Upon the Opening of NYC’s First Steak N’ Shake

Steak N’ Shake opened it’s first franchise in NYC last week; on 53rd and Broadway next to the Ed Sullivan theater, where they currently tape the Letterman Show. As fate would have it, I was hired in December by Chicago City Limits, which operates on 53rd between 8th and 9th Avenue. In the 11 days since it’s opened, I’ve had 3 cups of chili at $3.37 per cup. Some people might think this is strange (and potentially off-putting) behavior, and it likely is, but nostalgia is a major factor.

My first job was as a waiter at Steak N’ Shake in Jefferson City, MO. I had recently turned 16 and it was expected that I would work for my half-use of a shitty ’88 Chevy Cavalier that I shared with my step-dad. At the time I was hired, I sported a tiny hoop earring and wore gelled hair and generally made poor use of myself; it was the perfect job for the idiot I was at the time.

The dominant memory of working there is occupied with hateful waitresses, most of whom fit a profile: late 20s/early 30s/creeping early on 40. Always looked older than they were. They almost always had a kid, but did not live with the father-of-kid; for various of reasons but usually they had never married or already divorced. They all seemed to have a newish car that came with crippling monthly payments, forcing them to work 45-55 hours a week to make ends meet. They all looked the same version of faded attractive with slightly widened hips and emerging wrinkles and smoker’s teeth. These facts pissed them off to no end.

When they were in rare good moods, these waitresses were quasi-pleasant human beings. They thought I was cute and funny in my third-tier damaged-goods kind of way, and so they treated me better than the subcutaneous kitchen and dishwashing cretins that stayed back-of-house. But when it got busy, or when they got bad tips, (which was (is?) always at Steak N’ Shake) the fangs and claws bared and the venom and bile flowed. Quick to snap and command and snarl, they did the work necessary to maintain the ship and often while short-staffed. But they were just as quick to abandon one another and snipe and get-in-faces over nothing at all, the stress boiling over and redirected at those experiencing the same stress.

And so for the first 6 months of my first job, I made shitty tips and wore my red bow tie and bore the wrath of the waitresses. When it came time to clean the bathrooms before checking out (24 hour restaurant, of course), I would take longer than necessary, escaping in the clean stillness of 50s/60s rock music and running an extra 8th of an hour on my timesheet (at 3.15/hr). When my friends would come into the restaurant, I was pretty humiliated, but accepted it as my lot as working-class/barely-above-lower-class. I would try to act like a big shot and give them free shakes, unknowingly demeaning myself in an ultimately sweet, naive way. A couple times I claimed friends were “people that walked out on their bills” and the head waitresses could see through my bullshit, calling me on it as I stammered a denial. I remember the kitchen people being much more crass and vaguely criminal, and I’m pretty sure a lot of them smoked pot and received BJs in the walk-in freezer. The dishwashers were less talkative; almost scarier in a way. And the managers were always fat white men who sweated and leered and hid in the back when it got slammed on the floor.

I also remember a few tables, with semi-respectable middle-aged people telling me I was the best waiter they ever had. Which is a weird thing when you’re quite pimply and poorly-toothed and unaware of concepts such as self-respect or -worth or -love. Also, one time, I spilled an entire strawberry shake on a likely-8-month-old baby. The parents were remarkably cool, but that was pretty bad; a little girl with bow and pink gellatinous shake covering 70% of her still-forming body. And always the horrible tips–5-10% as standard; one of the things I truly despise about the Midwest and Midwesterners, along with burying secrets and general life-apathy.

One meager treat for myself, which I later applied to every other food-service job I ever worked (McDonalds, Taco Bell), was to make myself excessive employee meals, in this case Shake-monstrosities of mythic proportions, after EVERY shift. And I also discovered a true love in Steak N’ Shake chili, which is as simple and un-spicy as a prude like me prefers. When coupled with oyster crackers, Ross is in hog-heaven!

I worked this job on two non-consecutive occasions; for 6 months in Fall 2000 and for 3 months in Fall 2001, each time followed by stints with the Missouri Department of Taxation as a data entry clerk for state returns. And ever since, I’ve had a soft spot for Steak N’ Shake that is otherwise unexplainable.

Cut to 2012 in New York City; this is not the Steak N’ Shake I know.

The so called “Steak N’ Shake Signature” is operating with maybe 1/6th the menu I remember; they have burgers (no triples), shakes, fries (no cheese) and chili (only cups) and that’s about it. Also, there are two 4-seat tables; the rest are supposed to stand at red bars which are lined in various odd corners, maybe 5 or 6 in total. In a space where there could be more seating/bar space, there’s a weird picture of young Ali hued green, like a lazy, artless Warhol. They also close at midnight and don’t serve breakfast. I’ll credit them for having a bathroom, and there is futuristic self-service with sodas, so you can keep space-blasting refills at no additional cost, but most of the “updates” seem poorly conceived.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the “Signature” sort of diminishes the idea and value of Steak N’ Shake. The NYC Olive Garden, and Applebees and TGI Fridays are almost exact duplicates of their Midwestern versions; eating in Times Square Ruby Tuesday’s is exactly like eating in Kansas or Indiana Ruby Tuesday’s, except for the gouged prices, doormen/bouncers and varied ethnicities of its patrons. Why would you try to rebrand a Midwestern-fake-retro-diner as a sleek, modern burger closet with 40 sq. ft of eating space and “sexily-skirted-and-booted” waitresses?

McDonald’s has a few “sophisticated” NYC locations (read: trying to “starbucks” the look a few of their locations with future chairs and translucent bar-chitecture), and it feels similarly dissonant. There’s something extra-hollow about trying to inject class or modernity into an inherently second or third-rate fast-food joint; I much prefer the genuine, disappointing article. You can put boots and a skirt on a Wal-Mart greeter, but that wouldn’t make it “New York”.

On the bright side, I can get a cup of Steak N’ Shake chili for $3.37 in the most expensive city in America, so I guess not all is lost!

One can’t conceive of all in life that has been taken for granted until they refurbish your Steak N’ Shake; where have you gone, paper hat…

 

On being stalked

I had a stalker in college. I’m not sure for what duration as I only encountered the person once face-to-face.

I worked as office staff for the University of Missouri; more specifically for the reference department in Ellis Library. It was a typical 8-5 professional job and I walked to and from work, my apartments located variously around campus through my 2-year tenure at Ellis.

One fall day, only a few months into my new position, I walked home towards East Stewart; 15 minutes from the library on the west side of campus. It was seasonably warm, a beautiful sun setting and fall leaves gold, but still dangling from trees. A few minutes into the walk, I realized, glancing over my shoulder, that there was someone close behind me, a shorter girl who was keeping pace a few strides back. She was so much shorter, in fact, and bearing such a large backpack, that I assumed she was just another student, bolting from campus in the waning sunlight.

