Category Archives: Sports

The Raffle

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Every parent should know that a one dollar raffle ticket is all it takes to destroy a boy’s dream.  They should teach this at the Juilliard or Dr. Suess School of Proper Parenting.

With the National Football season in full swing, and living in Seattle with the “12th Man”, it’s an exciting time for everyone in this city and throughout the State of Washington.

I’ll enter our neighborhood supermarket on Sunday mornings before the Seattle Seahawks game and be the only person present without a jersey.  I’m not a member of the “12th Man” brother and sisterhood, consisting of rabidly loyal Seahawks’ fans, but I do watch and root for the team each week.  For those loyal twelves, when they win, there is celebration.  After a loss, I witness adults crying.

Returning to a stable home in Seattle, when the Seahawks win, I smile, and look forward to the next game.  When they lose, I simply say, “Oh, what the hell”,  happily listen to my wife spew some profanity laced professional athletic hatred for about five minutes, and then we look forward to next week’s game.  You see, back in the late seventies, when I was six years old, I was thee “12th Man”.  It was at that same age when my extreme, or extremely ridiculous, loyalty came to a tearful halt.

I was the emotionally unstable fan at that age who would, after a Seahawk’s loss, find a room, hide in it, and let those pathetic tears fly like the weak birds I witnessed being crushed by the opposing team.  Try living with that when you have two older brothers, or rather, hyenas, licking their already cynical chops, waiting to verbally pounce upon me after exiting the room.  My red eyes couldn’t hide the fact that I was, most certainly, the “baby” of the family.  Every once in a while, remaining close to those brothers, I am reminded of those days, and we all laugh.  However, crying was not the reason I eventually gave up on the Seahawks.  It was the raffle.

At age six, I spent a great deal of time with only my mother at home.  Being the youngest child, all my siblings had more pressing obligations at school than a boy in kindergarten. When inside, the doorbell would ring each day several times.  It was usually the Milkman, Avon Lady, Girl Scouts, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  The Milkman was the only one I appreciated because I could persuade mom into purchasing a half gallon of ice cream to go with the fifteen gallons of milk required to fill up a family of thirteen.

One day, someone mysterious showed up to our doorstep with a raffle ticket in his hand.  Being the only man, or, boy, in the house, I kept a close eye and open ear when mother would open the door.  Listening to their brief conversation, he seemed to be a nice fellow only asking for one dollar in exchange for two free tickets to a Seattle Seahawk game as well as an all expense paid stay at Seattle’s luxurious Westin Hotel, brunch included.  I didn’t have to look in mom’s purse before I knew she had a dollar in it.  Before the salesman could file his taxes, I talked my mother into buying one of these tickets.  For an ignorant youth, that raffle ticket meant only one thing:  Free tickets to a Seattle Seahawks game and staying at the Westin Hotel with all the players.  Proudly, at the age of six, I knew what a ticket was, but sadly, I didn’t know what a “raffle ticket” was.

Other than figuring out travel plans, when my mother handed over that dollar to our neighborly shyster, I felt assured a ticket to a National Football game in the famously loud and notorious ugly Kingdome.   After the first week, I began bugging my mother about how long it would take before I had the tickets in my giddy paws.  With a kind smile and positive, yet truthful, words, she properly explained what the raffle was, softly describing how there was a pretty solid chance someone else, equally deserving, might end up winning the raffle.  Not giving up hope, she also encouraged me to write a letter to the Seahawk’s organization explaining, with great respect, why I was their biggest fan.  That was easy.  In my mind, I was.  After a few calls, my mother provided me the official address to the public relations department of the Seahawks.  I knocked this letter out in great detail, describing their best players, future Hall of Famer and wide receiver, Steve Largent, quarterback, and future Hall of Mediocrity, Jim Zorn, their charismatic kicker, Efron Herraha, and other players the public relations department probably didn’t recognize on the roster.

A month passed and the Seahawks never responded.  Later, I remember looking at the ticket and noticing the date of the game had passed.  It was official.  It wasn’t a winning ticket.  I understood, and when I showed it to my mother, she knew I was hurt, but I wasn’t crying.  She made me feel as though there were better or worse things to cry about.  Then, she gave me some butterscotch pudding.   It was the last time I cried over a losing team.

 

Much Ado about Football (or nothing)

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I’m back in the fantasy football saddle again, and I am about to get bucked off only two weeks into the season, and it’s all my father’s fault.

