Kauffman Stadium

Believe it or not, I have been a Boston Red Sox fan for over a decade now. I found this team in the way I have found other teams I root for in my history. To spite my father. You would think after he moved several states away over a decade ago and the time in between would have helped to ease my interest in a team I picked, not because of proximity to where I grew up or any sort of other real connection, but just because I liked to razz my old man, who as you can guess, is a New York Yankee fan.

I live in Kansas City, and before George Brett retired in 1993, this was home to the spunky, competitive Royals. However, in the last 20 years or so, the life has nearly been drained from Kauffman Stadium. Milquetoast ownership, bad management from the front office to the bench (but one of the best prospect and player development machines in the majors), the Royals have set new standards in the word low, which statistically could occupy a separate post all together.

Give Royals fans credit. Kauffman Stadium is full on Opening Day, full for every game when the cross-state rival St. Louis Cardinals come to town, nearly full when the Twins come and when they are competitive (mostly because of Minnesota transplants and because it’s just a six hour drive down I-35 to KC) and sparsely populated the rest of the time. We’ll be hosting the 2012 All-Star game as well. It’s a good time to be a Kansas City baseball fan in general, just for that fact alone.

So let this be said. If the Royals could, in a bad year, be flirting with staying above .500 from wire-to-wire and, in a good year, compete for the division and make the playoffs two out of every five or six years, this would become the baseball town it is meant to be. Sorry Chiefs fans, if the Royals didn’t suck the NFL would be riding shotgun in Kansas City.

This is all a lot of blah, blah, blah to get to my question and/or my point.

My son and probable future Royals fan.

Here is my question, and my dilemma. A question to myself, and to you, the reader. What am I to do as a new father? This past November my wife and I welcomed this guy into the world. Little David Louis stands the possibility to grow up in a town where the baseball team is no longer the pride of its citizens. Which is a shame. Even those in my generation barely remember the glory days. They remember letting guys like Carlos Beltran, Jermaine Dye and Johnny Damon go to places like Houston (then New York) and Oakland (then Boston) more than Bret Saberhagen, Frank White and Hal McRae.

Here is another fact of life I didn’t expect to happen since my son was born. I have become increasingly irritated and impatient with Dayton Moore’s inability to find at least serviceable starting pitching and reluctance to find someone who can bring in some damn runs. Two things that never used to enter the head space of yours truly.

I can tell you what I won’t do. Raise him as a Red Sox fan. I am looking forward to taking him to ‘The K’ and talking to him about players I never cheered for, but know plenty about. So by rule, I believe I should become a Royals fan. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still keep my subscription to MLB.TV in order to watch Sox games and even keep subscriptions to other Red Sox publications I’ve had for quite some time. However, I believe if you live in a town with a team in the majors, you are mandated to bond over that team with your son. I’m not from one of those cities, so this shift seems logical to me.

I’m not going to be the dad who brings his kid to a Royals game with the Indians in town and wear a Boston hat to the game while the Sox are in Tampa. That’s a douche move. You know that rulebook that is full of unwritten rules? Well, it doesn’t exist. But if it did, it would fall somewhere between not allowing your son to play in the mud and making him wear a helmet on his bike past the age of seven. Ok, I may not win that last one as long as my wife is breathing.

As a baseball fan in general, I dig into the history, the numbers and study every game box score like I’m searching for the cure for cancer. In mid-July you can find me eating breakfast at our dining room table and reading about Dustin Pedroia going 1-for-4 against a pitcher he normally bats .302 against and getting upset at it like my life actually depends on it.

That said, it would seem disingenuous to pretend to be a Royals fan in front of my son, but not do anything beyond that. When my kid asks me why we traded his favorite player for prospects and Angel Berrora, I want to give him an honest answer.

What am I to do? Drop the Sox as my team and take up the painstaking task of becoming (gulp) a full-time Royals fan? I’ve thought about this for several weeks. And today I believe I came to the only logical and most diplomatic conclusion. I’ll be a fan of both teams.

