Atomic Dog

Atomic Dog The last stand of the dinosaurs by TC

American sports fans are in their glory this time of year. They wake up each morning, smile at the sun, and declare that life is good.

We are, after all, in what sports-fan astrologers call the cusp of the baseball and football season. The baseball season is winding down, and the pennant races are heating up. Likewise, college football is in full swing, and the gridiron pros are just starting to see what kind of team they've managed to put together in the off-season.

Oh, yeah, when the American sports fan gets up in the morning to relieve himself this time of year, he no doubt does it while humming the Notre Dame fight song. As he dons his fuzzy bathrobe and ventures outside in the crisp autumn air to harvest his precious sports section, he can't help but do a couple of Terrell Davis-type feints to shake off an entire backfield of imaginary defensive ends. As he picks up the tightly rolled-up newspaper, he simultaneously tosses an acorn into the air and smacks it into old man Patterson's yard, imagining that he's Big Mac and he's just hit number 71. Oh, baby!

Yep, life is pretty good for American sports fans right now.

America, and the world, for that matter, is obsessed with sport. A few years back, NBA commissioner David Stern was travelling in China-not on business, but as a tourist. His journey had brought him deep into the heart of China, where non-Asians were a relative rarity. While exchanging pleasantries with a couple of locals, one of them asked Stern what he did for a living back in the US. Stern replied that he was a lawyer and worked for something called the National Basketball Association. One of the peasants replied:

"Oh, yes, I am a great fan of the Chicago Red Ox and Michael Jordan."

Sport is universal, although language apparently still has its glitches.

Figuring out why we love sport is probably a waste of time, somewhat akin to figuring out why humans like backrubs or why it feels good when we rub up against the washer when it's on spin cycle. That's just the way it is. And believe me, I don't want to analyze this human trait, but it's probably also second nature for humans to seek out heroes who, because of some almost freakish ability, are able to do things that most of us can't do. Sport provides a forum for those heroes. We enjoy their athletic prowess-their heroism, if you will-and we live vicariously through their experiences.

The trouble is, too often the moral make-up of these heroes doesn't mesh very well with the hero status we confer on them. If you habitually read the "Sports in the Courts" section of the paper, you get a sobering dose of reality. Leon Lett of the Cowboys just received his fifth drug suspension. Fourteen UCLA football players were caught using handicapped parking stickers. Football legend Jim Brown was acquitted of beating his wife, although he was found guilty of whuppin' her car to death. Bad guy Bill Romanowski of the Broncos cops to phentermine addiction and prescription fraud, but I don't think it explained why he used the face of an opposing player as a spittoon on "Monday Night Football."

Likewise, we have Darryl Strawberry's on-again, off-again drug problems surfacing up in the paper with a regularity that rivals the swallows returning to Capistrano every year. Dennis Rodman was a good player, but he could have been great if he had managed to discipline his mind a bit and stay out of Madonna's snatch. Mike Tyson has turned out to be a real piece of work, and we don't even need to talk about O.J. Simpson.

It's almost enough to make you want to hide the sports section from your impressionable son or daughter.

Of course, there are sports figures that seem to be pretty good guys. Sammy Sosa, so far, hasn't exposed himself, beat up anybody, or bet on baseball. He just smiles a lot and keeps on smackin' home runs. Mark McGwire, now available in the androstenedione-free version, is still hitting homers on a per-at-bat pace that exceeds anyone's in the history of the sport. Football's aging superstar Dan Marino is trying to win a Super Bowl before retiring.

Tennis star Andre Agassi, while hobnobbing with ex-wife, mono-browed actress Brooke Shields, had all but disappeared off tennis' list of rankings. He got rid of his boyish bullshit, got serious, and was crowned number one in the tennis world last week.

San Diego Padres outfielder Tony Gwynn quietly surpassed 3,000 hits this year, all while maintaining a lifetime batting average that's downright stratospheric. Although he could have been one of the sport's richest players, he decided that money was secondary, and he chose to remain with a small-market team throughout his entire career because he just plain-old liked living in San Diego. Baltimore Orioles infielder Cal Ripken is also marching toward his 3,000th hit, and his consecutive-game record is a testament to gutsy hard work.