But after a few minutes of this, I noticed that she was not in such a rush as to pass me, but not so slow as to be left behind; she was keeping my exact pace. I quickly grew suspicious and found that if I slowed, she slowed, and if my step quickened, hers did as well. She stayed inches behind my heels for the next several minutes. Wanting to turn and see if I recognized her face, I slowed and stopped, turning to speak to her. I did not recognize her, and uttered nervously, “I’m sorry, do I…” to which she seemed baffled and did not make eye contact. “Never mind,” I said turning, continuing on my way. She resumed the uncomfortable space between us.

We reached the final stoplight before the home stretch to my apartment and now my heart raced and throat grew tight as she stood behind me, waiting for the stoplight. I turned once again, looking into her face for recognition, but finding only an aloof girl who looked like a graduate student, staring into the distance as if she didn’t see me. When the light turned green, I hurried across the street and she hurried with me, twice stepping on the heel of my shoes.

In my head, I planned to walk directly into my house without stopping, and assumed she’d not be so bold as to follow me. I was wrong. We reached the steps to my porch and it was clear that she was not headed to another location. I turned fully, terrified, and said, “Can I help you with something? I don’t know you.”

She paused a moment, and spoke with chilling aggressiveness, “Now you know how it feels.” “What?” I replied. “You’ve been stalking me,” she said.

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” I said. “I don’t know who you are!”

She had a brief moment of confused blankness and continued, “You’ve been stalking me and now you know how it feels to be stalked.”

“I haven’t been stalking you. I don’t know who you are!” I said and backed into the house, locking the door. I went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, then to the window of the front door, where I saw her walking around the house, looking in windows. I called my friend Amanda, telling her what happened, and she advised me to call 911 immediately.

I checked other windows and did not see the girl. Thinking she was gone, I went to my room in the basement where I had a minor panic attack. Moments later there was an explosive sound of busting glass. I raced upstairs to the front door, where she stood, her right hand covered in dripping blood. She had punched out a window pane in my front door, and stood somewhat calmly, as though she were a UPS driver that had rung the bell and waited patiently to drop off a package.

Still holding the knife, I opened the door and she backed away. What follows embarrasses me, as my naivety could have caused me great physical harm, but in that moment I felt sad for her; a quick, stupid bite of compassion. “Are you okay?” I asked. She stood, her head shaking, “You stalked me. Now you know how it feels.” Her hand was vibrantly red with streaming blood. “Do you need help?” I said referring to the hand. “Oh, you’d love that,” she said, backing away.

“Wait!” I said. “Who are you?” She turned and jogged back towards campus. I called 911; it was maybe 15 minutes when a police officer arrived on the scene. She was a late-30s woman, stockily built with hair pulled tight into a bun. I recalled the story quickly, panicked, and when she asked me if I wanted to press charges (if they found her), I couldn’t shake the feeling that this girl was indeed deeply sick, likely off whatever medication she obviously needed. She seemed genuinely spooked by the feeling of being stalked, whether it was real or imagined. More than anything, she seemed like someone tormented. Again, my dumb instincts were in opposition to the angry desire for retribution I should have felt. I told the officer, “No. Not if she was actually stalked.”

The officer smirked tightly and looked perturbed; her time had been wasted. I asked, “What do I do if she comes after me again?” The officer replied matter-of-factly, as if to confirm the brutal, cynical nature of life on Earth, “If someone wants to hurt you, they will. You can’t prepare for it. The best you can do is be aware of who’s around you and not put yourself in dangerous environments.”

I got a call from the officer an hour later. “We followed the blood stains on the sidewalk into a Taco Bell bathroom and then they disappear. No one saw her enter or leave the restaurant. Since you don’t want to press charges, we’re closing the investigation. Let us know if you see her again and want to press charges.”

I only saw the stalker again once. She was at a bar, my bar, The Heidleberg, sitting alone at a table on the patio. I didn’t confront her and she didn’t seem to notice me. She drank alone as I sat with friends and left shortly thereafter. In retrospect, I feel like I had seen her before the incident, using a computer at the library, one of a few hundred on the main floor, but somewhat near my office.

I can only hypothesize as to the truth of the situation. Maybe she had targeted me for some time or maybe she had just chosen me that particular day. Why me and not someone else? Maybe she was actually being stalked by someone who looked like me or maybe she was just experiencing some psychotic episode of fear and paranoia and it was completely random. Why didn’t she try to hurt me, why instead herself in punching my window? Is she still alive, were there others stalked besides me? Who is this person?

The reality is that I could have been killed by this, or any, person; if she had a knife that day, she could easily have exercised her wrath upon me. One of the awful truths is that anyone in public can attempt to kill anybody else at any time. And could have I stabbed a 5’3″ 20-something girl in self-defense? Fended myself with only my hands against a knife-wielder? Thank God I didn’t have to find out. But it was within the realm of possibility; it always is.

Now I live in NYC; perceived as one of the more dangerous cities in America. There are muggings every day; unpredictable bursts of ugliness and cruelty from faceless shadows. People I know have been mugged; it seems something of an inevitability if you live here long enough. The only way to live sanely is to largely ignore the threat of such attacks; the gazelle approach on the Serengeti. Keep an eye on your surroundings, take long strides and react quickly. I try not to carry anything in my right hand. I hope for the best and stay alert for the worst. But that officer’s words are true: “If someone wants to hurt you, they will.” Strangers, friends, enemies; one is never so safe as to live beyond danger’s grasp. This is true whether you’re in Brooklyn, NY or Newburg, MO.

In my short performing life, I have had the experience of meeting uncomfortably enthusiastic “fans” before. Devoted audience members that seemed obviously afflicted with autism or Asperger’s, insisting rabid, somewhat emotional allegiance to me or my group. And when the inevitable, annoyed request for “group time” after a show lands clearly, I have felt twinges of fear at the hurt in their eyes, when they didn’t understand why their genuine love would not be reciprocated. This has happened with maybe three individuals in seven years, but it is the same each time.

It gives me pause when thinking of the future. Sure, it’s arrogant to ask, but am I putting myself at extra risk by devoting myself to excellence in entertainment? To being funny and likable onstage?. I’ve seen and read enough accounts of celebrities stalked by obsessive fans to know the stakes involved. Loneliness can torment a certain type of demented individual, one that seeks a delusional “ultimate connection” with their beloved idol; creative products and entertaining performances are not enough. Athletes and politicians face this to some extent, but musicians and actors face the factor to an elevated degree.

I’d hypothesize that these types of artists reveal a “personal self” that is intended to resonate with audiences, whereas the performance of athletes or the persona of politicians are less naked or emotional. It is an art product, rather than a physical feat or embodiment of ideology. A fan does not respond to shear level of fame, but rather to the idea that they are somehow “the same” as the artist. A Peyton Manning touchdown is thrilling, but ultimately unconnected to the fan’s personality; they could never play at that level. A Ryan Gosling scene, or a John Lennon song, reaches to the unconscious depths, and stirs up a feeling of simpatico that can lead to derangement. Suddenly people feel like Lennon wrote that song for them, or that they understand Brando and just know they’d be best friends, or sometimes they try to drive a truck through Eddie Vedder’s front door.

