'91 Braves Fulfilled the Promise of Pro Sports

I'm a typical male sports junkie, but I've sadly become jaded with age. As much as I love watching the games, I've lost interest in the players. I can't relate to them as humans, just like they can't relate to me as a paying customer...that's the bottom line. We just don't see eye-to-eye anymore. In fact, it's gotten so bad for me, from a purely theological perspective, the Catholic in me is legitimately concerned that someday my poor departed soul will be forced to spend an inordinate amount of time in Purgatory to make up for the sin of wasting so much time on earth following so many overpaid, self-absorbed, sometimes downright immoral, professional athletes. I mean, it's one thing to worship False Gods, it's another thing to worship False Gods who are also Jerks. Make no mistake, I'm not looking forward to explaining all this to St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.

Yet I stick with sports. The potential good of sports still, somehow, outweighs the ridiculously bad...the right still trumps the wrong. This was affirmed to me 20 years ago, and it's one of the reasons I still hang on to hope.

The 1991 Atlanta Braves had one of the most remarkable seasons in professional sports history...Storybook to say the least. After nearly a decade of futility, and seemingly out of nowhere, the '91 Braves soared from the depths of despair to the summit of the highest mountain, and they transformed a famously sleepy and lackluster pro sportstown into an avid, passionate fan base. They did it dramatically, night in and night out, scrapping and clawing their way to a Divisional championship over the perennial powerhouse LA Dodgers. A stronger-than-normal start to the season fizzled by the All-Star break and the Braves found themselves

some 8 games back in the standings. But they surged in July and August behind the strong young-armed pitching phenoms of John Smoltz, Tom Glavine and rookie Steve Avery; and the clutch-hitting of players like Ron Gant, David Justice, veteran Terry Pendleton, and scrap dog Mark Lemke. Week by week during that magical summer, the Braves pulled closer to the Dodgers and at the same time pulled more and more fans along for the ride.

Atlanta is a city with no geographical boundaries...it stretches in all directions endlessly, connected only by massive wide-laned superhighways. In many ways Atlanta is a Region, not a city. But during the summer of 1991 the sprawling metro area was unified and drawn together by a scrappy underdog baseball team. Apartment complexes along the I-85 corridor joined the upscale mansions in East Cobb. Inhabitants of gritty urban dwellings in Decatur shared the same passion for the Braves as those in the glistening high-rise condos in Buckhead. Fans

rushed home from work each night to catch the latest chapter of the unfolding drama. Late-night west coast trips spawned bleary-eyed water cooler discussions the following mornings. Pitching rotations were analyzed, hitting slumps were scrutinized, and missed opportunities were agonized like never before. By August, as the first place gap had tightened, the "Tomahawk Chop" was born, complete with a mesmerizing and infectious chant that drove opponents crazy and inspired the local team to new levels of greatness. On a good night, the chant would linger in the catacomb corridors of Fulton County Stadium long after dramatic victories, as smiling fans, complete strangers away from the ballpark, high-fived one another and dared to ask, "Can this team really pull it off?" The Braves spent almost the entire season in 2nd Place, dreaming of catching the Dodgers before time ran out. The final week of the season provided the pivotal, signature moment. In a key game against the defending champion Cincinatti Reds, the Braves came out flat and trailed 6-0 in early innings. But like a microcosm of their entire season, the Braves scrapped and clawed their way back into the game, and then pulled off a dramatic 7-6 victory highlighted by a monster 2-run homerun by David Justice in the 9th innning. Destiny was calling. John Smoltz pitched a complete-game victory over the Houston Astros on the final Saturday of the season, and the entire stadium, including the Braves players standing on the field, watched on the jumbotron as the Dodgers fell to the Giants on the west coast, thereby clinching the Division Championship for the Braves. Cinderella reincarnated.

The powerful Pittsburgh Pirates, a runner-up themselves the year prior, waited for the Braves in the NLCS. With the national spotlight shining brightly on them for the first time all season, the Braves magical season looked like it was nearing its end. After a sensational pitching performance from rookie Steve Avery in Game 2, a 1-0 shutout, the Pirates took 2 of 3 games in Atlanta to put the Braves on the brink of elimination. To keep the dream alive, the Braves would need to win consecutive games in chilly, rainy Pittsburgh. Avery spun another shutout masterpiece to help win Game 6, and John Smoltz started his "Big Game" aura that would stay with him his entire career in Game 7, a 4-0 Braves victory. The improbable Atlanta Braves were headed to their first World Series.

