[Ed. Note: This was written Dec. 12, 2010.]
Dec. 11, 2010 I saw the girl of my dreams, or so I thought. It also was the night I became less of a man.
It was Saturday night and I sat in a dimly-lit Tailgators bar, having a
beer and hanging out with my brother and a group of guys. It was nice to
unwind and relax and forget about work and all the stress.
I just ordered another Dos Equis when a blonde beauty walked to the bar
and ordered a beer. Intrigued, I glanced again, then again; she was
gorgeous.
On the third glance I had a sudden realization, it was Taylor Swift – or
at least a girl that looked EXACTLY like her. I was star struck,
smitten. I was frozen and couldn't stop staring – a total stage 5
creeper.
I looked at my brother only to notice that his eyes were fixed on her, too.
"Holy shit, dude, is that Taylor Swift?"
Suddenly my mind flooded with thoughts of I have to go talk to her.
What would I say to Taylor Swift? Am I sure that's her? There's no way
she'd be here in a bar in The Woodlands. What if that is her and I don't
talk to her, I'd hate myself forever. Even if it's not her, this girl
is a Taylor Swift look-a-like, go talk to her, Matt. How exactly do I
approach a Taylor Swift look-a-like? Do I just go up and say, "Hey, has
anyone ever told you that you look EXACTLY like Taylor Swift?" No, can't
do that, it needs to be something more original. What exactly is
original? What if I went up and started singing a Taylor Swift song?
Which song would I choose? I wonder if she's noticed I've been staring
in her direction intently the past 10 minutes. Stop staring. Drink your
beer. You're probably just drunk and imagining things. How could I be
imagining things if Ethan saw her, too? Why am I still here as she's
standing alone near the bar. Wait, there's her friend. OK, perfect, go,
leave your seat, now. Why are your legs not moving? Now, go! 1, 2, 3 GO!
OK, one more beer and then mission is a go.
It didn't help that word spread at the table that I'm a huge Taylor
Swift fan. All of a sudden all the guys were egging me on to go talk to
her.
"This is your chance, go for it! C'mon, don't be a pussy."
But I was too sober still, and my I was mentally psyching myself out.
Another beer and sure thing! One beer turned to two, two beers turned
into a shot, a shot turned into another beer. Oh no, where did
Taylor/Taylor's twin go?
Intently scan the bar to find her.
There she is by the Golden Tee with a group of friends. Who's that guy talking to her? Back off, bitch, not tonight.
Insert another 5 minutes of staring intently. Still a stage 5 creeper.
One more beer, a few more times being called a pussy and I'm out of my
chair and approaching this Taylor look-a-like. Heart racing, mind
filling with unwanted, confidence-breaking thoughts...starting to feel
light-headed.
Abort mission. Start playing Golden Tee next to her, just to regroup.
Ethan approaches the Golden Tee and hits a few shots. Make a sarcastic
(and inappropriate joke) loud enough where hopefully she'll hear you.
Fail.
OK, I can't do this. What am I thinking. I'm just some guy in the bar
who's broken the three-second approach rule by at least 1,803 seconds.
Not exactly a confidence booster. Where did my confidence go? Hello,
confidence? I could use just a quick shot of you right now since the
many Dos Equis and Jagerbomb are not helping whatsoever.
A guy in a blue shirt and shaved head approaches her group and for some reason feels the need to start a conversation with me.
First off, who the hell are you, dude? I'm really not that interested in
what you have to say. Second off, can you get your friend's attention
so I can attempt to talk to her?
Note: At this point had she actually turned around or looked at me, I'm
fairly certain that my confidence was at such a low that I would have
mumbled something had my mouth been able to make any sort of noise at
all.
Two things happened next. One, Taylor Swift's twin pulled out a
cigarette. Kinda gross, but OK, we can get past that. Two, she kisses
douche in blue.
Game over. Dreams crushed. My confidence is now in the negatives. It was
a long 12-step walk back to the table where Ethan and the group of guys
gave me looks of shame and heckled me for the rest of the night.
A day later looking back on that night I realize I am now less of a man.
I feel like God put that as a test for me to see how I would respond if
I ever were to ever to see the real Taylor Swift in person. I failed
with flying colors; straight atomic bomb on everything I thought I knew
about myself. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to recover.
