As President Donald Trump chips away daily at our democratic republic, I find temporary easing of the pain by watching old western movies and sports. Herewith, several observations on the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.
While trapped in an evident brain fog, the lords of baseball envisioned a game between the Reds and Braves at an auto racetrack. Their Bristol Raceway game in Tennessee was a disaster from end to end. What were the anticipated benefits of covering the auto track’s infield with dirt, then laying on artificial turf and building temporary clubhouses for the players, as well as setting up a pittance of seating near the playing field? The vast majority of spectators were left to crane their necks, far from the action.
When a game-time monsoon let loose, the endless television hype rapidly devolved. More than two hours dragged by. If not for likely pressure from officials to make the game happen, it would have been postponed.
Finally, the game began. Twenty minutes later, the heavens again opened for business. Nevertheless, players were forced to remain on the field, absorbing what one announcer termed “sheets†of rain. Most MLB fields drain well, but not that turtle pond.
Once it had become clear that players were on the verge of swapping their spikes for waders, the game was suspended until the next afternoon. Following what forever shall be known as the Baptism at the Bay of Bristol, I modestly offer the team owners this free advice: Just play the games on Major League fields. Leave the gimmicks alone.
Football is nearly upon us. It comes with some welcome changes in the professional game, rules that have been adjusted to emphasize the “foot†in football. Specifically, kickoffs into the endzone will advantage the receiving team to begin its play at the 35-yard-line (up from the 30 last year and the 25 in years past). Thus, on most kickoffs, a player will run it back, rather than giving us yet another boring kneel-down. Also, each team will now get a possession in overtime, even if the initial possession results in a touchdown. The football rules committee and team owners have tossed a pair of TDs.
All college sports, other than at some of the smallest schools, are now professional. The coaches and media are cleaning up. Why not the players? All college athletes are now free agents, able to move to a new team at the drop of a bank deposit. The chief drawback is that fans will now watch their team’s promising first-year players develop into stars somewhere else.
The WNBA is on fire, thanks to Indiana Fever star Caitlin Clark. Upon her entrance into the league, attendance shot up about 50%. Teams that used to play in high school gyms now sell out 17,000-seat arenas. She drops bombs from 6 feet beyond the 3-point line and led the league in assists last year, as a rookie. Clark, the WNBA and its other stars now are routinely present in television ads, a certain sign of the league’s giant leap forward. Among established players, there is some jealousy of the attention to Clark, who is a sort of female Jerry West. But her arrival hasn’t stopped them from smiling all the way to the bank.
Unfortunately, my brief escapes into sports have not entirely insulated me from the taint of Trump. Last week, in an act of perfect symmetry with his Epstein file fiasco, Trump named a sex criminal to the President’s Council on Sports, Fitness and Nutrition. The new member is former New York Giant footballer Lawrence Taylor who, in 2010, was arrested on rape and prostitution charges in connection with a 16-year-old girl. He pleaded guilty to reduced charges and is forever required to register as a sex offender.
Joseph Wyatt is a Gazette-Mail contributing columnist and emeritus professor at Marshall University. Reach him at Wyatt844@hotmail.com.
