Sometimes Bad Is Good

In curling, 9-1 is bad. Not "too many cats, too few litter boxes" stinking ... no, it's more like "a skunk got in the car and now the doors won't open" stinking.

But I don't care. You know why I don't care?

'Cause I played in that game.

Not only did I play in that game, see that number "one" up there? The lower half of 9-1?

That was my stone. And, at that point, that made the score 1-1 after three ends.

Yes, my team fell apart after that. Yes, we didn't score another point. Yes, we conceded after seven ends.

But I played a curling match, and I was bad.

Trust me, bad is an improvement. I was mind blowingly, jaw droppingly, heart-stoppingly horrible before Thursday.

Thursday at the Potomac Curlng Club is one of their two drop-in leagues. Before the league, they have a 45-minute lesson along the lines of the Open House session. ("This is the ice, that is TEFLON, watch us try not to laugh as you bring the two together.") But during that time, FL (pronounced eff ell) was kind enough to work with a couple of us who were having trouble delivering the stone.

Under her tutelage, I actually got the stone over the hog line (curler for "you got the stone far enough we won't laugh at you and push the rock out of play"). Once, I even got the stone into the house (curler for "red and blue rings where you actually score points").

I was excited. If I wasn't wearing TEFLON on one foot or standing on the ice, I would have jumped up and down. Instead, I high fived FL.

Then the game started. In this league you play eight ends (curler for "inning"). Normally curling rinks (curling for "team") have four members and each member throws two stones per end. We were short-handed Thursday night, so we had three-person rinks ... which meant I had to throw three stones each end.

Rick and Russ were the unfortunate individuals stuck with me on their team. They were both very supportive and offered some great tips.

Scott, David and Sarah were fortunate enough to play against us. To be honest, Sarah and I were about evenly matched. Rick, though, had an off night and David was on. Our two skips (curler for "the guys who scream all the orders and throw the stones last") were pretty evenly matched.

After one end, it was scoreless. They scored one in the second end, and then came the third end. Somewhere in my three stones, I tucked one behind a guard on the left side of the house which no one got rid of. Thus, 1-1 after three.

From then on, we couldn't really get anything going. I could not find a consistent weight (curler for "how hard you throw the stone") and Rick couldn't find his handle (curler for "which way the rock turns"). They scored every end after that.

My best shot didn't score. It wasn't the shot the skip had called for. No skip even slightly sane ... oh hell, no skip not wearing a straightjacket in a rubber room ... would ask me for a shot beyond the "try to put it in play" variety.

I may never be good enough to ever try for this shot if given the opportunity.

But I made it.

In the fourth end, the skip called for me to put up a guard (curling for "a stone not in the rings, but directly in line with a stone that is"). I didn't. I threw the stone too hard and too far to the right to be a guard.

My rock hit off one of the other team's rocks, knocking their stone out of scoring position. (This is a good thing.) Then my rock rolled to the left, winding up behind another stone. (This is an even better thing.)

Yeah, yeah, I know. It wasn't what the skip asked for, so it wasn't a good shot, but even he was smiling when I finished.

Even the most veteran curler can appreciate beginner's luck when he sees it.

Sure, the other team wound up scoring that end, but not by getting rid of my rock (which was really well protected), but by making a couple of very good shots that left their stones closer to the center.

It wasn't what the skip asked for, it wound up not scoring, but I will remember that shot for the rest of my life ... and I still can't tell you about the shot that actually counted for the point.

We conceded early (curler for "we gave up after only seven ends"), then they got to buy us drinks. There's something to be said for losing in curling -- the winners have to clean the ice and buy the losers drink.

So I have now actually curled. And I am getting better.

But Debbie McCormick had nothing to worry about.

Traumas Adventures in Curling

To those who have wondered: No, I have not repressed the curling lesson as some sort of life-altering trauma and thus not blogged about it. I just got busy. Really busy.

Okay, I spent part of two days at a curling tournament. But that's busy, isn't it?