The world is dangerous, but we go on living; I can’t live life in fear, because there are enough frightening realities to keep one indoors 24-7 if one really gives pause to count them all. All I can do is stay alert, pray for protection, and barrel ahead with full steam.

 

Only In Dreams

All mammals dream. My guess is that we’re the only species that reflects on our dreams. What advantage would an orangutan gain from reviewing his bizarre dream-hunt in which he had the ability to levitate? It doesn’t seem obviously beneficial from a practical, or even evolutionary, standpoint. But humans have been fascinated by dream content for thousands of years (the first tablet describing dream content dates to Mesopotamia, 5000 BC), likely as long as we’ve had consciousness of the self. It feels empty and horrible to accept their probable meaninglessness.

Lately I’ve had several blurry moments where I couldn’t define whether an event or conversation had actually occurred, or if it was simply the mental residue from some recent dream. And I’m not talking about exciting, important events, but rather the most mundane and meaningless moments of deja vu.

Did I, in fact, talk to a semi-acquaintance at a Midtown bar regarding my sheepish apathy regarding activism, or was that simply a dream I had a few nights ago? Because such an event is possible, even likely, in my day-to-day life, but I’m completely uncertain as to whether the conversation actually happened. In reality. I am paranoid of repeating myself, and so avoid initiating a new conversation based on the same topic, but I’m also 35% certain it was dream content and I’m misremembering.

My suspicion is that such phenomenon is the by-product of advanced busyness; that I’m not processing my life and activities and memories (long or short-term) and so my brain is working it out through dreaming. Instead of sorting through important, emotional material, I seem to be having a very similar experience to that of my waking life.

I’ve read that there is no “time distortion” in dreams, that 5 minutes of dream time occurs in 5 minutes of real time, and that no dream is longer than 15-20 minutes. But I could swear that last week I attended a dream-dinner that lasted at least a dozen hours, spanning a few days. How could that be my perception when it’s physiologically impossible?

My mom deals with insomnia; her mother also had difficulty with sleep disorders. Thankfully, I can sleep through anything. Most of this has to do with a childhood spent in cars and apartments of blaring radios and drunken shouting; mom and her first husband were not very considerate in this way. As a result, I can fall asleep practically anywhere (though I avoid it on trains and planes) if I am tired. However, I do have a light snore every now and again, and on occasions of having sleepovers with lady friends, am known to casually sleep-grope my bedmate. Slightly unnerving, but easily swatted away!

When I was a boy I had recurring dreams of forgetfulness. I was preparing to go to the baseball park for an important game, but I would forget key items (glove, shoes, shirt) that would delay my arrival, and by the time I got myself together the game would be over. Later in life, this theme has continued. I will be late in arriving to the dream-theatre, and I will have forgotten important items at home that continue to keep me from punctuality. The end result, as before, is that I collect all necessary items, but far too late for the show.

Theatre dreams, and performance dreams in general, were the main content of my collegiate dreams. I would be cast in Shakespeare a few minutes before curtain; forced to improvise, failure imminent. In other dreams I was unaware of my effect on the audience; they are groaning and restless, but I have no idea and barrel on. As soon as the show ends I am suddenly aware of how awful I have been.

Very rarely, the dreams have taken on a magical bent and I suddenly wow the audience with spotaneous levitation. Through simple concentration I am able to hover above them and lift things telepathically. There have been times when the audience riots and there is sadistic violence in response to what is occurring onstage. Never have I dreamt of rehearsal.

Once I had sex with a woman I’d never known–she was on her period, and upon penetration she exploded like a balloon–all matter  dissipated in a thousand flesh-less, bloodless directions.

I am constantly surprised by the amount of unknown characters. Where does my mind recieve the templates for these faces and personalities? Are they completely fictional or are they foggy reproductions from a reality I’m not paying attention to? Example: I rode the school bus my whole life (loser). And in those final few years, I didn’t talk to anyone. But I still saw their faces and heard their voices; my mind received the stimuli and filed it away somewhere. Are these dream characters mere mind-vomit?

Rarely do I interact with celebrities or historical figures; however, the few exceptions have been memorable. Once I was visited by Allen Ginsberg. It was old Ginsberg, with long grey beard and bald top and he looked vaguely middle-eastern for a NYC-Jew poet. He sat in the lotus position giggling and I asked him what he thought of the meaning of life. He looked at me grinning, said, “Mah,” and floated away. I have not believed in an afterlife since I was a boy, but this dream made me want to believe. It made me wish that Allen Ginsberg’s aura had decided to visit me in a dream, and would traverse time and space to do so. It felt like a great cosmic wink.

Another night it was Brando. We were alone in this enormous library; some aristocratic study with enormous shelves of leather-bound canonical literature. He was young (pre-Streetcar) and wore a smoking jacket and he didn’t say much. But neither did I and I could tell he liked me because we were both Midwestern boys; brooders with parental issues and enormous chips on our shoulders. Like the Ginsberg, this dream made me feel special, like I was worthy; as though my heroes would approve of me. But these are the only heroes who’ve visited me. Dylan, Lennon and Kerouac have yet to show, and I’ve yet to pitch for the Cardinals. It mystifies me: why some and not others? What is it about these figures that my brain selects; is it arbitrary? Do I love them more? Maybe my subconscious believes Lennon would hate me.

I have had many dreams in which I die. I have drowned, been shot, mangled myself in car wrecks and fallen from several tornadoes. Each time I die I simply lose consciousness–there is a cessation of incoming stimuli and I just stop living; this feeling is akin to standing up too fast–a starry, dazed feeling that, if extended, feels unlike life. Usually when this happens I realize what has happened wake up–I have never encountered an afterlife (although I have had many dreams involving the Devil). I first died in my sleep when I was a kid, futilely defending my family against a home invasion. Strangely, I’ve enjoyed a lot of my deaths. The tornadoes were fantastic; I have rarely sensed the merciless power of nature in real life, but my dream-experience seems exact. This is probably a Midwestern thing; I bet Tahitians dream of death by typhoon.

The terrible truth is that I usually only remember half of my dreams; much is lost in waking and I almost never write them down (though I know I should). They are fascinating and meaningless at the same time–but they must reveal something.

 

Mourning: Breaking up with Albert Pujols

The first Cardinals game I remember attending in person, I was 3 or 4 years old. I had fallen asleep in middle innings and awoke in the 9^th to the home team down; toiling towards its final out. The crowd’s chant, “OZ-ZEE, OZ-ZEE!” had roused me and I rubbed sleep from my eyes in time to see a game ending groundout; feebly struck and ably fielded by the pitcher. My grandpa seemed disappointed, but only mildly. The joy is in seeing the game, enjoying the home team, win or lose. This is one of my earliest memories.

Ozzie Smith didn’t play his entire career with St. Louis, but that doesn’t affect his status as a Cardinal legend. In 1996, as Manager Tony LaRussa (in his first Redbird season) and shortstop Smith (in his last) endured a prickly summer, I recall my 12-year-old self reading a newspaper article stating that our beloved Wizard might be traded. I found myself tearing up at the thought. “Why would Ozzie leave?” He was our hero, our acrobat, our number 1; our love was his. The realization that such things could happen was crushing. This wasn’t the first time I learned the lesson, but it painfully reinforced that life is uncertain and nothing is fixed; everything could be different tomorrow.

