We've All Got Baggage

This is something that I had been wanting to write about for a week or so. The absolutely wild day in sports that was April 17th has made it a lot easier to do so.

In sports we all have attachments. Favourite teams, favourite players, that sort of thing. I have remarked in the past how my biases towards things like this, make it difficult to relay my thoughts in an "unfiltered" way, so to speak. I have the utmost respect for sports reporters and journalists who can maintain a level of neutrality in their work. You do see some that do not even try to hide the fact that they have personal preferences, and you have others who might believe that they are staying even-Steven, but their love for the home team somehow seeps through. It is a natural occurrence. They are sure to have grown up loving some team, some player from somewhere, and maybe they have been fortunate enough to write or report for them.

It is not just the scribes and presenters either. It is the fan by definition with their connections of passion to the event's parts and sums that aid in the presentation of these events. Not only that, it is the love (or hate) of player and team that makes a game that much more valuable an experience to the viewer. Even if a straight up aficionado with no allegiances went to a game that turned out to be an absolute masterpiece, he would end up having favorites. As a spectator of performance and creativity, he might begin to follow the ones that impressed him the most.

Then there are the things that could happen wherever you happen to be lucky enough to get a ticket for. Imagine how you would feel to see your home team go down 2-0 on the first two shots of a hockey game in a playoff series that you are not only favoured to win, you are expected to dominate. Then, after going down 4-1, managing to tie it at fours, drop a late goal, score an even later goal, and win it in quick and skillful fashion. With a hat trick, no less.

Or just picture yourself going to see your beloved Atlanta braves and catching the first No-no of 2010. Sure it was those cherished Braves that failed to get one goddamn hit, but that's a pretty big deal. On a side note, I was kind of choked to see those fans sitting on their hands as Jimenez got the final out. It brings to mind a much different reaction to El Presidente's perfection against the Dodgers in 1991. I could describe it, but you are better off listening to the great words of the great, great Vin Scully here.

Orrr imagine going to a nooner and getting home close to midnight. If you felt like sticking around for it. I mean, a booster's gotta get home at some time, right? Now, this does create the possible argument of whether or not the emotions felt in say, needing to feed your cat or getting your grandma her medicine effect one's analysis of the events; however, this game serves as an better example of what is at the heart of any examination of emotion in sports: the athletes.

Think about being a participant in this double Lawrence as I like to call the real long ones. Not only are you trying to maintain your same level of concentration and intensity, frustration might begin to sneak in around, oh I dunno, the 14th. Now put yourself in a shortstop's cleats who has to throw cheese. Or a hurler's who has to play left. There would have to be some nerves or at least a feel of alienation, being in this unfamiliar spot. Finally, there is the feeling of sheer relief if you are on the winning side of the coin, and the exasperation of spending the last seven hours trying to win game eleven of one hundred and sixty-two, only to come up short. With that cat and grandma stuff to boot, I suppose.

The modernists were championed for, among other things, "mapping the human condition." In sports, the human condition is on display. We see the obvious, like the jubilation on the faces of the recent overtime winners, or the anger in a goalie getting chased for his bad play. For every easily identifiable emotion, there are several enigmatic ones. What makes a cager want to check on a fallen teammate on the side line, only to eventually throw elbows at an opposition player that was too close to him? With all of the crazy traffic happening in front of tenders' nets, what are they feeling that makes them believe the best thing to do is embellish interference? Why can certain players bring the right head space consistently- nearly every night, producing at the peak of their abilities, while others struggle to find this spot? Let's face it, sports therapists are pretty busy folks.

Now, there are some out there that might suggest a stressing of emotion hinders proper analysis of a text. There are pieces considered to be manipulative in their execution. I could throw out a Sandy Bullock or Jenifer Aniston vehicle right now, but I'm not feeling especially mean today.

