The Bad Boyfriend Analogy

Somewhere in the blogging universe several months back, I read a rave review of actress-writer Amy Poehler’s 2014 memoir, Yes Please. It was described as a good read for anyone trying to succeed in the arts and encountering mostly frustration. I wondered how this could possibly be true, considering the amazing successes Poehler has enjoyed, including being a full cast member on Saturday Night Live from 2001 to 2008, and then starring in and co-writing her own series, Parks and Recreation, from 2009 to 2015. What could she possibly have to say to the struggling artist?

Some of her opening remarks in the memoir struck me as encouraging, although perhaps disingenuous. For example: “I like hard work and I don’t like pretending things are perfect.” Is she telling us satisfaction remains elusive for her, even after having acquired fame and fortune through constant effort? And also: “I am struggling every day, just like you.” I doubt that her struggles are equal to the average creative striver, although maybe she’s simply asserting that she knows what it is to struggle. This is her explanation for the anger she let loose at an aspiring writer who had the nerve to approach her on an Amtrak train and dump his screenplay in her lap. That person, in her view, was trying to take a short cut to success, something she didn’t have the luxury of doing. She spent years honing her craft in humble improv and comedy clubs. Some lucky breaks did come her way, she acknowledges, but nothing was easy. By a combination of good fortune, a natural zest for performing, and most of all perseverance, she was able to impress the kind of people who could help her.

Poehler discusses some of her enduring insecurities, including major doubts about her looks. She has the face of a comedienne rather than a beauty queen, but she found a way around this early in her career. Improvisation provided a way of becoming somebody else, anybody else, at will. Ironically, she devotes part of her book to complaints about the difficulty of writing a book. She just comes straight out with it: “Writing a book is hard!” Don’t we all know that? She offers the only possible solution: “Just do it!”

Poehler’s best piece of advice, in my opinion, can be summed up by one of her chapter headings: “Treat your career like a bad boyfriend.” Passion, she explains, is not the same as career. Loving what you do may be a prerequisite for accomplishment, but it certainly isn’t sufficient. You may feel yourself falling in love, but who knows if the object of your passion will reciprocate the way you want him to, for as long as you need him to? Poehler herself was going through a painful divorce while writing the book, and was still figuring out how to co-parent two young sons, so her choice of a metaphor might have been influenced by real life.

That phrase struck an immediate chord with me, as I realized that the unreliable suitor could be a metaphor for any hobby, any relationship, any sports team, or anything else you are irresistibly attracted to that continually lets you down. Since the pain is still relatively fresh, I chose to apply that advice immediately to a certain baseball team that takes me for a ride every season and then drops me off in the wilderness, lost and abandoned. Baseball has always been known to imitate life in many ways, and I admittedly take it too seriously, so why shouldn’t I treat my favorite team like the worst boyfriend ever? My Washington Nationals have won four divisional championships in the past six years, and failed every time to advance beyond the first round of the playoffs. Talk about a guy who takes you to the prom, buys you a lovely corsage, and then dances with someone else, or worse, leaves with someone else. Or a guy who proposes, and then never sets the date.

Bad boyfriends always have their ingenious excuses, just as the Nationals have a plethora of reasons why they’ve never gotten over that hump. This year, in Game 5 of the National League Divisional Series, Matt Wieters, the stalwart although light-hitting Nats catcher, got hit on the head by the follow-through of a batter’s swing. Because of the violent contact, the pitch should have resulted in a strikeout, and the inning should have been over. As it turned out, nobody in authority knew the rule that pertains to a catcher getting beaned. Everyone, including the committee of six umpires and Nats manager Dusty Baker, was caught up in that cluelessness. No one but the catcher himself seemed to know enough even to argue, and it’s doubtful how articulate he was after getting his brain rocked. Maybe that also accounts for the flaky things Wieters did in the immediate aftermath, including a passed ball and a wild throw that cost the Nats two runs in a game they eventually lost 9-8. Some fans continue to malign him, saying he should have reacted like a professional even under duress. Maybe the life lesson to be derived from this is that the worst boyfriends always have the most creative reason for not showing up. “I was in an accident” is a classic.