To be honest, the Saturday Learn to Curl session, while embarrassing, was not traumatic. At least not to me. I think the glazed look on Michael's face at the bonspiel (which is curler for "tournament") on Saturday morning was probably a vestige of trying to teach me on the previous Saturday. The poor man (dubbed, by me, Michael of the Superhuman Patience) may never recover.

As a recap, I spent Saturday, October 14 flailing around an ice surface trying desperately to prove the people who named it Learn to Curl liars. I did many things that day. I'm not sure how much of it was learning ... or curling.

To be fair, all of the instructors did a very good job.

The day started with the obligatory "watch as we put TEFLON on one foot and try desperately not to laugh at you" segment. While I have not attended the Instructor Clinics offered by the Club (through the auspices of The United State Curling Association, I am convinced that the first test you must pass before they let you torment instruct beginning curlers is not to laugh as people stand on one leg while the other performs some complicated sliding maneuver that has nothing to do with curling (or grace, or balance, or anything other than providing entertainment to those who have managed, somehow, to conquer this utter cancellation of friction).

My great fear at this point was that the Learn to Curl would turn out to be nothing more than an extended version of the Open House session from two days before.

Hah! If only.

On the good side, they did give a great explanation on how to make the rock curl (in case your curiosity is getting the better of you, you point the handle at the rock to either "2" or "10" o'clock and move it to noon in a gradual motion as you release it -- there, don't you feel better knowing that?). This made me happy.

Happy. Remember happy. Happy is a good place. Remember getting the rock to curl "just so."

Then we started the whole delivery process.

As a refresher, the delivery is done by placing your one stable (aka, foot without TEFLON) into a rubber starting block type of device and pushing off from there, while your other foot (the one with TEFLON on the bottom) slides down the ice. Oh, and you're crouching at this point. It should look like this. *sigh* Mine doesn't. Mine doesn't even look close. I have no balance over my right foot (I'm a leftie, so reverse the image I just showed you -- the right foot is the slippy one for me). I don't have a lot of balance over my right foot while crouching just on bare floor and with no TEFLON. You can imagine just how little ice and TEFLON improve matters.

During the open house, we got to practice the push off using two stones and without letting go.

Remember when I said the Learn to Curl was different than the Open House? We didn't do the two stones bit. We didn't even do the one stone and the broom without letting go of the rock.

We just did the "see that bull's eye 90 feet from here? do what Michael just did and aim the stone for those rings" bit instead.

Yeah. It worked just about as well as you think it did. In fact, it probably failed even more spectacularly than your well-developed imagination can picture.

The fall I took on Thursday an act of grace that would have earned 6.0s from the judges (except the Russian judge, who would have given me a 4.3) compared to what I did on Saturday. I teetered to the left. I teetered to the right. I managed to get my left foot in front of me. (Go back and read my description of what the delivery is. If you can figure out how I got my left leg in front of me, please comment immediately because I still don't know.)

A few throws in, a number of people (including me) wondered aloud and in Michael's general direction about the efficacy of my using a stabilizer. It helps. Perhaps it helps more than sponge helps in drying up Niagara Falls. Perhaps not.

No, to be honest, through the constant encouragement of Michael, Steph and Jeff (who were a couple and every bit as cute as the rhyming names suggest) and Pat (a high schooler with more patience than someone of his tender years should have), I persevered. I even curled in the short game at the end.

You know, I could leave it there and let you think that I actually made a contribution to the team by placing some rocks in useful positions. My contribution to the team was giving the guys sweeping practice (not that sweeping would help ... sweeping -- by the best in the business -- only adds five to ten feet). They swear I was getting better. Jeff even swore that I got one stone past West Germany. (It's complicated ... there are a number of flags along one wall of the club. West Germany's flag is a bit more than halfway down the ice.)

Oh, I swept well. Well, if the rock wasn't travelling too fast. If the rock was travelling too fast, I put safety first (which is what they teach you) and waved bye-bye.