Further clouding emotion's place in art is the weight of importance attached to desired emotional reaches by an artist. Take two recent music videos: Hot Chip's I Feel Better and Hanson's Thinking 'Bout Somethin'. The first example illicits feelings of bizarro-humour and eerie disturbance. It succeeds in creating something that makes the audience try to wrap their heads around the creepy gooffiness. The other is good times innocent joviality through a love letter to a celebrated film. Is there a proper criteria to say which is the "better" video, based on these emotional responses? Is it Hot Chip, because it could be considered more "cutting edge?" Is it the three silly kids because they are clearly presenting a less complex mood, but in doing so reaching higher heights of that fervor? There are also of course the emotional reactions to these pieces. One could just as easily scoff at the fluff factor of "Somethin'," as they could at the attempt at irony in "Better."

The point is that no two people watch the same event or analyse the same piece in the same way. Everyone takes different stock in different emotional punches. Everyone has their favorite texts and qualities therein, as well as the players with their desired traits. This is what leads to their unique taste.

Like I said, I had started thinking about writing about this a while ago, when something not so happy happened to a favourite team of mine. I found myself as many do in these situations, searching for an emotional detachment. I eventually resigned to this being an impossibility. We love what we love and we hate what we hate, as well as everything in between. This is integral to the process of following, examining, even participating in any piece. Emotion is embedded in art and sport and sometimes it takes a day like April 17th, 2010 to remind you just how lucky we are to have it in such great abundance.

I Like Your Style

So it has been ten days since the circus left town and where to begin? Part of me wanted to come on here and echo Stephen Brunt's now famous video essay, and go off on how it is in fact, really "easy to be cynical." I was thinking about how truly difficult it was to sit through CTV's god awful "I Believe" motto and song, yet how much an arguably equally cheeseball Olymp-o-slogan "With Glowing Hearts" seemed to nail it. For the record, I plain do not care for any sort of "Believe" attachment to sports and their teams. In sports, believe is the marching song of the loser. Ask the fans of The North Siders how much belief in a championship has helped their cause in the last century. I considered going off not on that, as I just kind of have, but on the hearts slogan thingy. That really just ended up feeling trite and tacked on.

Another part of me wanted to applaud those that stood against the games during the opening ceremonies. I do not mean the two dozen from the next day that gave The Bay the ol' what fer', but the 2000 that protested peacefully during day one. Them and all the other gatherings and marches that took place during the games deserve accolades, even if they had nothing to do with the games themselves. I am not saying I agree or disagree with any of the causes, it's just that I live in a country called Canada, sir. If you do not like the sort of place that allows you the freedom to do these things my friend, then in the immortal words of Barney Gumble, "Go back to Russia!" That just ended getting all nationalistic and uppity, so I bailed on that too.

Speaking of which, it needs to be said that anyone that passes of this whole shebang as pure nationalism at its worst, is prreeetttyy out of touch. Look, I have not watched more than an hour and a half cumulatively of figure skating over the last decade, but I can tell you two things I learned: 1. Pleschenko is probably right. Men's figure skating does not need any more feminizing. They have that part covered. 2. If you were not at least moved a wee bit during Joannie Rochette's work, then I sincerely feel sorry for you. It's not because you think she lives in the most powerful figure skating country on earth. It's because, fuck you. When have you ever had to do something like that under similar circumstances? That was quite simply amazing, inspiring stuff and that is why it is applauded and embraced. Clearly this conversation is just going to lead to more "glowing hearts" so I think it best we abandon it as well.

Actually no. I guess you could argue that what I really want to write about is bordering on nationalism. I do think Canada is best at hockey. To me it is more like your ultimate favorite sports team, only your team invented the sport. One of the things that made me rest easy was that the Canadian "style of play" as many like to refer to it, is alive and well. I could decipher it. It was there, both tangible and intangible. It is in the grit of the Morrows and the flash of the Getzlafs and everything in between. This is the subject from the grand ole' Olys that is worthy of at least my examination at this point. And let's face it, it kinda sticks with this site's purpose, right?

I have to say I had a weird sense of calm throughout the gold medal game. I was unbelievably thrilled and jumped in to the arms of my brother following Crosby's goal, but I never once got the heart palpitations that I usually get. I am not sure what it was either. Maybe it was my acceptance of the hockey Gods letting things play out as they were meant to be. Maybe it was the weird feeling that this was it for the tourney, and after this game was over we would have to wait another four years (or more...or less) when we would see this level of hockey. Maybe it was the fact that I had already lost my shit in the lead up to and the first two periods against Russia, two games sooner. Let's go with that one.