I turned 17 in 2001, the summer Albert Pujols came of age.

As one hero (25, McGwire) stepped quickly and quietly (and, later, disgraced) off the field, another hero took his place; a fully-realized genius from his week in the big leagues. In athletics, these athletes come along once in a generation. He was not a lauded amateur star, but somehow happened to be one of the greatest hitters in history, as evidenced by his insanely consistent statistical output, from season 1-present. And he had fallen into our laps, a gift.

But that first season, we didn’t know. He was simply a marvelous rookie; a surprise All-Star third baseman with a beautiful swing. Then he moved to the outfield and continued to hit; then he moved to first base and continued to hit (and walk, and field and steal the occasional base (?!)). He won a batting title, two home run titles, three MVPs. He had, arguably, the greatest beginning-to-a-career ever, with his only competition in the category, Ted Williams or the Great DiMaggio.

To be a lifelong fan, a diehard-win-or-lose follower, is a merciless plight. Much like the relationship with family, one has no control over any aspect of the beloved; the personnel, the decisions, the quality of skill or effort. Some teams go lifetimes without winning, without championships, without greatness. To have the best player in the game, the best in a generation, on your home team, to find him, to watch him blossom and bloom, to execute and thrill again and again; such blessings cannot help but inspire feelings of ownership, of a love beyond fandom. To believe that he might be yours forever, that he might delight and carry us to victory again and always, is a dream, an old sporting dream; the dream of my grandfather with his Musial. The dream of Mantle, of Bill Russell; of loyalty and honor and faith. We will love you if you never leave us; all, always forgiven.

In 2005 Albert demoralized Brad Lidge. Down two runs, and two outs from elimination in the 5^th game of the NLCS, he hit the hardest, most defiant home run I’ve ever seen broadcast. It was the retribution we all desire; to say “You will not defeat me, I am stronger, by sheer will.” The shot landed on the train tracks inside Houston’s home park (then dubbed Minute Maid Park), as though purposely mocking the unruly child it had reprimanded. At the time I worked as a janitor at a kidney dialysis clinic. I would clean the enormous dialysis room at night, scrubbing hardended, salty blood stains, listening to grunge CDs, gently stoned and underpaid. That night as I mopped (ground) disinfecting cleanser into tile, I watched the game on an overhead screen, usually reserved for patients engaged in several hours of sitting in recliners, slowly having their bodies siphoned and fluids exchanged.

After the homer I screamed, bouncing and cursing in total validation. At that point, the Cardinals had never been champions in my lifetime. The previous fall, 2004, they had fallen victim to the Boston Red Sox in the World Series, finally at the door, but unable to step through as Boston rewarded its own fans who had gone lifetimes without a championship. 2005 would be no different. The Cardinals would quickly lose game six and the series; sending the Astros to their first World Series (defeat).

I turned 22 in 2006, the year Pujols became a champion.

That fall was the quite easily worst of my life. That year, that October, the night the Cardinals won the World Series, was the only time in my existence I couldn’t have cared less. I cried, of course; Wainright struck out Brandon Inge and Molina and Pujols and even LaRussa ran onto the field and I wept. It was relief; I could die and I’d have seen it with my own eyes. All those hours and innings and games and now somehow, finally, I had been rewarded. But I was at rock bottom, personally; the Series win was a mere footnote in a lost year of bad choices, disgust, self-loathing and loneliness. Still, Pujols had won the ring; I had seen the Cardinals as champions, even if I could not savor it.

I turned 27 in 2011, the summer Pujols somehow did it again.

To find your home team hero alongside Babe Ruth is more than a dream; it’s fiction. It’s legitimate grounds for dismissal vis-à-vis hyperbole/idiocy. But there stands Pujols beside Ruth (and Mr. Candy Bar) in the record book: Most home runs in a World Series game (3). I was on a date when he hit them, and doing my best to listen and charm and ignore the game; the outrageous score made it easier than I’d have predicted. But as I casually interrupted one anecdote with a sharp clap, “Huh, look at that. Three home runs. In a World Series game,” I quickly absorbed the sensations and environment and the way she looked and how fun it felt to be young and alive and living in New York City while my Cardinals won the World Series, to store deep and richly within, for unwrapping in old age, among grandchildren eager to please their grandpa. And Game Six; the brutal, wrenched guts that somehow evaporated with victory—six whole weeks of that same feeling—finally culminating and there, again are Pujols, Molina, LaRussa, running onto the field, ticker tape falling in St. Louis. Finally I could savor our triumph.

And now he’s gone.

Albert’s departure saddens me because of his rare potential; that I might have witnessed the fulfillment of a true legend, my own Musial (in a way that Timberlake will never be Sinatra, nor shall Obama be Kennedy). My own natural star, champion out of the gate, wearing the red and white of the home team, always the home team, as he trots out reliably to his position. Sturdier than politics, or family, or love or peace or institutions; when I flip on the game, I could be sure of number 5 batting third, easing into his stance with coiled menace, unleashing such violent force with gliding grace and skill. My mental monologue running on anxiously, “if we can just get couple of men on, bat around to Pujols again, we’ve got a chance…”

Yes, it’s just a sport; a sport that is ultimately (and always) a business first. Albert Pujols doesn’t owe me anything. I’ve gotten exactly what I paid for these past 11 years; an equivalent emotional return for my monetary and temporal investments. I was given a legend and now I’m upset because he made a personal career decision that is best for himself and his family. As though I can calmly say I’d choose differently with such stakes (I’ve never made six figures in a year!). But there is something disheartening about being wrong about someone; about expecting them to always choose and act and do right and finding that they are, in fact human, with desires and interests and motivations all their own.

Ultimately, he wanted the highest salary possible; not to remain a Cardinal for life. Not to cement a historical legacy that is unheard of in the modern age. Recent, elite, championship-winning athletes that have played their entire Hall-of-Fame careers with one team are far and few between (Tim Duncan, John Elway, Cal Ripken, Ray Lewis). If Pujols had chased 6-700 homers and 3000+ hits entirely with the Cardinals, and added maybe another Series ring or MVP, he’d not only have been bigger than Musial, but even regionally legendary on the level of Bird in Boston or Magic in LA or Walter Payton in Chicago. Not that Albert won’t be remembered fondly, or adored for his years and consistency and greatness and magic while wearing the birds-on-the-bat. But one can’t help but feel a little cheated when thinking of what he could have been, at the end, having spent a whole career with one team; with my team. I’m quite obviously biased regarding the matter, and also can’t believe I’ve spent so many words describing a multi-hundred-millionaire that plays a game for a living. Walking around the city to and from my various responsibilities, I found myself tear up twice at the thought of Pujols leaving, which is both embarrassing and disturbing. The child is still inside, asking “Why would you leave us? Wasn’t our love enough?” It does make me glad I don’t have an actual child; a little Cardinal fan that needs explanation.

