Cooperstown: Baseball's Vatican City

An aura of placidity seemed to envelop Cooperstown as I pulled onto Main Street--pausing to take a few calculated breaths of nostalgia. It was a snowy-foggy New Years Eve morning, and the streets were practically deserted. I parked the car, and reverently walked to the middle of the street casting my eyes about for a superior vantage point. I was living a boyhood dream. Smack in the middle of this charming little hamlet replete with vintage streetlights, homey storefronts and untouched 1930s quaintness, I actually giggled in anticipation. I felt like a subject in a Norman Rockwell painting. It was perfect. My heart was aflutter as I stood there, sizing up if you will, the famed National Baseball Hall of Fame. One deep breath and a few paces later--I was inside baseball's Vatican City.

The Hall awaited me. Ruth. Cobb. Robinson. Heroes and villains of the best game ever conceived. As a kid, I had always believed that the ghosts of baseball past roamed The Hall--inspiring all pilgrimaging purists. It all seemed very Dead Poets Society esque as I passed by the bronze plaques honoring the great ones. The bronzed countenances seemed to whisper, "Remember our legacy--remember this game." I ruminated on what The Hall was trying to communicate to me as I traveled to each wing of the museum.

Seeking inspiration, I hopped from one exhibit to another, busily scribbling in my notebook and taking photographs. When I arrived at a particular exhibit, I put my camera bag down, slid my notebook into my pocket, and just waited. I had an epiphany as I stood there staring at a ball carried around the world by freelance journalist Ted Sullivan, promoter of the 1913-1914 world tour. I decided that there are people who love baseball and people who don't, and the people who don't just haven't looked closely enough.

Much of my time was spent taking in the "Viva Baseball" wing of the museum. The wing was dedicated to the Latin love affair with baseball. As I re-read the history of baseball in the Caribbean Basin I couldn't help but feel like a kid in a candy shop; I couldn't get enough. American sailors introducing baseball to Cuba in the late 1800s, the Cubans (the apostles of Caribbean baseball) introducing the game to the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Panama, Nicaragua, Venezuela, Colombia, and Mexico. I am impressed with the sheer number of Latinos who learn the game of baseball. Many still learn the game on the streets. Like children in poor neighborhoods everywhere--playing barefoot, using tree branches and broom handles for bats. Rolled-up cloth, duck taped rocks, and plastic water jug caps for balls. The passion is pure--the way the game used to be in the States.

I felt an irresistible surge of patriotism as my eyes caught hold of a bunch of laced leather dated back to when "The Yankees" were uniformed men wielding rifles not bats; engaged in battle against "The Rebels", not the "Red Sox." I envisioned the man who made the glove. He probably killed the cow and treated the hide himself. His mother likely stitched the hide--creating a rudimentary glove used to catch a rudimentary ball, on a simple farm field or vacant city lot somewhere. When this glove was loved, the game was ugly and hard. It forged boys into men, and men into boys. It was something we had in common. No matter our race, language, or nationality--it became our identity. Our collective American identity. Perhaps that was what I was supposed to remember. Baseball once brought us together as a nation. Baseball, among other sports, has showcased its power to create positive social change time and time again.

After the war, the Yankees and Rebels played ball and resolved their differences. Today their descendants live, work, marry, and go to school together. I am learning more and more a profoundly simple lesson: You must learn to play, if you want to live. I've waited for this experience since I was a little boy. Maybe the ghosts of baseball past have also been waiting for me; calling me to revive the game in America, to help other kids today--telling me to teach them through playing ball, to get them off the streets, to be active, to find purpose, to feel alive. Maybe we can eliminate some of the hatred and bigotry in the world if we learn how to play ball together.

Kokoyakyu: High School Baseball

Since 1915, one year after the construction of Chicago's Wrigley Field, Japan's Koshien Tournament has pitted the best high school baseball teams in the country against each other for the national championship. Four thousand teams participate and only 49 regional champions advance. Every time a team steps onto the field, they face elimination. Japanese high schoolers approach baseball as if they were following Sun Tzu's "Art of War';" an ancient Chinese book on military strategy. They march onto the field with purpose, with the same unyielding eyes of their Samurai brothers who came before them.