So, have I given up? No.

I attended the bonspiel last weekend as a spectator (but then I knew I could watch curling ... I've been doing that for quite awhile now). But I'm going back. Tomorrow. To play in an actual game.

Oh, there is a lesson beforehand, too. Something tells me Michael will be as far as he possibly can be from the club tomorrow night. I don't blame him.

Photographic Evidence

I will post more later, but I did want to share ....

Evidence That I Curled.

I'm not saying which one is me, but I will confess that I'm "featured" in the "falling down" section (at least there were four or five others). And I'm in the background in a few other shots.

I'm also in the background in some of the "Learn to Curl" photos.

While I'm linking to those photos, I will point out Michael of the superhuman patience. He got stuck teaching me and was amazingly supportive.

Until I have the time to post more fully, I can tell you this: it is possible to have sore muscles in your neck that make it next to impossible to eat an apple without cutting it up first.

Trust me on this.

Teflon and Ice Don't Mix

For those who know me, the following post will elicit an "it's about time" comment. For the rest of you, it's probably more along the lines of "why in the world did you bother?" reaction.

I went curling last night.

Okay, that's an overstatement. Curling is an actual sport where talented individuals slide 42-pound rocks toward a target some 90+ feet away, angling for the best position after 16 stones are thrown. There are other talented individuals who race down the ice as fast as the stone, sweeping hard enough to melt the pebbled ice just so that the stone can travel farther or straighter.

Key words that make it clear that what I did last night was NOT curling: talented, slide, 90+ feet, 16 stones, race, sweeping hard.

What I did last night can best be summed up with this description: a very clumsy individual tried desperately to balance on ice while wearing TEFLON on one foot and made desperate attempts to push a stone farther than I fell. Oh, I did so-so on the sweeping, as long as the stone was travelling really, really, REALLY slowly.

To back up a bit: The Potomac Curling Club graciously held an open house last night to infect gullible idiots encourage fans of the sport to take it up.

I had done my homework. Heck, I'd been an avid curling fan since the 2006 Olympics. I have my subscription to CurlTV and spend a good deal of time at The Curling Zone and The Curling News blog. I have bought The Black Book of Curling (even if it hasn't arrived yet) and subscribed to The Curling News.

I knew it wasn't easy.

But I didn't know how hard it really was.

Three friends and I descended on the curling club (a four-sheet club that is part of a HUGE ice skating/hockey complex (three rinks!) outside of Washington, DC. I dragged them along, although they all were good sports and seemed to have a decent time despite injuries and pain.

The stretching was fine. I can stretch. I can't stretch well, but it seldom involves fearing for my life.

Then they put a slider on my shoe.

For those who have never curled, a slider is a device that attaches to your shoe so you can slide when delivering the stone. The bottom of this instrument of torture is Teflon. Let me tell you here and now, there is a huge difference between "sliding" and "putting Teflon on the bottom of your foot and removing all friction in the known universe."

Just standing became an issue. First secret I learned -- the brooms are really there to give beginning curlers something to keep them from falling over as often. Second secret I learned ... always step onto the ice with the non-slippy shoe first, and step off of the ice with the slippy shoe first.

Third secret: "thunk" is not a good sound. One friend fell at the first station (which was basically the "this is ice, that is Teflon, we're going to laugh hysterically as we watch you try to cope in a world where the two come in contact with each other"). She went from vertical to horizontal without seeming to pass through any intermediate positions. Her head went "thunk." "Thunk" is not a good sound. Fortunately, she got up quickly and rejoined the group before we got to the next station.

Fourth secret: curling is a lot easier when you're pushing two stones and not required to let go of either one of them.

At the second station, they taught us how to push off from the hack. (The hack is a small rubber thing that you put your non-slippy foot in so you can completely lose any balance you ever had.) In this exercise, we pushed off with a curling stone in each hand. I'm not good at this by any means, but I am a helluva lot better than I am pushing off with a broom and a stone, or (heaven forbid) actually having to let the stone go.

