Sports Fan

With the World Series in full swing, the NFL taking a few hits but still invincible, and a "heated" NBA season tipping off, what more can a sports fan ask for?

Especially if he has the time, inclination, and patience to plant himself squarely in front of the biggest, flattest, highest-def plasma-pixelated screen he can find for at least three hours, which, although I don't, millions of others do.

Last night (November 1, 2010), for the eighth consecutive week, Sunday Night Football was the most-watched program, as 11.8% of 116 million households (13,700,000) and 18% of those with their televisions on (called the "share") tuned in to witness the Pittsburgh Steelers whip the New Orleans Saints 20-10 -- compared to 10.4% and a 16% share for Game Four of the World Series.

I didn't get the memo; after checking the baseball score at 10:00 PM (2-0 Giants) with the wishful thought that the game might be in the late innings so I could persevere until the end (alas, it was only the sixth), I surrendered to common sense and went to bed.

I'm not totally averse to sports -- just sports on television, and particularly football, unless it's a rare appearance by my beloved Oakland Athletics, who as a West Coast stepchild sneak into a national broadcast only when their opponent is the Yankees or Red Sox. And full disclosure compels me to admit to camping out in my burgundy velvet La-Z-Boy for an occasional final round of a major golf tournament -- especially if Tiger Woods (pre- or post-sex scandal, it doesn't matter) is in contention.

Failing the television test, perhaps I should more accurately be characterized as a sports follower, since I faithfully track team won-lost records, peruse league standings, and study individual statistics and game box scores with the diligence of a detective dusting for fingerprints. I'll wager my locker-room expertise and cocktail party chatter against that of the most bloodshot-eyed tube addict.

When it comes to live spectator sports, my affection for baseball and distaste for football have been well-documented on this site. While I can readily appreciate the social, gastronomic, and intoxicative pleasures of tailgating (which I am ashamed to admit I have yet to experience, but which I have inferred is at least half of the latter's appeal -- especially if it's the UVA version), my suspicions were unequivocally confirmed last year when I broke a fifteen-year record of indifference and attended a Wake Forest-Navy game at Annapolis, Maryland (the ambulatory exploration of which made it all worthwhile).

Seated ten rows back on the twenty-yard line, I could see nothing beyond a mass of black, blue, and gold jerseys metamorphosing like a giant amoeba -- except for brief intervals when it actually flowed in my direction -- a tedious exercise from which my companions and I were gratefully excused when shortly after halftime a torrential downpour dispatched us to the warmth and dryness of our hotel rooms. The highlight of this adventure was a heart-thumping flyover by the Blue Angels just before kickoff.

On the other hand, I will range far and wide to attend a major league baseball game -- especially if those distant A's are within striking distance (such as Baltimore, although this year I flew to Toronto); recently, with one son staked out in Washington, D.C., and a daughter formerly in Philadelphia, the Nationals and the Phillies have been deemed worthy of support.

My initial sighting of the placid, pristine, pastoral field of dreams never fails to elicit paroxysms of rapture. Stretching from home plate between two intersecting white-chalked boundaries, past an slightly-elevated pitcher's mound, through the exquisitely-manicured two-tone diamond, into the luxuriantly-carpeted parabolic outfield, it patiently waits its nine defenders -- ordinary human beings, neither towering oddities nor thickset behemoths enshrouded in protective armor -- who, after a stirring rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner," spring from their dugout and sprint to their assigned positions.

In an instant their languorous but expectant solitude is shattered by the pitch, the swing, and the crack of the bat, launching them in a sudden burst of energy to chase, capture, and release the ball, either to erase the runner or concede one, two, three, or four bases to his skill, or luck.

The beauty of this quiet game is revealed in one's panoramic perspective of the field -- and action -- even when, from a remote vantage point, the pitcher and batter are reduced to miniature combatants. Sadly, this vista is not easily translated to the small (or big) screen, and, while the viewer enjoys magnified renderings of players and plays in isolation -- every pitch, swing, catch, and throw -- the overall effect is diminished.

Conversely, football is a sport invented for television. Even for long passes down field, the total play -- the huddle, the break, the lining up, the few seconds of relevant movement (which add up to all of twelve minutes in a three-hour broadcast), the piling on, the sorting out -- fits the frame like a tailor-made suit fits Commissioner Roger Goodell, as does its subsequent ad nauseum dissection from multiple camera angles, which amplify with shocking clarity the object of this scrimmaging: controlled violence and vicious contact. With concussions and torn ligaments of increasing concern, why should anyone be surprised when a player suffers a career-threatening injury?