In Japan they teach baseball as a part of education. It is not a mere diversion from what some cynics would call "reality"; but rather an integral component of adolescent development. In fact, Japanese high schoolers spend more time on the ballfield then they do in the classroom. School is from 8:30am to 2:00pm; baseball practice from 2:30-9:00pm. Like in Kendo, a Japanese martial art of sword-fighting, they believe high school baseball develops the heart. "You really don't know what's going to happen in a battle. To win, you have to have heart. We used to call it fighting spirit. It's about mental strength. We have to practice 3-4 times as much," said one coach. Baseball in Japan is virtually a perfect balance of Aristotle's "scholar-athlete."

Japanese have a great love affair with baseball. One player from Tennoji High School said, "The coach loves baseball and we love baseball too. He teaches us with passion." I believe that player, like a steadfast soldier, would have followed his undaunted coach into battle, playing his heart out on that diamond shaped battlefield. His esteemed coach said, "Baseball has some kind of magic. We're of course playing baseball, but when you get down to it, we're educating them as people, the training is really a spiritual practice. The more they suffer now, the happier they'll be when they win. Technique is really a secondary matter. For high school players, what's important is physical strength and heart. That's the baseball that came from America."

Japanese understand that you cannot play baseball without the entire team. They lose themselves in the sport because they play with fervency. Attributes found in Bushido, the ancient way of the Samurai, like loyalty and honor are uniquely found in their brand of baseball. The ancient Greek philosopher Diogenes once said, "the foundation of every state is the education of its youth." Japan, I take my hat off to you. 演劇の球 (play ball).

Mark Twain on Base ball

Mark Twain, who just so happens to be one of my favorite writers, gave a speech which compared the sport of baseball to the Sandwich Islands—the speech was reported by newspapers across the country. The same month that Twain was finishing up his manuscript for “Connecticut Yankee”, he took part in a banquet honoring two American baseball teams who had traveled the world from October 1888 to April 1889 hosting exhibition games and promoting the sport worldwide.

The world tour was financed and led by the new president of the Chicago National League Club, “Al” Spalding. The young Twain had crossed paths with Spalding when he watched him as a pitcher back in Hartford in 1875. The two would re-unite almost 15 years later; after the two American baseball teams had traveled to the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii) and on to Australia, Ceylon, Egypt, Italy, France, and England, before returning to New York. Spalding’s goal was to spread the great “American” made game of baseball to the four corners of the world and use this opportunity to expand his sporting goods empire by marketing his bats, balls, gloves, and uniforms.

When the teams sailed back to New York in April of 1889, Spalding and the players were honored with a round of celebration and speech making. Many notables were in attendance that day: the future President of the United States Theodore Roosevelt, artist Frank Millet and Twain’s close friend, the Reverend Joseph Twichell. Mark Twain was introduced as a native of the Sandwich Islands—a tribute to his budding days as a traveling newspaper reporter there in the 1860s. Below is the text of his speech:

From the Boston Daily Globe, April 9, 1889, p. 1

Though not a native, as intimated by the chairman, I have visited, a great many years ago, the Sandwich Islands-that peaceful land, that beautiful land, that far-off home of profound repose, and soft indolence, and dreamy solitude, where life is one long slumbrous Sabbath, the climate one long delicious summer day, and the good that die experience no change, for they but fall asleep in one heaven and wake up in another.

And these boys have played base ball there! Base ball, which is the very symbol, the outward and visible expression of the drive, and push, and rush and struggle of the raging, tearing, booming nineteenth century! One cannot realize it, the place and the fact are so incongruous; it's like interrupting a funeral with a circus. Why, there's no legitimate point of contact, no possible kinship, between base ball and the Sandwich Islands; base ball is all fact, the Islands all sentiment. In base ball you've got to do everything just right, or you don't get there; in the islands you've got to do everything just wrong, or you can't stay there. You do it wrong to get it right, for if do it you right you get it wrong. There isn't a way to get it right, but to do it wrong, and the wronger you do it the righter it is. The natives illustrate this every day. They never mount a horse from the larboard side, they always mount him from the starboard; on the other hand, they never milk a cow on the starboard side, they always milk her on the larboard; it's why you see so many short people there--they've got their heads kicked off. When they meet on the road, they don't turn out to the right, they turn out to the left.