The Fantasy Football League with which I’m currently participating does not require an entry fee.  It’s just meant to be fun, friendly competition amongst some friends and family members on my wife’s side.  Since both my wife and I have teams, we can share Sundays together watching modern day gladiators on television while I barbecue or cook a hearty Fall stew.  No gambling, great entertainment, digestible food, and a loving family.  Sounds like a stress free environment, right? Wrong.  Although it’s a great league filled with terrific participants,  there is only one thing keeping it from being perfect.  Me.  If this is where I strive for competitive excellence, I should seek therapy.  When my fantasy team falters in some way, I find myself speaking to the television set with a volume causing our dogs to look at me and say, “You ok, Papa?”   Who do I blame?  My father.

Years ago, my father’s art of raising his voice at a television set, fruitlessly trying to manipulate football players’ brain patterns, created tension throughout a very large household.   This trait being passed down to me is my only semi-legitmate excuse for acting like an immature ass in front of my wife and our confused animals while watching football.  I only wish they understood.  When I was growing up in a very large Irish/Catholic family (another excuse for just about anything stupid we’d do) we would watch the Notre Dame Fighting Irish football game every Saturday.  Let me clarify.  Dad would watch Notre Dame, and we would watch Dad.  Watching him seemed to be more entertaining.   Although our father didn’t really know, or claim to know, a great deal about gridiron strategy, he did know when a coach or player, especially the quarterback, would make a mental mistake.  When they did, the cigarette he was smoking would fly out of his mouth just before the verbal tirade.  They didn’t even wish to be on the ash end of his comments questioning the players’ and coaches’ levels of intelligence.  Remarkably, he could get his point across without too much profanity, so it didn’t make anyone in the room too nervous.  In fact, my brothers and I would try to keep from chuckling during his outbursts.

Without knowing the X’s and O’s of football, my father was all about clock management.   “Why are you running out of bounds when you need to keep the clock running?  That running back needs to have his ass kicked up between his shoulder blades.”  Or, “Ahhhhhh………why pass the ball when you need to keep the clock running?  This quarterback doesn’t need his head examined, he needs a lobotomy.”  Or,  “If they show the coach’s wife in the stands one more time looking nervous, I’ll fly to South Bend and give her a reason to look nervous.”  That last one was probably made up, because my father wasn’t a violent man.  And, although he liked going to Vegas or Reno once every few years, he wasn’t much of a gambler, so I know he didn’t have cash on the game.  This is why I questioned why he took it so seriously, and I have to question myself at the same time, because it’s simply ridiculous.

My brothers, Tom, Greg and I would root for Notre Dame, but mostly just because it would keep dad in a good mood.  Other than that, we didn’t really care.  We were preoccupied with the sweet sizzling smell of mom’s Saturday night burgers and getting a kick out of counting how many cigarettes dad would polish off during a stressful ND loss.  We must have second hand smoked two packs a Saturday back then.  Ahh…. when smoking was funny.  Those were the days.  Thank goodness he wasn’t a big drinker.

On the contrary, one of the wonderful traits my father passed down to me is the art of forgetting very quickly the meaningless loss with which you weren’t even a participant.  Even after a Notre Dame loss, when Dad’s cigarette was replaced with one of our mom’s burgers, all was well.  And, similarly, after the bowl of piping hot stew and warm french bread is placed in front of me after a stressful day of watching this terrific sport, I develop fantasy football amnesia.

Luckily for me, when my wife catches me uttering something sounding like I belong in a straight jacket during these fantasy football Sundays, a few minutes later, I’ll catch her doing the same, and we can both laugh.  She’ll never admit it, but I think she takes it more seriously than I do.

 

Gone Vishin?

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My mother has always maintained solid vision.  While her hearing may be taking a stroll between Selective Street and Helen Keller Avenue, her vision remains keen.  When I visit her, and we watch her beloved Seattle Mariners, she always knows when her favorite baseball player, Franklin Gutierrez or “Cutierez” is at the plate.  It’s not when the announcers call his name, but rather, when she sees his striking good looks from her recliner, well over ten feet away from the television set. (She seems to be able to spot a good looking man from 6 blocks away.) So, when Gutierrez struts to home plate, she makes the announcement.  “Guty’s up!”

Recently, my mother had to watch the Mariners from a hospital bed because of a recent scare.   She was admitted for a couple of days, undergoing many uncomfortable tests but has since been discharged with an expensive bill of health.

