As a kid, sports were my ultimate interest, since I wasnt thinking about strange, and why I wasnt getting any, at the time. And my first instinct, being a kid, was to try and play sports, competitively.
Which meant that the first thing I really learned about sports was that I sucked big fat donkey dick at them.
And to say the least, I never unlearn it. Every once in a while I take to a basketball court and remind myself of that fact with terrible, terrible play. Im no Weekend Warrior . I have no illusions.
Football? Bad. Baseball? Worse than bad. Basketball? Tragic. Softball? I dont look so horrible with girls playing, but I still suck. Pretty much across the board, its the same sad story.
Not that Im pressed about it. Im thirty, Im going bald, I pay fucking bills, I dont toss and turn thinking about what a basket case I am/was at the one thing I ever write about. But Im feeling like total disclosure. So in the spirit of Target, Observe and Ridicule, turned inward, I present just a few of Yours Trulys Worst Moments In Sports. I dont know why youd care, but I hope you get a little bit of a kick out of it.
Never Surrender! (Cory Hart Memorial Meltdown)
The last game of the 1985 KABC H-League season. I was ten. We were 3-8 going into the game, and if I recall correctly, we lost, 26-0. Somehow they mixed in some field goals and touchdowns with all the runs they were scoring. I struck out late in that game, sat down on the plate, and refused to move. It must have been a called third strike. It took my mom to convince me to get off my ass and go back to the bench. Christ.
I spent about ten years claiming I didnt remember this happening, because a couple of guys who were on the field that day used to bring it up in high school. Theyd always bring it up: Hey Jesse, remember that time you struck out and sat on home plate and refused to move?
Id be like, I dont remember that shit, and I remember everything.
Of course I remembered everything. I generally dont like to lie, but I will in certain situations, felt I had to in this case, and did. I was surrounded by my high school friends- the biggest bunch of unconscionable ball-breakers on the planet.
Nice Own-Goal (Death in Columbia)
When I was in middle school I jined up with a spring soccer team. It was a bunch of kids from neighboring Brimfield, or as we locals like to call it, Brim-tucky. Me being from hoity-toity Kent, I was a little bit of an outcast at first, but a joke of questionable racial tastes warmed everybody up, and pretty soon I was as tight with these cats as if I was a lifelong resident of Brim-tucky itself. Im not above being crass, if thats what it takes for me to fit in. Thats pretty admirable, isnt it? Very Costanza-like.
So anyway, were playing down in Hartville (Amish people live there) one Saturday morning, back in the spring of 1988, when the members of Johnny Hates Jazz thought Shattered Dreams was only the first of a string of hits. Early in the game a loose ball came bouncing out in my direction. I booted it back toward our goalie, so he could clear it out. Intentions- good. Execution- poor. I kicked it too damn hard, a hot worm-burner that bounced right past the surprised goalie into the net. An own-goal, the kind that puts you in the trunk of a car within 48 hours in some parts of the world.
The goalie was a chunky, foul-mouthed kid with a mullet that was excessive even by the relaxed standards of 1988, and sometimes he would fake-applaud and drop junior high f-bombs on his fullbacks after a goal. He really didnt say much to me on this one. Maybe he was a little stunned. I was certainly mortified.
Then I fucked things up worse.
Less than a minute later our forwards turned the ball over and an opposing player got loose on a breakaway. Still brooding over my own-goal, I got caught out of position, and he got ahead of me. My only recourse was to come up behind the opposing player and knock him over in the penalty box. That resulted in a penalty kick. The kick was successful.
I loudly petitioned our coach, an amiable Rich Hall look-a-like, to take me out of the game before I gave up a third goal. He replied that he couldnt, and for good reason- we didnt have any substitutes. So I had to stay out there. Actually, I played pretty well. I knocked some kids over, I scored no more own-goals, handed out no more free kicks, and our team came back and won. But still- two goals given up in a minute, by a fullback? Thats a meltdown of spectacular proportions, at any level of the game.
Could You Keep Score? (Because You Suck)
I wasnt much of a baseball player. Well, actually I was terrible. I could run a little and catch a fly ball that came my way, but in terms of arm strength, I was a Little League version of Ben Grieve. And I was, frankly, afraid of the ball. Some guys arent, some guys are. I was. I guess Im just a pussy like that.