And so, from always doing everything wrong end first, that way, it makes them left-handed-left-handed and cross-eyed. They are all so. When a child is born, the mother goes right along with her ordinary work, without losing half a day--it's the father that knocks off and goes to bed till he gets over the circumstances. And those natives don't trace descent through the male line, but through the female. They say they always know who a child's mother was. Well, that odd system is well enough there, because there a woman often has as many as six or seven husbands, all at the same time--and all properly married to her, and no blemish about the matter anywhere. Yet there is no fussing, no trouble. When a child is born the husbands all meet together in convention, in a perfectly orderly way, and elect the father, and the whole thing is perfectly fair; at least as fair as it would be anywhere. Of course you can't keep politics out; you couldn't do that in any country, and so, if three of the husbands are Republicans and four are Democrats, it don't make any difference how strong a Republican aspect the baby has got, that election is going Democratic every time. And in the matter of that election those poor people stand at the proud altitude of the very highest Christian civilization; for they know, as well as we, that all women are ignorant, and so they don't allow that mother to vote.

In those Islands the cats haven't any tails, and the snakes haven't any teeth; and what is still more irregular, the man that loses the game gets the pot. And as to dress: the native women all wear a single garment--but the men don't. No, the men don't wear anything at all. They hate display; when they even wear a smile they think they are overdressed. Speaking of birds, the only bird there that has ornament feathers has only two--just barely enough to squeeze through with--and they are under its wings instead of on top of its head, where of course they ought to be to do any good. The native language is soft, and liquid and flexible, and in every way efficient and satisfactory--till you get mad; then, there you are; there isn't anything in it to swear with. Good judges all say it is the best Sunday language there is; but then all the other six days in the week it just hangs idle on your hands; it isn't any good for business; and you can't work a telephone with it. Many a time the attention missionaries has been called to this defect, and they are always promising they are going to fix it; but no, they go fooling along and along, and nothing is done.

Speaking of education, everybody there is educated there, from the highest to the lowest; in fact, it is the only country in the world where education is actually universal, and yet every now and then you run across instances of ignorance that are simply revolting-simply degrading to the human race. Think of it--there, the ten takes the ace, but let us not dwell on such things; they make a person ashamed.

Well, the missionaries are always going to fix that, but they put it off, it off, and put it off, and so the nation is going to keep on going down and down and down till some day you will see a pair of jacks take a straight flush.

Well, it is refreshment to the jaded, water to the thirsty, to look upon men who have so lately breathed the soft airs of those islands of the blest and had before their eyes the inextinguishable vision of their beauty. No alien land in all the world has any deep, strong charm for me but that one, no other land could so longingly and so beseechingly me, sleeping and waking, through half a lifetime, as that one has done. Other things leave me, but it abides; other things change, but it remains the same. For me its balmy airs are always blowing, its summer seas flashing in the sun, the pulsing of its surfbeat is in my car; I can see its garlanded crags, its leaping cascades, its plumy palms drowsing by the shore, its remote summits floating like islands above the cloud rack; I can see the spirit of its woodland solitudes; I can hear the plash of its brooks, and in my nostrils still lives the breath of flowers that perished 20 years ago.

And these world-wanderers have lately looked upon these things!--and with eyes of flesh, not the unsatisfying vision of the spirit. I envy them that! Yes, and I would envy them somewhat of the glories they achieved in their illustrious march about the mighty circumference of the earth if it were fair; but no, it was an earned run, and envy he out of place. I will rather applaud-add my welcome to the vast shout now going up, from Maine to the Gulf, from the Florida keys to frozen Alaska, out of the throats of the other 65,000,000 of their countrymen. They have carried the American name to uttermost parts of the earth--and covered it with glory everywhere.

That is a service to sentiment; but they did the general world a practical service--a service to the great science of geography. Ah! think of that! We don't talk enough about that--don't give it its value. Why, when these boys started out you couldn't see the equator at all; you could walk right over it and never know it was there. That is the kind of equator it was. Such an equator as that isn't any use to anybody; as for me, I would rather not have any equator at all than a dim thing like that, that you can't see. But that is all fixed now; you can see it now; you can't run over it now and not know it's there. And so I drink long life to the boys who ploughed a new equator round the globe, stealing bases on their bellies!