But if the real Taylor Swift and I ever do meet, at least I know what to say.
"mdsmflkasj."
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Video: Oh, Tonight at the Whitewater Amphitheater
Monday, July 16, 2012
A PIECE OF HEAVEN
I found a piece of Heaven Saturday night. It came in the form of a Josh Abbott concert at an amphitheater full of thousands of fans, a torrential downpour and the song "Oh, Tonight."
It was magical. A lightening storm slowly crept closer from the distance. Before too long, the rain followed. Through the stage lights you could see the rain barrel down on all the concertgoers. And when it looked as if the rain might end the show early, Josh said over the mic, "How about three more songs?" The buzz through the crowd was wild. And then came one of his best and most popular songs through the speakers, "Oh, Tonight."
Girls and their boyfriends danced, the single folk sang at the top of their lungs. Hands were in the air, beers chugged, pictures and video still being taken and recorded: a big fuck you to the rain; that it's not ruining the night.
The rain ultimately had the final say, as the band ended up playing just two songs, "Oh, Tonight" and "Touch." But even then it wasn't enough. As the stagehands raced to covered the drums and save any equipment on the stage, the Josh Abbott faithful cheered for an encore.
When it was clear none was in store, the faithful took its chants and cheers out of the amphitheater.
"JOSH FUCKING ABBOTT! JOSH FUCKING ABBOTT!" said a group as it exited.
The water was gushing through the streets, not a single shirt, sundress, head of hair, pair of jeans or shoes was dry, but it didn't matter.
"JOSH FUCKING ABBOTT!"
After the concert, Josh took to Twitter. "Most epic show we've ever had! Thank you everyone who came to Whitewater tonight!!! I'll never forget this one," he tweeted.
On his Facebook page, Josh reiterated what he tweeted. "Last night at Whitewater was the best show we've ever had and we've been blessed with a lot of great ones! I will never forget singing "Oh, Tonight" & "Touch" in the pouring rain w/ all of you! Awesome," he posted.
More than 130 people commented, including Katie Rein, who said, "Best concert of my life! I dont think it could ever be topped, the rain made it even better if you ask me!"
"That was one of those moments that you just had to be there. I feel sorry for those who weren't. Epic!" Jeremy Stewart said.
In this case, epic doesn't sufficiently cover what happened that night.
I've got to give it to the band there. It could have just packed it up and called it a night at the smallest inclining there was going to be rain –– and the lightening storm before the show only confirmed what was to come. Why not cancel to a later date? Sure there would be pissed off fans, but then again it's Josh Fucking Abbott!
Instead, Josh Abbott put on one of the most memorable experiences that thousands of us will never forget.
And that's what makes Josh Abbott and his crew such a killer band, and the top in Texas country at that. It's giving the fans what they want, making those memorable experiences so that they keep coming back to experience a piece of Heaven once more.
It was magical. A lightening storm slowly crept closer from the distance. Before too long, the rain followed. Through the stage lights you could see the rain barrel down on all the concertgoers. And when it looked as if the rain might end the show early, Josh said over the mic, "How about three more songs?" The buzz through the crowd was wild. And then came one of his best and most popular songs through the speakers, "Oh, Tonight."
 | ||
| The lightening and rain didn't stop the Josh Abbott Band or its fans from rocking out Saturday night at the Whitewater Amphitheater in New Braunfels. Photo courtesy of Michael Johnson Jr/@MJohnsonJr13 |
Girls and their boyfriends danced, the single folk sang at the top of their lungs. Hands were in the air, beers chugged, pictures and video still being taken and recorded: a big fuck you to the rain; that it's not ruining the night.
The rain ultimately had the final say, as the band ended up playing just two songs, "Oh, Tonight" and "Touch." But even then it wasn't enough. As the stagehands raced to covered the drums and save any equipment on the stage, the Josh Abbott faithful cheered for an encore.
When it was clear none was in store, the faithful took its chants and cheers out of the amphitheater.
"JOSH FUCKING ABBOTT! JOSH FUCKING ABBOTT!" said a group as it exited.
The water was gushing through the streets, not a single shirt, sundress, head of hair, pair of jeans or shoes was dry, but it didn't matter.
"JOSH FUCKING ABBOTT!"