Since baseball isn’t as heart-rending for most people as it is for me, and there really isn’t anything even an ardent fan can do about it, I’d advise you to apply the bad boyfriend rule to things you can actually control. We all need a little validation to wash away the inevitable bouts of self-pity we suffer when it seems nobody understands us. If your novel simply doesn’t grab the reader, the fact that you spent years writing it will not alleviate that problem. Even the blog articles that we labor over might go days or weeks without being “liked” or commented on. Fans sweat along with their favorite teams at the crucial moments as if they were on the field themselves. Then, as likely as not, they face a long winter, unrewarded.

Amy Poehler would advise us not to bother at all with these endeavors unless we can find a way to enjoy the process. In other words, don’t expect too much. Don’t sweat it. Maybe that good review will come out of the blue. Or it might be a review that’s not so good, but at least shows that the reader took our book seriously and sort of got it. That bad boyfriend might forget your birthday, and then show up unexpectedly one day and bring you flowers for no particular reason at all. So be joyous, Poehler says, but don’t expect to be satisfied. And be careful what you wish for, because the small successes will only make you hungry for more.


In Search Of Victories

0619161350Baseball is the most romantic of all sports, for many reasons. What other game unfolds in a space that fans and players refer to as their “field of dreams”? Unfortunately, those dreams are often shattered. Here in the Washington DC area, baseball has a long, melodramatic history, interrupted by 33 years of non-existence from 1972-2004. We’ve lost three franchises, a record few cities can match. Our most recent pennant was won in 1933. My late father used to recall that team nostalgically from time to time, but those memories are now lost to me. Decades of futility followed, not limited to incompetence on the field. Throughout its history and non-history, Washington baseball has been continually betrayed by bad owners and bad faith from the sport’s authorities, and some of those grievances have lingered into the present. Luckily, there is something poetic about suffering. Early in the 2016 season, when young slugger Bryce Harper struck out with the bases loaded, it was somewhat of a shock. He had hit two grand slams recently, and it had started to seem automatic. For the moment, pitchers had “figured him out.” Mighty Casey struck out that time, as he has many times before and will do again.

Baseball is more up close and personal than other sports. Except for catchers, the players play without masks, which makes it easy to imagine you know them. You would know them if you saw them on the street. When I was growing up in Silver Spring, Maryland, there were quite a few sightings of Senators star Frank Howard. Once he signed a dollar bill in the local grocery store for the mom of a friend. My parents saw him once in the Anchor Inn Restaurant, a huge man dining with his comparatively tiny wife. My mom, who was prone to exaggerate on occasion, claimed she almost tripped over his leg.

Baseball harkens back to childhood. Even the bad teams, then and now, exhibited exquisite, often breathtaking skills just to make what are considered routine plays. I used to fantasize about living at the ballpark. How cool would that be? I associated the game with warm summer evenings, rain delays, and rainbows arching over the stadium after the rain delays. At DC Stadium (later RFK Stadium), an accordion-like contraption called a Cordovox used to play “You Gotta Have Heart” and “I Know A Place.” Every time I hear those songs now, I’m back there.

Even the heartbreak was romantic. The Senators had such a unique way of grabbing defeat from the jaws of victory. One afternoon I overheard one of our neighbors, known to be an ardent Senators fan, screaming at her husband. They were a nice couple, never known to raise their voices to each other. It turned out that the wife was yelling, “How could they have lost?” Her poor husband had just broken the news he’d heard over the radio, that the Senators had blown what she had assumed to be an insurmountable lead. That dear lady died far too soon, of complications from diabetes. My mom speculated that the horrendous game hastened her demise.