heartbroken haiti

The word Haiti and tragedy have been virtually synonymous since Christopher Columbus first landed on the island in 1492. Columbus and his countrymen nicknamed Hispaniola, "paradise island." Today, the island, especially the Haitain third of the island, is an abyss of suffering. It has essentially become, "The Somalia of the Western Hemisphere." A dreadful history stretching from the slave rebellion against the French, to the U.S. occupation of Haiti from 1915 to 1934, to a steady chain of incompetent and unscrupulous leaders has haunted Haiti for more than two centuries. The last government installed was, and continues to be, corrupt, inept, and unaccountable. I was shocked to hear the words of René Préval, incumbent President of Haiti, as he spoke to journalists and lead organizations from around the world. He is taking a back seat approach to the whole crisis, he could not deal with Haiti's immeasurable problems pre-January 12, and while his country suffers, it seems that President Préval has again chosen to do nothing. Instead of guiding the relief effort, Preval seems to be handing the reins over the the United States, and other International actors--a pattern Haiti knows all too well. Haiti needs to take charge; sure their system is in utter disarray, but it needs to take the control seat and not give it up to foreigners. It is no surprise that many people in Haiti have come to believe anarchy is better. Haiti is broken. It was on a wheelchair before this cataclysm; now it is in its grave. Haiti needs to take leadership in this disaster, but paradoxically it is up to us, the international community, to resurrect this distressed island nation.

Yesterday, that call to help was answered as hordes of volunteers swarmed the Haitian Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, DC; turning it into a Salvation Army of sorts. People were on foot, curling three grocery bags to an arm--filled with food, toiletries, clothing, toys, and even prosthetic limbs. A good friend and I alerted others that we were collecting donations to deliver to the Embassy in the afternoon. Our friends came through; in less than a half hour we had mobilized a hefty sum of donations and were off to the Embassy. Ten minutes later we found ourselves in the middle of a "do-gooder traffic jam" of cars and hordes of people, as far as my eye could see, making their way to the Embassy to help in some capacity. We pulled up alongside a curb about a block from the Embassy, and before I could even ask for guidance, three volunteers without hesitation began helping my friend and I unload the donations. I was in Washington, DC, 1,430 miles from Port au Prince, in spite of that I saw scenes of misery, death, and despair all around me. While it was heartwarming to see the masses mobilize for such a great cause, despondency yet seemed to eclipse hopefulness as I stood there observing the hundreds of nameless faces surrounding me.

Hurdling some of the donation sorting piles along the sidewalks, I made solemn steps toward the Embassy until I heard a woman yell, "Two men, muscles, right here, here we go...!" I dropped what I was carrying and yelled out that I could help. An enervated Haitian man with a strong French accent, made his way towards me as we lifted a refrigerator-sized box off a U-Haul truck and gently placed it on the sidewalk. I motioned to high five him, but he had disappeared--hurrying to help someone else I presume. I picked up my bags, and sauntered towards the drop point. But before arriving, I stopped for a moment, reached into my bag, and found the baseball I had included in my donation. I snatched a ballpoint pen from my pant pocket and secured the ball in my left hand. On the ball I wrote two simple words: "Play Ball." The cowhide baseball won't help a man with a crushed leg like a prosthetic limb would, but maybe, just maybe, amidst all the heartbreak, someone in Haiti will find a reason to smile, to escape the anguish, and, "Play ball."

start with the children

"If we are to teach real peace in this world, and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with the children."

-Mohandas Gandhi

identity and baseball demographics

The map to the left shows the location of all 30 Major League Baseball teams. The American League has 14 teams; a result of Milwaukee's defection to the National League--giving the latter an obvious 16 teams.

Since I like to talk baseball, over the course of many years I have met and engaged with baseball fans from about every Major League organization. I have found that fans have varied reasons to why they choose to cheer and support their team. Most choose to support a team simply because that is where they grew up, and they have history with that ball club. Some support teams because their favorite players are on the roster. And many choose to support a team because of the gained identity and instant camaraderie associated with being for the Giants versus the Athletics, or the Yankees versus the Mets.

Choosing what team to support in any sport is a very calculated decision. There are often deep underlying reasons to why an individual chooses one team over another. But to understand the concept of what I will call the team selection phenomenon, it is requisite that we first have an understanding of American geography and its relation to fan base. The map below displays the 30 ball clubs, not limited to their respective cities, as in the map above, but as territories, or countries.