(Fifth secret: Sometimes it hurts worse when it doesn't go "thunk." At this station, while simply moving to get off the ice, another one of my group fell onto her wrist. From that point forward, she sat and watched with ice on her wrist.)

Very few of your here probably remember Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In, but they had a old-man character played by Arte Johnson who would ride a tricycle slowly, eventually falling over.

If you change the image from an old-man to a middle-aged woman, and a tricycle into a Teflon shoe, you'd get the same effect. I push off. I go a few feet (barely to the button for those who know the layout). My momentum runs out. I tip over.

This pattern changed little as I moved from the "hold on to two stones and don't let go" station to the "hold on to the stone and use your broom for balance but don't actually release the stone" station.

With this level of ineptitude skill under my belt, they actually asked me to let go of the stone.

The comparison between that old man on the trike and me became painfully obvious when we got to the "the game requires actually letting go of the stone" station.

Yeah, it worked about as well as you think it did. I think I got it to go about halfway down the ice. Maybe. Okay, I'm probably exaggerating.

(Give me credit, though. I did not -- as two of my friends did -- resort to trying the long stick thing that allows you to deliver a stone without even bending over.)

Sixth secret: sweeping isn't as hard as it looks. In fact, it was actually kind of fun and I could do it ... albeit slowly. I can actually see myself getting better at that.

At this point, the lesson ended, and the comedian running the final station (the "letting go of the rock is kinda crucial" station) invited us to join in a practice game. There was no way I was ruining the sport for anyone else.

Today? Today, I'm not nearly as sore as I thought I would be. My back's tender, and there's one small place on my thigh that's acting as though it wants to complain, but can't quite work up the energy.

So I've tried it.

And I'm going to try it again.

Yes, I was horrible at it. Yes, with my utter lack of coordination and grace, this is probably not the sport for me to participate in. Yes, I felt foolish and frustrated.

But I liked it.

So I've signed up for a three-hour course on Saturday. (And please notice that the course description starts with "safety on ice." They're kidding, of course. They're putting Teflon on your foot, putting you on the ice, then telling you to be careful.)

Saturday will probably be my "fish or cut bait" session. If I don't ever see myself pushing out from the hack and getting near the hog line, or delivering a stone over the hog line at the other end (on my sheet -- you'll notice I didn't even talk about my aim in my earlier description), I may have to rethink this. If I see even a little progress ...?

Well, let's just say you'll hear all about it right here.

Don't you feel lucky?

Glee

*bounce*

He's not fully himself yet, but it's him. And he's back.

Peter Gammons wasn't just at the game Saturday, but he was interviewed!

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The World Is A Better Place Today Than Yesterday

I watch a lot of sports on TV. A LOT. This means that very few personalities actually cause me to sit up and take notice, or delay turning off the TV if I am about to leave the house.

Actually, there's one. And one only. Peter Gammons.

For those who aren't sports fans, Peter Gammons changed the way baseball was covered -- from his exhaustive rolodex to his weekly notes column. Whenever he opened his mouth, he said something valuable, insightful or funny for the baseball fan.

Earlier this summer, Peter suffered a brain aneurysm. Just as the baseball season was heating up, he was in a hospital fighting for his life. In July, he left the hospital quietly and with a plea from his wife for privacy.

Most of the baseball season has gone by without him ... and the baseball season is lessened by that absence.

But today, the sun shone a bit brighter on baseball. Today, Peter Gammons visited a ballpark.

You know how life just feels better when things are in their proper place? Life feels a hell of a lot better today.

Local (58-Year-Old) Kid Makes Good

Tonight, as most sports fans already know, the Vikings and Raiders play on the first (albeit preseason) broadcast of Monday Night Football on ESPN. After decades of ABC holding the rights to (and making a mint off of) the Monday night game, it is ESPN's turn.

Yawn. Right?