As for my own purpose, after that didactic digression, it is to conduct a Halloween experiment, to masquerade as a veritable sports fan, to watch uninterrupted, from start to finish, a World Series Baseball Game and the Fox NFL Game of the Week, the former on Saturday night, October 30th, and the latter the next afternoon. My ulterior motive, blatantly self-evident, is to provide an appetizing treat for my faithful followers.

One reason I choose Saturday's game -- besides not having been invited to any Halloween parties -- is its 7:00 PM start time, the earliest since 1987, which gives me a fighting chance of maintaining consciousness until the last out. After insisting for years that earlier start times meant lower ratings, especially on the West Coast, baseball and network officials agreed to this one in an attempt to woo younger (and some older) viewers.

Apparently they know what they are talking about. Sunday's rating of 6.7 will be the second-lowest in World Series broadcast history, and beat only the 6.1 reported for Game Three of the Phillies-Rays in 2008 -- which was delayed ninety-one minutes and didn't start until 10:00 PM in the East.

It doesn't help that this game (and Series) pits two perennial lightweights, the Texas Rangers and the San Francisco Giants, each of whom slew their respective Goliaths in their League Championships, the New York Yankees and the Philadelphia Phillies, teams with recognizable star power and a national fan base.

The proud Yankees -- boasting a $206 million payroll ($45 million more than the second-place Red Sox) and the four highest-priced players in the Majors (Rodriguez at $33 million, Sabathia at $24.3 million, Jeter at $22.6 million, and Texeira at $20.6 million) -- of whom I harbor not a deep-seated hatred but merely a queasy disgust rooted in their bottomless pocketbook and the slavish devotion of a besotted media -- failed to show up for the close-out game of their series with the Rangers and slunk meekly into the sunset after a 6-1 spanking.

On the other side of the ledger, the Phillies' fourth-ranking payroll and stable of number-one pitchers -- Halladay, Oswalt, and Hamels -- were equally embarrassed by the upstart Giants, who would prove to be, in their manager's own words, a ragtag team of destiny, clawing their way to a sixth-game 3-2 victory on the strength of an eighth-inning home run by the well-traveled Juan Uribe and seven shutout innings by a bullpen which included Cy Young starter Tim Lincecum.

Even with the favorites eliminated, there is no dearth of interesting story lines.

Before the season started, Rangers' manager Ron Washington -- whose Oakland A's pedigree entitles him to a healthy dose of respect -- admitted to cocaine use, which, while illegal, at least was not a steroid nor offensive enough to warrant a House of Representatives subpoena.

Center fielder and Most Valuable Player candidate Josh Hamilton was a former number one draft pick who injured his back in a car accident in 2001, was out of baseball for five years, and overcame a crippling drug and alcohol problem to resurrect his career.

Like dispersed mountain streams merging into the Rio Grande, the team's top three starting pitchers rendezvoused in Texas after following circuitous routes: Cliff Lee -- who sported a 7-0, 1.26 era, post-season record before his opening game shellacking -- from Cleveland via Philadelphia and Seattle; C. J. Wilson, from the Rangers' bullpen, where he labored for the past five seasons, saving 52 games; and Colby Lewis, from the Hiroshima Carp, where he led the Japanese Central League in strikeouts in 2008 and 2009.

Designated hitter Vladimir Guerrero was signed away from Division rival Los Angeles after a mediocre 2009, and responded splendidly by hitting 29 home runs and driving in 115.

Catcher Benjie Molina was obtained from none other than the Giants in a midseason trade, thus assuring him of a World Series ring and a share of the spoils, regardless of who wins.

The Giants have been carried this far on the youthful arms of their four homegrown starters -- Lincecum 26, Cain 26, Sanchez 27, and Bumgarner 21 -- who have held their opponents to three runs or less in five nail-biting one-run playoff wins. Although it has been inconsistent all year, an explosion of 11 and 9 runs in the first two games illustrated the versatility of a makeshift lineup compiled through a series improbably fortuitous or astonishingly astute moves by General Manager Brian Sabean (except for the wretched signing of Barry Zito, his highest-priced player, whose lackluster production earned him a postseason benching).