This map accurately illustrates the baseball demographic in the United States. In some areas you can see that it's a matter of identity preference as opposed to mere locality. As is the case in parts of Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, and New York City. In San Francisco for example, Giants fans are sometimes labeled as "white collar", while A's fans are labeled as "blue collar." This identity is in part due to the locale of the two ballparks, but mostly because of the image the team has take on over time. If you are vigilant, you will notice that some fans align themselves with certain teams because it fits their personality or it provides them with a desired identity. Next time you get together with friends, ask them why they support their particular team. You may learn a lot about them.

the city keeps its hero

Junior will stay in Seattle for one last season. Veteran's day couldn't have started in a more suitable way. Asides from watching Ken Burn's Baseball documentary to properly pay respects to the baseball crazed veterans who have fought for our country of course.

Ken Griffey Jr., who played his first 11 seasons with the Seattle Mariners, will play his 13th and final season with the ball club in 2010. If he retires after next season, he will have played 22 years in total; including 9 with the Cincinnati Reds/Chicago White Sox. He has announced that he will return for the 2010 baseball season in hopes of taking the ball club to the World Series. That may seem like a lofty goal for the Mariners who went 85-77 on the year, finishing 12 games behind the first place Angels; but, dugout morale has changed dramatically since Griffey's celebrated return this season, and the team seems ready for October ball next year. Griffey has given me a second chance to see him back in blue. I kind of feel like I let him down this year; I think that I should publicly apologize for not showing more loyalty during the 2009 season. So here it is: I'm sorry I didn't make it out to see you play this season at Safeco. But I did come to two of your games at Camden Yards! Does that count? I know, I know, it's not the same, but next year I'll be there to help us win the pennant! And I promise I will order the online MLB package so I can watch your games in HD and listen to Dave Sims announce us to victory. We're bringing back the Refuse to Lose years. Yours truly, Will. Click here to read the article published in the Seattle-PI this morning.

what do I do now?

When I came into work today I thought to myself, “What am I going to do for the next five months?” Since April, my time has largely been spent on two things: sailing and baseball. With the Yankees win last night in game six of the World Series, the 2009 baseball season has come to a close. The sailing season ended last weekend, and now I’m sitting here at my desk wondering what I’m going to throw myself into during these winter months of chilly nights and early sunsets.

Well, I’ve got Saturday college football, but that’s not the same. I could develop my culinary side and become a world class chef; but I really don’t want to spend my free time cooking; so that’s out. Winter is a good time to travel, so I’ll do some of that. I guess I could give my gym membership some attention again. What else am I going to do—get a girlfriend?! Ha. But really, this break affords me the opportunity to finally check off all those books on the “to read” list. I can’t think of a better winter-time activity. I’ll spend the lion’s share of my time marking up new books, and scribbling in my notebooks. I could write a book. Yes, this may be the offseason for sailing and ball, but this will be the season for the gym and books.

does the game get any better?

Baseball has so many exciting elements woven into the fabric of the game. The pregame batting practice, the singing of the national anthem, the usual crack of the bat, the "umph" sound the ball makes as it flys into a readied glove, the smiles, the anguish, the cheering of the fans, the booing of the fans, the heartache, the elation, the expression on little boy's faces, the expression on old men's faces, the manager vs. umpire bouts, the remarkable plays on the ball, the calculated pitches, the thrill of stealing a base, the strategy, the smells of the park, the unpredictability, the seventh inning stretch "take me out to the ballgame", the trivia, ballpark dogs, the open air, the double plays, charging the mound, the home runs, doubles, triples, beating out the throw, diving catches, leaping into the sea of fans to catch a foul ball, tactical pitching changes, gutsy base running calls, predicting where the batter will hit the ball, behind the back circus esque vendor throws, salted peanuts, sunflower seeds, waves of fans wearing their favorite ballcaps, dugout antics, standing ovations, nail-biting suspense, the theme music as the top closer runs out of the bullpen and onto the field, and the raw emotion of players and fans alike. This is the game I love, this is the game I long for.