After the concert, Josh took to Twitter. "Most epic show we've ever had! Thank you everyone who came to Whitewater tonight!!! I'll never forget this one," he tweeted.
On his Facebook page, Josh reiterated what he tweeted. "Last night at Whitewater was the best show we've ever had and we've been blessed with a lot of great ones! I will never forget singing "Oh, Tonight" & "Touch" in the pouring rain w/ all of you! Awesome," he posted.
More than 130 people commented, including Katie Rein, who said, "Best concert of my life! I dont think it could ever be topped, the rain made it even better if you ask me!"
"That was one of those moments that you just had to be there. I feel sorry for those who weren't. Epic!" Jeremy Stewart said.
In this case, epic doesn't sufficiently cover what happened that night.
I've got to give it to the band there. It could have just packed it up and called it a night at the smallest inclining there was going to be rain –– and the lightening storm before the show only confirmed what was to come. Why not cancel to a later date? Sure there would be pissed off fans, but then again it's Josh Fucking Abbott!
Instead, Josh Abbott put on one of the most memorable experiences that thousands of us will never forget.
And that's what makes Josh Abbott and his crew such a killer band, and the top in Texas country at that. It's giving the fans what they want, making those memorable experiences so that they keep coming back to experience a piece of Heaven once more.
Monday, April 2, 2012
DEFYING GRAVITY
I've been reading a lot more lately, working and studying on understanding voice in stories, and how voice, when used correctly, can help drive stories and keep the flow going. I just finished "Beyond The Game," a compilation of Gary Smith's best works published through the years. I figured if I'm going to learn more about voice, then why not start with one of the best writers who uses it so effectively.
By Matt Keyser | Sports Editor
Step one. The first step of the day’s first vault is always the most intimidating. There you stand, 110 feet staring down a runway and up at a beast in the form of a fiberglass bar resting 13 feet above the ground, daring you to start your run.
The thing with the first step is it must be taken with authority. It’s an equation of aggression plus confidence minus any hesitation to clear the beast ahead. Step one. Step two. Add another 14 more before you reach the metal box, where, once there, you have to add a dash of trust to ease the panic of sticking your 15-foot pole in the middle of the box and hoping that the pole doesn’t suddenly have a change of heart and join forces with the bar and attack. Divvy up a bit more trust once you’re bending the pole so far back that it looks as if you might catch a piece of the ground, only then to rocket upwards with a force strong enough to propel you over the bar.
Now, the rest is up to you to have the proper technique to maneuver your body over the beast, making sure that the slightest shirt graze doesn’t touch it, because the softest touch can send it off its pegs and crashing to the ground, making all that you had just done futile.
Welcome to the world of pole vaulting.
“The sport where 20,000 things have to go right,” Brenham junior high track and field coach Michael Pittman says.
This story begins with Garrett Larson standing 110 feet down the red brick colored runway. As a junior, he’s Brenham’s leading pole vaulter, and the one hoping to rewrite the Brenham record books by clearing the 15-foot-7 mark set by Chris Duhon at the state track and field meet in 1976.
Larson has a pole vaulter’s build: at 6-foot-3, 170 pounds, he has the ability to bend the pole in ways that look as if it should snap and send fiberglass splinters flying through the air with a shotgun boom. He possesses the speed of a sprinter that carries his 6-foot-3 frame down the runway, the upperbody strength to bend his 15-foot pole at will and a gymnast-like ability to maneuver his body up and over the bar.
He’s what coach Pittman calls “a phenom as far as what he does.”
It was back in eighth grade when Larson first grabbed a pole, a time when he said he was young and dumb enough to attempt his first vault—all vaulters have a bit of crazy in them, high school pole vaulting coach David Yeager says—an age when boys are naive enough to think immortality still applies to them.
But sometimes the limits of immortality must be tested to discover your talents.
The first hundred jumps aren’t easy. Fear weasels itself in the pit of your stomach and sends out waves of doubt that makes your knees buckle, not allowing your body to take that first step. Luckily, pole vaulting is a repetitive sport, where hundreds of jumps might end in failure, but with each jump comes confidence. And with confidence comes success.