Although hospitals are seldom a place where laughter is in abundance, our mother made us all laugh during her first day of being admitted.  A nurse began asking mother several questions or to perform certain tasks, mostly checking on her senses and level of consciensness.  What day is it?  What month, year, squeeze my hand, push on this, pull on that, toss that tissue in the nearest basket, who was the Heavyweight Champion of the World in 1973…..etc, etc, etc.  My sisters, Anne, Patricia, Maggie, as well as my wife and I watched with pain in our eyes because we knew how uncomfortable this beautiful, 87 year old mother of 13 was during the interrogation.   That’s when mom converted our eyes filled with uncertainty to ones filled with the laughter we inherited from her.  One of the last questions from the nurse was, “How is your vision?”  With an incredulous look on her face, mom gasped, “What!”.  “HOW IS YOUR VISION?”  Almost sounding agitated by the endless questioning, my mother answered, “Oh, I don’t care about fishin!”

We all busted up heartily, providing us a moment of relief, and when we told her why we were laughing, she busted up as well.  Sadly, the nurse didn’t think it was so funny, especially when I requested the next question for our mother should be about her hunting skills.

We knew she’d be home soon at Anne’s, comfortably watching “Guty” from her recliner with the sound turned up as loud as possible for no reason whatsoever.

Marching Out of Madness (Without Grace)

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WE’RE NOT ALL WINNERS!!!

Years ago, I loved to gamble, and I did quite a bit of it.  And, I can honestly say I was pretty crummy at it.  It never became an addiction, just a hobby.  You know, one of those hobbies where you take c-notes (one hundred dollar bills) wad them up into little balls and toss them into a dumpster, hoping one lucky bum will find them.  Since I wasn’t married, had no children, and it was my money, I figured it was okie dokie.

I don’t know why, but I lost interest after a while.  It’s been years since I’ve even had the urge to place a wager on a pony (unless it’s the Kentucky Derby) or a professional team.  However, if you call filling out a college basketball bracket and handing someone twenty dollars “gambling”, well, then I’m still a pretty lousy gambler.

This year, as millions of others did, my wife and I participated in a pool of drowning bettors wishing to win a small sum of money and a dash of pride during college basketball’s March Madness.  The name is appropriate.  Although this month of sporting excitement can be loads of fun, it can also be wildly maddening.

People all over the country brag about their tournament picks before tipoff, and shortly after tipoff, those same people are ripping the piece of paper displaying their senseless decisions into millions of embarrassing shreds and then burning them out of recycling spite.  This is the dark path gambling can take you.  (It’s a felony in the states of Oregon and Washington, amongst others, to burn paper.) No, I’m not referring to myself.  I’m far more environmentally conscience than that.  Not wanting to waste a piece of paper, I keep all my picks on my computer.

Wishing to explain the process in not too much detail, I will merely say that in our group of imbeciles, one must attempt to choose all of the winners in a sixty four team college basketball bracket, including the champion before the madness begins.  Points are gathered along the road, and you want to have the most wins, especially the champion.  This is not an easy task, but most semi-intelligent gamblers can have fun throughout most of the three week tournament, hoping to be victorious.

Whatever the grade below semi-intelligent gamblers is, I’m a member even below that one.  Even though my wife and I picked the teams collectively, she wanted me to pick the champion.  As the man who wears the cargo shorts in the family, I should have demanded she choose the winner.  But, I deferred to her suggestion and chose with every ounce of knowledge I didn’t possess.  As a result, I did not choose wisely.  The team I chose to win the national championship was out the first day of the tournament, thus leaving us a 2 and 1/3 million to one chance of winning the pot of greens at the end of the tournament.  Since my wife and I were in this together, we were watching our team go down like a barn in a cyclone.  Ironically, our team was the Iowa State Cyclones.

During the game, even though it was close, I could sense the Cyclones were destined for failure, and as much as I tried to summon the gambling Gods and ask for advice on how I could possibly place the blame on my wife for this devastating loss, the prayers were answered by the Gods telling me to shut my pig headed mouth, and keep the remote in her hands.  Because gamblers are remote controls’ worst nightmares for fear of being smashed or tossed into a far away land, I followed part of their advice.  I handed the remote control to her, but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.  Before officially marching out of madness, I released an “F-Bomb”. It was a bomb men, women, children and animals could hear all across our zip code.  Usually, I reserve these for the golf course, or any place where my wife can’t hear them.  Following the obscenity, I then marched right outside the house, because I knew that’s where the woman wearing the cargo pants in our house would send me.  Just because you’re old enough to gamble, it doesn’t mean you aren’t a child.

