze every game and inject my knowledge into each coach’s gameplan, I would do so in a heartbeat.
That being said, we can add a lot to each game just by showing up. First-years, take my word for it: Saturdays with multiple sporting events taking place are awesome. Drink a little extra water before you go to bed on Saturday and you will be ready to be a sports fan. Do not lose your voice shouting like a wild-man or woman at a party. Save it for some extreme heckling of Bantams instead. Betsy Weidner is the Bobcat Wrangler this weekend and you better do as she says.
I wrote a column last year criticizing our school’s fan spirit. Aside from Parents Weekend and NESCAC basketball games in Alumni Gymnasium, it was pretty poor. Do I feel the same to this point in 2009? Yes. Can it change? Absolutely. Do I think we have the least supportive fan groups in collegiate sports? No.
That award can go to Bowdoin.
I attended the Bates men’s soccer game at Bowdoin last week and was relieved to see that they have worse attendance levels than us. Between the group I went with, a group of Bates kids already there, my old high-school’s varsity soccer team and my parents, I think we could have outnumbered the number of Bowdoin kids in the stands.
Not only were they few in numbers, but their cheering and heckling was as bad, if not worse than ours.
Last year’s Managing Sports Editor, Mac King, wrote a column about the art of heckling. I almost copied and pasted that into this space because my computer died halfway through writing my own words that I refused to re-write everything. After wasting six hours of my Sunday on the couch, I succumbed and started to type.
Mac taught me a lot last year—namely how to successfully streak during pub crawl in front of the security department and Dean Tannenbaum (Keith, you will remember that kid forever). My mom just screamed thinking that I will actually be that guy. Do you really think I would do that,
Mom?
Seriously though, Mac taught me a more valuable lesson throughout the year: how to be a great sports fan at Bates.
There are not enough of us, and I am trying to convince you guys to indulge yourself in a Bates athletic event once a weekend. It takes two hours out of your day and who knows, you might actually enjoy the game. You might see a bicycle kick, a hailmary or a buzzer beating shot. Sports are spontaneous and that is what makes them great.
All tangents aside, our athletic teams need support this weekend. We have won one NESCAC competition over the first two weeks of the fall sports seasons. Not good enough.
Can fans win a game? Absolutely not. Can we give our home teams an advantage? Without a doubt. I know Garcelon Field is a far cry from the New York Jets’ stadium, but call up Tom Brady and ask him if the crowd played a factor in his sub-par performance last Sunday. I can guarantee he will say yes, hang up on you in an instant and have a hit-man at your doorstep in two hours.
There are going to be tons of alumni roaming about the athletic facilities, so why not come out of your dorm, catch some rays and let your voice go hoarse? I do not consider myself an artist in the realm of heckling, but I do know that it is far more effective and a lot less ridiculous if there are multiple people taking part.
It would be great to see our teams come away from Homecoming Weekend with multiple wins against a school that has tremendous athletics. Trinity is no slouch, but we can be just as good. They might be big, fast and strong but we do not want to be embarrassed during our homecoming by the Trinity College Bantams.
Seriously, a rooster? Come on, let’s do something different for a weekend and show that we are not the laughing stock of the NESCAC.
Come out on Saturday and give them the ol’ big cat scratch.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Agelessness
Trick question. Do you get slower or faster with age?
Here is our scenario: Participant A does a 10k road race in 2008. She does the same exact race in 2009 except betters her time by over a minute.
Participant B is one year younger than Participant A. During the race in 2008, Participant B warns Participant A that she better watch out in 2009 because she is going to be eligible for Participant A's age-classification. In the 2009 race, Participant B is slower by almost three minutes.
How is this possible?
You think you have the answer. Participant A trained harder for the race, right? Nope. While all of you skiers, runners and know-it-alls were laughing (or thinking too hard), I forgot to add that the women were 79 and 80 in 2008. Therefore they were 80 and 81...OK, you should get that much.
The same physiological science that applies to a 25 year-old does not apply to an 80 year-old. It does not matter which way you slice the pie, that's how the cookie crumbles (right, Coach Flynn?).
My coaches have always told me that I would become more physically fit with each passing year until I was in my mid-late twenties. We do not reach our full physical and athletic maturity until this age-range, thus explaining the peak age of endurance athletes. People stay fast and fit well beyond their twenties, but it eventually takes a little more work to keep the aging body in great physical shape.
It makes sense. We get slower after we reach a certain age, right?