Now I know what you are thinking. “What will you be teaching your son about loyalty to one team if you have two ‘favorite’ teams? This is a cop out, sir.” It’s a fair question and accusation. And nothing in life is easy. When Boston comes to town, what do you do? Do you look your four year old in the eye and say “I can’t cheer for your team with you today, because your old man’s team is in town.” No. I’ll even go so far as to don some sort of Royals garb if we make our way to the ballpark when the Sox are in town. Painful as it may be. This is parenthood, no?

Sports loyalties can sometimes know no bounds. But not this time. While I may still be up past everyone and their bedtimes watching a West coast road swing against Seattle with a Pedro Martinez jersey on, I won’t cheer against my son’s team. At least not to his face.

But who knows, he may grow up to be a Milwaukee Brewers fan and all of this will be moot. In which case I’ll have no problem rubbing it in his face if the Sox ever sweep them in an interleague series.

I spent most of my time occupying various, um, administration buildings.

There is no road map for life. Ever hear that one? Of course you have. Some of us are able to avoid the statement and do what is not only expected of us, but what we expect from ourselves. I wouldn’t say most middle to high school age kids have some sort of plan to bridge the gap between their adolescence and adulthood, however you could say those who are aware enough to concoct some sort of strategy have a head start on those who don’t.

Some History*…

No matter what some will say, everyone strives for some sort of stability no matter which path you choose. It’s difficult to thrive amid chaos. I know I couldn’t. Coming out the other end of high school and my parents divorce, I had enough of the unknown. So I clung to any stability I could find. I moved back in with my mom, I got a job, had a steady girlfriend and applied to the school she was going to attend the following year.

I’ve told this story before, and if you’ve made it this far, don’t give me a hard time about this being overly self-indulgent. What do you think a blog is all about?

So to make this told story short, I did something I didn’t necessarily want to do, but it wasn’t like I didn’t want to do it either. I knew I was supposed to go to college, right? I figured this one in the rural Northwest Missouri would do. I still have no clue how my girlfriend at the time found this place, coming from Eastern South Dakota. Life just has a funny way of happening.

The abridged version is as follows. I follow this girl down to Missouri for school. I don’t do so well in school because the major I landed on was chosen because of it’s potential earning power, rather than how passionately I felt about it. But it was more the social aspect I wasn’t ready for. Living with my dad, I had no real responsibilities. It’s not that I was irresponsible, well, ok I guess I was a little, but I certainly wasn’t out of control. I was just lazy. It was something I wanted because I didn’t want to give up on the stability of who I was with. So I found myself in Maryville, Missouri. A Bearcat.

In any community, large and small, you get out to meet people. However, the one person I met in Maryville who became a big part of my life was someone I met while staying inside. Alright, very briefly… Everyone has to take a basic computer skills class. Word, Excel, Power Point and so on. Well, the final project in this class was to create a website. I decided to browse through what other students created because, well, I created a lot of downtime for myself. I only made it to the A’s.

We were internet “dating” before you had heard of eHarmony or Match.com. Pioneers, I tell you. We chatted on AIM and we had not-so-secret lunches at the union. My girlfriend at the time had spies, but I didn’t care. She, the other girl, didn’t seem to mind much either. I move home, she stays. We ended up long-distance dating the next year, however it didn’t last. It couldn’t last. I stayed with her a couple weekends, but I felt like I was chasing a life I could not have or be a part of.

And in the end…

Fast forward. Keep going. This is the point of my rambling, I suppose. For all the twists, for all the turns and dead ends, you sometimes get to find your way back. And for the last going on seven years now… here I am, and here we are. A little family. I have the two best people I could imagine in my world. Sometimes, it’s nice to make time to reflect and enjoy the thought.

*If you want the rest of the history, you can click right here. Be aware of typos and some latent writing nonsense.

Hardware from another time.

The NFL regular season is over. Presumably, the final piece of the puzzle will be the New York Giants who are currently beating the Dallas Cowboys in Dallas, which is always great to watch.

For the first time in nine years, my favorite team, the San Francisco 49ers, are in the playoffs. And not just in, they won their division and secured a first round bye as the number two seed in the NFC with a closer-than-expected win over the St. Louis Rams this afternoon.