We could take a peek into Larson’s success. But in doing so, you have to take a look in the early years, where the success was minimal—through the grind of Larson conquering the fear, understanding the way the beast works—to understand how Larson got to be the vaulter he is today. By ninth grade, the fear was still conquering him, doubt coursing through his body.
“He had to overcome the fear factor,” Pittman said.
Between his freshman and sophomore years, something clicked. What that was exactly, Larson isn’t sure. But the fear was gone, the doubt no longer had control. In his first meet of his sophomore year, he cleared 13 feet, one of the career plateaus set by the Brenham coaches. Vault by vault, Larson was learning to control his emotions––the fear, the uncertainty. Most importantly, he was learning to battle the beast.
With Larson’s success breeds the success of younger vaulters for Brenham. Such is the case with sophomore Erik Yeager, an up-and-coming phenom in his own right. In eighth grade, Erik Yeager set the eighth grade junior high pole vault record at 10-6.
Like Larson, Erik Yeager has the looks of a pole vaulter’s build. At 6-foot, he’s three inches shorter and five pounds lighter than Larson. But don’t let his shorter stature, his blonde hair or southern drawl fool you. With each day that passes, he’s slowly climbing the ranks; slowly learning to battle the beast.
—
Don’t you do it, Garrett Larson. Don’t you dare let that doubt fill your head with uncertainty. Clear your mind. Let loose those evil thoughts that, if allowed to run rampant, will crush your hopes of clearing the bar. Because if you want to tame that fickle beast, the smallest ounce of doubt could destroy the greatest amount of confidence, the slightest hesitation could sway the pole a centimeter to the left in the box, and uncertainty could cause the smallest misstep on the five-second run down the runway.
There. Did you see it? A yawn. A last chance to suck in the sweet oxygen that will help carry him the 110 feet down the runway, into a battle with the beast. Another. A last chance to clear his mind, to black out all surroundings, to illuminate the goal at hand.
There he goes. The pole raised well above his head, one step forward, one step back and he’s off. Step one. Step two. Fourteen more and the pole meets the metal box, a date with the beast mere milliseconds away.
—
You have to understand, the bar radiates uncertainty. It wants you to fail. It wants to conquer another victim to add to its ranks. The more you fear it, the stronger it becomes.
“I’ve seen meets where the wind blows and it will fall off,” Larson said. “Other meets vaulters will hit it and it will bounce about two feet and fall back on its pegs. Those times, you just look at the vaulter and say, ‘You just got extremely lucky.’”
There is one man who spent an entire career working to tame the beast. And in the sport’s history, he’s the only man to come close.
Sergey Bubka brought the sport to the forefront when he shattered the world record’s highest vault. Bubka has a body builder look—a 6-foot-1, 170-pound frame—but during his vaults, he competes with the elegance of a gymnast.
It was 1994 in Sestriere, Italy, and with his high-prancing steps, his burst of speed and strength to crank the pole well beyond 90 degrees, he cleared the beast resting 20-1 ¾ above the ground. Eighteen years later, he remains the only man to clear 20 feet.
—
The battle between Larson and the beast is now in full force. With a crank of the pole Larson prepares for his air assault––asking his body to defy both gravity and physics. With a push off the pole, he’s airborne—one on one with the beast. Now, don’t blink, or you’ll miss it. Larson twists, his stomach exposed over the bar, limbs pulled close, and just like that the battle is over. He’s done it. At 14-6, Larson has won.
Now, here’s the thing you truly have to understand about pole vaulting: As one battle ends, another begins. The beast keeps climbing, daring you to try once more.
– Keyser can be reached at lede.keyser@gmail.com
By Matt Keyser | Sports Editor
Step one. The first step of the day’s first vault is always the most intimidating. There you stand, 110 feet staring down a runway and up at a beast in the form of a fiberglass bar resting 13 feet above the ground, daring you to start your run.
The thing with the first step is it must be taken with authority. It’s an equation of aggression plus confidence minus any hesitation to clear the beast ahead. Step one. Step two. Add another 14 more before you reach the metal box, where, once there, you have to add a dash of trust to ease the panic of sticking your 15-foot pole in the middle of the box and hoping that the pole doesn’t suddenly have a change of heart and join forces with the bar and attack. Divvy up a bit more trust once you’re bending the pole so far back that it looks as if you might catch a piece of the ground, only then to rocket upwards with a force strong enough to propel you over the bar.