March Madness is officially over for us, and so are the “F bombs” from me.  But, baseball is right around the corner, and believe me, if you hear an “F bomb” floating around the Pacific Northwest, just check the Seattle Mariner box score for a loss, and know these ones are not resonating from me, but from my lovely counterpart.  During baseball season, these are tossed around our house like salad, and it gives me a little ammunition for the next time I gamble on anything.

Appreciating Gifts: It’s a Gift

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Recently, I’ve been informed by social media that children are now registering for birthday gifts much like future married couples and later divorcees have done for decades.  Some people may think this is a reasonable and efficient idea, but other than vomiting, I don’t have much to say about this issue.  Personally, I don’t have a problem with gift giving and receiving, but I do have a bit of a problem with certain celebrations of birthdays at young ages.  When countless friends and relatives are invited, the birthday Prince or Princess doesn’t always seem too appreciative of the gifts showered upon his or her royal crowns, thus creating a sense of entitled greed.

Perhaps, I’m just too old fashioned.  When I was child, I remember annually receiving gifts from my parents at very modest parties. Once in a while, a neighbor might show up for a piece of cake, but I knew my parents frowned on inviting many friends over, because they didn’t want them to feel obligated to bring anything for me.   Or, perhaps I just didn’t have many friends.

I once received a gift from a friend at school on my birthday, and the outcome was bitter sweet.   I still feel awful about my lack of appreciation for the gesture of kindness to this very day.   It was my saddest and most memorable of gifts.

In the eighth grade, I befriended a girl, and we eventually, according to others, became the school’s most conceited couple.  She found out that my birthday was coming soon and wished to purchase me a gift.  I begged her not to buy me anything.  Since I didn’t receive an allowance, I knew when her birthday came knocking on my wallet, other than a student body identification card, the only items filling it might be a couple of baseball cards.  So, unless she liked baseball cards, she would have to settle for a dandelion I could pick in our backyard.

Continuing to pester me, shrewdly, I announced to her what I wanted for my birthday: A new car.  Most thirteen year olds can’t afford this, so I thought it ended the discussion.  Indeed, it did.  And, of course, on my birthday, she still presented to me a gift at the lunch table we had been sitting at together for the previous five months.  In front of all our other friends, I opened it, and it was a car.  It was a remote controlled car.  Actually, I had never had one, and all my guy friends were impressed and a little envious.  So, we all took it out to the pavement outside the lunchroom and I let them all play around with it.  I then told her how much I liked it and gave her a hug.  For me, this was a display of sincere gratitude.  Usually, she couldn’t even get me to hold her hand.

A few months later, she presented me with another surprise at lunch. She broke up with me.  When you’re that young, breakups shouldn’t mean that much to you, but this one did.  For years, all I really cared about was sports.  Now, I found myself really liking this girl, so you could say I was a bit heartbroken.  What was wrong with me? Additionally, since she couldn’t provide a proper reason for the breakup, you could say I was a bit PISSED.  Nevertheless, I took it in stride, said goodbye, and did what any mature thirteen year old would do in this situation.  After baseball practice, I went home, walked into my room and looked at the car and my baseball bat.   Grabbing them both, I strolled out the backdoor, and I remember mother asking me, “Where are you going with that bat and car?”  Calmly, I told her I was heading out to the field beyond our backyard.  She just looked at me strangely.  When I made it to the field, I beat the holy hell out of that car into a thousand little plastic and rubber pieces.  Moments after I did it, I think I felt shame, but at the same time, closure.  Years after I did it, I’d matured slightly and sometimes thought about her and the car and what a horribly rotten thing I’d done.  The car was long gone, and it could never be replaced, along with my lack of appreciation for it.

Although she and I went to the same high school, we never spoke once to one another.  However, twenty five years later after that incident, somehow, the girl and I met again.   Being very contrite about what I’d done all those years ago, with a chuckle, she provided proper forgiveness.  Six months later, we were married.  We share that story with many of the same friends we had long ago, because they remember the car but never properly knew the reason for its demise.  It always makes them laugh or get angry wondering why I just didn’t give it to one of them.

Now, I tell her each day how much I appreciate her, and she says thank you and reciprocates the notion.  Now that’s a gift I can appreciate and won’t beat the hell out of with a bat.

Surly in Seattle

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The 2015 Super Bowl Sunday with my childhood favorite Seattle Seahawks playing for the championship of the American version of football world dominance ended emotionally: I’ve been waiting my whole life for this;  how can it get any better?  Wait a second…someone just informed me they won this title last year.  I guess I’ve only been waiting my whole year for this.  How can it get any worse?