That game was described by hockey brainiac Bob McKenzie as the best he has seen by one team in international competition. It exposed what may be wrong with what has been traditionally seen as a Russian style of play. Offence and power, but no more than two defencemen capable of shutting down the world class. In looking at the Canadian style of hockey, it is best to look for an instance when the approach was successful. Fittingly, there is a goal within it that can be used as the encyclopedia video entry for Hockey - Canadian Style of Play. The game can be still be found at this link and the events leading up to the goal begin at the 1:01:45 mark of the video.

It begins with Mike Richards doing everything in his power to regain the puck from three different Russian players. He is eventually knocked down by Alex Semin, who manages to push the puck about a foot past Team Canada's blue line only to land on the stick of a covering Scott Neidermayer, who wisely taps it up the boards. It goes to the skates of Richards, still down but clearly not out, as he pushes the puck up a little further. Evgeni Malkin steals it for a moment, but our downed Flyer is now up to one knee and finally manages to retake and shoot the disc up out of his zone for the last time until this play ends.

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The rubber goes from there nearly to the stick of Jarome Iginla, who has literally just stepped on to the ice. His stick is lifted by the aforementioned Conn Smythe winner Malkin. As his stick remains off the ice, he is pushed in to the boards by Fedor Tyutin. The puck continues to inch forward and the pride of St. Albert first uses his strength to keep distance between himself, the Russian defender and the boards, so as the puck can continue to pass through. The puck nearly comes to a stop when Iginla, now stopped against the boards, uses this strength further as well as his skill and creativity in recognizing Jonathon Toews as being behind him and capable of creating a scoring chance. He manages with his only free limb to kick it up to the stick of the streaking Manitoban.

C

Toews then swiftly carries it across the line, and passes it cross-ice to Shea Weber, who has exhibited insane hockey smarts in recognizing this as an opportunity and reason to jump up in to the play as a defenceman. The son of Sicamous lets the puck touch his stick once, so as he can properly wind up, and lets go of an absolute bullet that goes off the blocker of Nabokov and in to the net.

C

So what are the recurring traits from this goal? Tenacity, responsibility, creativity, skill, speed, strength, and calculated risks. These are all distinctions that have defined great Canadian hockey players for decades, and in one play you see it all. It is also important to point out that the play lasts no more than fifteen seconds, yet all five Canadian skaters touch the puck. So one would have to add to the aforementioned list a symbiosis of sorts. It is like a great band playing to the peak of their abilities, but working well because they make each other better.

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The goal is followed by a subdued celebration. We were up by 5 goals at this point for heaven's sake; however, this is part of the Canadian style as well. Some suggested that the American hockey team was able to succeed as much as it did, because they were able to emulate this operandi. The behaviour of someone like Ryan Kesler revealed evident differences. When he put in the empty netter against Canada in the first game, he acted as though he had won the gold all by himself. This, combined with some of his questionable off-ice comments show that despite being able to find success by modeling their game after that of the Canadians, they are still missing a key ingredient: grace.

C

It is a shame that you cannot slow the entire play down and watch it frame by frame. I know I did about a dozen times when I had the thing recorded on my PVR. Perhaps that explains my easy-breeziness during the final match. Unlike 2006, where nothing seemed to go right, I could tell at this point that things were clearly clicking, and if we were to eventually lose, it was not because we had the wrong players. There was a commitment there. Every team has to have that, and it is not unique to a Canadian style of play. Any country can exhibit the features I discussed in Weber's goal, it is just that our cumulative efforts have led to those "glowing hearts" of victory. This quality is what has made things right in the hockey universe once more, and is the defining characteristic of our nation's style at its very best.

Heats, Shoots, and Works

There is a language in professional wrestling. Actually, there are several of them. It starts with the concept of Kayfabe and an understanding of what that entails. This long established "carny code" of the business is essentially the "entertainment" portion of what has become known as sports entertainment. You don't break character, you don't stray from the storyline, and you do the work. The more you watch, you start to see that there are other unwrittens and intangibles that make up this concept, (putting over the young talent while making sure you are creating a name for yourself, but not creating too much heat among your fellow wrestlers, and still remaining a good worker for starters) and you begin to understand the language, so to speak.