Now, the rest is up to you to have the proper technique to maneuver your body over the beast, making sure that the slightest shirt graze doesn’t touch it, because the softest touch can send it off its pegs and crashing to the ground, making all that you had just done futile.
Welcome to the world of pole vaulting.
“The sport where 20,000 things have to go right,” Brenham junior high track and field coach Michael Pittman says.
This story begins with Garrett Larson standing 110 feet down the red brick colored runway. As a junior, he’s Brenham’s leading pole vaulter, and the one hoping to rewrite the Brenham record books by clearing the 15-foot-7 mark set by Chris Duhon at the state track and field meet in 1976.
Larson has a pole vaulter’s build: at 6-foot-3, 170 pounds, he has the ability to bend the pole in ways that look as if it should snap and send fiberglass splinters flying through the air with a shotgun boom. He possesses the speed of a sprinter that carries his 6-foot-3 frame down the runway, the upperbody strength to bend his 15-foot pole at will and a gymnast-like ability to maneuver his body up and over the bar.
He’s what coach Pittman calls “a phenom as far as what he does.”
It was back in eighth grade when Larson first grabbed a pole, a time when he said he was young and dumb enough to attempt his first vault—all vaulters have a bit of crazy in them, high school pole vaulting coach David Yeager says—an age when boys are naive enough to think immortality still applies to them.
But sometimes the limits of immortality must be tested to discover your talents.
The first hundred jumps aren’t easy. Fear weasels itself in the pit of your stomach and sends out waves of doubt that makes your knees buckle, not allowing your body to take that first step. Luckily, pole vaulting is a repetitive sport, where hundreds of jumps might end in failure, but with each jump comes confidence. And with confidence comes success.
We could take a peek into Larson’s success. But in doing so, you have to take a look in the early years, where the success was minimal—through the grind of Larson conquering the fear, understanding the way the beast works—to understand how Larson got to be the vaulter he is today. By ninth grade, the fear was still conquering him, doubt coursing through his body.
“He had to overcome the fear factor,” Pittman said.
Between his freshman and sophomore years, something clicked. What that was exactly, Larson isn’t sure. But the fear was gone, the doubt no longer had control. In his first meet of his sophomore year, he cleared 13 feet, one of the career plateaus set by the Brenham coaches. Vault by vault, Larson was learning to control his emotions––the fear, the uncertainty. Most importantly, he was learning to battle the beast.
With Larson’s success breeds the success of younger vaulters for Brenham. Such is the case with sophomore Erik Yeager, an up-and-coming phenom in his own right. In eighth grade, Erik Yeager set the eighth grade junior high pole vault record at 10-6.
Like Larson, Erik Yeager has the looks of a pole vaulter’s build. At 6-foot, he’s three inches shorter and five pounds lighter than Larson. But don’t let his shorter stature, his blonde hair or southern drawl fool you. With each day that passes, he’s slowly climbing the ranks; slowly learning to battle the beast.
—
Don’t you do it, Garrett Larson. Don’t you dare let that doubt fill your head with uncertainty. Clear your mind. Let loose those evil thoughts that, if allowed to run rampant, will crush your hopes of clearing the bar. Because if you want to tame that fickle beast, the smallest ounce of doubt could destroy the greatest amount of confidence, the slightest hesitation could sway the pole a centimeter to the left in the box, and uncertainty could cause the smallest misstep on the five-second run down the runway.
There. Did you see it? A yawn. A last chance to suck in the sweet oxygen that will help carry him the 110 feet down the runway, into a battle with the beast. Another. A last chance to clear his mind, to black out all surroundings, to illuminate the goal at hand.
There he goes. The pole raised well above his head, one step forward, one step back and he’s off. Step one. Step two. Fourteen more and the pole meets the metal box, a date with the beast mere milliseconds away.
—
You have to understand, the bar radiates uncertainty. It wants you to fail. It wants to conquer another victim to add to its ranks. The more you fear it, the stronger it becomes.
“I’ve seen meets where the wind blows and it will fall off,” Larson said. “Other meets vaulters will hit it and it will bounce about two feet and fall back on its pegs. Those times, you just look at the vaulter and say, ‘You just got extremely lucky.’”