But I’m not here to write about that. I’m here to discuss, very briefly, about my life as a 49ers fan. In the Midwest or upper Midwest where I am from, you are not supposed to like a team from the West Coast. According to many, you can’t like anyone but the Minnesota Vikings, the Kansas City Chiefs or the Denver Broncos. Some may say the Green Bay Packers or the Chicago Bears. Apart from Cowboys and Steelers fans, the five previously mentioned teams own the Sioux Falls, South Dakota football consciousness, with the Vikings having a majority of the market share. As P. W. Herman would say. A loner. A rebel. Well, sort of anyway. Me and all the other fair weathers.

In the 80′s the 49ers were on television every Sunday, more or less. And for me, it all started with a Dwight Clark jersey and some 49ers wallpaper. By the time I donned my first San Fran jersey, “The Catch” was already four years old and the Niners had two of their five Super Bowls in the bag. But, because of the gold helmets, Joe Montana, Roger Craig (a Husker) the winning and my awesome jersey, I was a fan in a town owned by Purple.

From elementary school until my freshman year of college, it was easy to be a fan. Three more Super Bowls, two hall of fame quarterbacks, the greatest wide receiver (statistically) of all time and a no name defense that always got the job done pegged you as a guy who was destined to be a fair weather fan. I can’t tell you how many times I heard I’d be searching for a new team when the wins dried up.

Well, they did dry up. The Bill Walsh coaching lineage died off to make way for guys like Dennis Erickson, Mike Nolan and Mike Singletary. Ownership shifted from Eddie DeBartolo to his sister (seriously) and her husband. The good Dr. Jed York had been around the organization since Walsh, but hiring guys like Terry Donahue to select the talent and direction of the team screwed the organization like the last 20 years were something of a fading dream. 3Com Park, Monster Park, whatever it was named, it wasn’t the same.

What did I do? I reluctantly bought a dish, shelled out money for Sunday Ticket for a few years. I went to bars and restaurants with Sunday Ticket, usually arguing with a waitress or bartender on the point the 49ers and Seahawks game was a much better option than the Patriots and Colts. Sometimes I’d win, sometimes I’d lose. But I was there. Maybe it makes me an idiot, still supporting a team I was not in any remote proximity of.

I wore my Jeff Garica, my Julian Peterson and my Andre Carter jerseys with pride. Not proud pride, but the sort of  pride of someone who was under the delusion of knowing “this season will be different.” That Tim Rattay was good enough to get us a chance in the division.

My red and gold hats always got me a snicker or two in public. Watching grainy films from the 80′s run of Super Bowls I kinda remembered stung rather than filled me with any pride. Stumblin’ Steve Young’s run against the Vikings was a highlight most fans of Minnesota would recall and say “well, at least you were good. Once. Super Bowl and dynasty good. Better than I/we can say.” A small consolation for losing an endless amount of games in a row to the Rams.

Since I’ve lived in Kansas City, I’ve been live witness to a  combined 72-10 pounding at the hands of the hometown team. My Ronnie Lott jersey in 2006 might as well have been a middle finger inside of a bulls eye kicking a small child with cerebral palsy to the hometown fans.

Fast forward to this season, and it’s gone from pity and ridicule to being accused of fair weather fan-ery again. Donning my new Patrick Willis jersey, someone I know asked why I would stop being a Chiefs and jump ship for the Niners? The irony is this acquaintance of mine is a fan of a team who is the “current” dynasty. I told them about my faded  Carter jersey with the numbers practically washed off, and asked if they’d like it since he was now on the team they cheer for. All I got was a quizzical  look.

Whatever happens in the postseason this year. If Jim Harbaugh is a one hit wonder. If they Niners never make it back to another Super Bowl. I’ll still be here.

I know I said “briefly” at one point. That never works out.

Hope Solo's cover on SI

Soccer has gone back to normal, and with it the general interest in the sport as well. For a brief moment in July it seemed like some of America was actually interested. It was even women’s soccer, to boot. But all the while most fans temporarily embraced the ladies of the sport, its detractors shifted their focus from questioning the popularity of the game itself to “should we be interested because it’s women playing?”