It is not unheard of for a break in the code to arise. The most infamous instance of this happened in 1997 with what has since been known as The Montreal Screwjob. (I apologize for the repeated Wikipedia references, but honestly, is there really a "credible" source for this sort of thing?) Basically, one guy decided to alter the end of the match prematurely in order to save his own face, effecting the real life and real career of another guy. A shoot forced its way in to a work, forever changing the face of an industry.

I have said before that I am a long time wrestling fan, and find it to be a format of possibilities that are so far from being explored to their limitless potential. I am of the opinion that there are thousands of approaches to a match, an angle, a character, and even a general attitude that are not even on the radar of the bigger companies. There have been some interesting developments in the way of match pacing and creativity of bumps in the on-the-rise Ring of Honor brand, but they still seem stuck in this adrenaline-fuelled EXTREME!! way of doing things that has remained a staple in the industry for more than a decade now. I see something further down the fringe like Kaiju Big Battel as something striving for a new form of presentation. There is definitely less chance of a shoot unexpectedly occurring when Los Plantanos are involved. Watching any episode of RAW, it is evident that the WWE and its audience are pretty far away from embracing the absurdity that is their business to the level that Kaiju has reached.

This is not to say that the big boys of the industry are not finding new ways of telling these stories. The aforementioned biggest break in Kayfabe is finally being reexamined, with Bret Hart making his return to the company that abandoned him more than twelve years ago. It is an approach that has been done before - a shoot that becomes a work; however, in the past it had generally been about something backstage. A female wrestler who may have been involved in a real-life relationship with one of the guys might start dating another, and it becomes an angle where we are not supposed to know where the script ends and the genuine hatred between the two begins. This new storyline is different though, because it was so very, very public. Aside from the screwjob taking place at a PPV event, it was further explored through documentaries, novels, and interviews from all sides. Like I said, this was landmark stuff when it went down.

"So I guess Hell froze over." The Hitman's return to the ring began with a recognition of the past tensions, and was followed by a clearly sincere shoot about his situation and his fans. He invited Sean Michaels down, and the work had begun. After patching things up with him for the show, he tries to do the same with Vince McMahon, the man who changed his real life forever. This ends with a kick in the guts from McMahon, and the episode fades out with the heel standing over the face, who lies in a crumpled heat.

Those of us who have followed our hero's career post-1997 Montreal, know that the proverbial hatchets between these two men had been buried years ago. Well, not quite all of us. I heard from a source close to the Hart family that Bret received calls from old friends shocked and dismayed that Vince would do such a thing. The way we watched wrestling as kids sticks with some folks, I guess. Anyways, the storyline has advanced over the last couple of weeks, with Vince and his writers attempting to be topical with thinly-veiled references to things like Reitman's Up in the Air. He explained to the hard-working viewer when one must let go of employees like "bubble gum that has lost its flavor" sometimes. If this was not enough to build up heat, he swam further in to the current pop-culture waters by quoting everyone's favorite real-life heel by saying Bret's untimely dismissal was "just business." The Chairman was also put in his place by other wrestlers coming down and supporting Bret and his return. Vince has since double-crossed him once more, (as part of the angle) and the story is building up to an inevitable match between the two.

They will continue to milk the McMahon-as-pure-evil in build up to what will surely take place at the industry's biggest event, Wrestlemania. I am eager to see how it all plays out of course, but in this case it is the unmentioned shoot that should really take precedence. Since 1997, Bret Hart has tragically lost family and friends because of the business, had a stroke and was confined to a wheelchair for an extended period of time. When he finally takes the ring one last time, it will be bigger than any pop, any work, any shoot. It will bring a real form of redemption to someone that has maintained a level of honour and integrity in a world where these attributes are basically unheard of. I can say without any sense of shame that his life story is of great inspiration to myself, and I cannot wait to see him enter the squared circle once more. That is bound to be something really special, no matter what language of wrestling that you speak.

Their Game

Another year and another Winter Classic has come and gone. The event seems to be more and more of a success for the NHL. Who knows, they may one day start charging people to televise it.

