Did you enjoy the season?

Before I say what I want to say, this guy said this in a second language. To me, that makes it all the more impressive.

My friends who watch sports are an all-or-nothing mindset, and to go along with what Giannis said here, that’s the wrong way to watch sports.

Did your team bring you joy? Were there enough moments of happiness after wins or excitement of close games? Did you enjoy debating their player moves or anticipating their games?

Only one team wins the NCAA title. Only one team wins the NBA, NFL, NHL or MLB title. Hopefully Bruin fans remember all the wins. The Steelers didn’t make the playoffs, but it was a hell of a season.

In 2023, failure really is a terrible word to use or call someone. Now, can a person who does not try enough be a failure? Yes. Can a person who gives proper effort to succeed but does not a failure? No.

The real magic is figuring out what proper effort is.

Does the wrong play call make someone a failure? Does a dropped pass?

 

“Did your team bring you joy?” asked Marie Kondo.

 

Joy brings me joy.

 

Switched-on Bach!

 

Even better, pop Christian Petzold (often miscredited to Bach, because it was found in his wife's notebook).

The original:

 

I try to twist my brain a bit to accept the "did they bring you joy" mindset. And I just can't quite do it.

I can't imagine being passionate about one's team without getting irritated when they don't live up to expectations. Or an individual. And I find myself holding my tongue sometimes when discussing my D-II alma mater's exploits with the SID or coaches.

Ted Lasso

Spoiler

The other night, I watched an episode of Lasso where Richmond fell down 0-3 to Arsenal at halftime. Then they catch fire and you see a second-half goal. Next scene, they're in the locker room, feeling pretty good about themselves -- with a 3-1 loss.

That just struck me. Do you think professional sports teams really grab the silver lining from losses? Or are they ingrained to the scale of wins and losses?

I think I know the answer. And this wasn't it.

 

Nobody gives a damn about your fantasy team!

Honest answer: Yes, and I find more pleasure as I realize I won't be around forever to complain about how bad the Tigers are.

1. It's a legacy. My grandfather has been gone since the week before the 1976 season started (he never saw the magic of Mark Fidrych's rookie season), so in essence, it's my lifelong bond with the man who took me to my first game and cultivated my interest in baseball. I am the last Michigander in the family, and none of my siblings are afflicted. So the generational connection dies with me.

2. I love the game. Like Rogers Hornsby, I wait all winter for the crack of the bat. I wish I could have played it better as a kid. The neighborhood kids would play pickup games every night, and in between I'd throw the ball with my best friend until my arm would ache, then do it all again the next day. Pulling on a Little League uniform with Grace's Food Store, Optimist Club, Kaiser Sand and Gravel or Gemco meant you were dreaming the dream every other kid in the country (and now around the world) had at the same time. The heroes of my youth are dying off, and I'm older than most of the managers, but the game keeps my mind young.

3. There's a beauty in the details. Even if the Tigers stink, I love to see a well-played game (and the pitch clock has certainly improved those odds). It isn't February without knowing young men have returned to Lakeland and Dunedin and Bradenton to play a timeless kid's game. I could cite Giamatti or Kinsella, but there's something reassuring about having baseball fill your days and nights from March until October. Having the radio tuned to the broadcast (even if it's streaming on a computer) is the sound of spring and summer to me.

4. There's math involved. I've always been fascinated by the fact that even though the game has changed signifcantly since my grandfather's time, you can still read someone's scorebook from one hundred years ago and visualize the game as it unfolded that day. I learned to calculate winning percentages, batting averages and ERAs by hand, and kept my own records from the hundreds of Cadaco All-Star Baseball games I played (and did my own play-by-play). I go to games and keep score because it's second nature.

5. Miracles do happen. Just like in "Damn Yankees," you gotta have heart and, most of all, hope. I've witnessed the magic of 1968 and 1984 and just want one more chance to experience a season where everything falls into place and you get to live and die with every game, every at-bat, every pitch in a pennant race and World Series. The Yankees don't win every pennant (even though it seems that way) and baseball is just random enough that fluky things happen. Can the Pirates keep up this pace for 162 games? Not likely, but the Miracle Braves and 1951 Giants prove that it's possible. If I make it to 80, that's 15 more seasons where the Tigers might actually finish above .500 again.

 

It would be difficult to like that any more than I did. I felt every point. I can recall the arrival of the annual Baseball Register from the Sporting News, and for me, it beat Christmas.

And I would calculate my batting average (.214 to .267) as I ran down the first-base line on a single. (Yes, .214 to .267.)

 

The Red Sox lead the league in comeback wins and last night Verdugo walked off for the third time already this season. Considering everyone and their mother were saying how bad this team was gonna be, I'm deriving joy from almost every single game. Do I expect them to win the World Series? God no, not with that starting pitching. But am I going to enjoy them outhitting other teams and fucking it up for others in the AL East? You bet yo ass.

 

The fly in the ointment being, of course, were those expectations wrong/misguided/unrealistic?

From 3 for 14 to 4 for 15, I assume.

 

1. Fully agree. And they sometimes are.

2. Exactly. Had I gotten more at-bats, my division skills would probably be even sharper.