Part of my sadness is that it would be unreasonable to expect another shot at this. To have another all-time prodigy come along, drop onto the roster from nowhere, fulfilling every expectation at the highest level, year after year, and all for the home team. For me, for my grandpa, for my family and friends and enemies in the Midwest. For Missouri and Arkansas and Southern Illinois and Indiana and Kentucky and Tenessee. For Schoendienst, Whitey, Ozzie, Gibby, hell, even Drunk Mike Shannon! Most of all for Musial, and all he represents; that which Pujols could have represented and embodied. Sure, great players will come along, but the Legend has come and gone.  It turns out, he is merely a star, like other stars.

 

On Mark McGwire: Hitting Coach

Mark McGwire will be the hitting coach for the St. Louis Cardinals in 2010. This is extremely interesting; the fallen hero, whose flaws led to exile, now returns to the place of his greatest acclaim.

Missourians are severely judgmental, but we also love to forgive our heroes. Leonard Little once killed a woman while driving drunk, was arrested 5 years later for the same crime, and had a job with the St. Louis Rams for 11 consecutive years despite these incidents. Rush Limbaugh has been an addict, erstwhile demagogue and once accused Michael J. Fox of “exaggerating the effects” of Parkinson’s–but he’s something of a holy Raja in Missouri; our own Huey Long. McGwire’s sins seem tame compared to these two, but his fall was his own undoing; tragic in the classical sense.

1998 was a magical time to be a 14-year-old boy growing up in Missouri. Baseball phenomena rarely  reach national consciousness, but once in a while, some feat within the game catches the public in an indelible way. 1941 saw TedWilliams hit .400 and Joe Dimaggio’s hitting streak; 1961 and M&M’s pursuit of 61; 1998 was McGwire and Sosa.

To be a Missouri boy during this period was to immediately adopt McGwire as folk hero; like some behemoth lumberjack, his bat akin to a toothpick, his swing sweetly mechanized and marvelous. Redheaded and goateed, he seemed like your woodsy uncle; capable of tending a wood-furnace and spending seven hours in a deer-blind.

Then, to see him live, was to subject yourself to pure spectacle; each swing that summer was catalyst to a thousand camera flashes. I saw him hit #66; a night victory against Montreal in which rookie J.D. Drew had two home runs. By that point, the camera-to-fan ratio was nearly 1:1–I have never had a similar visual experience. Flashes in every direction, slowly increasing in tempo until the swing, at which all points of light became singular, a lightning flash in old Busch Stadium. When he homered, the roar was deafening; my barely-deepened voice could not be heard in that explosion of thunderous cheering. We thought we were watching history.

Then came the storm. Lots of players used performance-enhancing drugs in this era, and McGwire was one of them. This drawn-out, supposedly “moral,” trial has created a lot of villains, including some of the greatest players in the history of the game. Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens, two elites in the canon of Baseball, might find themselves banished to the margins and asterisks with Rose, Cicotte and Shoeless Joe. And McGwire, my mighty slugger with the heart of gold, suddenly tarnished, thrown in with the other cheaters. It seemed to negate the magic we had in ’98; we felt fooled.

Whether or not taking steroids constitutes cheating is an enormous question, one far too complicated to answer succinctly. If I could be a better entertainer by taking a needle injection, I probably would–and this would be cheating; I wouldn’t have come to earn my talents through effort. But steroids didn’t make McGwire a better hitter; they made possible quicker muscle recovery from the incredible physical stress of professional sport.

McGwire, Bonds; they were great hitters before the juice, and it’s a shame that those years can never be separated from the tainted ones. Steroids mainly benefit fringe players; the difference between 5 and 15 home runs in a season is economically staggering; more so than between 40 and 50. Was McGwire really “cheating” in ’98? I don’t know; everybody else seems to have been doing it too. It’s the same argument American Olympians used to justify steroid use in the ’50s and ’60s; they were merely keeping up with the Russians and Germans.

But a record broken while using steroids simply can’t be legitimated. The statistics of a cheater are false, and cannot be placed upon the same plane as the pure player.

McGwire’s initial handling of the controversy indicated he was guilty; a non-answer is not a defense and is, in fact, incriminating. Watching him refuse to talk to Congress was like watching your father refuse to talk about any “alleged affair.” Then came the self-exile; 8 years of hiding with periodic, groundhog-like appearances on spring training back fields. And now, he’s a major-league hitting coach for my beloved Cardinals, wearing the same scarlet 25 on his back.

It’s exciting for practical reasons as well as nostalgic; Cards hitters need more discipline. They were far too aggressive under Hal McRae, too cavalier with first-pitch swings without the results to justify. But it’s also exciting for regional reasons; it would be like if Stan Musial had come back in 1975 to manage, or if Harry Truman had run for Governor in 1964. The nostalgia factor overrides any lasting suspicion, and I’m already rooting for McGwire again; I would have the same reaction if Phil Spector suddenly decided to make a record with the re-formed Ronettes. He’s an idol of my youth! I’m sure my great-grandparents felt the same way about Jimmy Swaggart–it’s a wonderful feeling to forgive an old friend, that first prodigal welcome after long separation.

I’m sure the sports journalists will take every snide swipe they get; the moral indignation displayed is pretty incredible considering how little most of those speakers have done to make a meaningful contribution to society beyond sports commentary. McGwire is a big easy target; and there will be a period where the subject may threaten to overwhelm the chemistry of the clubhouse. Tony will be a tireless defender, and Mac will simply not address “the past” and eventually it will disappear from the conversation. McGwire may even emerge from this mess, more so than Bonds and Clemens, comfortably reclusive in their multi-millions. Hall of Fame? Probably not now; someday, maybe. Time will pass, there will be revisions; the numbers will stand for history to judge, asterisks or not.

I’m ready to look past the stickiness of the situation; that special summer, and our relative places in it, have earned Mark McGwire a free pass with me. He’s not Stan Musial, and he’s not Albert Pujols, but to every Missourian of a certain age, he’s permanently a Cardinal hero, swatting home runs like it was easy–70 in a season! It’s almost comical to think of; like statistics from a video game. But I’ll choose to ignore the horrible truth and root #25–I wonder if Big Mac Land will be awkward now.

 

Thoughts on Celebrity Death

In the past month there have been a slew of celebrity deaths, causing me to think a bit on the nature of death following a life spent in the limelight.

Micheal Jackson’s death made me think:

It is possible, though rare, for one’s art to transcend even the darkest transgressions of one’s ‘real’ life.

If your product is good enough, or if it evokes rabid devotion, you can commit any sin you like, for all that will be remembered is the greatness of the work. This principle applied to Elvis, Bing Crosby and several Kennedys. One day it will work wonders for Charles Barkley, Robert Downey Jr. and David Foster Wallace.

This principle does not apply to David Carradine, whose life will never be mentioned without the seedy undertones of his demise. The lesson here is: death cannot be of a sexual nature, or else you’ll forever be remembered as your fetish. Fatty Arbuckle was one of the biggest movie stars in America, but he’ll forever be linked to the sexual crime he didn’t even commit.