It's a preseason game between two teams who didn't do all that well last year, and aren't expected to do all that well this year.

But there's another story here -- a big one ... at least to me.

Tonight, Tony Kornheiser debuts as the third man in the Monday Night Football booth.

For those who have no clue about who TK is (also known as Mr. Tony to his devoted radio listeners), he is the host of ESPN's show Pardon the Interruption. But for me, and many others in the DC area, Tony is a columnist of much biting wit, whether he is commenting on sports, or on the vagaries of life in general. C'mon, be honest, how many sportswriters/columnists can you think of that moved into doing columns for the Style section of their newspapers and were good enough to have those columns collected into books?

I can think of one: Tony Kornheiser.

As Mr. Tony has said (on other topics) numerous times, "That's it. That's the list."

So I'm rooting for him, I think.

He thinks he's going to be terrible. Others think he may be brilliant.

I'm pretty sure I want him to be brilliant.

But if he's brilliant, he'll be missing even more broadcasts of my beloved PTI and, even worse, he'll NEVER come back to his radio show here in DC.

One way or another, it should be a fun ride.

Give the Kids a Break!

I'm torn. Really, really torn.

(I have recognized, by the way, that as I get older, I am no less opinionated, but my opinion is often somewhere along the lines of "I can see both sides.")

My opinion here? I can see both sides ... really.

I recognize the drama, the pure athletic competition (minus any taint of chemical controversy), and the joy that can be found watching Little League World Series.

I get it, I really do.

While each and every one of these kids probably dreams of making the big leagues (although the litany of "what I want to be when I grow up" answers Saturday night never mentioned that option and instead brought up things like doctor, fireman, and engineer), not one of them sees the Little League World Series as a direct route to the big leagues and the millions associated with making "the show."

For those who watch young men -- down to the high school ranks -- preening and posing and sticking their hand out, not with dreams of making the pros, but expectations of doing so, the Little League World Series provides a breath of fresh air.

But ....

They're kids. Kids who don't have their hands out and aren't simply using this as a springboard to something greater. Kids have been playing in the Little League World Series for decades without television coverage ... or more recently, with only coverage of the final game. These kids wouldn't be trying any less if no cameras (other than their parents' video camera) were pointed at them.

But we now not only stick cameras in their faces, but mics on their coaches, cameras on their parents and have commentators make note of every tear and childish outburst (from children ... how horrible).

It won't surprise anyone reading this to hear that I watched a bit of the LLWS Saturday night. To set the scene fully, you should understand that this was not the final game in Williamsport, PA. In fact, the game wasn't in Williamsport at all. This was the final for the western region held about as far from Williamsport as you can get without leaving the contiguous 48 states.

After giving up the majority of the seven runs in the fifth inning, a small boy, no more than 12, was approached by a micced coach, mouthed off, then was relegated to left field ... where he proceeded to fight back tears -- all while a national cable network focused a camera on his every lip quiver and tear falling down his face and while commentators pointed out each tear and quiver in case you hadn't seen it, or weren't quite sure what you were seeing.

High drama, yes, but what is going to happen to this kid come September, when his classmates -- who, surprisingly, will not be as sympathetic and understanding as an adult -- begin bringing up this moment? Something tells me their response, for the most part, isn't going to be "tough luck, kid, you played really hard."

You even have to wonder how his parents will respond to his "don't touch me" yelled at the coach. I don't condone kids talking back to adults, but this was the highest pressure situation this kid had ever faced in his life to this point (and will likely top anything for the next five or six years at least) and such a snap isn't unexpected. His coach has probably already forgotten it. If there were no mics on the coaches, the parents wouldn't even know it happened. Now, in addition to taunts from schoolmates, he could even face censure from his own parents.

On some level, every athlete is exploited. An athlete's talent is used to make a profit for some other entity -- be it an owner, a network, or a league. Most athletes, however, get something in return: a paycheck, a college education (or, for those who really only use college athletics as a calling card for the pros, said calling card), or exposure for his/her sport (think the Olympic athletes).