Im not going to put into numbers my lifetime batting average. I have it generally figured out, with some margin for error. If I said I was at, above, or even near the Mendoza Line, Id be padding heavily.
But the coach who drafted me for my final year of Little League in 1989 thought I was good. Initially. Mainly because Id played his team two years earlier, and had done well, collecting two hits and three steals as well as mixing in a sliding catch in center (yes, I just told you my Little League stats from 20 years ago; G-d love you if youre still reading this). Apparently no one informed the coach that these were the only two hits I got all that season.
So I played quite a bit early in the season, back in the summer Roxette tore up the charts, but before too long, the scales dropped from the coachs eyes. I didnt have the look, so to speak. My path to the bench was straight and direct. By mid-season I was rarely in the lineup. The coach and my teammates didnt mind having me around, though. I kept things loose, I was always down for talking baseball, I was a solid clubhouse guy (even though we didnt have a clubhouse), and most importantly, I was good at keeping up-to-the-minute statistics.
This unlikely skill bore a little bittersweet fruit at the end of the season, in our Hot Stove Tournament first-round game. We had ten guys in uniform for that game. Nine played. I kept the scorebook.
Thing I really remember was when the opposing scorekeepers met at the plate to exchange lineup cards prior to the contest. Out of the other teams stands came an older lady, a mother or grandmother of one of the players. I clip-clopped out of our dugout in full uniform, stirrup socks (worn high), and cleats. There were girls watching the game. They werent impressed. You know what? I wasnt impressed either.
Could You Keep Score? (Because You Suck) Part II
My last stab at organized sports came in high school, when I went out for football as a junior. Id never played organized football at any level, so at least I knew this was a pipe dream from the get-go. I just wanted the experience.
And, as I expected, I was far down the depth chart. I was actually listed as the third strong safety, but the truth was, it would have taken a hell of a lot more than two injuries to get me on the field in a critical situation. Maybe a superflu epidemic, with me as Harold Lauder.
I played in five varsity games my junior season. The scores of those games at the time of my entrance were 38-0, 48-0, 28-0, 42-6, and 42-7. Kent Roosevelt head coach John Nemec wasnt averse to giving Yours Truly some PT, but he made sure his bets were covered before he did.
Nevertheless, I had fun as a junior. We were a good team and I was just jazzed to be along for the ride. Then I made the mistake of playing as a senior. Why I did this, Ill never know. I just didn't read the handwriting on the wall.
Coach Nemec actually tried to talk me out of playing as a senior. He urged me to hang up my jersey and keep statistics in the press box. I turned him down- I want to play, Coach!
With hindsight, I consider that one of the worst decisions I ever made.
Not getting playing time as a senior sucks about a hundred times worse than not getting playing time as a junior. I wasnt even on special teams. And the other guys on the team had a funny idea of what exactly I was doing in the locker room and on the sidelines. They were always asking me how many computer points we had, or what their individual stats were. I wore a uniform and a helmet, took showers with the team, and got in free to the games, but they didnt make the connection. Neither did Coach Nemec.
Our third game of the season was against Akron East. I dont know how it is in your neck of the woods, but around here, urban high schools are almost uniformly terrible in football. There are exceptions to this, but Akron East has never been one of them. We blew open the game in the second half. With time running out in the fourth quarter we had a 34-0 lead. It was officially my time. I positioned myself at a strategic spot just over Coach Nemecs shoulder, waiting for the inevitable call, Lamovsky! Get in there at monster back!
The call never came. I was the only player on the team who didnt play in the game. Even the pussy sophomores who were scared to play scout team got some PT. Not me. Oops.
As it turned out, it wasnt malicious intent or a rude judgment of my abilities on Coachs part that kept me on the sidelines. What happened was, Coach Nemec forgot I was on the team. Had he remembered, he would have put me in. I know this, because he told me a few days later, when he was apologizing profusely for not sending me in. Of course I would have played, he said, if hed, you know, remembered. I said I understood. Coach Nemec was a big man around town. I was small fry. Maybe he thought Id taken him up on his stats offer?