It’s easy to take the sport too seriously, especially in the current era of rising expectations. I’ll admit that as I get older, I’m less patient with failure. Do I really love baseball, or do I only love winning baseball? I can’t seem to rediscover the pure enjoyment of the game I used to have, win or lose. I’m ashamed to admit defeats can seriously cast me down. I almost care more about the Nats holding on to their divisional lead during these difficult final weeks of the 2016 season than I care about the upcoming election, although I truly believe that one of the candidates poses an existential threat to the nation, if not to the planet. I can tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but I’m not a psychologist, so I haven’t really figured out why I’m like this. Maybe it’s just that time is growing shorter for a championship through which I could live vicariously.

Losing streaks feel like curses, and sometimes it feels like they’re my fault. Back in June I took a trip to California with my brother and a friend. Our main objective was to soak up some Hollywood vibes, but we also had a chance to catch the Nationals on a West Coast swing. They were playing the Padres and the Dodgers, two teams they should theoretically have been able to beat. Petco Park in San Diego is a particularly fun place, featuring an amusement park outside and a beach-like plot of grass beyond center field. Since so many good seats were unoccupied, we never made it to the cheap seats we had bought, instead grabbing a prime spot in the lower deck. I was afraid we’d be busted for cheating, but there were no ushers around to enforce the rules. Did we really get away with it? I later feared the baseball gods had taken note, because that game helped to set off our team’s seven-game losing streak.

0620161953We went on to Dodger Stadium (sometimes more romantically called Chavez Ravine), which provided a totally different experience, as ballparks usually do. It’s the biggest ballpark in the major leagues and one of the oldest. On that first day of summer, the hottest day of the year in Los Angeles, fire billowed from the nearby hills, but once the sun went down the conditions turned surprisingly pleasant. This contest was slated to be an epic pitching matchup (Clayton Kershaw vs. Steven Strasburg), two legitimate Cy Young contenders earlier this season, who have both been bitten by injuries since. Strasburg was scratched that night for unknown reasons, replaced by a journeyman who did his best but was no match for the star.

The fun aspect of baseball is jeopardized when we take it too seriously. The season is brutally long, and sometimes the games are, too. Not much can be done about shortening the games without altering basic strategies, but how about shortening the season? It’ll never happen, because it would cost the owners immediate revenue, but I feel sure the quality of the day-to-day product would improve. Maybe we’d have to endure fewer gut-wrenching losses that might have been more mistake-free if the players hadn’t been dead on their feet after a long summer of exertion. The drama tends to return in the autumn, and the level of play sharpens with the cooler temperatures and the greater excitement of pennant races and playoffs. For Nats fans, though, playoff appearances in 2012 and 2014 brought more agony than ecstasy. What if one of these years, our team actually does win the World Series and gets to march down Pennsylvania Avenue in a never-before-seen baseball parade? It’ll outshine any Inaugural Parade. On the other hand, maybe it’s better to have something left to yearn for.  

Reasoning With The Baseball Gods

untitled (2)“In spring, everything was sunny.” That was how a recent Washington Post article began its postmortem of the Washington Nationals’ disappointing 2015 season. The article went on to describe “the rise and fall of a dream,” as if the failure of this team to achieve its goals was comparable to the collapse of a nation. Unbeknown to some analysts, many of us fans anticipated from the start that the 2015 season was a disaster waiting to happen. That’s because we understand how damaging super-high expectations can be—and that the baseball gods love to punish hubris.

These things are written in the clouds, after all. Certain deities have had it in for this team ever since it arrived from Montreal in 2005, denuded and abused from a period of neglectful MLB ownership. It was as if the newly constituted team had no right to exist, much less to develop into a contender. A series of near misses and agonizing playoff defeats in the ensuing years can only have one explanation: those pesky baseball gods haven’t let us off the hook yet.