These kids aren't getting a paycheck, a college education or a calling card to the pros. Their sport already has exposure at a variety of levels.

So what do they get out of it?

A measure of celebrity, sure. But do you really believe that boy in left field really wants to be known right now?

Fortunately for everyone involved, there is a middle ground. Take away the mics, or shut them off at key times (such as when a manager is talking to one of his payers who is having a bad day). Focus on the celebrations, but ignore the kids in tears.

Let the game tell the story. Let the kids jumping for joy put a period on the plotline.

Show the game. Exploit the energy and the passion these kids have, but not the kids themselves.

The genie may already be out of the bottle -- the mics and reaction shots now beloved of the sports directors and producers.

But I wonder how many sports fans would notice, or if they did, would really care if those "innovations" were abandoned?

And how many might actually cheer the change?

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Curling Redux

In my various incarnations as a blogger, I have never been linked to that I can recall -- certainly nothing other than one of my friends pointing out a post of mine in his or her blog.

But this morning, I checked out one of my favorite blogs: The Curling News Blog and read through it. I got to the "We've hooked another one" link and hit it without looking.

And it brought me here!!! (I know, multiple exclamation marks are the sure sign of a fractured mind, but still ....)

So thanks to The Curling News and welcome to anyone who might have followed the link yourself.

Slip Sliding Away

Curling.

Yeah, I got hooked badly this past February. I got hooked four years before. And now, it seems, a lot of people are getting one crucial fact: it ain't as easy as it looks.

Today's evidence: The Chicago Sports Review. Yes, another sports journalist tried curling ... and failed. But he found the bar.

One day, I will write my rapturous piece about why I adore the sport, why I spend good money to watch morning draws of events that don't matter much on CurlTV, and why I actually spent one entire afternoon listening to a curling match from a wi-fi hotspot at Panera Bread.

Today, since my time is very short, I will say this: the athletes look like real human beings and seem to honestly do it for the love of the game (they sure aren't getting rich), not one Olympic curler's name was mentioned in the context that say, a Bode Miller's was, and it's a sport that requires actual thought.

Okay, and the skintight Nike shirts worn by the US men's team during the Olympics didn't hurt. There, I said it. Happy?

Where in the world ...? And why can't we pronounce it?

It's a tiny gripe, but one that I get this time each year. For the last three weeks, I have listened to broadcasters hop back and forth between calling it the Tour de Frantz (rhyming with Lance) or the Tour de Frahnce.

Now, to be honest, I prefer Frahnce. I think it sounds better. And yes, I took French in high school and that could easily be the reason why.

But ....

The broadcasters who insist on calling it France (rhymes with Lance) say that they're going to pronounce it the "American" way.

Oooookay.

Notice, though, that they are not calling it the "Tour OF France" (rhymes with Lance). No, they are using the French "de." So much for the American pronounciation.

Oh, and by the way, these are the same broadcasters who made such of big deal of calling the last Olympic host city "Torino." Remember that cloth that supposedly has the imprint of Jesus Christ on it? Yeah, that's right, the Shroud of Torino. Yeah, me too. Never heard it called that ... not even once.

*sigh*

The Washington Post made a big deal six months ago about calling Turin Turin. Almost everyone else (including, most notably, ESPN) made a big deal about calling it Torino. And yet, today, it is ESPN that insists on calling it France (rhymes with Lance). Some consistency would be nice.

Of course, I have not had the chance today to listen to Washington Post radio. (And no, don't get me started on the whole "the newspaper owns the radio station and are being incredibly shameless about cross plugging and pretty much reading the listenership the newspaper each day -- that's a rant for another day.) But I'm betting that The Washington Post, who insisted on the American nomenclature for Turin, is today pronouncing that country with the wine and the really long bicycle race "Frahnce."

Consistency, after all, appears to be highly overrated.

*double sigh*

Or, as Pepe le Pew might say ...

*le sigh*