For the last two weeks, everyone has maintained smiles in Seattle because of their NFC Championship win.  That’s the only reason I was hoping the Seahawks would win the Super Bowl.  A happy Seattle makes a happy Ben.  If they lost, which they did in the most inconvenient of fashion, I knew I would return to the angry traffic, (whether it be on the road or in a grocery store) the cloudy, rainy, and dismal atmosphere surrounding this beautiful city……depending on the weather, traffic, time and professional athletic success.

A little perspective:  I was fortunate enough to spend Super Bowl Sunday morning with my wife, two of my six sisters, and a wheelchair in an Emergency Room occupied by my mother.  Inconveniently, after separating her shoulder after a pre Super Bowl Touchdown Dance, our one hundred year old mother didn’t realize her fall would make her recognize all of her children cared more about her than the Super Bowl.

When we showed up at the E.R., and after mom knocked back a couple of pain pills, she looked at me with a bit of confusion.  Her eyes locked on mine and she said, “You look just like one of my sons.”  Entertaining her, I asked her which son I looked like.  (she has seven of them and I am the runt of the litter)  “Ben.”  Bingo.  I pulled a dollar out of my wallet and told her she won the pot.  It was a seven to one long shot, but she indeed earned that buck.  Three hours later, my mother was released from the hospital.  She was not going to miss the forty ninth Super Bowl.  Perhaps, she was so driven to watch this game because she missed the first forty eight Super Bowls while making pounds of clam dip for her husband and thirteen children.

Returning to our home in West Seattle, my wife and I watched the Super Bowl in disbelief.  Rather than crying because of the Seahawk loss, I instead laughed and decided we needed a vacation, because everyone in Seattle began honking their horns out of anger instead of the twelve man happiness.  Where are we heading?  We are going to the happiest place on Earth……..New York……a self proclaimed “country” which doesn’t believe the state of Washington exists any other time than football season.   It’s just too surly here in Seattle.

Fantasy Foolsball Lessons (R.I.P.)

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If you really want my money, sell me a car or invite me to be in your Fantasy Football League.  In full testosterone gear, the 2014 Fantasy Football Season is in its ninth week, forcing me to recall some of the several thousand silly mistakes I’ve made in my life.

I currently own a car and a fantasy football team.  Each of them cost me money and respect.  They also require maintenance.  The car needs oil, much like I need the money to buy a computer, enter a fantasy league and place my gridiron gladiators in grave positions in which the team will ultimately fail.  The process of selecting a quality fantasy football team or a reliable car, according to your personality, are additionally similar.  My personality maintains an uncommon balance of impatience and abject stupidity.  For example, it took exactly thirty minutes for Carlson the Car Salesman to convince me to roll a particular car off of the lot.  The last fantasy football team I acquired took me a mere thirty minutes to assemble.  With this evidence, one may surmise that I have a tendency to dismiss the detailed research many others find necessary in the decision making process.

Shortly after beginning my first career, I purchased an automobile the very same year I was introduced to fantasy football.  Their demise ended in similar fashion.  Within my budget, the car seemed to be a reasonable deal.  It was advertised as having four wheel drive, power windows, locks, and according to the speedometer, only one hundred and twenty miles on it.  Come to find out, that speedometer was way off.  It only WENT to one hundred and twenty.  The four wheel drive was only two wheel drive, the defrost worked primarily in the summertime, and the air conditioner limited its availability to the winter. To drive a short story an even shorter distance, the truck ended up in the valley of misfit automobiles.

FFImage-NewspaperAs a first time owner of a fantasy football team in 1996,  I thought I could choose a team wisely and with terrific courage.  To help the process of developing a formidable team, I used a Fantasy Football cheat sheet I found in a nationally recognized sports periodical. That’s also where I thought I found my wisdom.  On draft night, while swilling beer and after choosing my number one pick, a running back, I learned a quick fantasy league lesson.  This lesson was much quicker than any running back in this draft…..especially mine. Once you choose your player, under no circumstance are you allowed to reconsider your pick.  No matter what the scenario, you are stuck.  After making my decision, one of the more competitive assholes participating in the draft let me in on an important detail regarding my player’s success.  He was dead.  Evidently, one month prior to this draft, he had been shot and killed in a nightclub.  The periodical I was using had been available in print one week before the player’s last rights were given.  Some of the competitors thought this was hilarious….. not the man’s death, of course, but over the notion I would make such a colossally horrific choice.  Personally, much like holding on to a live hand grenade, I found it quite courageous.