That is what I thought until my grandmother Victoria Poole slapped my theory upside the head. Yes, she is Participant A, and yes, she did complete one of the most prestigious 10k road races in the country (twice). Why is that cool? Because she is over 80 and has made a point to walk the 6.2 mile race course every year. And because she showed Participant B (she will remain unnamed) that she was not ready to mess with the 80 and over category quite yet.
I know I will be hard-pressed to walk 6.2 miles at that age and I would be willing to bet another $5 that most of you will as well. No offense to your 10k race future beyond the age of 80, but not that many people can physically do that.
I am a modest person and rarely brag about things close to home. You will not see my write a blog post about any personal accomplishment (except for domination in spring intramural sports).
That being said, am I bragging about my grandmother? Without a doubt. Do I feel bad about that? Not at all, because my grandmother (Grandma Engelke, your blog post is in the lineup) deserves every ounce of my praise.
Following the race, my family hosted the annual post-event banquet in the field of our summer cottage in Cape Elizabeth, ME. It was a truly special evening and I will push my father to offer the property next summer as well (if he says no, then I will offer it up without his approval).
Despite meeting all of the African elite runners including the holder of the 3rd fastest marathon in history, the highlight of the party came from the pretty, little old lady better known as Granny.
Olympic gold medalist and Beach to Beacon race founder Joan Benoit-Samuelson and the rest of the Beach to Beacon crew called my grandmother to the front of the function to recognize her as the oldest finisher in the 2009 edition of the race. Along with a Boston Marathon track jacket and some other free-schwag, Joanie presented my grandmother with a life-time entry to the race. From here on out, race number 1927 (for her birth-year) will be off limits to everyone except Victoria Poole.
The 400 people at the party stood and applauded, sending chills straight up my spine. In between moments of flirting with my sister and her friend, the African runners even professed their amazement at my grandmother. She might have been too flustered to take everything in, but I saw it all and I do know that she was and will be forever thankful for that evening at the cottage.
Although race registration does not open for another seven(?) months, my grandmother is the only non-elite runner that does not have to worry about gaining entry to the ever popular race. Participant B, I guess you will have to wait until next year!
It has been almost a month and I am still applauding you, Granny. Here's to 82 and more memories like this one. Grandpa would have been proud.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
The Proof
While manning the bar at the Royal River Grillhouse in Yarmouth, ME last Friday, I received a text message from Mr. Sylvan Geir Ellefson that read as follows:
2:24PM Fri, Aug 14: "Check Lance's Twitter, pics up soon he said. bitches :-)".
It is real. This is the undeniable proof that my best friend Sylvan Ellefson actually rode his bike with Lance Armstrong.
Some of you readers might not know who Sylvan is, what he looks like and consequently where he is located in this photo but I would be willing to bet that you could guess.
While four of the five are almost perfectly coordinated (even down to their miniature size), one is entirely different. No Trek jersey, no yellow and black Livestrong helmet, a solid four inches on the rest of the motley crew and Sylvan sticks out like a sore thumb (or a nordic skier wearing a bright red rain-coat).
Now imagine me, fresh off of a six-hour bar tending shift at the Grillhouse, driving home and logging onto twitter.com/lancearmstrong to find this photo with the accompanying comment, "just finished 2 rainy hrs w/ @benking89, @bjornselander, @guyeast, and @sylvanellefson."
Pretty damn cool, I thought. Lance Armstrong just gave my friend Sylvan Ellefson a shout out on the fastest growing micro-blogging site on the Internet. Better yet, Armstrong has almost 1.8 million people following his Twitter page. The result? 1.8 million people wondering, "who the heck is this giant in the red raincoat?" The extended result? An influx of additions to the unofficial (until I don it official as my millionaire mechanism) Sylvan Ellefson Fan Club (SEFC).
All in all, Sylvan had a day that he will never forget. And I had a day that made me look like a complete idiot.
I finished my day at work, sprinted to my car, sprinted back to the restaurant because I forgot to clock out of the computer, sprinted back to my car and drove (the speed limit, mom) back to my house. I rudely sprinted past my dogs, giving them an ice-cold shoulder in the process and launched myself at the computer in the kitchen.
With sweat dripping off of my forehead onto the keyboard and seeping into the couch, I pulled up this picture and laughed. My jealousy was still present, but I smiled and simply brushed it all aside.
While Sylvan gets this picture framed and has the story of a lifetime to tell, retell and overtell for decades, I will keep telling him lies like, "this is not that cool" or "I bet you paid $1,000 to do this".
Denial, my friends. It is that cool and it is worthy of telling and retelling. Why? Because whether you like him or not, think he is a doper or hate the sport of cycling, Lance Armstrong is one of the greatest athletes in the history of sports. And my best friend got to spend half of a day with him.
