Sportz

I am not an athlete. My father, who coached football and basketball at the junior high where he taught, figured this out pretty quickly. After some frustration at my lack of skill, he wisely guided me toward academic pursuits. I never even played little league baseball.

But growing up I was like a lot of Americans in that I loved watching sports on TV. My young fanhood bloomed in 1984 when the Cubs got within a game of the World Series, and I was crazy about the ’85 Bears. Like many boys of my generation in Chicagoland, I knew all the words to the “Super Bowl Shuffle.” And then there was the first Bulls championship in ‘91, when I was a freshman in high school. I still get fired up when ESPN Classic shows the clinching game against the Lakers.

My tastes did change as I matured. And by age 16 I was completely into music culture. I lived and breathed rock 'n roll (and other musics) for a decade, swearing off the jockish entertainment of my boyhood. Big sports was just another abhorrent symptom of the square establishment. A frat house relic. I was so past it all.

Or so I thought. There were some blips on the screen over those years, mostly fed by my friends. I’ve never liked to tell anyone his or her passionate interest is wrong, so I would watch with them to be nice: the ’93 and ’94 Super Bowls when the Bills were destroyed by Dallas, Game Seven of the ’97 World Series, the Buffalo Sabres’ infamous loss in the ’99 Final, the Rams Super Bowl of ’00 and the Subway Series of that same year, just because I lived in New York at the time.

In the fall of 2001, my roommate Casey insisted we, as a group of young hipster dudes, watch football because it was what he did as a kid in Texas. We all thought it was a good idea in an ironic/post-ironic way and maybe it even stirred something in me of old, but the idea quickly died in the water. At the time I much rather preferred laying in my bed and staring at the ceiling to staring at a TV for three hours a pop. Little did I know that would soon change.

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As I’ve said before, I have an anxiety disorder. Over a period of six years, age 19-25, I managed it with medication. For a number of reasons I decided, on my own, to taper off and stop taking meds in the spring of 2002. At the time I was in a calm, safe environment — my parents' house — and had no problems whatsoever over the course of the subsequent summer. I had the thing beat, I thought. Piece of cake.

The "detox" was safe but also a bit boring. I read a lot of books and took many trips to the city but still found myself wanting stimulation, particularly on Sundays. As it happened, I was invited by some high school friends to join a fantasy football league — a newish concept in ‘02. Very soon I was hooked. I loved the trash talking, the stats, the winning.

By the time I left my parents’ house in early October for the city, my Chicago sports fandom had strangely, strongly returned. I watched the rest of the abysmal ’02 Bears season (the one in Champaign) in the basement common area of my new apartment. And when the horrid ’02-’03 Bulls season started up, I watched just about every game on regular TV that I could. It filled my evenings between the things young people normally do. Sometimes I looked forward to watching sports more than parties and shows, which were becoming old hat to me.

That December I experienced a relapse of my disorder. The summer had been misleading, as the last of the medication finally drained out of my system. It was one of the toughest months of my entire life, and I often felt I was facing it completely alone. I spent Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve by myself, holed up in my room.

If you have generalized anxiety, you know that there is an ever-present anxious track in your mind. And when the disorder flares up, it becomes louder and dominates a great deal of your waking thoughts. You need — crave — something to distract yourself, to interrupt the running commentary of worry and obsession. I had a job and a band at the time, but neither was consuming enough to allay the minute-to-minute battle going on inside my head. And I had just thrown away my last relationship, so that wasn’t an option either.

Feeling desperate, I began to listen to sports radio, AM 670 and AM 1000. I remember thinking how ridiculous it was that I'd started behaving like some elderly people who need a human voice around during the day to not feel alone. But that’s exactly the purpose it served for me. I felt about as strong as an 80-year-old man that December.

Hearing Jay Hood before I went to bed or Mike Murphy in the morning offered a bit of respite. I immersed myself further, reading local and national sports news online and in print at my job. It always provided a ready-made topic to discuss with the other men in the office. While anxiety so often separated me from people, sports brought me back toward some of them, even if it was just superficial. In those hard months anything helped.