Most people didn’t care because they dismiss, ignore or despise the sport. Whether it is the frustrating draws, the silly antics or exuberant, over the top celebrations (post-goal activities resemble James Brown in his heyday having to be helped off his knees while bringing soul to the masses in the sixties) most Americans are clearly not self-identified soccer fans.

But the group (of mostly guys) who wanted to dismiss it because of the fact the participants were female still shows a high disregard for women in sports. Ok, ok. I get the NBA and the WNBA are clearly at different skill levels, and you wouldn’t pit the women in the lingerie league against players from the NFL on a football field, but to not appreciate what happened in the last month for what it is because of gender brought to light a level of sexism in American sports I am clearly uncomfortable with.

Defending the dignity of women’s athletics is an untenable position to take with a group of male friends at the bar, but it’s one I chose to take a few weeks back while the U.S. Women’s National Team was charging toward the FIFA World Cup Final. I also sent out a few tweets regarding a lot of what was occupying my feed through the month-long tournament in Germany. I held my ground. I was a one man gang. But that’s the point. No one agreed with me or just made fun of my point of view.

If any of you men out there have kids, specifically girls, that are active in sports I’d like you to take a moment to tell them after they are done with soccer, volleyball or softball practice that when they grow up a vast majority of people in this country will not fully appreciate the time and dedication they are putting into their chosen sport(s). Hey, this means you, if you took the stance of some of my friends. Sure, when you’re a kid it’s just a game, but even at an early age we understand the competitive nature out there as well. This country is and was supposedly founded on it. And devaluing accomplishments and time served on the practice field because of gender is the truly indefensible stance to be taking.

I’m not here to convince anyone to enjoy the sport of soccer any more than what they can tolerate, and I didn’t really want to get too preachy when it comes to this subject. However, it was something I couldn’t and didn’t want to ignore any longer at the time. When it comes down to it, I guess I would hate to be the dad who could tell his daughter she wasn’t as important as a man just because of she is a she, regardless of what they were doing.

The Damned Things posing while trying not to.

I’ve seen some live music in my day. I’ve sneaked out of the house as a teenager to pile in a car on the way to Minneapolis with a case of beer. Growing up in Sioux Falls in the 90′s, it was a short list of artists who made their way in.

Living in Kansas City, it comes down to which band you want to see, and not just going out of necessity for some sort of live experience. It is a double-edged sword for yours truly, as you can see, I’m old and married. I have a mortgage, school and work obligations. Not to mention I reside in a town in the area which is the least conducive to driving downtown, where most shows take place.

In the rare instance I do venture out, it is for someone or group of someones I have an interest in seeing or already knew about. Tomorrow night, I’ll play the exception.

The Damned Things is a group I had no idea existed until a friend of mine told our group of friends about them. All I knew is there are two guys from Anthrax. In fact, the only guy you probably recognize if you aren’t 20 or younger (you’ll understand in a minute) is Scott Ian. The rest of the band is made up of two guys from the band Every Time I Die (not a huge fan) and the drummer and guitarist from (fuck) Fall Out Boy.

Let me divert my attention for a minute. I hate “emo” music. The aforementioned Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! At The Disco and Dashboard Confessional were bands from a genre I’m happy to say is now dead, if just dormant at the least. I debate internally which was worse. Emo, or Nu Metal?

The album from TDT is not spectacular, which is usually the case with patched together bands, but it is surprisingly solid. I’m a sucker for dueling lead guitars a la Thin Lizzy, so that helped tremendously.

“Ironiclast” (certainly not a fan of the album title) starts strong but sort of fizzles at points behind repeat riffage. But you’ll never hear me complain while heading to a place in town like Westport to catch a band on a Monday. It makes me feel alive a little. Not that I don’t otherwise (a needed disclaimer since my spouse reads this), but it’s hard to recreate the “six guys hopping in a van to see the Beastie Boys in The Cities” type of vibe when you’re 31. This is as close as it gets.

Uprooting when you are 26 to a brand new city was challenging in that the only person I really knew was my soon to be wife at the time. Leaving lifelong friends behind in the city you grew up in is never easy.