Curiously, Steve McNair’s death, while grisly and shocking, hasn’t brought forth any such moral judgments. Murdered in his sleep by a mistress 16 years younger, McNair left behind a wife and four kids. But in sports it takes quite a villain (OJ, Pete Rose, Barry Bonds) to sully athletic greatness. Hell, Ty Cobb was the most hated, hateful, racist son-of-a-bitch in sports history, but even his detractors consider him (arguably) the greatest hitter of all time. Which makes me wonder: how much will Micheal Vick have to do to be remembered as a football player instead of a dog killer? Win two Super Bowls? Die saving someones life?

.ed note – 12/03/11 – It appears one Pro-Bowl season is all that was necessary to erase the stains of an enormous dogfighting ring and years spent in a federal prison.

The silence surrounding McNair’s affair is curious, but unsurprising. Professional athletics is like an alcoholic family; secrecy is paramount to protect the lie.

Jackson had a monumental outpouring from fans, a level of fanaticism reserved for only the most hallowed. But it doesn’t transform the man that was. Knowing nothing about how he really was, I can state definitively that he was without peace in the end. No amount of adulation or press can change a life in retrospect–it only seems that way. In fifty years, modern generations will see Jackson the way we see Al Jolson today–they say the man was popular, but something seems off about him, whoever he was.

 

Nick Adenhart: Thoughts on Early Death in Baseball

Nick Adenhart, a rookie pitcher for the Los Angeles Angels, was killed along with two other passengers in a hit-and-run auto accident early Thursday morning, sending somber shock-waves throughout the baseball world. Adenhart, just 22, had thrown six shutout innings against the A’s Wednesday night; his career MLB win-loss record will forever read: 1-0.  

The death is tragic for a number of reasons: mostly the nature of the accident and the early age at which Adenhart was killed. But death among active players is nothing new in baseball. Since its founding, Major League Baseball has periodically dealt with active players passing away while still in the midst of their careers. While the topic is a bit morbid, the range of deaths is actually quite fascinating.

There have been approximately 64 deaths among active players since 1888, and while there are a few prominent names, the list is mostly comprised of average players, remembered more for their untimely demise than their exploits on the baseball field. Adenhart is yet another casualty-by-automobile-accident—this group includes Mike Darr, Denny Williams, Bob Moose, Paul Edmondson and Mike Miley. Outfielder Dernell Stenson, might oddly fit into this group; he was killed in a botched car-jacking.

There are several deaths by players who were also amateur pilots. Cory Lidle is the most recent of these, and Yankee catcher Thurman Munson the most famous. The strangest aviation-related death is that of Len Koenecke: The 31-year-old outfielder was beaten to death with a fire extinguisher by the flight crew of an aircraft, after provoking a fight with the pilot while the plane was in the air. Grisly.

The most famous aviation-death, non-pilot-edition, is that of Roberto Clemente. Arguably the greatest right fielder in history, Clemente died in a plane that crashed while delivering supplies to earthquake survivors in Nicaragua–New Years Eve,1972. Roberto learned that corrupt government officials had been diverting previous aid packages, and hoped his presence on the plane would ensure safe delivery. Besides finishing his career with exactly 3000 hits, Clemente is the only player in history to hit a walk-off, inside-the-park grand slam, which he achieved against the Cubs in 1956. He is also the only player to be elected to the Hall of Fame without the mandatory five-year waiting period.

Clemente is not the only Hall-of-Famer on the list; Ed Delhanty, Addie Joss and Ross Youngs also suffered premature fatalities. Pitcher Jossdied of tuberculosis, but not before crafting the second-lowest career ERA in history (1.88) and he also threw a perfect game in 74 pitches (of the other sixteen perfect games in 132 years of MLB history, the next-lowest pitch count was 88 by David Cone in ’99). Delhanty was kicked off a train in up-state New York for being drunk and disorderly; he wandered to Niagra Falls where he either jumped, or fell, off the International Bridge and drowned.

Most of these deaths came in the early days of baseball, with several players dying of typhoid fever, tuberculosis, kidney disease or heart failure. Ray Chapman was the only player ever killed in-game, when he was struck in the temple by a Carl Mays fastball; he fell into a coma and died within 12 hours. The sound of ball hitting skull was so loud, Mays fielded the ball and threw it to first, thinking Chapman had connected with his bat. Although the change wasn’t enforced for nearly 30 years, Chapman’s death led to mandatory helmet use when batting.

From the All-Time-Greatest-Names file we have Urban Shocker, Buster Brown and “Pickles” Dillhoefer.

There are a number of unsettling deaths which can only categorized by the macabre nature of their details.

Ed Morris and Bugs Raymond were turn-of-the-century ballplayers who were killed in bar brawls. Morris was stabbed to death in the chest and Raymond beaten with a wagon-axle. Marty Bergen, one of the finest catchers of the 1890s, was known as a teammate who “was given to fits of insanity.” He had persistent hallucinations throughout his career that “his enemies were trying to poison” him. In January 1900, Bergen murdered his wife and two children, then decapitated himself with a straight razor.

Lyman Bostock was the only player that was ever murdered while active. In a grisly misunderstanding, Bostockwas shot while driving his car, murdered by the estranged husband of an acquaintance; one he had met only 20 minutes earlier. Tim Crews and Steve Olin were killed, and Bob Ojeda severely injured, when Crews, severely drunk at the time of the accident, drove their speed boat into a pier during Spring Training ’93.

I’ll close with an anecdote that is maybe a bit lighter, so we don’t end on too sour a note. George “Win” Mercer died at 28 by suicide; he inhaled illumination gas used in early electric lighting devices. But what’s most remarkable about Mercer is an incident that occurred earlier in his career.

Mercer was a fan favorite, especially with women. He was “young and handsome with piercing dark eyes, and an outgoing personality,” and the ladies loved him. Playing on Mercer’s popularity with the women, the Washington Senators liked to pitch Mercer on Tuesdays and Fridays, which were designated “Ladies’ Days.” One of these Ladies’ Day games ended in shambles, though, when Umpire Bill Carpenter ejected Mercer in the 3^rd inning. According to Nash and Zullo, “an army of angry females poured out of the stands. They surrounded Carpenter, shoved him to the ground, ripped his clothing and trampled him underfoot. Finally, police brought the situation under control.”This is an amazing story, and that it took place in 1897 says something about the eternal nature of rabid fandom, even in the fledgling years of the sport.

Adenhart’s death was tragic; a 22-year-old taken needlessly at the beginning of his career. But it certainly wasn’t the first time, and, unfortunately, it won’t be the last.

 

Fallen Prodigies

I’m currently writing a feature-length screenplay about a phenomenally-gifted quarterback that never achieves his full potential. It’s a Midwestern drama set in late-80s Oklahoma and it’s somehwat bleak, but it’s been great fun writing a college football story from that period. I am especially intrigued with the essential narrative: the phenom that throws it all away.

In my research for the screenplay, I came across some fascinating real-life characters that fit the profile: fallen prodigy.  

