Jealous Again

Back sometime in the Pleistocene I played goalkeeper for a formidable intramural soccer squad at my alma mater. In the all-comers semifinal match, we fought another strong squad to a scoreless tie through regulation and two overtimes. Skip Morris' (yeah, that Skip Morris) successful conversion in the fifth round of the shootout gave us a one-goal advantage and brought our opponents' best player to the penalty spot facing a must-make kick.

I bounced up and down in the goalmouth, trying for all the world to make my 5'5" frame look bigger, then crouched low as the opposing player began his run to the ball. As he hit it, I sprung to my left (because, in sports as in politics, I have a hard time going right) and extended my left arm to its admittedly underwhelming limit. My searching fingertips found the ball an instant before it dented the netting, deflecting it beyond the goalpost and harmlessly over the touch line, our victory assured.

I leapt from the ground and faced my onrushing teammates and fraternity brothers, both fists clenched in victorious defiance. As they lifted me off the ground in celebration, I experienced the moment for one of the few times in my athletic career. The moment, that singular point in time where an athlete finds himself or herself elevated by dint of an exceptional performance coupled with exquisite timing. For the sublimely talented, it's where circumstance, training, and physical fortune meet to celebrate the athlete's gifts for all of us to see.

Carlton Fisk had one in Game 6 of the 1975 ALCS. Mike Eruzione got one midway through the 3rd period of the penultimate game of the 1980 Winter Olympic Hockey tournament. Brandi Chastain celebrated hers by taking off her shirt.

The moment needs theater, it needs import and grandeur. As spectacular as it was, Curtis Granderson's hyper-athletic leaping catch of Wily Mo Pena's drive on Sunday wasn't a moment because it was a midseason game with several innings to go.

Adam Vinatieri's kick to beat the Rams in Super Bowl XXXVI qualifies, as does the kick he made to beat the Raiders to get the Pats into the game.

My moment brought momentary joy to maybe three dozen hungover fratguys, and even though it still makes me smile to think about that save, it's a private memory. The moment makes everyone in the arena stand agape, stunned at their good fortune, amazed by the event. It provides fodder for the entire sporting world in perpetuity. Jack Buck couldn't believe what he just saw during Kirk Gibson's moment against Dennis Eckersley in the 1988 World Series, and every one of you know immediately what I'm talking about.

We all have a wealth of individual memories that tell the story of our journeys, and to each of us, those memories mean the world. But very, very few of us get to view those memories through the prism of the sporting world's acclaim. So this week I'm spending my allotment of deadly sin on those unique athletes that have their moment on the big stage, whose individual triumphs in the moment become the stuff of cultural legend. I want one shot at that electric rush that surely consumes you the instant you realize you just changed the world, when everything goes graveyard silent and the air leaves the building - only to rush back in a billion flashes of color and the deafening locomotive roar of the crowd.

So, yeah, I'm jealous of Aaron Boone. May his meniscus be infected by fire ants.

Jump in the comments below and tell G:TB about the moments we missed.

Jealous Again

I turn 37 later this week, a rather useless placeholder on the overall birthday roster. I don't get any new privileges, my insurance rates stay the same, and I'm one click on the dial closer to 40. I thought about doing something futile and stupid in celebration, like getting a tattoo or piercing something, but my time for those things has passed. Instead, I'm commemorating the passing of another year by inaugurating a futile and stupid semi-regular feature here at G:TB.

By most measures (except height - most definitely not height) I'm a reasonably successful incarnation of the modern American middle class male. Like most of us, I harbored dreams in early childhood of playing professional sports, then realized I hated horses so my only realistic avenue closed fairly early in life. I'm a realist by nature, so I moved on, wanting to be a sportswriter before spending time in press boxes and realizing what miserable douchewhistles most scribes become after a few years on the job.

Around that time, I decided I could be a Division I athletic director, or the GM of a professional franchise. Coincidentally and fortunately, I concurrently realized that while I'm a fairly bright lad, I'm also substantially lazy. The dreams of the young die hard, though in my case they mostly just laid down and took a nap. One of the artifacts of this history is a lifelong fascination and appreciation for those among us that are able to pour their hearts, souls, and time into the pursuit of, well, of anything that matters to them. Frankly, I'm jealous.

In the first installment of "Jealous Again", we examine the Theo Epstein phenomenon. His hiring as the General Manager of the Boston Red Sox in 2002 at the age of 28 triggered an epidemic of what-have-I-done-with-my-life soul searching amongst a certain segment of Red Sox Nation, present company very much included. On the surface, he's a lot like me - lifelong Sox fan, smart as a whip, willing to put in backbreaking effort to achieve success...oh, right.

Upon learning more about Theo in the myriad stories written about his ascension to the dream job of legions, and the single-minded dedication and massive amount of work he put in to be successful, it was that "oh, right" realization that erased any predisposition towards irrational jealousy. I'm nothing if not self-aware, and I know damn well that I'm not willing to work that hard for anything, so my jealousy in this case leans more towards the awestruck variety.

From day one with the Sox, despite predictable missteps here and there, Theo's proven to be up to the job and then some. In a town where he could be a rock star (and sometimes pretends to be one), his aversion to publicity and low-key persona have elevated him to near-mythic status. With the 2004 World Series under his belt and a historically unprecedented run of success for the Sox during his tenure, Theo's place in Boston lore is already secure, right down to the gorilla suit he wore to escape the hungry press corps.

At 33 Theo Epstein's been GM of one of sports' most visible franchises for nearly 5 years. He's overseen the team's first championship in 86 years, directed the organization to 3 playoff appearances in 4 seasons with a strong shot at making it 4 for 5 and rebuilt the farm system. He's done it while bucking many of baseball's long-held truisms. Despite his aversion to personal publicity, he's leveraged his local fame extensively in support of a broad range of charitable efforts. He plays guitar in a rock band and recently married a really gorgeous girl. Hell, he succeeds in family selection - his brother-in-law wrote Capote. Even Yankee fans have to tip their cap.

So I return to this: am I jealous? Without question, if only because that description is more socially acceptable than man-crush. So here's to you, Theo, you nose-to-the-grindstone bastard. Long may you reign.