Now, I’ve collected some friends I hang out with on occasion. So I suppose it has something to do with it, too. When I first moved down here, I had zero guy friends. For someone who is not completely dependent on his female counterpart, it is a must. You know, male camaraderie. Even if it meant asking one of the guys I’m going with tomorrow night out on a man date. Trust me ladies, it happens.

I’m generally opposed to white people with dreads, but White Zombie rules. Still.

"Hey mom, I hate you."

From an early age in this country we are told we are all unique and we can grow up and be anything we would like to be. Do you ever find yourself in public and think to yourself, “some people take the snowflake principle a little too far?”

I know, we’ve all been there. You stop in a record store or go to a show and find yourself a little out of place. Not because of the context of the environment, but because you’re catching some hard stares from some scruffy and homeless looking individuals.

Now, before we get into this, you probably already know where I’m going. The hipster. They look like our friend to the left. Something that gets your attention, no? There are websites and other blogs about the autrefois passé of the hipster doing it better than me, however there are some things I would like to say regardless of this fact.

I look like a normal guy. An overweight normal guy. My closet nor my dresser has a Members Only jacket. Or a t-shirt with howling wolves. Although the screaming bald eagle is the new howling wolf. Just sayin’, so be on the lookout. (I do have friends who sport these articles from time to time, and I love them in spite of it. God, I despise disclaimers, but I feel like I owed it. Moving on…)

I like sports, like, a lot. My wife will let you know with a grumble that I own no less than 15 red t-shirts, 10 gray t-shirts, a few zip up jackets and stacks of hooded sweatshirts and jerseys all of which have some sports team on them. Nebraska, the Boston Red Sox (which hipsters and fraternity d-bags ruined for me for awhile) etc. are printed and stitched into the fabric of each shirt. I wear jeans most of the time, well, pretty much all the time and tennis shoes. Sometimes Doc Martins. Call me…90′s guy! At least by that last admission.

In describing my wardrobe and outward appearance you may think you could catch me at the next Nickelback concert. Or at a NASCAR race, or something. But what you may not realize is you may actually find me at a Best Coast show. Oh! Didn’t see that one coming did you? Did you?! Never heard of Best Coast until you Googled it just now? Yeah, I’ve been into her since 2009 before a lot of people knew the name of Bethany Cosentino. Although, I liked her better when she was still on Art Fag when she released “Sun Was High (So Was I)” on 7″. Her new stuff is ok, I suppose.

Annoying, isn’t it? Even when people attempt to break away from what they think are cookie-cutter and predetermined pop social constructs, they can’t outrun the fact the vintage tweet jacket with elbow patches, bow ties and Toms Shoes they are sporting actually propel them not into a heroic role in the worlds of social and fashion classes, but more into the archetype of a societal anti-hero.

I’m sure there are a select few who actually enjoy looking like they just held up a Savers super store for the merchandise, but most just have a hearty craving for attention, and wearing shutter shades is one way to get it at Denny’s at 3 a.m. while I’m trying to enjoy some Moon’s Over My Hammy.

Now, I’m not saying my way is the correct way to dress and present yourself. By all means, do what you do. But let’s stop pretending not showering and wearing a Michael P. Keaton tie is a form of expressing yourself. It’s just a way to get attention and fit in with other like-minded people, which is something we are all looking for, and have been looking for back when corduroy was still actually in fashion.

A bit of advice for you crazy kids, and aging kids (don’t think I forgot about you!) out there. If you see a dude with Nike’s that were made by a seven year old in Vietnam with jeans from Kohl’s and a 49ers t-shirt on at Liberty Hall in Lawrence getting down to some Animal Collective the next time they are there, just realize we have more in common than just the confused and disapproving stares we happen to be exchanging.

Slash hanging with Pittsburgh Steelers coach Mike Tomlin.

Actually, that caption is a lie and that is Will-I-Am in the picture, the leader of the Black Eyed Peas, or as they’ve come to be known as, the soul-crushing-black-hole-of-vapid-and-meaningless pop music. But the resemblance is uncanny, no?