Baseball pundits on the national level seemed to wish for this collapse. Apart from one quote from superstar Bryce Harper before the season began, taken wildly out of context, it was those pundits who kept anointing the Nationals prohibitive World Series favorites. It turns out that winning championships on paper is easy. Those “experts” now have the pleasure of crowing while the fans suffer. One writer I ordinarily respect, John Feinstein, the author of several entertaining baseball books, seems to utterly lose his rational mind when it comes to the Nats. He cited Bad Karma as a primary reason for the Nats’ struggles.

This Bad Karma, in his opinion, has lingered from the infamous Stephen Strasburg shutdown—three years ago! General Manager Mike Rizzo angered the gods with his arrogance in assuming it made sense to limit Strasburg’s innings in 2012, the year after his Tommy John surgery, because there would surely be other opportunities for him to pitch in the playoffs. How arrogant, fumed Feinstein, to assume such a thing. Never mind that Rizzo followed the medical protocol for such injuries, and that Strasburg did get another playoff opportunity, in 2014. Further, I wonder why the gods are so determined to punish this particular decision. Everyone wanted to see Strasburg pitch in the 2012 playoffs, but Rizzo took the decision upon himself, in the interests of the pitcher’s long-term health. It takes convoluted reasoning to portray that as anything but a selfless act, but it just goes to prove that the baseball gods can’t be reasoned with.

All season long, many fans have been wishing to see more passion and emotion from this team. A few days ago our wish was fulfilled, a little too emphatically. An altercation broke out in the dugout between Bryce Harper and newly acquired closer Jonathan Papelbon, whose bust-your-gut-every-minute lecture didn’t sit well with the young superstar. The fight only served to underscore the final unraveling of this season’s fortunes. As always, the baseball gods got the last laugh.

A Conspiracy Of Umpires

'Sometimes the truth isn't in 'safe' or 'out', but somewhere in between.'Ever since my Washington Nationals suffered their second early playoff exit in three years, I’ve been in denial that it was really all their fault. Sure, I can point to instances of sheer ineptitude on the field and questionable managing decisions during these playoffs, but it still seems unfair, after twice posting stellar records over the 162-game long haul. So what’s the explanation? Is it a curse or a conspiracy?

Everybody knows the baseball gods punish hubris, and that’s how the most famous curses in baseball history have arisen. The Curse of the Bambino started in 1919, when a foolish Red Sox owner sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees to pay off his personal debts. Not until 2004 did the ghost of the Babe relent. The Chicago Cubs have been in a World Series drought since 1945, all because during the World Series that year the Wrigley Field authorities threw a tavern owner and his billy goat out of the stadium. Are the Nats fated to stumble in the same way every time they get within sight of their ultimate goal? What did they do to deserve this fate? True, they have the Curse of Peter Angelos hanging over them, as the dispute over MASN revenues continues. But I’m guessing Angelos has only business and legal clout, not mystical powers.

At first I resisted the idea that a conspiracy of umpires was to blame. After all, there are many close calls in every game, especially when it comes to balls and strikes, which are not subject to review and reversal. But the fact remains, this very phenomenon twice kept the Nats from advancing beyond the divisional series in the playoffs. Paranoid as it sounds, this theory has actually been advanced by expert commentators, especially those who are former pitchers. Some have suggested there really is a code among umpires that discourages allowing playoff games to end on a called third strike. In 2012, closer Drew Storen, handed a 7-5 lead against the St. Louis Cardinals in the ninth inning of game five, twice threw pitches that could have ended the game and the series in the Nats’ favor, had the umpire adhered to the same strike zone that he had established earlier in the game. The same thing happened to starting pitcher Jordan Zimmermann in 2014, while trying to close out what would have been a complete-game victory in Game 2 of the divisional series.

I’m a purist when it comes to umpires. There should be no “special strike zones” for star pitchers, or floating strike zones for different situations. It’s unprofessional for an umpire to do anything less than his absolute best to maintain the same strike zone for every batter in every situation. So why does this playoff game code exist, if it really does? To me, it’s a sign of cowardice as well as incompetence. Are umpires afraid to make decisions that are truly decisive?