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As 2003 began, I met someone. My new girlfriend didn’t really know what she was getting herself into, in terms of my anxiety and my rekindled love of sports. But on both points she was extremely sympathetic. Today I still marvel that Erika stuck it out with me that first year. My anxiety would flare up and I would spend months obsessively trying to fine-tune a response. At the worst moments, I wouldn’t leave the coach house where I lived for social events or spend the night at her place for fear of losing sleep (a trigger for panic attacks).

The rest of the year was tough. But at least I had someone to help me through it. And alongside this was the ever-present chatter of sports on radio, on TV, in the paper — it never ceased, it was always there. I got hooked again on my beloved Cubs, who were making a very exciting run to the postseason. By that fall, I had another fantasy football team and would win my first baseball championship in a roto league.

Some of my fondest memories of Chicago are from that time, and sports were weirdly often (though certainly not always) a part: sitting in the basement of the coach house watching preseason games; sitting on the brown couch at the house on Washtenaw on a Sunday, as Erika and Marie made dinner and I shouted at the players on TV; sitting in their living room while the Bartman Game unfolded. There was a lot of sitting involved.  

We still did all the things young, hip people did then. And those certainly are the more memorable memories, if that makes sense. I kept my fandom mostly under wraps, it not being particularly cool, but it did slip out at times. A friend of hers once asked me if I was “one of those guys”: a dude who had headphones secretly stuck in his ears at the family get-together, who started shouting when his team scored a touchdown. By early ’04 I wasn’t too far away from that. And the scary thing was, I didn’t care.

Erika and I moved in together that spring. There was nothing left to shield her from my total fandom. At times she lamented my strange obsession but mostly in a playful way. It wasn’t a deal-killer, and she even gamely pretended to take an interest in the NBA Finals. It kind of became our thing as the years passed.

My anxiety disorder lessened a bit, too. Cohabitation was good for me. I had a true companion to talk to, do things with, plan for the future with. And when Erika was off at class or her new bartending job, I passed the time listening to, yes, sports radio. On a Friday night I would have a couple beers, catch a few hours of Me and Z, doze a little, then wake to pick her up from work at the end of the shift. I’d listen to Jim Rome on the way there.

By the time of our wedding in June 2005, I had become an old pro. I'd watch a baseball or basketball game at Tuman’s or Mac’s and could name all the players on the field or floor. I knew the latest news in each league. I knew who was in first place. I'd poured countless hours into it, and I got this back. I felt like a fan, like a man, like I was full of blood and alive, in a sedentary way. It wasn't as rewarding as, say, being a father, but it was something. For better or worse, it was my life.

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I don’t know what it is about sports. Only a very few can play at the pro level. The rest of us just watch and pour our animal desires to be strong and victorious into them. A function of the libido, Freud would say. That’s a big reason it’s so popular, as much as eggheads like me hate to admit it. It’s really a secular religion. In the way the masses of the Catholic Church follow a cycle and schedule, so do professional sports. From the Super Bowl to March Madness to Opening Day to new football and basketball seasons to the World Series and bowl games … we can expect the same thing every year. Like Easter, Pentecost and Christmas.

My anxiety has lessened in the time since Erika and I were married. Having a more settled home life has been huge. But I also know age, experience and therapy have greatly helped. After awhile, you realize the disorder isn’t coming up with any new material or approaches. It’s the same thing over and over, and you can better anticipate it. 

And the same can be said for sports. After my daughter, Ella, was born in 2009, I noticed that my interest began to wane. Someone new was here to occupy my time — even more so when Archer arrived the next year. I no longer had free evenings to dote on a Cubs game or an entire Sunday to watch every single NFL offering. I had to pick and choose. And after awhile I stopped searching for the next game, the next talk session on the radio. I still like the teams but have less energy to support them.

Like a lot of things that have happened to me since I moved to Chicago 10 years ago, my sports fixation was totally unpredicted. I look back on the time of my super-fandom and know it helped me survive something rough. Anxiety will always be with me, but I’m happy to say I no longer need a long, involved distraction campaign just to get up in the morning.

I would never wish my disorder on anyone else, but if I did meet someone with it who needed advice, I can only relate what worked for me. When people are suffering, they turn to any option that eases pain. As long as they’re not harming themselves or hurting other people, I can’t judge what one person uses to get through a tough stretch. They may even come to regard it fondly, looking back on it someday from a more calm and collected place. I hope everyone everywhere can get to that point. I think I might finally be there myself.