There is one man who spent an entire career working to tame the beast. And in the sport’s history, he’s the only man to come close.
Sergey Bubka brought the sport to the forefront when he shattered the world record’s highest vault. Bubka has a body builder look—a 6-foot-1, 170-pound frame—but during his vaults, he competes with the elegance of a gymnast.
It was 1994 in Sestriere, Italy, and with his high-prancing steps, his burst of speed and strength to crank the pole well beyond 90 degrees, he cleared the beast resting 20-1 ¾ above the ground. Eighteen years later, he remains the only man to clear 20 feet.
—
The battle between Larson and the beast is now in full force. With a crank of the pole Larson prepares for his air assault––asking his body to defy both gravity and physics. With a push off the pole, he’s airborne—one on one with the beast. Now, don’t blink, or you’ll miss it. Larson twists, his stomach exposed over the bar, limbs pulled close, and just like that the battle is over. He’s done it. At 14-6, Larson has won.
Now, here’s the thing you truly have to understand about pole vaulting: As one battle ends, another begins. The beast keeps climbing, daring you to try once more.
– Keyser can be reached at lede.keyser@gmail.com
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
POSTSEASON PICK:
Give me the Texas Rangers in six.
I think the Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals are pretty evenly matched––scattered starting pitching, great bullpens, powerful lineups, damn good managers––but the Rangers have the X factor, the bitter taste of defeat from last year's World Series loss to the San Francisco Giants. This year they'll replace that taste with sweet victory and the World Series trophy in hand.
By the way, I'd just like to point out that I made my pick before Nolan Ryan, the Rangers' CEO and president; Dirk Nowitzki, the Dallas Mavericks' all-star forward; and Buster Olney with ESPN all said the Rangers and six. [No big deal.]
Go Rangers!
I think the Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals are pretty evenly matched––scattered starting pitching, great bullpens, powerful lineups, damn good managers––but the Rangers have the X factor, the bitter taste of defeat from last year's World Series loss to the San Francisco Giants. This year they'll replace that taste with sweet victory and the World Series trophy in hand.
By the way, I'd just like to point out that I made my pick before Nolan Ryan, the Rangers' CEO and president; Dirk Nowitzki, the Dallas Mavericks' all-star forward; and Buster Olney with ESPN all said the Rangers and six. [No big deal.]
Go Rangers!
The Dumbest Rule in Sports (Thank You, Bud Selig)
Thank you, Bud Selig. As you carried on as the commissioner of baseball over the years, fighting steroids and swearing to take all performance-enhancing drugs out of the game, you've managed to add more mockery to the game itself.
I.e. Your ridiculous rule that whatever team wins the all-star game––be it the American League or National––the team from that league gets home-field advantage for the World Series.
Seriously, Selig? That has to be one of the dumbest things I've ever heard.
Regardless, let me try to see your point of view anyway, just for the hell of it.
You want to add meaning to the all-star game, a time when the best athletes in the sport come together for an exhibition and fan enjoyment. Instead of keeping it an exhibition and about fun, you want it to be more meaningful so that––most of all––you'll get more money [although you'll probably claim that it's actually more money for the sport. Please.] More meaning to the all-star game means more T.V. viewers, leading to more ad revenue; more in attendance, meaning more ticket and concession sales. Sure, make your additional money, but don't do it where it hurts the integrity of the game.
Look it at this way, Selig, and I mean really hear me out here. What other sports place an emphasis on their all-star games? Basketball, perhaps? While still played halfway through the regular season––like baseball––means nothing, other than a glorified exhibition game, like baseball, for the fans. Football? Its all-star game is held the week before the Super Bowl, when all but two teams are still playing, and players from those two teams hardly ever play to prevent any risk of injury.
So tell me why, Selig, you feel the need to add more emphasis to baseball's all-star game?
It's ridiculous.
Take this year's World Series, for example. The Texas Rangers finished the regular season with a 96-66 record, first in the American League West by 10 games, and so far have cruised through the postseason to clinch their second consecutive American League pennant and World Series trip. Their opponent, the St. Louis Cardinals, is coming off a 90-72 regular season, and a team that pushed its way into the postseason on the season's final day.