Over 110 million people watched Super Bowl 45. And as far as I can remember, it contained some of the most epic moments in quite some time in terms of visual stimulation from the mistake-filled (Christina Aguilera’s rendition of the National Anthem), the horrific (the now infamous halftime show) to the boring (85% of the commercials) and to the exciting (the actual game). Just a quick note, my father-in-law predicted the length of Ms. Aguilera’s flawed version of the Star Spangled Banner to the second. Congrats, Louie.

To be honest, I was more excited to eat. I was the only person at my in-law’s who had his head on straight and wore pants with an elastic waistband. Hot wings, chicken burritos, pizza dip, hot dogs and potato skins make you fat. I guess I was the only pro on hand Sunday night.

The game, in my opinion, was solid. I mentioned to everyone I was watching the game with there hadn’t been a blowout in a Super Bowl for quite some time, which is cool because most Super Bowls I remember from being a kid were pretty damn boring. I believe the last one might have been when Tampa crushed the Oakland Raiders 48-21 in Super Bowl 37. Yes, 37. Why we still use Roman numerals is beyond me. Why don’t we use handy things like Egyptian hieroglyphs on road maps? Precisely.

I can’t say I care much for the Steelers or the Packers, but I cheered for the Pack because I felt guilty about cheering for a probable date rapist. Alleged date rapist. Whatever. I always thought he was sort of a douche anyway.

I did like the Packers’ story in the run up to the game. Injuries galore, narrowly getting into the postseason and then having to make a run away from Lambeau Field. Plus, I just really hate the goddamn Steelers and their obnoxious fans. And to top it off, Green Bay’s roster had a Husker and the Steelers had a Tiger, so there was a some college rooting interest in the Missouri friendly house I was watching the game at.

The cliffhanger Budweiser commercial sucked. The Doritos commercials were lame. Sorry, they were. And I pretty much forgot about the rest. The NFL commercial with the South Park clip at the end was a big bucket of win, as was the dogs serving Bud Light. Probably because of the two Great Danes in the clip. Other than that, not much to write home about when it comes to the part of the night people most tune in to watch other than the game itself. Oh, the chimps blocking the guy in his car was ok. I couldn’t fully commit because animals upright in people clothes freak me the fuck out. Yeesh, enough to give me goddamn nightmares in my 30′s.

The halftime show. Oh, the halftime show. Ever since middle America caught a glimpse of an unrestrained, black breast several years ago, pop acts were a big no-no. Your dad’s music was on display at halftime. Except that one where Prince played the shit out of his guitar in the rain, which was cool. The Who sucked last year, which I can only assume prompted the NFL to find a hot, hip pop act the kids were into. Too bad they didn’t ask any actual kids.

Soccer moms, eight-year-olds and my wife like the Black Eyed Peas. It was quite terrible. I fully subscribe to the theory their performance set music back a few decades. They played a medley of their “hits,” which was difficult to focus on because of the ridiculous multitude of other crap going on. “Dancers” in neon Tron suits, what I can only hope was a fake Slash, and Fergie growling into a microphone telling me to do something I can only guess I’m too uncoordinated to pull off, only I can’t remember what exactly that was.

If I smoked I would have had an excuse to get up and leave for a bit, but it was like watching a train wreck. Whoever was doing the sound mix for the performance must have been an intern from DeVry, because even that part of it sucked. As lame as I thought Paul McCartney was, I wouldn’t have minded some silly love songs instead of what I was witness to Sunday night.

Finally, leave it to ESPN, with their masters in hyperbole, to drool over Aaron Rodgers like he was the second coming of Johnny Unitas after the game. Yes, he’s a great quarterback and has a bright future. I agree he has solidified his position after taking over for Brett Favre a few years ago with the win, and YES I now wish the 49ers would have drafted him instead of Alex Smith… But come on, I think I heard no less than six or seven talking heads on the station proclaim he’s better than Favre. Let’s wait and see how it plays out maybe, ESPN? I know you guys don’t go overboard that often so I can forgive you just this one time, but let’s not do it again, ok?