His jumper's like a Pound Canto

Hmm … Scanning the headlines here. … Something to write about. … Well, I was reading from the newest issue of SI with Ella — one of my favorite things to do with her right now — and I was struck by the erudition of the Houston Rockets supporting cast, as evidenced in the feature about Ron Artest. Brent Barry used the word "idiosyncrasies" and Shane Battier made a James Joyce reference. Once in awhile you'll get one cultured nugget in a sports story, but two? This piece really raised the bar for years to come.

Of course, Ron Artest remains a bit of an idiot savant. Great player and maybe he's mellowing out, but he'll always be remembered for … well … you know.

I cry, I throw up, I cry again

Another baseball season is nearly upon us. Remember the Cubs' "super rotation" of 2004? Unfortunately, I do.

Wild weekend

Actually, I don't want to have a wild weekend (but I would like my Teengenerate records back). A bit of peace and quiet is more preferred.

It's already been quite a week in the world of current events, with all the national budget stuff flying fastly and furiously. Also, Norm Van Lier and Johnny "Red" Kerr both died yesterday a la Adams/Jefferson. Bulls fans, such as myself, will miss them. I've sung the praises before of Norm's pre-game raps on WMVP, and things just didn't seem right when they took Red off the air at the start of this season.

I remember a few years ago standing in the bar at Schuba's before a show, watching the Pistons play some East Coast team. I was next to a young guy who was rooting for the Pistons, and somehow we got to talking. "I've always hated the Pistons," I told him. "I've always hated the Bulls," he said. It made me really happy to hear him say that. I don't know what this illustrates except that being a Bulls fan is wonderful because of the rivalries and tradition. Red and Norm were a big part of that.

In other news, they're closing the Borders on Michigan. If that wasn't a wildly successful book store, I really don't know what to think anymore.

Super-burned

This might be the most burned out on sports I've been in recent memory. Granted, I was pulling for the Cards, so that probably made me even more reluctant to read the game wrap-ups and usual laudatory afterbirth passing through the Web canal. But a greater sense of football weariness is definitely there, Steelers victory or not. Two weeks ago I was lamenting the quick passing of pigskin season. Now I'm fanning myself, a cold compress on my forehead, glad to see it go.

More and more, I think that postseasons are becoming less significant, even anticlimactic, because more time is spent in the 24/7 sports journo universe hyper-analyzing what's already happened and trying to predict what's yet to happen, squeezing out the here and now. When an actual game occurs, it often seems lumpy and imperfect — even boring — given the propaganda surrounding it. Plus, with another week of matches on the horizon, analysts quickly sail off toward what surely, positively will be football perfection next time.

Applied to a full season, it seems network talking heads can't wait for things to end before they can begin next year's predictions. And with 31 of 32 teams out of luck, more viewers have experienced losing seasons and very much want to hear about the future: the draft, the new schedule, off-season concerns. Media coverage feeds into this, so much so that, lately, the actual outcomes of games and seasons seem more inconsequential or, worse, unscripted. With so much energy devoted to speculation about what should/could happen, when that doesn't happen, it seems we've been slighted in some way — at least in the eyes of experts who lament that "the better team lost" or "it's all about who gets hot late." (Conversely, you could celebrate the fact that life rarely goes according to script — and if it did, what a terribly bland life it would be.)

There also is a recent tendency in 24/7 sport culture to immediately crown a just-played championship game "the greatest ever" or a play in that game "the greatest play ever" less than a day after it's occurred. It happened last year with David Tyree and this year with Santonio Holmes. It's almost as if the networks feel their lavish coverage (witness NBC's this year) automatically equals a historic game. "Greatest" talk is admittedly good grist for the mill because it generates strong discussion, but history is something that shakes out over time, and these instant coronations seem to cheapen championships even further, they're applied so liberally.

Well, I'm looking forward to using February to heal up from football overload. I might peek at the NBA and college basketball a little, but I won't strain myself. Maybe there's a reason football season is so brief. For the players, it's because their bodies can't take any more punishment. For the fans, it's because we can't take any more publicity. Phew.

Rent-a-fan

It turned into a bit of a beery weekend, on my part at least. After the reading Friday evening and last night's Super Bowl, I'm ready for a brew break. I was compelled at the Super Bowl gathering, naturally after drinking, to make my opinions on football loudly known to all in attendance, none of whom were football fans. I snarled, grimaced and frequently flipped off the TV screen. I hope it was at least entertaining. I promise to behave better next year.