Center fielder Andres Torres, who at thirty-one had batted only ninety times in the Major Leagues and had spent the previous three seasons in the Minors, was signed in 2009 for $450,000 a year, and surprised the skeptics by sparkling in the lead off position.

The thirty-two-year-old Uribe took over third base when last year rookie sensation Pablo Sandoval put on thirty-five pounds.

Cody Ross, claimed off waivers from the Florida Marlins in order to keep him out of the clutches of Division opponent San Diego, blossomed into a postseason hitting phenom, blasting five home runs.

Closer Brian Wilson -- whose Mohawk haircut, black-dyed beard, indecipherable tattoos, lemon-yellow suit, orange shoes, zany interviews, intellectual profundity, and crossword puzzle and chess expertise have earned him cult status -- turned in the fearless and dominating performance that has garnered him a record 209 saves since 2008.

Twenty-three-year-old rookie Buster Posey hit for average and power immediately upon his May call up from the Minors and within weeks established himself as the team leader from the catcher position.

With the Giants up 2-0, Game Three is a must win for the Rangers.

Broadcasting this contest will be the experienced duo of Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. Officials have wisely dispensed with a superfluous third person in the booth -- as if he could ever get a word in among the endless spate of trivia and pitch-by-pitch commentary gushing from these inexhaustible fountains of knowledge. As they read from their teleprompters and computer screens, it's apparent that neither one -- especially McCarver -- ever met a fact or statistic he didn't like, or to which he would attach anything less than momentous implications.

Thus in the space of three hours on Halloween Eve, viewers are served up a smorgasbord of baseball treats.

The Giants' Jonathan Sanchez walked more batters, 96, than any other pitcher in the Major Leagues.

Pablo Sandoval is ambidextrous and learned to throw righthanded so he could play catcher.

Colby Lewis returned to the States in order to obtain health insurance for his wife, who suffers from a thyroid condition.

C. C. Sabathia (not playing tonight since he is a Yankee) has gone from preventing them in-season to promoting RBI off-season -- Reviving Baseball in Inner Cities, where, I assume, basketball has surpassed it as the sport of choice, offering a faster and more lucrative path to fame and fortune.

Bruce Bochy, Giants' manager, was a teammate of Rangers' owner Nolan Ryan on the 1980 Houston Astros.

The stars of the 1967 movie The Dirty Dozen -- one of Bochy's nicknames for his team -- were Lee Marvin, Jim Brown, Trini Lopez, and John Cassavetes (not to mention Ernest Borgnine and Charles Bronson).

The last American League team to win its first World Series Game at home -- the AT&T trivia question of the night, and one I expect few viewers know the answer to and hardly any care about -- was the Toronto Blue Jays in 1992, on a game-winning hit by the appropriately christened (my observation, not McCarver's) Candy Maldonado.

Forty-eight thousand beers and fifteen thousand hot dogs will be consumed during the game (that is, in the stadium). The hamburger was invented seventy miles away, in Athens, Texas (although McCarver fails to mention that New Haven, Conn., and Seymour, Wisc., dispute that claim, thus cautioning one not believe everything he hears on television).

Ian Kinsler, Rangers' second baseman and one of my favorite players (he's Jewish), possesses a "rare combination of speed and power" -- a McCarver cliche I'm not sure is accurate either in its description of Kinsler or its rarity among accomplished Major Leaguers.

McCarver mangles the name of Rangers' rookie relief pitcher -- who saved forty games this year -- calling him Neftali Perez instead of Neftali Feliz, an unhappy blunder he or Buck later tries to make amends for by lamely informing us that "Feliz" means "happy."

Also, according to McCarver, the largest World Series comeback by the Giants -- now trailing by four runs -- occurred in 1921, two years after World War I ended, a totally gratuitous piece of information, and incorrect to boot, since the Armistice was signed on November 11, 1918.

Bruce Bochy has managed his baseball pieces like Bobby Fischer (or maybe his own Brian Wilson).

And the next tidbit I miss.

As I do the key hit of the game -- a three-run home run by Rangers' rookie first baseman Mitch Moreland in the second inning. Oh yes: my well-intentioned plan not to miss a minute of the broadcast and record every one for posterity is foiled when I am summoned to the dinner table by a lovely lady and her darling daughter, at whose home I am engaged in this earnest activity, perched on a stool in the kitchen, peering at an ancient ten-inch screen (at least it's color), assiduously taking notes.