Todd Marinovich

Marv Marinovich, an ex-NFL lineman, decides that from birth his son, Todd, is going to be directed towards one purpose: Becoming an elite NFL quarterback. Marv strictly controls the boy’s diet and he famously never eats a Big Mac, Ding Dong or Oreo (Ed. note—Esquire did a story on Marinovich that came to my mailbox yesterday, and apparently his mother was sneaking him junk food all along.) The father directs every minute of his Todd’s free time towards practice and instruction from a rotating pantheon of specialized coaches and trainers. An SI article titled “Bred to Be a Superstar” declared him “America’s first test-tube athlete.” He was declared a can’t-miss NFL prospect as a high schooler and quickly developed a huge drinking and drug problem.

Predictably, when Marinovich reached USC and was suddenly on his own, the trouble grew exponentially. In another SI article, the 19-year-old says “I wish I could go somewhere else and be someone else–I don’t want to be Todd Marinovich,” a harbinger of things to come. He starts as a redshirt freshman and shows glimpses of brilliance, but soon developed a rocky relationship with Coach Larry Smith (before his tenure as head coach came to MU) and was arrested for cocaine possession. He leaves for the NFL following his sophomore season and is drafted in the first round by the Raiders. He starts a few games, plays inconsistently over three years and is released. The Raiders quickly reverse their fortunes by signing a post-mustache, still-crazy Jeff George.

Marinovich kicks around in the CFL and the Arena League and is constantly plagued with paternity suits, drug arrests and rape charges. His last stint in professional football was with the LA Avengers (which were consequently the best football team in Los Angeles for several years). He was named to the Arena-All-Rookie team (which is somewhat like being named to small-penis All-Stars), but was released following further drug charges. In May 2005 Todd was arrested after being found with several bongs in his trunk. He fled on a child’s bicycle, but was caught a few blocks away. He gave his occupation as “unemployed artist” and “anarchist” on the police report.

In August 2007, Marinovich was arrested and charged with felony drug possession and resisting arrest after being stopped while “skateboarding where skateboarding is forbidden by local ordinance.” The erstwhile QB fled on foot when officers tried to stop him–he was found hiding in a carport about six blocks away. He had a guitar case, and inside officers found a gram of meth, a spoon and a hypodermic needle.

 

The story of Todd Marinovich is a pretty classic archetype: overbearing stage dad forces his son into football; son self-destructs. But not every case is so mythic.

In 1991, the New York Yankees selected golden-armed Brien Taylor with the first overall pick in the MLB amateur draft. During Taylor’s first year in the minor leagues he strikes out 187 in 161 innings with a 2.57 ERA. He quickly ascends to AA, where he gets in a bar-brawl defending his brother. He tears the labrum in his throwing arm and is never the same. In 1995 he walks 54 in 40 innings of A-ball. In ’96 he walks 43 in 16.1 innings, sporting an 18.57 ERA in a short-season rookie league. In his final professional game, pitching for a rookie-league team in 2000, he gave up 5 hits, 9 walks, 8 earned runs, and 11 runs in 2.2 innings pitched. He currently works in real estate, buying and repairing homes for resale.

When recruited to play halfback for the University of Nebraska, Lawrence Phillips was living in a foster home in Southern California. In his sophomore season, he accumulated an NU-record 1722 rushing yards for a national championship Husker squad. The following year, he was poised to lead Nebraska to another championship, but as is the case with our fallen prodigies, the troubles begin. After two games on the season, he was averaging more than 10 yards per carry. But late one night when the team returned from practice, Phillips went looking for his ex-girlfriend, Kate McEwen, a basketball player for the Nebraska women’s team. He found her in the apartment of another football player, Scott Frost. Frost had transferred from Stanford the year before, and was sitting out the 1995 season. Phillips found McEwen and dragged her down a stairwell by her hair and shirt. Frost was eventually able to intervene, but not before Phillips had caused significant harm to McEwen.

He was suspended, but eventually regained his position by the ’96 Fiesta Bowl. Phillips was drafted #6 overall by the St. Louis Rams and played a season and a half before refusing to show for a team meeting and practice in a dispute with coach Dick Vermeil. In November ’97, the Rams cut Phillips, and a teary-eyed Vermeil (surprising, right?) called Phillips the “potentially” best running back he had ever coached. Phillips kicked around with the Dolphins, 49ers and NFL Europe, accumulating numerous assault charges. After stints in the CFL and Arena Leagues, (familiar themes?) Phillips was finally released for arguing with coaches and continued legal issues. On August 21, 2005, Phillips was arrested for assault after allegedly driving a car into three teenagers, following a dispute with the teens during a pick-up football game in Los Angeles. At the time of the arrest, Phillips was wanted by the San Diego Police Department in connection with two alleged domestic abuse incidents involving a former girlfriend, who claimed that Phillips choked her to the point of unconsciousness. In addition, the LAPD was seeking Phillips in connection with yet another, separate domestic abuse allegation. On October 10, 2006, Phillips was found guilty of seven counts of assault with a deadly weapon and in 2008, was sentenced to 10 years in a California state prison. Which makes Dick cry.

At 6’11”, Chris Washburn was one of the top basketball recruits of 1984, rivaled only by Danny Manning. An incredibly gifted athlete, Washburn combined incredible size with blazing speed for a big man with soft hands. According to some of his former teammates, however, Washburn was a student in name only. He almost never attended classes, but Coach Jim Valvano always managed to keep him eligible. He was also caught stealing a stereo, which resulted in him being sentenced to 46 hours in jail and five years of probation. During his trial, the Wake County district attorney introduced as evidence Washburn’s SAT scores, which were below 500 (out of 1600, with 400 being the starting score). Washburn left N.C. State after the 1985-86 season and was selected 3^rd overall by the Golden State Warriors. The highlight of Washburn’s career may have come during an October exhibition game in his rookie season against the Knicks. During a 23-point loss, Washburn scored 16 points. He was quickly in rehab for cocaine addiction. He played 72 games over two seasons, averaging 3.1 points and 2.4 rebounds per game. Washburn was banned from the NBA for life in June 1989 after failing three drug tests in three years. By the mid-1990s, Washburn was still trying to scrape together a basketball career in various minor professional leagues. At last report, Washburn was working in the mortgage business in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

These players differ from ones like Dwight Gooden, Darryl Strawberry and Steve Howe because they aren’t “has-beens” who wasted their potential over time, each is an example of the dismal “never-was.” Strawberry played for 17 years in the major leagues, and Howe, despite seven suspensions for cocaine possession, managed to cobble together 12 seasons. The players I’ve identified never had a career at the top level. Their talent was such that dominance should come easily, but poor decisions and unsupportive environments spelled imminent doom.

It’s not difficult to draw some sound conclusions from these stories. Western culture has been obsessed with prodigies for centuries—the idea that once in a generation an individual arrives that is blessed with divine talents; undeniable ability that supersede the hard work of “normal”, less-talented colleagues. Mozart was arguably the first, and still most famous, prodigy—others include John Stuart Mill, Pablo Picasso, Bobby Fischer and Haley Joel Osment. Society adores prodigies because it fulfills our notions on talent: you are born with it or you aren’t. More importantly, those that are not blessed with talent have an inherent disadvantage that will never be overcome, not even through hard work or persistence.