Sylvan, don't take that paragraph too seriously about me telling lies. That paragraph itself was a lie because truly, I have been the one telling, retelling and overtelling your story.
And I am completely happy to do that.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Envy
This is my third attempt at starting a blog. The other two were miserable failures due to my lack of creativity every time I logged into blogger.com.
The main screen served as a complete emptying of all great ideas that were at one time swirling in my head. Fear of the blank page resulted in too many thoughts at once with none of them being the brilliant idea that urged me to blog. This eventually led to two poorly executed and uneventful blog posts that were not funny, had no importance on what I was doing with my life and were just too emotional (I hate that kind of crap). Who wants to read about some deep, life changing experience from the mind of a 22 year-old college student? Not me, not you and certainly not my mom (we'll save it for one on one time, mother).
Aside from my unexplainable mind-blank that arose every time I faced this very same computer screen, there were other failures--namely a minuscule level of readership (my mom).
I need no introduction, for those of you that will actually read this already know who I am, what I do and why I am writing. Scratch that, I probably would write a brief introduction because it seems like the right thing to do when starting a blog, but introductions on blogs suck and I am eager to write about what spurred me to give this thing one more shot.
With that being said...
Why the title "envy"? That seems weird for a first-post, right? No, this will not, and I promise, be some verbal diarrhea about my personal life. I refuse to write about being envious of that guy dating that girl (damn him) or that annoying girl that made more money that me at work yesterday (you just wait till tomorrow, unnamed girl).
Where does this envy stem from if it is not about a girl or money? For starters, I am by myself in a hot, quiet office with the smell of the next door pizzeria wafting through the window (too bad I have that lousy PB&J waiting for me in the fridge).
I am the intern at a sports marketing firm and everyone in the company has either left to walk around Portland and/or go home for the day. Me? I am sitting at my desk screening video footage of off-road desert truck racing (cool, but also not that cool at the same time). Although it is about to drive me out the door of the office, envy of my co-workers is not the envy that I speak of in the title of this blog.
In between segments of video screening, I allow myself a short, but sometimes long break to surf the web. Not much surfing actually takes place because I check the same five websites every time. Today that will change. I have added a couple of websites to my list and this will explain my jealousy: Lance Armstrong's Twitter page and my best friend Sylvan Ellefson's Twitter page (I hate Twitter). Connect the dots.
I am a cyclist. I follow the sport just like I follow my beloved Boston Red Sox, Boston Celtics and New England Patriots (that's right, Mac. Six championships combined in the new millennium). In cycling I follow individual riders as opposed to teams. My favorites include the Luxumberg brothers Frank and Andy Schleck, the big Belgian sprinter Tom Boonen and of course Armstrong.
To say I have a man-crush would be fairly accurate. He is inspirational, has a Cinderella story following his battle with cancer and he is pretty much a bad-ass. He is the Godfather.
Still don't see the envy?
Simply put, I am sitting in my office while my best friend and former roommate at Bates College is riding his bike with Lance Armstrong. I do not consider myself a jealous person and in usual circumstances, I will keep my jealousy to myself. Not this time. No way.
Am I jealous in a bad/mad way? Hell no. If he were to have called me and stated, "man, I was invited to go biking with Lance Armstrong tomorrow. That really sucks," I would have scoffed and called him an idiot. But Sylvan did not do that. He could not believe it was actually happening.
You might laugh, but for all you rah-rah football players out there--picture you or your best friend playing a game of catch with Tom Brady (girls might like that opportunity as well). Or for you basketball fans, imagine you playing a friendly game of h-o-r-s-e with Michael Jordan. And for the baseball fans out there, think of you, A-Rod, and Ortiz huddled up in your bathroom shoving needles into each others' asses.
Sylvan was thrilled, scared and a little speechless. I was too, and I'm 2,000 miles away and not even going for a bike ride today.
For now, I can only wait for my phone to ring with a report of today's happenings. While it will surely be a leisurely ride for Lance, will my good friend hang on for the ride's entirety? I do not have the answer to that but what I do know is that you should never bet against Sylvan Ellefson. The kid knows how to hurt.
He might not ride much, he might not even own a bike and that miserable race weekend in New Haven, CT last April may have turned him off of bike racing for the rest of his life, but he knows how incredible his opportunity is today and he will do all that he can to stick with the old man as long as his legs will allow.
I will eventually eat my PB&J and give the pizzeria the figurative middle finger. The rest of the employees will return from their breaks and I will finally have someone to correspond with (this day really has been boring). Most importantly, I will keep screening video while eagerly checking www.twitter.com/lancearmstrong and www.twitter.com/sylvanellefson in hopes that The Godfather or (from here on out) The Kid put up a picture of their leisurely Thursday ride.