Now what? A new week, a new month. More of the same and some things never before seen.

Grab bag

Remember the Woundup Thursday Grab Bag? Neither do I. I just made it up. Anyway …

1. It's official. The city is telling hillbillies to stop putting plastic chairs in the street to mark spots — at least for now. I've followed stories about this for the past two weeks, and about 75% of reader comments have gone against the chairs. The ones for feel they've either earned the right to mark spots because of "sweat equity" or they are people who say this is just part of the "Chicago experience." Y'know, like it's an amusement park.

2. Last Friday Dan McNeil was shit-canned by WMVP. I generally liked "Mac, Jurko and Harry" and would often tune in after I got home from work. At its worst — and Mac was perhaps the chief offender in this department — it was a hot-air fest with the hosts trading quips about the previous night's dinner at a more expensive Loop restaurant, the VIP access they received at a local sporting event or the details of their latest endorsement deal. At its best, it was a very funny show. I'm sure, as Ted Cox says, Mac will land somewhere else. But is 'MVP so bereft of talent that his leaving is a kill shot? I'd like to think the younger guys at the station — Defalco, Dickerson, Hood and Silverman — will step up and be heard. Mac isn't the whole Chicago sports talk scene by himself.

3. I don't really have a third item. I'm rooting for the Cardinals in the Super Bowl. If anything, I'm a little surprised the hype machine hasn't yet swung into full gear. Budget constraints? Uninteresting match-up? Uncharacteristic restraint on the sports media's part? It's something to ponder, if just for a few seconds.

Hold for the party line

Pro sports playoffs are anti-climactic. If you're like me, you've spent the whole season following all 20, 30, 40 teams, and suddenly only about a quarter of them are left, and each week that number dwindles. In the NFL, it seems to go even faster — a blur of finality. Two weeks on now and we're left with four teams. Soon it will all be over and then … the Pro Bowl, an agnostic's kind of all-star game (definitely not what you were expecting at the end).

However, I tried to remain in the present and take pleasure in this weekend's action. Three of four underdog teams won in the divisional round. There now are no clear-cut favorites for NFL champion, unlike last year. I'm going to listen to the national sports radio guys tomorrow morning to see whom they're leaning toward. You could make a compelling case for each of the remaining four. Talking sports heads don't like to do too much work or stand apart from the cognoscenti, so it'll be fun to hear them squirm. I imagine many will glom onto Pittsburgh because they like big, simple classifications such as "No. 1 defense."

I won't go as far as to root for Baltimore against the Steelers next weekend — I don't really like the Ravens either. I'm just for any scenario that further confounds the pundits and bums out ESPN and NBC. That most likely will mean an Arizona appearance in the Super Bowl. Hey, it's anyone's trophy this year; I'll go with the Cards: An aging, multiply concussed Bible-thumper jumps off his funeral pyre to try to recapture a whiff of his former glory from a decade ago — how can you not like that?

Old grudges are the best grudges

The Vikings did in fact lose the game, so tomorrow night's Bears-Packers match takes on significance beyond the usual (somewhat faded) rivalry. I'll give you two reasons to remember why you hate the Packers and a bonus link to raise your anger level even further. Never forget any of this.

One

Two

Three

Siberian League dispatches

I think it probably was two years ago I was sitting somewhere, at home or maybe at a restaurant, sipping a 10% alcohol brew and lamenting a little that such cold weather warmers were wasted on Chicagoans because of the recent string of wimpy winters. I probably was wishing it were five below zero so I could get the "correct" experience. Well, folks, sometimes the universe listens. This cutting, brutal cold has me crying out for one of those 2006 45-degree Decembers, when people used to say "It was so much colder when I was a kid." Screw that noise.

A good furnace and plastic on the front windows can only do so much in this situation, and living in a hundred-year-old house doesn't help. At least I've got some quality NFL action to occupy me. Nice. Tarvaris Jackson just lost the snap and scrambled backwards 15 yards before three Falcons fell on him. The Bears might have a shot at the playoffs after all.