Here’s a tip:  Don’t take any of my advice……about anything…….ever.

Stocks and Barry Bonds

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One hundred and sixty two games and then some.  That’s baseball.  It’s a long term investment for those who love it.  And, keenly similar to the stock market, you may be devastated, demoralized, not to mention emotionally or financially crushed, by its outcome.  On the other side of the field, you may be uplifted, elated and proud you persevered such a long season of painful losses and meaningful gains, just to ultimately see your team or stock on top.

It’s easy to make comparisons and contrasts between following baseball and playing the stock market.  One day, you may wake up to find out your stock has plummeted 100 points.  Do you give up on that stock and sell the rest before you can’t afford to buy a new pair of tickets to the ballgame for you and your son or daughter, or do you maintain faith and hope it will rise again?  How do you react when you find out, at the water cooler on a Monday break from corporate chaos, that your team was beaten ten to nothing with their  best pitcher on the mound?  Do you go home at quitting time and burn all the hats, t-shirts, sun glasses, turtle necks, wrist bands, plastic helmets, crowns, coffee mugs, boxers, balls, bats and bow ties with your team’s logo on them?  You may even go hardcore insanity fan on your team’s ass and fabricate voodoo dolls out of your once sacred bobble head doll collection.  Or, do you say to yourself and other LOYAL followers, “Relax.  It’s a long season.  Tomorrow, our team may win by ten runs with our worst pitcher.  If you give up now, you foul mouthed, fair weather freak, we’ll deem you as traitor to your city.  We’ll have you tarred, feathered, and run out on a rail to some city like Seattle where baseball fans don’t really care about winning.  They’d prefer eating sushi and clogging their pretentious pores with garlic fries.  How does that sound?  NOT TOO GOOD.”

For the long term, baseball can be boring just like the market.  There’s 162 meaningful games in a season, each lasting three hours a sitting.  Don’t watch them all.  Take two minutes to read the box score in the daily news right after you take the same amount of time to see pork bellies reach their monthly high.  Do you think Dandy Donald Trump hangs out with his homies, Dirty Dow Jones and Nasty Nasdaq all day? No.  He’s too busy working on his weave, so he just has a beverage with them after the closing bell.

Martha Stewart and Barry Bonds or Mark McGwire :  You don’t see any resemblances?  They play their games dirtier than a Halloween Harlot competing in a bobbing for bananas contest.  Stewart’s insider trading scandal landed her, and her reputation, in prison for a delightful amount of canceled television time.  (Rather than prison time, it was more like merely being sent to the adult version of “Television Timeout”.)  Bond’s and McGuire’s lust for long balls, and even longer needles, placed the two of them, and their reputations, in baseball’s rendition of perdition.  The steroids injected into their behinds also left them with some parting gifts such as back acne and testicular shrinkage.  Martha Stewart’s purse just got a little smaller.  Thus, those who play the market or follow a baseball team must take caution when rooting for either to succeed.

Whether you play the stock market or religiously follow the game of baseball, in both, there will be ups and downs, hots and colds, rushes and depressions, prison times and puckered constitutions.  But, if you gamble on one and merely try to enjoy the other, prepare yourself for an emotional conclusion.

My team didn’t make it to the playoffs this year.  In fact, since the time I started investing in this team, (about forty years) they haven’t won, nor made it to The World Series.   This is not as depressing as it may appear on paper, your television set, laptop, I-Phone, I-Pad, or I-Didn’tWin App.  At the end of the baseball season, however, even when your team takes a vacation until next Spring, you can enjoy the playoffs without your nerves being rattled.  You can watch from an outsider’s perspective and witness the home town fans cheering their team to a victory, and for three hours, enjoy the possibility that their team might win.  It provides hope for your next season.  You want to be next to them in the bleachers.

The Stock Market breeds imminent danger and the possibility of severe consequences.   Much like Vegas, the odds are against you.  Baseball breeds hope.  Remember, there’s always another season in baseball.

 

 

 

 

Jeter’s Choice

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With Derek Jeter’s spiritual passing from the New York Yankees, he will be resurrected in Boston’s Fenway Park on Saturday to play the Red Sox but refuses to play his once chosen position of shortstop out respect for his twenty year spot at sacred Yankee Stadium.  Instead, he has chosen to be their pitcher.  With his moxy and flavor for the dramatic, he will probably throw a no hitter.

I’ve never liked the Yankees, but in the world of baseball, and the way it’s meant to be played, you couldn’t help but like and respect him.  He did it the right way.