Sylvan, you are one lucky dog.
The main screen served as a complete emptying of all great ideas that were at one time swirling in my head. Fear of the blank page resulted in too many thoughts at once with none of them being the brilliant idea that urged me to blog. This eventually led to two poorly executed and uneventful blog posts that were not funny, had no importance on what I was doing with my life and were just too emotional (I hate that kind of crap). Who wants to read about some deep, life changing experience from the mind of a 22 year-old college student? Not me, not you and certainly not my mom (we'll save it for one on one time, mother).
Aside from my unexplainable mind-blank that arose every time I faced this very same computer screen, there were other failures--namely a minuscule level of readership (my mom).
I need no introduction, for those of you that will actually read this already know who I am, what I do and why I am writing. Scratch that, I probably would write a brief introduction because it seems like the right thing to do when starting a blog, but introductions on blogs suck and I am eager to write about what spurred me to give this thing one more shot.
With that being said...
Why the title "envy"? That seems weird for a first-post, right? No, this will not, and I promise, be some verbal diarrhea about my personal life. I refuse to write about being envious of that guy dating that girl (damn him) or that annoying girl that made more money that me at work yesterday (you just wait till tomorrow, unnamed girl).
Where does this envy stem from if it is not about a girl or money? For starters, I am by myself in a hot, quiet office with the smell of the next door pizzeria wafting through the window (too bad I have that lousy PB&J waiting for me in the fridge).
I am the intern at a sports marketing firm and everyone in the company has either left to walk around Portland and/or go home for the day. Me? I am sitting at my desk screening video footage of off-road desert truck racing (cool, but also not that cool at the same time). Although it is about to drive me out the door of the office, envy of my co-workers is not the envy that I speak of in the title of this blog.
In between segments of video screening, I allow myself a short, but sometimes long break to surf the web. Not much surfing actually takes place because I check the same five websites every time. Today that will change. I have added a couple of websites to my list and this will explain my jealousy: Lance Armstrong's Twitter page and my best friend Sylvan Ellefson's Twitter page (I hate Twitter). Connect the dots.
I am a cyclist. I follow the sport just like I follow my beloved Boston Red Sox, Boston Celtics and New England Patriots (that's right, Mac. Six championships combined in the new millennium). In cycling I follow individual riders as opposed to teams. My favorites include the Luxumberg brothers Frank and Andy Schleck, the big Belgian sprinter Tom Boonen and of course Armstrong.
To say I have a man-crush would be fairly accurate. He is inspirational, has a Cinderella story following his battle with cancer and he is pretty much a bad-ass. He is the Godfather.
Still don't see the envy?
Simply put, I am sitting in my office while my best friend and former roommate at Bates College is riding his bike with Lance Armstrong. I do not consider myself a jealous person and in usual circumstances, I will keep my jealousy to myself. Not this time. No way.
Am I jealous in a bad/mad way? Hell no. If he were to have called me and stated, "man, I was invited to go biking with Lance Armstrong tomorrow. That really sucks," I would have scoffed and called him an idiot. But Sylvan did not do that. He could not believe it was actually happening.
You might laugh, but for all you rah-rah football players out there--picture you or your best friend playing a game of catch with Tom Brady (girls might like that opportunity as well). Or for you basketball fans, imagine you playing a friendly game of h-o-r-s-e with Michael Jordan. And for the baseball fans out there, think of you, A-Rod, and Ortiz huddled up in your bathroom shoving needles into each others' asses.
Sylvan was thrilled, scared and a little speechless. I was too, and I'm 2,000 miles away and not even going for a bike ride today.
For now, I can only wait for my phone to ring with a report of today's happenings. While it will surely be a leisurely ride for Lance, will my good friend hang on for the ride's entirety? I do not have the answer to that but what I do know is that you should never bet against Sylvan Ellefson. The kid knows how to hurt.
He might not ride much, he might not even own a bike and that miserable race weekend in New Haven, CT last April may have turned him off of bike racing for the rest of his life, but he knows how incredible his opportunity is today and he will do all that he can to stick with the old man as long as his legs will allow.
I will eventually eat my PB&J and give the pizzeria the figurative middle finger. The rest of the employees will return from their breaks and I will finally have someone to correspond with (this day really has been boring). Most importantly, I will keep screening video while eagerly checking www.twitter.com/lancearmstrong and www.twitter.com/sylvanellefson in hopes that The Godfather or (from here on out) The Kid put up a picture of their leisurely Thursday ride.
Sylvan, you are one lucky dog.
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