However, the notion of prodigious talent has a darker, less-acknowledged underbelly. While society propels its prodigies to the heights of fame and acclaim, it also derives smug delight when the “blessed” fall. We are concurrently in awe and resentful of prodigies. That a sacred few are given extraordinary talent while the rest of us toil fruitlessly is deeply disturbing; it upsets our sense of uniqueness and renders hollow the notion of “meritocracy.” Thus, when a prodigy falls, one cannot help but feeling sensations of justice and equilibrium. It also reinforces the Puritan (read: New England) notion that one must not take for granted the gifts of God.

Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshipped, And said, Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.

– Job 1: 20-21 (KJV)

 

Kids in Adult Bodies

Last night the Missouri Tigers defeated the KU Jayhawks in a come-from-behind victory that electrified the sold-out crowd and cemented our standing as a contender in the Big 12 basketball season. I turned off the game early and was nearly asleep when the buzzer sounded. Luckily our young, drunken neighbors did enough shouting and jumping to tell the tale.

The next morning the whole tone on campus was pretty bright, and served such a contrast to the usual “no-looking-at-others-or-acknowledging-life” climate which pervades the grounds. As I walked, I thought, “I used to care about such things.”

The trials and tribulations of the St. Louis Cardinals are the only sporting matters I seem to care about anymore. It seems when you enter a large state University one of your new entitlements is a deep and abiding investment in the sports teams of your alma mater. But after a while, there’s only so much caring one can give before the realization: these are 18-22 year old kids; to treat them like professionals sets everyone up for failure.

College sports are beloved in a unique way in this country, partly because of the rabid spirit of the youthful fanbase and partly because we admire the “amateur” status of the players. These games aren’t tainted by contract-driven motivations, greedy fan-hating owners or over-commercialized exploitation of potential revenue. They play for the love of the game! The true spirit of team!

This is how professional sports in America usedto be viewed. In the off-season, most baseball players had winter jobs in factories and retail, because their incomes were pretty much in line with average citizens.

Likewise, student-athletes, though treated with more recognition, are still just pimple-faced kids, stumbling about trying to figure out what it is they want in life. And in college sports, only a small percentage are stars. Most rosters boast a few gritty un-athletes; those that hang on because of determination and will, which they use to overcome their lack of natural gifts. All of these things combine to keep the sport relatively pure, at least in the general fan’s view.

But when a team is successful, expectations grow, and fans grow disappointed when expectations go unfulfilled. Our football team began the 2008 season highly ranked, expecting to contend for a national championship. After a few detours, the team ended up 10-4, an incredible season by MU standards, but because of the expectations, many fans quickly turned on the team. It’s somewhat upsetting to watch these kids glorify 18 and 22-year-olds and then drop them when they show any signs of weakness.

It makes me thankful I’m not put in the same position. Imagine if at the begining of the year, MU announced a $100,000 production of Hamlet and all the parts were publicly cast. The buildup toward the show would be filled with excitement and pride, the hype would grow and fester into a boil. What if the show opened and they weren’t that impressed? What if a few lines were flubbed or if the blocking were blurred? And afterwards, people would leave the auditorium bitching because they didn’t get what they expected and decide to scrawl hateful slurs on bathroom walls and message boards. What would that mean to the 20-something cast, attempting to learn and execute their craft?

I love college sports, but at a somewhat superficial level. If the Tigers win, I’m elated, and if they lose, I sigh and think, “well, they’re just kids anyway.” This makes me old and unlikable. But it is the truth, nonetheless.

When I was young, my cousins and I would play basketball on a short goal and pretend to be “Tigers.” Jevon Crudup, Melvin Booker, the Haley twins, Jason Sutherland. Sometimes Brock Olivio would join the team mid-game as a surprise addition at Shooting Guard. Back then, 18-year-olds were enormous and frightening; like scary adults that might do drugs (after having pre-marital sex, of course). Now they all seem so baby-faced, like high schoolers in adult bodies.

It’s a wonderful diversion: team sports. It gives vicarious meaning to our lives; when they win, we win. We have defeated our opponents and get to be heroes, even if it’s momentary.

 

Doctor Rosstus

Several times throughout my childhood I attempted to sell my soul to the devil. The first time I tried, I was 11.

I was taught at a young age (by my fundamentalist grandparents) that such a transaction was not only possible, but quite likely if I let down my guard for even a moment. The devil was a very real person to me, and when I was young, I would leap into the bed at night like a hurdler, so as to keep the devil from grabbing my feet from under the bed, thereby dragging me into hell.

After a while, though, my attitude towards Satan changed. He was easily the most interesting character in the Bible! He started out an angel, was banished forever for making a power play and decided to seek revenge by corrupting the soul of man through the ages.

While God would smote man with his wrath, Lucifer would seduce and tempt with earthly pleasure. He encouraged man to pursue knowledge and do what he damn well felt like. And in the yet-enacted finale, Lucifer takes control of the earth for the last days. Overall he’s entirely more attractive a character than Moses, Daniel, Job, or Jonah. I’d say it’s neck and neck between Satan and Jesus for the title of “Bible’s Greatest Character.” Man can relate more to the Devil than Jesus; Jesus was perfect–that doesn’t speak to me!

It was only a matter of time before I began to consider the idea of soul-selling as a profitable trade.

Obviously, the “Deal with the Devil” has been done. Goethe’s Faust did a pretty good job, and the story is a prominent motif throughout several centuries of Christian folklore. According to traditional Christian belief, a person may offer his soul to Bealzebub in exchange for diabolical favors including youth, wealth or fame. The price of the deal is eternal damnation.

I was precocious at 11 and decided to negotiate openly. I scrawled, on a tiny scrap of napkin, my demands: a few billion dollars, a time-traveling Delorean, a castle in Ireland, Siberian Huskies named Cheech and Chong; the list went on and on. All of these would be granted to me in exchange for eternal possession of my soul. I then bound the paper to a rock with rubber bands and threw it into a nearby lake where, presumably, it would sink into the underworld through a portal just outside Cuba, Missouri.

As it sank, I performed a small ritual, mostly composed of heavy squinting and audible prayer. “If you’re really there,” I sneered mockingly, “I’m willing if you are.” I stood at the edge of the lake for some time, hyper-aware of every sound and glint of sunlight.

Well, I never did hear back from Satan regarding our deal. Over the following years I attempted the same ritual three times, and each time I heard no reply. As I am still poor, one must assume the offer was never taken. If I eventually become a wealthy performer or writer, then maybe it could be posited that the deal came with delayed disbursement; like a trust fund.
Sometimes when I’m considering my fortune in life, I wonder if it doesn’t spell my doom.

I haven’t thrown my soul into a lake since I was fourteen. If I were to attempt it today, I’d probably have more reasonable demands. Age has made me cynical; I’d probably be happy with $60,000 a year and a Saturn with under 100,000 miles.