Anyway…

Back when music (and Slash with Guns N’ Roses) was dangerous, and my mom hated it. Not something she could sing along with and the whole family could enjoy together…

I don’t think I could watch it in my home by myself, and I wonder who actually could. I think it illustrates the success of the UFC, it’s pure social entertainment. I’m sure there are some hardcore fight fans out there who can do this solo, but they probably beat off to “Bloodsport,” and I believe them to be the exception and not the rule.

An aside: one of the fighters is coming out to “Ice Ice Baby.” I always hated that song, and I never liked it in an ironic way, either. Fuck Vanilla Ice.

I don’t have anything against this stuff, but I’ve always found the public gathering to watch these fights bizarre, even though this isn’t the first time in human history we’ve gathered to watch nearly naked men fight.

I think I like it for the people watching. But I’m right in front of the big projection screens tonight, it’s hampering my ability to partake in one of my favorite pastimes.

Signing off from the world of Joe Rogan, dudes in shiny t-shirts and guys on giant televisions with their noses buried in their opponents buttholes.

Breckon Sports Center

I always wanted to find a way to integrate my coverage of Park University sports into this blog, but that’s not going to happen. So I did what any logical person would do and start yet another blog. This will solely focus on Park Pirate athletics. Tonight was my little debut, but far from the prying eyes of my adoring public, until now. So you can watch me as I practice writing and posting in “real time.” ‘

I’ll mainly cover men’s basketball and baseball in a few short weeks.  Hard to believe with two feet of snow still on the ground, but it makes the anticipation for baseball all the more palpable.

So, rather than just reading how poorly I write in a blogging sort of way, now you are witness to how poorly I can write in a practical, or traditional, manner. What else do you have to do in February besides forget your significant other on Valentines Day, watch the Super Bowl and send me something awesome for my birthday?

Oh yeah, the link. See, we’re off to a great start already. I entitled it Inside Breckon but not to be suggestive, so get your mind out of the gutter.

Thanks for ruining it, ESPN.

I remember a time when admitting I paid any amount of money to watch videos of high school boys play football garnered some suspicious glances. Now, it seems everyone is in on it.

Today, for the non-obsessed college football fan, was national signing day. The day where high school standouts fax in letters of intent to play for college football programs which have recruited them for the better part of the last 18 months.

It’s the big payoff for those, myself included, who will watch video of prospects, read articles out of football camps and give their take on a message board, most likely one belonging to their favorite team. It sounds silly, and it probably is.  Thirty year old guys should be worrying about climbing the corporate ladder, joining the PTA and becoming uncool. Not worrying about some 17-year-old in Mississippi and his 40 yard dash time.

It wasn’t always like this. The valuation of high school athletes was largely left to coaches and a scant amount of media. Even when I started paying attention to the recruiting craze back in 2001 (when I opened my own Rivals account) it was already commercialized. Since Snowmageddon: Day 2 had me marooned at casa de Swalley, it afforded me an opportunity I haven’t experienced.

I watched a small amount of ESPNU’s ten (yes, ten) hours worth of coverage on National Signing Day. Just long enough to see where ESPN ranked Nebraska (number 14, Rivals.com ranked them 15) in terms of prospective talent. This must be what it’s like to watch CNBC or Bloomberg, right?

What struck me, apart from the fact ESPN needed ten hours to cover about four hours worth of “action,” was the amount of depth and information compiled on even the most unranked of unranked athletes. With our nation fully engrossed in football madness, and in the age of communication we now find ourselves in, how much longer before we know who they are taking, or worse yet interested in who they are taking, to prom?

I wonder how long it will be before we are looking a little too deep into the lives of minors. Just as an example, an Ohio State recruit was arrested for allegedly fondling “as many as” eight girls. I love they reported that “as many as” part. Not that he shouldn’t be reprimanded if the allegations are true, but wow. It gives you some perspective.

I’ve always struggled a little bit with paying as much attention as I do, and my wife makes fun of me about it whenever she catches me in a heated debate on why an offensive lineman didn’t get a fourth star but clearly should have. Usually the day of signing or the weeks following I find myself wondering why I spend so much time following the recruiting process. Which is probably why I have my account renew in January.