It was indeed another great game. You know, the scrap, the Neil, the heroics et al. Everyone's favorite voice of reason, Ron McLean took note of this and the surrounding hoopla , calling the whole shebang "America's game." The stakes for the next one have been raised, with venues as far south as Dallas expressing interest. This lead to everyone's favorite voice of madness, Mike Milbury remark on the following Hot Stove that "so begins the raping of The Winter Classic."

Avoiding the infinitely long argument about the relationship between art and commerce is key to us continuing this discussion. For every massively budgeted crime against humanity or cut-and-paste job that feasts on the wallets of a dim-bulbed demographic, there seems to be something of comparable cost but subtler, more effective technique or something that actually believes young people are indeed smart and can handle emotional complexities. To forward what I am trying to say here, one must accept the fact that the bigger the stage, the bigger the viewership, gate receipts, number of admirers and appreciaters, etc.

I for one am pleased as Punch Imlach that the apple pie sect are making this game their own and continue to do whatever it is that they plan on doing with it. You see, as a Canadian, I take pride in the sport of hockey. I even get the same goose-bumps you do whenever those goofy Nike ads come on. I recognize that in most of The States, most people do not even watch it. There is probably good reason for this in some cases. Putting steel blades on ones feet and going out to take shots on a backyard rink is not a common occurrence in Albuquerque. Here's the thing: I want that kid in New Mexico to understand how great this sport really is.

I was quite honestly moved by The States' first outdoor game in Buffalo. An aspect of it was the atmosphere with the light snowfall and the events of the game itself, but what really got me was the interviews with the people in the crowd and the sheer bliss on their faces. I thought to myself at those moments, "They're getting it. They're starting to get it." With this understanding of the goodness that is hockey from the Yanks comes something that the game truly seeks: credibility as an international sport. Put another way, we need the Americans to make our future victories in international competition and future success from the athletes of the sport's origin in order for it to mean more to people other than ourselves.

I was just as dismayed as you with the results of the World Junior Tourney, but clearly not all is lost. The win from the boys below the 49th made a couple major news outlets, and they will defend their title on their home turf next year. Maybe this could lead to a tournament one day where there are more than 3 entertaining games and a contest where someone like Latvia stands a chance.

Look, I see February 24th, 2002 as one of the best days of my life as a sports fan. I would of course love to see it duplicated once more this year, but Ryan Miller is hot and although they may be a darkhorse I might not scream for heads to roll at Hockey Canada if Team USA found a way to the top of the podium. Let's face it, it's good for our game if someone can shine that light on it just a little bit brighter anyways, right?

The Other Invisible Art

School is back, which generally does two things for me:
1. I get excited for hockey season.
2. I get excited for school.
I was recently thinking back to a first day of classes a couple years ago. It began with the usual getting to know you stuff where you introduce yourself to the person next to you, get some info about them, then later introduce them to the rest of the class. We had to say our favorite book, and I wanted to say something socially conscious like Ellison's Invisible Man or something from a "higher" culture like Ishiguro's Remains of the Day. I do indeed consider those to be among my favorite books, but went with the one that got me excited to read again, the always boring university student answer of Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. The student replied to me with something that sounded far more learned, an obscure Malaysian writer and a book title I cannot recall, because she then followed it up with a favorite book on literary theory. It was kind of a smarty pants thing to do I guess, but it immediately got me thinking, why do I not have one of those?

Turns out I do. I had taken the usual theory and criticism classes and dug to varying degrees everything from Aristotle's Poetics, to the much more recent work of people like Haraway and Bordo (My most recent favorite feminist text is Tarantino's Death Proof). It was only after looking at all sorts of ideas of what art is and where it exists that I realized that the definition was stated most clearly and accurately in something that I had already read. That book was Understanding Comics by Scott McCloud, and it is another of many indirect reasons for taking on the WCTSS project. I know you may find it odd that a book about comics would have any sort of influence on a future work discussing the importance of the fielding of Jimmy Rollins, or the pace and construction of game #32 in the Columbus Blue Jackets' 2009-10 season (It should really be something, btw). The truth is, its mission and mine are really quite similar.