Now let's look at this situation, Selig, and please, explain it to me––to all the fans of baseball, in fact––how in the hell does this make sense? Don't worry, we're all waiting.
How can you punish a team like the Rangers, coming off their best season in franchise history, surpassing the most regular-season wins in team history, running away with the AL West, and finishing as the top-team in the postseason with the most regular-season wins, and they don't earn the right to home-field advantage in the World Series?
Horseshit.
Get your head on right, Selig. Otherwise, get out of baseball.
I.e. Your ridiculous rule that whatever team wins the all-star game––be it the American League or National––the team from that league gets home-field advantage for the World Series.
Seriously, Selig? That has to be one of the dumbest things I've ever heard.
Regardless, let me try to see your point of view anyway, just for the hell of it.
You want to add meaning to the all-star game, a time when the best athletes in the sport come together for an exhibition and fan enjoyment. Instead of keeping it an exhibition and about fun, you want it to be more meaningful so that––most of all––you'll get more money [although you'll probably claim that it's actually more money for the sport. Please.] More meaning to the all-star game means more T.V. viewers, leading to more ad revenue; more in attendance, meaning more ticket and concession sales. Sure, make your additional money, but don't do it where it hurts the integrity of the game.
Look it at this way, Selig, and I mean really hear me out here. What other sports place an emphasis on their all-star games? Basketball, perhaps? While still played halfway through the regular season––like baseball––means nothing, other than a glorified exhibition game, like baseball, for the fans. Football? Its all-star game is held the week before the Super Bowl, when all but two teams are still playing, and players from those two teams hardly ever play to prevent any risk of injury.
So tell me why, Selig, you feel the need to add more emphasis to baseball's all-star game?
It's ridiculous.
Take this year's World Series, for example. The Texas Rangers finished the regular season with a 96-66 record, first in the American League West by 10 games, and so far have cruised through the postseason to clinch their second consecutive American League pennant and World Series trip. Their opponent, the St. Louis Cardinals, is coming off a 90-72 regular season, and a team that pushed its way into the postseason on the season's final day.
Now let's look at this situation, Selig, and please, explain it to me––to all the fans of baseball, in fact––how in the hell does this make sense? Don't worry, we're all waiting.
How can you punish a team like the Rangers, coming off their best season in franchise history, surpassing the most regular-season wins in team history, running away with the AL West, and finishing as the top-team in the postseason with the most regular-season wins, and they don't earn the right to home-field advantage in the World Series?
Horseshit.
Get your head on right, Selig. Otherwise, get out of baseball.
Monday, August 15, 2011
A long (awaited) return
Well, damn. It's been awhile, Three Little Bird readers.
A lot has happened since my last post. I'm officially no longer a Brenham resident and I've made the big move back to the Big D––and how happy I am to be back. For those of you unaware, I landed a job in the heart of downtown Dallas with the Five Star Institute as a marketing copywriter for one of its programs (I'm also hoping to join the ranks of its two magazines and start my career in the magazine world, but I'm still working my way there).
I've been back in Dallas for a little more than a week now, and I've realized that I missed this place more than I thought.
Mostly:
The food
Brenham had just a handful of fast food chains (Taco Bell, Whataburger) and a few mom and pop shops that were decent enough to eat at on occasion. Other than that, it was pretty slim pickens on food choices. It only took a week or two where I began craving places like Baja, Chipotle or Chick-fil-a again.
They're places I took for granted when I lived here before, but now I've found a whole new appreciation for them all. In the week since the move, I've been to Chipotle four times––at least––and Baja twice. Speaking of which, Chipotle sounds good for lunch.
The atmosphere
A big part of me always thought I could make it––and prefer––small town living. And a big reason in accepting the job in Brenham was because of the small town feel and the slow-paced atmosphere. People there weren't in such a rush to get from Point A to Point B (in hindsight, part of that could have been because in Brenham Point A to Point B is no more than five miles) and everything was so much more relaxed.
While the slow-paced environment was a welcomed change at first, a young, 22-year-old guy can only take so much. It wasn't too long until I found myself often bored and looking for something to do––often times I resorted to an after-work nap that lasted until 8 p.m. or so, and then three hours later I'd turn right back around and go back to sleep. I felt like I was starting to sleep my life away.
But since my return to Dallas, I've reconnected with friends, spent countless hours at the lake and been way more active than I ever was in Brenham.