The city of Atlanta was now fully awash in Braves mania...24/7. The 1991 World Series between the Braves and the Minnesota Twins is still regarded as one of the finest of all time, played between the first 2 teams to ever go from Worst to First in their divisions. Five of the seven games were decided in the final at-bat. Game 3 alone packed more drama into its 12 innings than most 7-game series combined. The Braves needed 1 more win in the final 2 games in Minnesota to win their first World Series and complete their most improbable fairytale. But the magic stopped. Kirby Puckett won Game 6, first with his glove in the Top of the 11th, and then with one swing of his bat in the Bottom of the 11th. Game 7 was one for the ages, a pitching masterpiece between young John Smoltz against his idol, veteran Jack Morris. Morris pitched, astonishingly, a 10-inning complete game shutout, surviving a bases-loaded/nobody out jam in the 8th inning. Smoltz pitched shutout baseball into the 9th inning himself, only to watch as the Twins won the game dramatically in the Bottom of the 10th.

A dejected city of Atlanta unified one last time and threw a parade for the team, not for victory, but for pure gratitude. In hindsight, it was a magical 7 month odyssey that would spawn a generation of Braves excellence and a legion of fans across the country. A seven year old might have fallen in love with that '91 Braves team...many did...and that same fan would have turned 21 before the Braves relinquished their hold on Division Championships. 14 consecutive Divisions, 5 League Championships, and 1 World Series Championship...a dynasty by any definition.

While the team maintained a consistency unrivaled in pro sports, their fans, sadly, did not. By 1997, the fervor dissipated, complacency settled in, and Braves fans became more famous for their apathy than for the tomahawk chop they made so infamous. But the legacy of that '91 Braves team will live forever...for one glorious baseball season, from April-October, the city of Atlanta came alive and united like never before.

And that's why we follow pro sports.

When A Sports Team Leaves You

It's something I've read about happening in other cities. It sounded about as unpleasant as I could have imagined, but from a distance I could never fully relate, could never fully appreciate the emotions involved. But now it is happening to my city...it's happening to me. A professional sports franchise that I've followed closely since it's inception is packing their bags, loading the trucks and relocating to another city. The NHL Atlanta Thrashers are moving to Canada. A sucker-punch to the gut is a lame cliche to describe how it feels, but it really is the best analogy for the moment.

Blame for this will be analyzed, blogged, and twittered for days, weeks, and years to come. But as a powerless hockey fan, my initial thoughts turn to my memories. I was there when the franchise was announced and granted to the city of Atlanta. I was there when the logo and team colors were unveiled. I was there when the brand new stadium opened their doors to the public for the first viewing. I was there as a season ticket holder on opening night. I was there through the inevitable painful early years, suffering through defeat after defeat. I was there when the first high draft picks started to blossom, when the team seemed to be taking shape. I was there for the first, long-awaited home playoff game. I was there when the promising young team floundered and lost their way, when coaches were replaced and favorite players traded away. I was there in the passionate post-game/post-season discussions, debating the flaws of the team, worrying always about their future.

And now that future is gone. That future painfully belongs to the fans of another city. The sport I love most has abandoned me, and it's hard not to take that personally.

I was there with my family, with each of my 3 sons, sharing my passion with each of them, on their own individual levels.

My sons will still play hockey as long as the rinks remain available to them. They'll still follow hockey with the same enthusiasm and passion. But their innocence in regards to team loyalty, like the team itself, is gone forever.

When A Boyhood Sports Hero Dies

Boyhood sports heroes are flawless. They have no vices. They have no weaknesses. They brim with confidence. And they always deliver, right when we need them to.

Boyhood sports heroes are graceful and charming. They're handsome, they're personable, they smile.

Boyhood sports heroes don't get paid. They don't have contracts, and they don't need agents. The adulation they receive from their countless fans sustains them and keeps them striving for more. Their sole enjoyment comes from seeing the smiles on little boy's faces.

Boyhood sports heroes are fueled by the desire to Not Disappoint.

Boyhood sports heroes are strong, capable of carrying a city's dreams on their broad shoulders and never flinching when given the opportunity, always wanting to be the one to make the play, to make the difference.

Boyhood sports heroes come on bubble gum cards, and those cards are cherished for a lifetime.

Boyhood sports heroes never point a finger or pass the blame.

Boyhood sports heroes are not perfect, and they'll be the first to admit it. They can be beaten and they can fail. But what they lack in invincibility, they make up for with heart and determination.

Boyhood sports heroes never cry.

They never disappoint.

And they stay forever young.

Dedicated to my original Boyhood Sports Hero...Rick Martin, Buffalo Sabres.