At the risk of getting cheesy and such, I believe that the main job of the next few generations is to bridge gaps. I am speaking about the gaps between the rich and the poor, the left and the right, the elite and the lower class, interest groups on either side of debates like big oil and environmentalism, and of course, the notions of high and low art. Early on in Comics, McCloud writes that as a kid he "realized that comic books were usually crude, poorly-drawn, semi literate, cheap, disposable kiddie fare - but they don't have to be!" I despise the entire concept of Kitsch because I think it is no one's place to decide what constitutes qualification to be seen as "pseudo-art" (that term alone makes my stomach churn). McCloud continues later on, "Art, as I see it, is any human activity which doesn't grow out of either of our species two basic instincts: survival and reproduction." This may seem like an extremely broad definition, but it definitely brings high and low a lot closer together.

Sport and athletics are just as capable of providing discussion in an academic setting. McCloud's idea of a "pure" artist is one that proclaims, "My art has no practical value whatsoever! But it's important!" So that means when Wayne Gretzky tucks his jersey in to the right side of his hockey pants, it is art. When Jim Caldwell, his offensive coordinators and coaches, Peyton Manning and the entire Indianapolis Colts' eleven offensive on-field players agree to a designed play to start a football game that results in a major, it is clearly of merit and worthy of further analysis. When something happens that has never really occurred before, like Prince Fielder and his teammates' impromptu walk-off theatrics it should be celebrated and speculated upon as to where this development within the form will go next.

So yeah, a return to classes and a return to new sports seasons brings this return of my mission statement. Or maybe we are just furthering the examination, because this is really what this whole get-up is all about. I run in to a lot of smart people in my classes, but I like to think that I have a leg up on them. Aside from my knowledge of the material we are discussing, which I can at least say is comparable, I know that Grady Sizemore is the first Cleveland Indian in the history of the franchise to go 30-30-30 in one season. In fact, in many cases I can safely say I am the only one that knows what those numbers even mean or why it should be part of what makes me come closer to becoming the elusive "renaissance man." Inspiration comes from the most unlikely sources sometimes, as McCloud has shown us here, but it is up to us to recognize those sources, no matter how unlikely as significant and/or of distinction.

My Little Empire or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bronx Bombers

My royalty it does not exist
It is extinct for the eye to see
My ideology it is dead and gone
Almost forgotten for the eye to see
- "My Little Empire" - Manic Street Preachers


Living on the West Coast of Canada, I have had the fortune/misfortune of admiring the Majors from a distance. I was brought up in Calgary during the 80's, so I have always had a certain kinship with the underdog. Three hours north were the big boys of hockey and most of the time our team was the one watching the hoisting. I guess this spilled over in to baseball, because I always saw a player in pinstripes as pure evil.

It made sense. They have been trying to buy championships for as long as I can remember, there is the hardly endearing over-confident swagger, and they have been winning more often than not, so you know, it gets old. In 2004, I cheered the greatest comeback in the history of sports from Roberts' stolen base to Damon's game seven heroics. I guess at the time I ignored that Boston had broken the curse by becoming precisely what they had claimed to hate. That would be the three qualities I mentioned earlier about the Yanks. Except for the winning part, but a funny thing happened over the last five years. From my Uecker seats out here just off the Pacific, they became interchangeable. The pinstripes and the red, white, and blue jerseys were now synonymous.

I do understand this rivalry. If you have any team that you love, chances are there is one that you detest with "a hatred that only love can understand." An old Brooklyn dodgers fan once said that. I do have that. I know that there are players that the other team may not like especially, and you especially love it when that player succeeds against the team you hate because it is an extra dagger through the heart.

Going in to the August 6th-9th series between baseball's behemoths, the New Englanders had won 8 straight against the Bombers this season. New York managed to win the first game of the series by a bunch, then somehow, as it often does with these two, a classic wandered in to New Yankee Stadium. I did not get to see it live, but when the highlights came on at a bar I was at with my brother, I got the idea something special had happened that night at the ballpark. Five and a half hours of two teams giving their all to beat the ones they wish to beat the very most, and neither side faltering. As I watched, I somehow found myself wanting the Yanks to pull it out. In the bottom of the 15th I got my wish. Alex Rodriguez hit a two-run shot to walk off the field the hero. My transformation to the dark side was was complete as I shouted out at the screen, "Attaboy, kid!" You see, I know how this player is the most hated player to a majority of the Red Sox fans, so there is that extra dagger I was talking about.