In other sports news … Well, really this is old news because I was eliminated from my fantasy playoffs two weeks ago. I thought the triple-barreled attack of Peterson, Jones and Cutler would carry me to glory. Ah, well. My brother, who is leading big in the title game today, warned me about fantasy first rounds. Sure enough, that's where I got bounced. Terry is en route to his second straight championship. His acumen frightens me. (He benched Peyton Manning this week in favor of Matt Cassel and was right.) He's a cold, calculating manager, kind of like the Bill Belichick to my, hmm, Jim Mora Jr.? … Yes, I think it's time to end this post. Stay warm.

Goodbye to all that 2.0

Tomorrow one of the last baseball links to my boyhood will move on. Greg Maddux is going to retire after 22 years in the game. I was 10 years old when he began his career with my team, the Chicago Cubs, and I will always associate him with the improbable playoff run of '89. It was perhaps the team's most boneheaded move (even more so than the Lou Brock trade) to let him go after the '92 season when he won his first Cy Young award. He would go on to win three more and serve as a pillar of the Atlanta Braves powerhouse of the '90s, which reached its peak with a World Series victory in '95. Following Maddux's departure, the Cubs floundered through the decade, with only a flash-in-the-pan boost from Sammy Sosa and Kerry Wood in '98.

I don't agonize over what could have been had my team kept one of the greatest control pitchers of all time, but rather I only feel the sweet sting of time's passing, as the oldest of the old guard resign themselves to their final places in the big tome of baseball's history. Yes, they are now gone, and perhaps with it the living remnants of my youngest days, but at least I'll be able to remember what they did for the game and its fans. (I'm am comforted by the fact that another old Cub, Jamie Moyer, is still playing and just helped the Phillies win a title.)

As the Cubs were losing Game 1 of this year's National League Divisional Series against the Dodgers, Joe Torre called Greg Maddux, a 355-game winner, out of the bullpen to face his old team. Great irony, certainly, but also a wonderfully strange and poetic returning that I would hope everyone in their own lives could enjoy. I don't know what Maddux will do next, but in my mind he already has joined the eternals — a Cub, always our guy.

Living memory

I, perhaps like many readers of Peter King's Monday Morning Quarterback column today, was saddened by news that legendary Sports Illustrated football writer Paul "Dr. Z" Zimmerman was recuperating from two strokes suffered two weeks ago. King did a great job in his column of letting us younger readers know about Dr. Z's long-form print writing. Most of us under 35 only know him as the man who does SI's preseason picks of playoff and Super Bowl teams, as well as power rankings and other smaller stories on the magazine's Web site.

Dr. Z, who has covered the game since the '60s and has experiences of it from well before then, is a link to pro football's gutsier, less glamorous, less commodified past, when the game was really just a game, not an entertainment experience — and to those of us who started watching the NFL in the '80s, that past always seems like it was a lot more fun and heroic. I hope we can continue to read Dr. Z's wranglings over the annual Pro Football Hall of Fame nominees. He has strong opinions about players most of us never heard of or have forgotten. And I don't know what I'll do if he doesn't issue his annual grades of TV football announcers at season's end. Late winter will certainly be grayer and colder if it goes missing.

I, somewhat selfishly and like many others, hope Dr. Z can return to writing for SI as soon as possible. But more importantly, I just hope he can recover. I'd hate for that powerful link to the past to be extinguished.

The sorrow and the pity

What is this steaming bowl of vomit before my eyes? The Bears game, of course. I have crossed the threshold of mere anger — as my body at this point cannot handle a full-throated expression of my agony — into a kind of blackhole of fan pain, the outward signs being deep sighs, long breaths and hollow whispers. I feel like crawling into a cold hole. If they lose this one, the season is done, and we get six months of Bulls rebuilding and Cubs uncertainty. A wretched menu, for sure.

NBC has shown Adrian Peterson come off the field every single time tonight, with further shots of him staring back at his teammates while a disembodied hand squirts Gatorade into his mouth. I can't remember any player getting covered this closely. … Now there's a shot of him coming back in. Madden is twitching and salivating. … Touchdown. I hate the Vikings. I've hated them my whole life. I think I'm going to kill myself now.