Grant Hill of the Pistons is basketball's contribution to the good guy's team. He works with a number of charities in Detroit, and you get the distinct impression that his concern is genuine and not merely a PR move suggested by his agent. He's articulate, educated, and the lanky SOB even plays a pretty mean classical piano. His parents, both professionals, were determined to bring him up without the encumbrance of a swelled head.

There are, of course, good and bad, although the ranks of the bad are a little too crowded. I guess that's what happens when you live in a society that gives a little too much leeway to sports heroes. They're largely excused from playing by the rules because they provide us with too much entertainment. If we made them bend to the rules the rest of us have to follow, we'd be punishing ourselves with the deprivation of the pleasure that they provide us. It ain't right, but it's the way it is.

Still, I'd like to tell you about my sports hero. His fans referred to him as "Pudge," but most casual baseball fans remember him as Carlton Fisk. Now, I know what the baseball fans among you are thinking. You're assuming that I'm a huge Boston Red Sox fan and that the homer he hit in the twelfth inning of the sixth game of the 1975 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds changed my life or something. Okay, okay, so I watched the game, and that's about the last time I can remember crying in my life, but it's not why Pudge is my hero. In fact, it has nothing to do with his sports achievements. He was a capable player who had moments of heroism and exhibited remarkable longevity while playing a position that's the most debilitating in the game, but Pudge is my hero for another reason.

I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for him because of a game that was played early in the 1990 baseball season. Fisk was catching for the Chicago White Sox at the ripe old age of 43, and the Sox were playing the Yankees. Fisk was behind the plate when flashy 22-year-old outfielder "Neon" Deion Sanders came up to bat. Neon hit a soft fly ball to the outfield-an easy out. He trotted casually to first base and, before the ball was even caught (or missed), he took a right turn and headed toward the dugout. He must have heard footsteps, because he suddenly turned around, only to find a 6'2" tall, red-faced Carlton Fisk-a player on the opposing team-screaming into his face:

"Run it out, you piece of crud!!! Go ahead, run it out!!!"

Neon was completely baffled as he walked toward the dugout with his head looking back at the still glowering Fisk. The game continued, and the next time Sanders came to bat, he turned to Pudge behind the plate and said:

"The days of slavery are over."

Fisk stood up and, as the veins in his neck and forehead started to swell and pulse, he replied:

"Let me tell you something, you little shit. There's a right way and a wrong way to play this game. You're playing it the wrong way, and the rest of us don't like it. Someday, you're going to get this game shoved right down your throat."

Well, both benches cleared.

Afterward, Fisk explained himself, saying that he did it...

"...for truth, justice, and the American way, and to keep [baseball legend] Lou Gehrig from spinning in his grave."

Later on, "Washington Post" columnist Thomas Boswell wrote a tribute to Pudge, one portion of which said:

"I call it the last stand of the dinosaurs. We may never see the like of it in any pro sport. So relish it..."

Man, I got another tear in my eye just reliving the event.

Now, I don't know if bodybuilding or weight training is a sport, but I don't care. It's what I do, and if you're reading this, it's most likely what you do. Granted, it has moments of heroism (tell me that going to the gym four, five, or six days a week and beating yourself up isn't heroic in some sense), but it's not a spectator sport, and very few people would pay to watch us train.

Still, when I'm in the gym, it's my stadium, ballpark, and arena all rolled into one. And when I see "players" pulling a "Neon Deion" by reading the paper while they're doing leg presses or one-arm "concentration" curls, I feel like pulling a Pudge on them and screaming into their faces:

"Hey, Dorian Yates, at least pretend like you give a shit about what you're doing or take your limp dick home!"

Likewise, when I see somebody making small talk about the stock market or radial tires-talking, for Chrissake-during a set of half-assed squats or bench presses, I want to take the Olympic bar, squeeze it against their necks 'till the spittle starts to bubble out of the corner of their mouths, and tell them:

"There's a right way and a wrong way to play this 'game.' You're playing it the wrong way, and the rest of us don't like it... shithead."

Now, I have no idea what Carlton Fisk is doing nowadays, but I'd venture to say that he feels pretty good about himself, knowing that even if he didn't make it to the Baseball Hall of Fame, he gave the game his all. Let's all go to the gym and make Pudge proud.