That the meal -- salad, salmon, and broccoli -- is delightful is irrelevant to what I have always contended about a baseball game. While it often appears to move at a snail's pace, one cannot turn away for a moment, lest he miss a crucial play.

As best I can reconstruct it -- because the announcers are of little help (while churning out reams of useless information, they myopically assume a captive audience) -- Cruz doubled to lead off; Kinsler and Francoeur made outs; Molina walked; and then the ninth-batting Moreland "hit his first ever home run against a lefthanded pitcher."

The Rangers add another run in the fifth inning on a blast by Hamilton, this after Young hit into a double play, negating a leadoff single by Andrus. Since the Giants' two runs also cross the plate on solo shots -- one by the irrepressible Ross and the other by Torres -- I'm curious as to how many, if any, World Series games featured all their scoring via the home run -- the most significant fact about this otherwise tepid contest, yet the one that fails to surface amidst the plethora of detail regurgitated by our garrulous announcers.

Also noteworthy are four strikeouts by the atrocious Pat Burrell, a Tampa Bay castoff, somehow batting fifth for the Giants, who will ultimately go 0-13 in five Series games, striking out eleven times. His futility is surpassed, however, by the mystifying appearance of White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen, whose onfield expert analysis is entirely unintelligible.

Of course, this experiment would hardly be complete without a conscientious examination of all the commercials that make it possible, and so I duly suffer through an endless succession of thirty-second sound bites, slogans, sales pitches, claims, offers, and promises -- a genuine revelation for this infrequent viewer and relentless surfer.

I learn that "it's time for a phone to save us from our phone," which is supposed to be the Windows phone, but could just as easily be the Sprint phone, or the HTC power phone, or the Blackberry Torch, or the EVO-4G phone, or the I-phone-4; that as a Visa credit card holder, I may win a trip to the Super Bowl for the rest of my life (oh boy); that Abbott Laboratories may have the cure for Low T (low testosterone, which may be responsible for low you-know-what); that, while the Ford Mustang, with 305 hp at $305 per month, is the "biggest, baddest car on the road . . . when the big dog moves in, what more does one need than a dog and a Chevy"; that one in four will experience "the simple joy of winning" by playing Monopoly at McDonald's and splitting $200,000,000; that Megamind soars, Due Date is the funniest film of 2010, someone is out to kill Harry Potter in The Deathly Hallows Part I, and Unstoppable is, well, unwatchable; and, finally, that one television show not to be missed is the Fox NFL Game of the Week, when Randy Moss, now a Minnesota Viking, returns to New England to take on the Patriots.

Which I am eagerly anticipating as a serious sports fan. Which one doesn't have to be to appreciate the intrigue. If there were any regular season NFL game I might be enticed to watch, this would be the one.

Because while Central Virginia is predominantly Redskin territory, my sympathies gravitate toward the Patriots, a perverse choice for an habitual advocate of the underdog. It goes back to 2001, when the Patriots shocked the world by getting to the Super Bowl and unheralded Tom Brady, in his first season as quarterback, engineered a final minute upset of the powerful Rams.

I confess a grudging admiration for the tight-lipped, stoic Bill Belichick -- in spite of his alleged cheating several years ago -- and his focused, disciplined management style, which has propelled his team to nine consecutive winning records and seven playoff appearances, and enabled him to reinvent himself routinely whenever it became necessary to discard aged, expensive, or troublesome players. I rooted in vain for the Patriots to complete their undefeated season in 2007, not only to vindicate Belichick but also to silence forever those obnoxious 1972 Miami Dolphins.

Lining up against Belichick and Brady are a team and a quarterback in turmoil. If the tiresome Bret Favre -- whose annual retirement melodrama is an embarrassment to the League and his team, but a boon to a ravenous media -- weren't exposed enough, his juvenile flirtation with former Jets sideline reporter Jenn Sterger and his recurrent injury problems have intensified the scrutiny. Suffice it to say that I count myself among a host of disinterested observers who believe Favre's indisputable legacy as one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time would have been better served by a graceful ride into the sunset several years ago -- in spite of his resilient ability to amaze with occasional flashes of brilliance.