One may ask, does it get any better than this? Well, I didn't think it could until I witnessed the pregame performance inside Yankee Stadium before game two of the World Series. Alicia Keys peforming inside a ballpark, during the World Series, in New York City, singing "Empire State of Mind," well, it was, for lack of a better word, perfect. See the video of the performance below:

annapolis boat show

Each October, the world’s largest sailboat show is held in Annapolis, MD. From October 8-12 the Annapolis Sailboat Show gave boaters the opportunity to check out the latest and best. The Sailboat Show displayed new racing and cruising sailboats from leading U.S. and foreign builders and the nation's largest multihull display. I'm not a big fan of "window shopping," but I sure didn't mind walking onto various catamarans, trimarans, and 80 foot luxury sailboats--imagining what it would be like to sail away in one of these beauties.



Aerial shot of the Annapolis City Dock and Harbor



Maryland State House



Streets of downtown Annapolis



We are the champions



Grinding away



A quaint little bookstore



US Naval Academy



Does this remind you of the scene from Patriot Games when Jack Ryan, a professor at the US Naval Academy, takes out the guy that tried to kill him as he was walking to his car? Ok, probably not; but I thought of that scene as we were walking down this side street on campus, so we reenacted it.



left: filthy rich boat owner right: me [asking him how he did it]



Commandeering his boat



Boarding another beautiful maritime vessel



On an impromptu US Navy campus tour, we stumbled upon a rousing Navy v. Penn State Lacrosse game.



Navy Sailing Team taking out some 420s



I really wanted to buy this boat



Navy Mascot

plenty of sport in boston

Hurrying to finish the last chapter of my book, I tossed the abused paperback into my bag and glanced out the window as our plane touched down into Logan International. It was 10am on a Tuesday morning. I was glad to be traveling, and not at a desk back in Washington. Without having made any previous plans, we checked into our hotel, and grabbed a map from the concierge. I couldn't help but notice on the way into the hotel how nice it was outside. Not only nice, but gusty. In my examination of the map, something stood out, the pigment of said something seemed to glow from the one-dimensional-folded brochure map. It was the Charles River and the connecting Boston Harbor making up the city's outline. Before I could form the words to what I was about to say, a smile spread across my face as I looked at my three adventure-ready friends and suggested we go sailing.



Chatting up the locals for directions to the marina. We called at least eight different boating outfits in the city before we found one that did rentals.



The name of the man in the distance is Jim. It was incumbent on me to make friends with him and gain access to one of his boats. Jim and I became fast friends. And like most sailors, Jim was a talker. We listened to some of his crazy sailing stories and about his wife that swore she loved sailing before they married, who [with bitterness in his voice] never did take a liking to the sport.

Instead of paying the 75 dollar day fee to skipper one of the Flying Scots, Jim offered to take us out on his boat for free.




Boy Scouts pays off. If any of my nephews are reading this, here's a little hint, ask your mom to help you out a little. One day I'll expect you to be my crew when I take you out sailing; so learn your knots! Sure I spent countless hours earning those merit badges; but I wasn't alone. Much to my chagrin, I give my mother most of the credit for my Boy Scout successes.



"Where everybody knows your name..." [We had to get a picture in front of the Cheers cafe.]



We're inside! From this moment on, I felt like I was on a rollercoaster. A five hour ride that I never wanted to get off.



It is difficult to imagine a place more appropriate to break in my new camera.



I take certain satisfaction from stepping into the ballpark hours before the first pitch is thrown. Everyone has a happy place. The ballpark, especially Fenway Park, is one of mine.



A Dad, a Mom, and their three daughters. Baseball in Boston runs in your blood. If only the rest of America could appreciate the game like Bostonians do. America needs to remember the history, the significance, and the message of the game. Perhaps the time is ripe for a re-awakening, a baseball revolution if you will, of America's greatest pastime.



One of the little intricacies woven into the fabric of the game we call baseball. A little boy wearing his favorite player's number on his back, innocently enjoying the "ballpark experience."



The manual scoreboard. One of Fenway's defining characteristics.



The pulchritudinous Green Monstah.



rev-er-ence
–noun
1. a feeling or attitude of deep respect tinged with awe; veneration.
2. the outward manifestation of this feeling: to pay reverence.
3. a gesture indicative of deep respect; an obeisance, bow, or curtsy.
4. the state of being revered.



I love a good hat, and I love Yawkey Way. So I unsheathed the VISA.



This photo speaks to me more than any of the day's photos. [The view of the ballpark from a left fielder's perspective.] I love the outfield. Only one position in sport rivals the sheer awe and beauty of playing the position of outfielder. The position of linebacker in American Football comes very close to delivering an equal feeling of wonder and amazement. But this is only my opinion of course.