Another nordnik proclaims his love for radio

In an effort to not bow to the power of TV — though last night we notched another full hour of "Frasier" on our tube-watching axe handle … Let me start over: Erika and I don't have cable. And I don't think we're going to get it, even in anticipation of the DTV switch-over in February. (Our child will never know the joy of analog television.) It would just suck us in. Well, really it would suck me in.

Precedence exits: While Erika was taking her class near Morristown, N.J., in August, I was back at the hotel allowing toxic levels of ESPN, ESPN2 and ESPN News to seep into my eyes. I shudder thinking about what could happen here at home when ESPN Classic is thrown into the mix as an obligatory part of a cable package. ("Bills-Oilers '92 playoff game? I've got nothing better to do.")

So … in light of this, I've had to feed my sports fix with radio during those hours when football contests are usually shown on pay TV. I like to think I'm the only one following the game this way outside of truck drivers, pizza delivery people, people who work in downtown parking lot shacks and shut-ins. I know that's not true, but it's a fiction that enhances the romance — that old romance of the radio.

Really, I only wrote this post to proclaim my love for Westwood One's football coverage. If you're like me and are in the same fix, you have undoubtedly become familiar with Westwood One, the nationally syndicated radio network (which I believe is an arm of CBS) that carries the Thursday/Monday night games. My week doesn't seem right now without at least a 15-minute visit with Boomer Esiason and Marv Albert on Monday night or gravelly voiced Dennis Green on Thursday.

I've been listening to Westwood One for more than five years now — over four residences and countless nights. Its existence reinforces the warming idea that somewhere, everywhere a game is on the radio for you to listen to while you unwind and forget your problems, if just for a few moments. Sometimes when you're alone, that's all you really need.

Wigs, come and gone

Flexing some fantasy muscle today. Our league is starting to shake out, and it's looking like my youngest brother and I are going to be gunning for the coveted Culpable Cup. (That's what I call it, at least.) There might be a couple other dudes in the mix, but I truly feel a hermano y hermano championship match-up is imminent.

Cold day and a cold evening. Eagles/Giants on TV. I'm in the right place. We saw old friend (and old Woundup fan) Vanessa this morning. Always good to see her. She lives in a really sweet apartment now, too. That reminds me that we were roommates six years ago when I first moved into this wonderful city of ours. I just talked to Ted, and I halted in saying I moved to NYC just prior to the great 2000 election flap to spare an old friend a reminder of the passage of time. But now I've said it anyway. Sorry, Ted.

What to close on. ... Last night Erika and I cracked open HBO's "John Adams," and I am still confused about 18th century men's wig protocol. Sometimes they wore powdered wigs, but they also seem to have worn their hair long and braided it like the powdered wigs, but then Adams was bald and wore a natural-colored wig in this style because he was bald(?), but then he also wore the long white wig of a lawyer in the English court system. Someone really needs to help me out with this, and I don't want a Wikipedia answer. I want someone who actually knows this from a history class or a fashion class or something. Please.

No Xmas for John Quays

Scene from the fantasy football trenches, Week 8

Holding on to a wafer-thin lead late in Sunday's action, the Logan Square Squires looked to close out week 8 against high-powered foe Tokyo Terror. Thanks to some inspired play from back-up runner Jamal Lewis and the Colts defense, the Squires were up 90.06 to 88.52 with all combatants done for the week, save Squires (and Steelers) QB Ben Roethlisberger, playing a tough one in the real world against the New York Giants.

With the Giants leading 21-14 late in the fourth quarter, Pittsburgh looked for one last miracle drive from their daring passer. (TV stats said he's lead 14 Q4 comebacks in his four-year career.) However, Ben had already thrown three interceptions — depriving me of two fantasy points each — so far, as the Giants brought constant heat at the line of scrimmage. One more pick and I'd be down two more points, losing this week's fantasy matchup.

The Giants bring more blitzes: incompletion, incompletion, incompletion. Fourth down with about a minute left. One more chance for the Steelers, and there's no doubt it's going to be a Hail Mary. A vision of Nate Washington jumping for the ball downfield surrounded by six Giants defenders flits through my head. The snap. Ben evades the blitz and throws it long. Interception. Real-life game over. I'm now down 88.06/88.52. Fantasy game over. … I think I just started bleeding out of my eyeballs.