1951-2011

The 12 Year-Old in Me Wants the Saints to Win

When you break professional sports down to their core...when you peel off the layers of money, contract negotiations, and free agency that swirl around and cloud the surface. When you take the business side out of it...the TV revenues, the sponsors, and the seemingly limitless advertising. What you're left with is a sport from the perspective of a 12 year old.

I didn't appreciate it then, but when I was 12 years old I peaked.

I'm an avid sports fan still, 30 years later, but it hasn't been the same since I was 12. Twelve is the age of sporting innocence and sporting bliss. That's the age when sports transcends life. Sadly, after 12 is when you start to realize the athletes you idolize actually get paid to play. After 12 you notice contract squabbles, holdouts, and free agency. After 12 the guys you cheered and idolized generally have packed their bags and been shipped off to another team to play for. They happily wear the enemy's uniforms. We've all been betrayed by a favorite player. No matter how much you love sports, you can't deny that it's never as much fun as when you were 12.

On the other hand, when you're younger than 12 you may be a sports fan, and you may idolize the players and watch every game, but you simply aren't old enough to appreciate your city's place in the world. And that's the missing ingredient. I grew up in Buffalo, NY. Until I reached the age of 12, I had no idea Buffalo had such a self-induced inferiority complex. I had no idea that the rest of America looked down on Buffalo the same way 1st Class looks down at steerage. Heck, I thought Buffalo was in the big leagues as far as American cities go.

So, when you turn 12, it's at that confluence of time and age and wisdom that the sporting world crystalizes and fulfills its very simple promise. That's when you realize this assorted collection of characters you watch each game, known as players and coaches, takes to battle for your city. That's when the games take on a higher significance. That's when the fate of your city rides on each outcome.

At its core, professional sports is all about a collection of players and coaches coming together, playing games to represent a city and its citizens. That's how it was in the beginning. We lose sight of that with free agency, Big Money, and non-stop player movements...but it's still there. And every so often a sports story develops to remind us of this.

This year that story is in New Orleans. The New Orleans Saints are in the Super Bowl tomorrow, playing against Peyton Manning's Colts. The Colts are trying to win another Super Bowl, but the Saints are playing for the life of their city and fans. Drew Brees and his teammates are carrying the weight of a city on their shoulders. In the past 4 years, post-Katrina New Orleans has moved from a city at the abyss, to a city with a pulse, to a city daring to hope again. The Saints have been a large part of that comeback story. The people of New Orleans identify with the players on that team, and likewise, the players identify with their fans. It is a true love story, not unlike the Brooklyn Dodgers and their fans in baseball's glory days. It is a special and unique moment when a team can lift a city, or when a city can lift a team. In Super Bowl XLIV, we may just see both. And for one night anyway, an entire city could remember what it feels like to be 12 again.

A-Todd Comes Clean: "I'm Juice-Enhanced"

It happened so fast...a nagging sore throat, a visit to the $30 co-pay at the end of the street, 10 minutes in the waiting room, a 2-minute exam including a quick glance at my throat (I didn't even have to say "aaaahhhhh")...and before I knew it I had signed up for a steroid shot above the buttocks. Like Canseco, Sosa, McGuire, Bonds, Clemens, and now A-Rod, I took the easy path. The Doc sold me on a cortizone shot on the basis of ease and speed. Told me it would knock out my presumed sinus infection within seconds. Told me I would never go back to mere medicine again. Like the ignorant pro baseball players, I didn't even ask a question..."Sure, inject me" was all I said.

Within an hour, the post-nasal drip coating the back of my throat was gone. And the sore throat was feeling much better. But it did more than that. Since a Thanksgiving family football game, my right knee has been shot. I don't know what I did, or when it happened exactly, but I've been suffering from chronic knee pain for 3 months now. In the back of my mind I had succumbed to the reality that I will at some point need to see a knee doctor. That is, before I was injected with steroids! I don't know how long a cortizone shot courses through one's veins, but after 36 hours I now have fully normal knee function and no signs of sinus infection or sore throat. Last night I stayed up in bed reading till 4:30 AM, completely wired on the juice.
But now my concern...when the shot wears off, and the pain in my knee returns, will I become hooked on 'roids? Fortunately my job does not subject me to random tests for illegal substances. I could technically take the stuff as much as I need. But I'm telling you right here, right now, I'm nipping this thing in the butt. I've tasted the corrupt side of body enhancement, basked in the immediate payday, but I vow that my next medical setback will be treated with good, old-fashioned prescription medicines. Integrity will be restored.