I was sympathizing with the enemy. Again, it makes sense. I have no real dyed-in-the-wool relationships with either team, they are now the ones not winning as much, and let's be honest, that "aura and mystique" is actually pretty sexy. The heartbeat of baseball pumps out of New York and has for a long time. A brief look back at the best the game has ever had to offer reveals this to be so. They still spend more on their team than anyone else, but it really is because they can. There is some cash in New York. If you don't believe me, check out which team has the second highest payroll. Even so, to understand the Yankees is to love the excess that comes with it. I understand that now.

Now, I have not abandoned my underdog roots altogether. It would take the second greatest comeback in the history of sports for my team to make it to the post-season this year. I know that to be a real sports fan for most teams requires humility. Just look at the Cubs. Their entire fanbase is centred around the concept. The Yankees are not like most teams. Were A-Rod to be more humble, it just would not fit. It is OK for their fans to say, "The boys are gonna win it all this year" after one game with more than a quarter of the season left to play. This is something I hate hearing from any pseudo-sports fan, but you know why we pinstripe supporters can get away with it?

Because there is a very good chance we will win it all, ya bum.

I can tell from all the way over here.

History

Lyons and Manks did their best of the year so far the other day and I concurred with their choices that I had also seen. I do not necessarily agree with everything they review either. I am sure I have called at least one of them a pinhead, in fact. I will give you a clue, it wasn't Manks. However, I really do want to check out Sin Nombre from what they describe.

It is a great year for American film early on in 2009. Up is Pixar continuing to find ways to be a revelation. I Love You, Man is a very funny movie that resembles a new genre. (And no, I am not going to dub it the label given by faaar too many critics. If you are not sure what I am referring to, then you are quite simply a better person.) The Hurt Locker is intense and important and ugly and beautiful and the best film that I have seen this year.* It is in the humble opinion of this narrator (Look, I just dodged another overly used media-created moniker. If you are not sure what I am referring to this time, it rhymes with the classic Arcade game that Costanza is the master of.) that the directors of these films deserve their mid-season accolades.

None of them touch Mark Buehrle. The best five and half minutes you will spend this week is here and shrunk down to 27 pitches. Even that is brilliant and incredibly moving, much like Up's early montage. It truly is the pitcher that acts as director if you compare the hardly new, and oft discussed genre of the baseball game to those found in films like Paul Rudd and Jason Seigel's gooch-ma-goochfest. (I'm not becoming one of them in trying to avoid them am I?) Buehrle provided a masterpiece if looking again at this video only at his pitch placement. Again, we are not even seeing the balls, strikes, and foul tips that lead up to these 27 outs but you can also find incredible performances from the ensemble cast. Some are understated in their brilliance, like Beckham's grab and throw out to start the 6th. Wise's grab to get the first out of the ninth is absolutely legendary, excrutiatingly intense and it ends up kind of ugly. Bigelow's masterpiece on modern war is indeed beautiful, and Ken Harrelson provides some of that with his call of the final out. I was always kind of bugged by how much of a homer he is, but in this case it is perfect. I guess Obama was right when he said that "today everybody is a White Sox fan."

I stress again that I do not always see eye to eye with the newest critics to take the balcony seats. The films I mentioned that they likewise applaud are indeed great, but it is impossible to argue that the pieces are perfect. On July 23rd, 2009 Mark Buehrle was indisputably so. I hear often that baseball is an individual sport disguised as a team sport, and it was in this piece that he was its unflinching auteur.

*- Before everyone starts freaking out and asks why I have not mentioned Sugar, I saw it in 2008 at the VFF. Now that is a film that is as close to perfect as you can get.

- I have to mention this link that WCTSS's most loyal follower, Aaron sent me. It is an anniversary worth celebrating.

- Also gotta mention that I am on twitter now. Stop by twitter.com/wctss if you feel so inclined.