The view from our seats behind home plate.



And to close out the day...a 'good game tap' from Emily.

After the Sox's heartbreaking loss to Toronto-down one run, bottom of the ninth, two runners on, full count, Youk at the plate...four despondent Virginians made their way back to the hotel to get a few hours of shuteye before our 6am flight the following morning. [A one hour flight, and 440 miles later, we would sneak into our offices in time for work that morning.]

conversation catch

Playing a good game of catch is a lot like good-stimulating conversation. Tossing around the ball with a friend is without question my choice pastime. However, I find equal satisfaction from good conversation. But not just any conversation; a type of dialogue that excites and inspires. A type I will call "conversation catch."

It is intoxicating to catch the worn cowhide-leather ball in the web of my glove and then zing it back with gusto into another's glove. The glove (the mind) catches the ball (the idea) and then throws it back at the other person. When playing catch with a friend, I find myself trying out new ways to catch the ball, and creative ways to throw the ball into his or her glove. Sometimes it’s a bad throw. Sometimes I throw the ball short, and it doesn’t quite reach the person. And sometimes I throw it over the person’s head, and he has to going running after the ball. You see the key to a good game of catch is for one to throw the ball close enough so that it lands into the glove of the other. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to throw the ball right on target each and every time.

Much like the mind, a well-stretched, athletic person can get to a ball that may take some sincere effort on his part to catch. Many sports fans often witness spectacular catches and spot-on-throws on Sports Center’s TOP 10 Plays of the day. Let exhibit A be, “the diving catch.” The diving catch is the acme of one’s skill. During a ball game a defensive player must be on the balls of his feet, prepared and alert. The ball may be hit his direction in any number of ways. He must position himself in such a way as to ensure plenty of time to backpedal, sidestep, or suddenly scoop up, or dive for the ball; to “catch the idea.”

As a little boy I tried nearly every technique in order to get my baseball glove formed just the way I wanted it so I could be successful on the field. I consulted my friends, asked my coaches, and even came up with some innovative ways of my own to soften that glove and mold it to perfection. I dug up some of my dad’s old glove oil and rubbed that good stuff on every last inch of the glove. I put it in the microwave; I slipped it under my mattress and jumped on my bed until I was too dizzy to jump anymore. I even had my friends’ older brother run it over with his car. All this so my glove would be fully operational come game time.

Do we take similar steps to prepare our minds, like I did my old childhood glove, before we step out onto the field each day? I maintain that the better oiled our glove, and the more familiar we are with it, we will meet with a kind of success that few only dream about. Our glove will thus be enabled to catch nearly any good throw that comes its way. It will take that idea, synthesize that idea, apply that idea, give feedback to that idea, then dart it back off into the other person’s mind.

To lob a ball back in forth while remaining a short distance away from a friend would be, well, rather dull. A good game of catch, unadulterated “conversation catch”, insists on taking a few steps back, and testing out new ideas, or ways to throw the ball. Only then will you truly enjoy the reciprocity and thrill of—“playing catch." With fair warning, you may fatigue. But know, that the more challenging and difficult the game, greater the reward will be. When one is engaged in that type of conversation, the mind is probed, tested and stretched. I believe the great Vince Lombardi understood the concept of "conversation catch" very well. He once said, “I firmly believe that any man's finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle – victorious."

Now ready your glove, get a good grip on that ball, and let's play catch.

olympic games in rio

A euphoric sense of opportunity came over me when I opened my browser window to Economist.com today and read a headline titled, "Rio's Sporting Carnival." I was crossing my fingers that the IOC would choose Rio over the other candidate cities Chicago, Tokyo, and Madrid; but I thought that was merely overly-optimistic wishful thinking. High crime rates in Rio were a huge concern for the committee, so I never gave the bid much consideration. With the world lens sharply focused on Rio for the next six years, the time may be ripe for sports development programs to take advantage of the publicity and tackle the complex urban youth gang problems in the city.

