Arizona Sports = Suffering

            I am a masochist. No, I'm not referring to the definition that refers to the enjoyment of being sexually dominated. That would probably make for a much more interesting blog. I'm thinking more along the lines of getting some sort of sick pleasure from pain. At least, that's the only way that I can justify my love for Arizona sports. I grew up in the Arizona desert and have remained fiercely loyal to the Diamondbacks, the Cardinals, and especially the Suns. I'd mention the Coyotes but since I follow  hockey about as enthusiastically as I follow croquet, hot dog eating contests, and the pattern of bird migration, I'll avoid them.

            For as long as I can remember, I have been emotionally bruised, battered, and beaten by expectations that haven't been met by my sports teams. Maybe I'm setting the bar too high, thinking that they can compete with the big market clubs that have seemingly infinite budgets. But, then again, what's the point of dreaming if you're not going to dream big?

            I never grew up much of a football fan. I tried to figure this out for a long time and finally came to the conclusion that the Cardinals were to blame. From the time that I was born to the year that I moved to Utah, the Arizona Cardinals went a terrible 80-144. In those 14 seasons, they lost almost twice as many games as they won. That's so bad it's almost impressive. When I moved to Utah, my new friends thought (and maybe they were right) that I was a complete loser because I didn't enjoy football. Here's the difference between me and them. Utah doesn't have a professional football team. So, they got the luxery of choosing to watch and root for whatever team they wanted to. Me? I was stuck with the Cardinals. No wonder I wasn't a football fanatic as a kid.

            The Diamondbacks broke my heart in a different way. I liked to play baseball as a kid. So, I was thrilled when it was announced that Arizona would be getting a baseball team. I think that their inagural season was in 1998 so I got to hit a few games with my dad before we moved to Utah. They were new, and almost immediately were more successful than their football counterparts. The 2001 season was particularly memorable. Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling formed the two headed monster at the top of the pitching rotation. The middle of the lineup was anchored by Matt Williams and Luis Gonzales. This was a fun team to watch. In August of that year, my family moved to Utah. I went from watching games in the stadium and on TV to reading box scores in the newspaper. Two months later, the Diamondbacks made the playoffs and ended up beating the Yankees in the World Series on a bases loaded bloop single against arguably the most dominant closer of all time. So why would this break my heart? I was ecstatic, don't get me wrong. But while all of my Arizona friends were celebrating the World Series win in person, I celebrated alone. Probably in the middle of my first snowstorm.

            Anyone who knows me knows that I live and breathe Phoenix Suns basketball. As a little kid, I dreamed of growing up to be like Kevin Johnson or a slightly skinnier version of Charles Barkley. I've always loved the Suns but resigning Steve Nash in 2004 created a whole new obsession. In the years soon after, the Suns had built a team that included a young and explosive Amare Stoudemire, Shawn Marion, Joe Johnson and Steve Nash as the core. This team should have been a dynasty. I'm sure that if they were the Boston Celtics or Los Angeles Lakers, it would have been. Steve Nash implemented a system that revolutionized basketball. He brought back the fast paced, frenetic tempo that so many teams are playing with now. Phoenix Suns basketball was exciting, fluid, and extremely competitive. If it weren't for the San Antonio Spurs and David Stern, the Suns would have multiple banners hanging from the rafters. Instead, years later, not a single person remains from the Steve Nash era. No titles and no trips to the finals. What was once a Ferrari is now a beat up Honda Civic thanks to inept management.

            None of this really has much of a point other than me trying to somehow convince myself that it's okay to keep rooting for teams that have no chance of competing, much less winning it all. I'll keep rooting for terrible teams because that's what I'm used to. And until the day comes where championship banners are being hoisted, I guess I'll keep enjoying the pain.

The Road and the Damned Intro

          The road was long and flat and winded like a rattlesnake through the desert. His horse plodded along, each step making a faint imprint in the dirt that was soon erased by the wind. The wind and the dust that accompanied it were their only companions. Not that he wanted it any other way. Thin, wiry sagebrush dotted the mostly flat landscape like a thick layer of freckles on the cracked, barren ground. Clouds floated in the distance but hardly threatened to storm. He wondered how long it has been since the thirsty terrain had tasted rain. The sun was slowly setting and the sky turned red and the clouds that hung in it looked as though they were filled with blood. It was a scene unlike anything he was used to seeing at home. Not that it was home anymore. Home now was where he rode, where he ate, where he slept. Home was the saddle on the back of his horse and the feeling of a pistol in his hand.

            He was raised the son of a southern preacher. Part of him had enjoyed the loud, fiery speeches from the pulpit and the way the congregation crowded into the large canvas tents just to be told that the way they were living wasn't how God intended. People would change or try to change but it never lasted for more than a few days. Hardly worth the effort of changing anything in the first place. It didn't take him long to realize that he didn't have much faith in anyone or anything besides himself. His problems didn't go away except by the power of his own hands and he didn't attribute his successes to anything other than his own hard work and that was enough to keep him satisfied. For whatever reason, he still carried his Bible with him. Its cover was well worn and its pages bent and stained brown with dirt, not because he read it often, but because it had been with him for as long as he could remember. Maybe it was superstition. Maybe it was because it represented a memory of his father.  He didn't know why but he carried it with him all the same.

             A pneumonia outbreak swept through his town when he was thirteen or fourteen. His entire family, father, mother, and younger brother, were afflicted with it to some degree. God didn't spare his preacher father or the rest of his family. He didn't spare much of their town at all. Maybe there was some truth to the notion that God wasn't pleased with the way they were living. Or maybe it was nothing but an unfortunate coincidence. He didn't spend much time thinking about it.  He and his father were able to recover. The rest of his family wasn't so lucky.

            He remembered the joint funeral, parts of it anyway. He remembered taking off his hat and squeezing it in his hands tight enough that he felt like he was strangling the non-existent life out of it. Just some unsuccessful attempt to keep himself from crying but the tears flowed anyways. His father struggled to stand on weak legs and struggled even more trying to put together his thoughts well enough to speak. The normally eloquent man was reduced to inchoherent stammering and someone else in the congregation stood and took his place and did their best to finish his thoughts. He didn't understand why anyone had to say anything at all. What they were feeling would stick with them more than hollow words anyways. Months later, his father recovered his physical health but he was a different man. He had lost the fire that had driven him to stand and preach to the masses, the fire to defend God's actions. The boy never saw his father stand behind a pulpit again, and he never blamed him. He didn't remember much more about it and maybe that was all he needed. Everything else was some sort of unpleasant memory that served no purpose other than to weigh him down so he let them go.

            The boy left home soon after. The town didn't have anything to offer him besides worn out condolences and sympathetic smiles. His father didn't say much of a goodbye, assuming that he would make his way back home before long. He didn't.