The Baseball Gods Turn Cruel

Nats Park 4-01-13The haters knew it all along: this team was destined to fold. Last year, my Washington Nationals captured the National League East championship and made the playoffs for the first time in their eight-year history, but they went no farther. That was evidently because they offended too many self-proclaimed baseball pundits with their “arrogance,” the worst sin there is in the eyes of the baseball gods.

What the experts howled about most was the untimely shutdown of ace pitcher Stephen Strasburg, which took place before the playoffs began. The Nationals chose to follow the widely recognized medical protocol for pitchers who have undergone Tommy John surgery. They did this with the approval of Strasburg’s surgeon, one of the world’s leading experts on the treatment of pitchers’ elbow injuries. The decision was based not only on medical theory, but empirical evidence that Strasburg’s effectiveness was declining late in the season.

You would think from listening to the baseball pundits that the Nationals had deliberately torpedoed the kid’s career by considering his long-term health. They accuse the Nats of figuring they’d easily return to the playoffs the following year, and all subsequent years when they’d have Strasburg’s services for the entire season. Now the geniuses can gloat, because the upstart team failed to make the playoffs in 2013. According to the common pundit wisdom, the Nats probably blew their one and only chance to make it to the World Series!

Clearly, the team was felled by high expectations. The players were accused of complacency, or maybe they lacked confidence in crucial situations. These reasons seem contradictory, so which was it? The experts can’t quite decide, but either way, they know they were right all along. The Nats were arrogant, and that brings about deadly baseball curses. Why don’t we fans just accept the mystical explanation, and never mind extraneous nonsense like scientific data and medical protocols?

Hating The Nationals

1010021647Remember the line in “Moneyball” about romance being an essential part of baseball? Well, so is hatred. You can’t be a good fan (a good “fanatic”) unless you are prepared to both love and hate passionately.

My love interest is the Washington Nationals. There are deep psychological reasons for this unshakable love that I’ve explored previously in this blog. My main hate interest is the New York Yankees. Not that I hate the Yanks’ players, coaches, or managers per se. What I hate is their business model, which boils down to buying everything they need the second they need it, out-bidding everyone else, and planning for years ahead to grab everyone else’s best players.

I’ve had other pet hatreds. I never hated the Phillies because they dominated the National League East for five years. What I hated was the horde of Phillies fans who invaded our ballpark in order to raise drunkenness and obnoxiousness to an art form. Additionally, I’ve started to hate my former love interest, the Baltimore Orioles. Again, it’s not the players or coaches; it’s the way their owner does business. Having lost his crusade to keep baseball out of D. C., he is now doing his best to deprive the Nationals of their fair share of the regional pie.

Widespread hatred for the Nationals is a new thing, but it’s growing. How have they sinned? I guess any bad team that improves faster than the experts predicted is bound to raise some ire. Two years of rock-bottom ineptitude enabled them to draft and sign two extraordinary players. Not only did the Nats improve with unseemly speed, they remained competitive in 2012 while shutting down their ace, Stephen Strasburg. This was a decision based on the best possible medical advice, as well as observations of his late-season struggles … a perfect no-brainer that for some reason arouses widespread outrage. How could a team be so brazen as to protect its future while playing in the present?

The rest of the league is detecting a fair amount of chutzpah among the Nationals. No question, last year’s rookie of the year, Bryce Harper, has a lot of it for a twenty-year old. Besides, manager Davey Johnson has declared that this season is his swan song, hinting that his players have extra motivation to send him off in glory.

The Nats were a sleeper team last year. After their first great season, largely unpredicted, since moving to D. C. eight years ago, the rest of Major League Baseball is gunning for them in underhanded ways. Predictions for their 2013 season are so overblown that almost any result short of a World Series championship will be declared a disappointment. The baseball gods will surely punish the overconfidence that everyone else attributes to this team. Who knows, maybe we’ll acquire our very own curse, more persistent than the one the Bambino inflicted on Boston for so long. That would amuse baseball fans everywhere … but not us.