With Rio hosting the 2016 Olympic Games, dramatic changes will occur in the sharply divided city. Squalor is omnipresent, as is state corruption. I will be very interested to see the changes come into effect, and at whose expense. I don't expect that the inhabitants of the more than 800 favelas will receive too many positives from Rio's presence on the world stage. However, I hope that I am proven wrong. I hope that the global attention on this divided city will in some way trigger a movement of change in both the favelas and the government.

a documentary worth watching

This documentary is about a man who emerged from the slums of Rio de Janeiro to lead a nonviolent cultural movement. He won the hearts and minds of many. His message fought a war.

the poets from the interagency

Below is a limerick some of my colleagues from work wrote yesterday after completing an arduous 80-hour intensive training course. We all got a good laugh when they got in front of everyone in the training and performed the stanza they had each written.

*Disclaimer: To understand some of this limerick, minimal working knowledge of the language, "acronym", is necessary. [that was a joke]
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There once was an R&S team
That built up a full head of steam
But when it deployed
With budgets it toyed
In hopes of achieving the interagency dream

The State guy strolled into the room
With loafers and briefcase and groom
He stared at the sky
And kept asking why
And left with a feeling of doom

The security sector’s a threat
But DOD is now here so don’t fret
Move out of the way
We’re going to play
And to hell with the national debt

USAID arrives in pigtails and sandals
“Let us work with the people to make candles!”
We can increase their dough
‘Cuz sustainability we sow
Besides, we have plenty of money to handle

There was much conflict at FSI
As 10 painful days passed by
But we learned how to ACT
As a matter of FACT
And now it’s time to say “Good Bye!”

opera in the ballpark

My friend David and I properly paying our respects to the field.

Just about anything you do inside the confines of a ballpark will be memorable. The Italian opera, Barber of Seville, is such an example. One can hardly forget Figaro's thunderous voice amplified for all to hear inside the ballpark. Who would have thought that baseball and Italian Opera would go together so well. The Barber of Seville, the first Italian opera performed in America, was performed in New York City in 1825; very close to where the first recorded baseball game was played. Two decades later, just across the Hudson River in Hoboken, New Jersey, the game of baseball was born. On this night, more than 150 years after their birth in America, baseball and opera amalgamate.




If this picture doesn't make sense to you, we need to talk.

A friend called me "Moonlight" earlier this season at a ballgame.

Archibald "Moonlight" Graham: Major League ballplayer who only appeared for two innings in a major league game in 1905, and never got to bat. Graham later received his medical degree and practiced medicine for 50 years in the state of Minnesota.

So why did my friend call me "Moonlight?" Well, I could think of a few reasons. Perhaps because the character portrayal of Doc Graham in the 1989 movie, "Field of Dreams" has Doc Graham coming back to the game of baseball to live out his dream of playing major league ball. Is the nickname a sign that I need to come back to the game? Maybe. But it's going to be a little depressing when I see some little kid choking on a hotdog in the stands and know that my career is over. Talk about ultimate torture. How could W.P. Kinsella, the author of "Shoeless Joe", (the book from which the movie Field of Dreams was produced) write such a despondent reunion between Doc and the game of baseball? I can only imagine stepping onto the ballfield, magically gaining back 60 years of my life, returning to the prime age of 26, only to have that dream stolen from me because W.P. Kinsella thought it would be a nice "twist" in the plot.

So, no I don't want to be "Moonlight Graham." I don't want to be a doctor, and I sure don't want to come back to the game of baseball and have a little girl who can't digest her food properly take it all from me. So don't call me "Moonlight;" it's depressing.

baby steps

One day, one day...

However, I've got to pay my dues. Most of the crew members who sail these yachts around the world in the Volvo Ocean Race have decades of experience, and plenty of time to complete the nine month journey out at sea.

For now, I will continue to race the 420s and FJs (shown in the above video) on the Potomac River.

play-don't hate.

I've been on somewhat of a "Haiku kick" lately...

Put down the A-K.
Learn to play ball; live in peace.
Prevent the hate storm.

PFP in the middle east

Click here to read a fascinating story about the non-profit organization, Play For Peace, and the influence their basketball programs have had in peace building throughout the world. The story was written by Chad Ford; my college mentor and a writer for ESPN.com.

sports for peace in the slums of Kenya

The non-profit, Sports for Peace, is doing some great work in the slums of Africa. The organization has projects paralleling much of the research I did last year in the slums of Rio de Janeiro. The densely populated Kibera squatter community in Nairobi, Kenya, hosted a 3-day basketball program with 30 girls from the slum. The focus of the program was to engage the girls in, and promote, team-building, self-empowerment, goal-setting, and social activism.