Maybe once I retire I'll give Brenham another shot.
Family and friends
It took moving nearly 300 miles away to gain a whole new appreciation for my family and friends. Not saying that I wasn't appreciative before the move, just being away from everyone for 10 months really showed me how much things sucked with everyone not around.
Dallas sports teams
For a good chunk of my time in Brenham I was stuck with watching the Houston Texans, Rockets and the Astros. It was miserable. I all but tuned out football last season because I could care less about the Texans (minus the Cowboys-Texans game last season when the Cowboys kicked that ass). Not watching the Rockets wasn't as major since I'm not a huge fan of basketball in general. But baseball, arguably my favorite sport of all, was the most difficult as I was stuck watching the woeful Astros play what they called 'baseball', which was nothing short of a disgrace to the game itself.
But being back in the Dallas market let's me watch as the Rangers look to run away with the division and make another deep playoff run, and as the Cowboys kick off a new season looking to avenge last year's despicable showing.
Now that I'm back, I'm not sure that I'll ever really leave for any extended period of time again––unless it involves spending a period of time in Europe. It might have taken a 10-month leave, but I can officially say that Dallas, Texas, is my home.
And, might I add, DAMN IT'S GOOD TO BE BACK!
A lot has happened since my last post. I'm officially no longer a Brenham resident and I've made the big move back to the Big D––and how happy I am to be back. For those of you unaware, I landed a job in the heart of downtown Dallas with the Five Star Institute as a marketing copywriter for one of its programs (I'm also hoping to join the ranks of its two magazines and start my career in the magazine world, but I'm still working my way there).
I've been back in Dallas for a little more than a week now, and I've realized that I missed this place more than I thought.
Mostly:
The food
Brenham had just a handful of fast food chains (Taco Bell, Whataburger) and a few mom and pop shops that were decent enough to eat at on occasion. Other than that, it was pretty slim pickens on food choices. It only took a week or two where I began craving places like Baja, Chipotle or Chick-fil-a again.
They're places I took for granted when I lived here before, but now I've found a whole new appreciation for them all. In the week since the move, I've been to Chipotle four times––at least––and Baja twice. Speaking of which, Chipotle sounds good for lunch.
The atmosphere
A big part of me always thought I could make it––and prefer––small town living. And a big reason in accepting the job in Brenham was because of the small town feel and the slow-paced atmosphere. People there weren't in such a rush to get from Point A to Point B (in hindsight, part of that could have been because in Brenham Point A to Point B is no more than five miles) and everything was so much more relaxed.
While the slow-paced environment was a welcomed change at first, a young, 22-year-old guy can only take so much. It wasn't too long until I found myself often bored and looking for something to do––often times I resorted to an after-work nap that lasted until 8 p.m. or so, and then three hours later I'd turn right back around and go back to sleep. I felt like I was starting to sleep my life away.
But since my return to Dallas, I've reconnected with friends, spent countless hours at the lake and been way more active than I ever was in Brenham.
Maybe once I retire I'll give Brenham another shot.
Family and friends
It took moving nearly 300 miles away to gain a whole new appreciation for my family and friends. Not saying that I wasn't appreciative before the move, just being away from everyone for 10 months really showed me how much things sucked with everyone not around.
Dallas sports teams
For a good chunk of my time in Brenham I was stuck with watching the Houston Texans, Rockets and the Astros. It was miserable. I all but tuned out football last season because I could care less about the Texans (minus the Cowboys-Texans game last season when the Cowboys kicked that ass). Not watching the Rockets wasn't as major since I'm not a huge fan of basketball in general. But baseball, arguably my favorite sport of all, was the most difficult as I was stuck watching the woeful Astros play what they called 'baseball', which was nothing short of a disgrace to the game itself.
But being back in the Dallas market let's me watch as the Rangers look to run away with the division and make another deep playoff run, and as the Cowboys kick off a new season looking to avenge last year's despicable showing.
Now that I'm back, I'm not sure that I'll ever really leave for any extended period of time again––unless it involves spending a period of time in Europe. It might have taken a 10-month leave, but I can officially say that Dallas, Texas, is my home.
And, might I add, DAMN IT'S GOOD TO BE BACK!
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