Nostalgish

It's strange to think that a baseball stadium built in your conscious lifetime could be considered stylistically outdated (or even retro), but sure enough, watching the World Series, I've gotten the feeling that the Tampa Bay Rays' Tropicana Field is truly out of its era — though that era (the late '80s) is something I can distinctly remember.

True, parks such as Wrigley and Fenway are very out of their eras, but their old feels are a link to a past — echoed in the newer "neighborhood-style" parks of the '90s and '00s — teams want to cultivate. A purer time, so they believe. But the Trop — one of the last cookie-cutter stadiums of the '70s/'80s — is a different kind of reminder: one of lower attendances, the unsettling first decade of free agency, the mercenary nature of the DH and of general fan unfriendliness. (It's even media unfriendly, offering a high and off-center location for the center field camera.)

But when I see those blank, high pads against the backstop — an area that would now be filled with premium seating at places like PNC Park and Petco Park — I'm filled with a kind of strange nostalgia. And when Fox cuts away to full-stadium shots of the Trop, I can't help but think that it does looked outdated, though for such a long time that was what baseball looked like to me: a fixed dome, fake grass and multiple, vertiginous decks miles in the distance. Can you be nostalgic for something ugly and poorly planned? Definitely. And I'm growing to really like the Trop.

As a side note, it's very ironic that, years later, the Phillies are battling in the World Series in a fixed-dome stadium. Their last October visit had them facing the Toronto Blue Jays in 1993 at that king of '80s era baseball venues: the SkyDome.

This kind of helps, too

A tradition unlike any other.

Week 3 reflections

I hate to be one of those people who says, "We should be 3-0," but, well, we should. The Bears frittered away strong chances to win the last two weeks, particularly today against Tampa, when Charles Tillman was called for a fighting penalty in overtime that kept the Bucs' drive alive.

The city is always happier when the Bears are winning, so it's disheartening when you come to the realization that our boys will probably turn in another 2007-, 2004-, 2002-type effort. Thankfully for the local sports fan, our baseball teams are both poised to continue their seasons in the playoffs.

And at least I've got my fantasy team — though it looks like they'll need more than a little help this week to eke out a win. Rats. Uh … how about the Cowboys/Packers Sunday night game? Ah yes, that should soothe the hurt of the Bears loss a bit — some pure football appreciation. I feel a little bad I missed last Monday's "King of All Fantasy Games," but we're still going cable-free, at least for the moment.

Where is this all leading? Well, me on the couch in a couple hours. Not a bad place to be. Enjoy yourselves on this, the rest of your Sunday, Woundup fans.

Eagles/Cowboys: Genet takes the points

From today's "Sports Guy" column on ESPN Page 2. …

Bob: "Thanks, Bill. I'm here with Cris Collinsworth, Jerome Bettis, Tiki Barber, Dan Patrick, Keith Olbermann, Peter King, Olympic hero Michael Phelps and a homeless guy we just found on the street. Get ready for one of the most confusing, choppy and incoherent pregame shows in the history of television. Although there is some good news — we finally have enough people on this show for a complete softball team."

Cris: "Actually, Bob, you can have 10 guys on a softball team."

Bob: "Really? Then let's bring in our new humorist, he's going to do some predictable comedy segments for us, and more importantly, he's the man who finally realized Dick Ebersol's dream of spending $100 million on talent for a "Sunday Night Football" telecast when you include what Madden and Michaels are making … please welcome to the show our old friend Billy Crystal."

Billy: "Bob, I'm confused — is this a pregame show or a bar mitzvah?"

(Everyone laughs uproariously.)

Thank you, Bill Simmons, for writing what many of us were thinking: Why did "Sunday Night Football" add Dan Patrick to an already overstuffed pre/post cast? How much airtime can you possibly give him to be effective? This brings even more confusion to SNF, which boasts a staging as complex as Jean Genet's "The Screens." (I like to think the "players' table" of Cris Collinsworth, Tiki Barber and Jerome Bettis actually exists in Bob Costas' mind whenever they cut away to it, as it has kind of an inner sanctum feel being offset from the main stage and enclosed in walls of TVs.)

I know NBC is trying to capture some of the '90s DP/KO magic, but can you graft together a SportsCenter broadcast, a former players' analysis show and an Olympics-style anchor-at-the-desk thing (Costas) and call it a coherent pre-game? Guess we'll just have to see how these goofballs do this week.