I did finish with two tackles for my high school football career. The second and last one came in our final game. Playing on the kickoff team, I slipped on a muddy field and the return man tripped over my prostrate body. I got credit for the tackle. I heard the PA announcer say my name. I got up out of the mud and snowy slush and thought, fuck yeah! I exist! Peace!
I was there Posted: 12/17/2005by: Jason Unless that whole sitting-on-the-plate-and-refusing-to-move thing happend more than once, I was at that 26-0 shellacking of which you spoke so fondly. To be more precise, I was part of the shellackers. Discount Golf, baby. I guess I was also part of the the biggest bunch of unconscionable ball-breakers on the planet. Sorry about that. Replies Posted: 12/17/2005by: Jesse L. Thanks for the comments, people.
Kayvon- Thank you, and you made a great point. This was just my way of coming clean with the people who read my stuff every week. I may say that such-and-such sucks or whatever, but fundamentally, I respect athletes for being able to do something which I know from first-hand experience takes a tremendous amount of talent and sweat to do well. It cant be easy to be a professional or college athlete. And I do think some writers resent the guys they cover for their gifts (also because quite a few pro athletes are pricks, but anyway). I dont. Some guys have it, some guys dont, but thats no reason to be a hater.
Matt- Ugh. Ive been hearing that Rudy shit for 12 years now. At least my first tackle, as a junior, was legit- I smoked this dude on a kickoff return and did a Shane Dronett windmill-arm gesture afterwards. Its probably a good thing I only got one solid tackle in my career.
Atlas- You know, Ill never regret playing, at least the first year. Like I said, it was an experience. I spent time around and with people I never would have gotten to know otherwise, got to see the complexities and kindnesses of guys I only knew by reputation- usually fearsome- and that in itself made it a rewarding experience. Plus it got me in great fucking shape. And I had a cool number- #36. Thats Chris Spielmans college number!
Bruno- An answer to your question: If I have a son, I just want him to be interested in something. Be it football, chess, fishing, music, computers, cars, whatever- as long as he has some sort of passion, and isnt just some sullen lump sitting on the couch. And if it isnt sports, so be it. Im not counting on some kind of athletic renaissance out of my next generation anyway. And I havent met my wife yet (or have I? Who knows), but knowing my tastes, shell be even less athletic than I am.
Thanks again, guys. Wasnt sure about this piece, but Im glad yall liked it.
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I remember being a good defensive 2nd basemenwhen I played little league like my favorite player after Mike Piazza, Eric friggin' Young. But I couldn't hit at all. And this was a league where the coaches pitched to you as if you were a kid that wore a batting helmet during the rest of the day, not just when you batted.
I'm a regular Kareem out there when I play basketball. And it's not just because I can shoot a skyhook over all my short Mexican friends from the neighborhood. Actually, yeah it is.
As usual Posted: 12/16/2005by: matt great read, Jesse. I knew my limts , physically at least, as in football. Not too many 150lb lanky guys out there unless they were standing behind a tee or 15 uayds back behind tehe ong snapper. I was always good enough to make basketball and baseball, but never good enough to start. The last story reminded me of Rudy. That guy had one sack his entire career, you had 2 tackles. Could there me a movie in the future called "Jesse." p.s. I assume anybody that played hs sports looked at lineup numbers with bewilderment. Alwys seemed they added 10 lbs and 2 inches to everyone. very brave Posted: 12/16/2005by: kayvon I think there are many more of us that can totally relate to this article than we would like to admit. In the field of sports journalism, personal athletic achievements all too frequently play into the writer's established or alleged ethos, which makes this article very refreshing.
4+ MFDS's as usual. Hells Yeah Posted: 12/16/2005by: MEH Well done, Jesse. To have the balls to tryout when you had very little hope is impressive as hell. I've always loved the pigskin, and sandlot it whenever I can, but to play in high school? Yeah right. Congrats. Fucking Hilarious Posted: 12/16/2005by: Atlas I wish I knew you because that would probably make it that much funnier. I was pretty good at football but was absolutely terrible at baseball so I can sympathize with you there. I never understood why guys like you would go through the hellish 2 a days and daily practice to never get on the field. At least you turned those experiences into a kick ass article. Great post Posted: 12/16/2005by: JimHL Sitting on the plate. Brilliant.