And so at 4:15 I settle comfortably into my La-Z-Boy, press the power button on my remote control, and await the kickoff to this week's Clash of the Titans -- when what should I behold but a Washington Redskins-Detroit Lions game still in progress, and an egregious demonstration of all that's wrong with football on television. Because the last 2:30 of this game take one-third of an hour to play.

With Detroit leading 28-25, viewers are subjected to two Washington time-outs and the proverbial two-minute warning -- which serves no purpose other to allow more sponsors to identify themselves -- before the Lions kick a field goal. Once again the clock stops.

After the ensuing kickoff -- and more commercials -- Redskins' coach Mike Shanahan makes the controversial move of substituting backup quarterback Rex Grossman for the ineffective and immobile (or so we are later informed) Donovan McNabb. On his first play from scrimmage, Grossman is sacked and fumbles; rookie defensive tackle Ndamukong Suh picks up the ball and rumbles for a Lion touchdown.

The game is essentially over, but apparently some esoteric contractual obligations require Fox to keep broadcasting it. The Lions take a time-out to prepare a totally unnecessary two-point conversion pass play, which is successful, following an interminable review by the officials.

The announcers toss out the gleeful tease that America's Game of the Week is coming up next -- but only after the agonizing final sixty ticks of the clock. By the time the Redskins' rout is complete, I've missed twelve minutes of the Vikings-Patriots -- but not to worry; there's been no scoring.

Favre is playing -- an uncertainty up until game time. Trying to fill in the blanks for millions of latecomers like me, Thom Brennaman and Troy Aikman report that Vikings' running back Adrian Peterson has already rushed for 54 yards on eight carries. Within minutes he finishes off a "heck of a drive" by leaping into the end zone, barely breaking the plane of the goal line. Play is stopped for a challenge, which, after ten replays from five camera angles, seems to Aikman "a good challenge," until the ruling on the field stands, at which point he corrects himself: "Maybe it wasn't such a good challenge."

New England answers with a drive of its own, highlighted by a long pass that goes right through the defender's hands (Madieu Williams) to Brandon Tate; the catch is upheld after a challenge and four commercials. Two plays later, shoehorned between a time-out and eight commercials, the diminutive (5'9") Danny Woodhead takes a direct snap and darts three yards up the middle for a touchdown.

Favre is playing well; at 7:30 in the second quarter, he's 7 of 8 for 74 yards, although none have been completed to Randy Moss. In an obvious reference to Favre's gambling reputation, Aikman quotes Vikings' coach Brad Childress: "There's nothing wrong with punting more often" -- as opposed to throwing interceptions.

After Brady misses a wide-open Dion Branch and rookie punter Zoltan Mesko booms a 55-yarder, Farvre takes over again. Completing two passes to Percy Harvin, one of which is his 10,000th career attempt, he moves the Vikings to a fourth-and-goal at the one-yard line. Aikman "doesn't disagree" with Childress's decision to "go for it," but in a slow-developing play Peterson -- "who hasn't been racking up yards like he did in the first quarter" -- is dropped for a loss.

I'm looking forward to seeing how many words, scores, and statistics the Fox NFL Sunday team of Curt (Menefee), Terry (Bradshaw), Howie (Long) and Jimmy (Johnson) can squeeze in between commercials during halftime -- when once again I'm summoned to another dinner engagement. It's been a rather uneventful game -- only two scores so far -- so I'm not all that concerned about lingering a little too long (after all, one can't just eat and run).

Alas, when I resume the position at 6:43 of the third quarter, the score is 14-10, Patriots. I've missed Randy Moss's first (and only) catch of the day, a Minnesota field goal, and the game's biggest play -- a Brady 65-yard touchdown pass to Brandon Tate. Oh well; that's football. Turn away for a moment and . . .

On fourth-and-one at the fifty-yard line, Childress, apparently intimidated by his last failure, chooses to punt. I don't agree with Aikman's assessment: "No question you punt." The Vikings trail; they have a greater than fifty per cent probability of success; and it shows no confidence in his defense (or offense).

After three-and-outs by both teams, Favre's good day -- he's 17-23 for 194 yards -- is spoiled when New England rookie Devin McCourty grabs the ball out of Percy Harvin's hands for an interception. Spearheading a surprisingly effective running game, BenJarvus Green-Ellis, the man with four proper names, dashes thirteen yards for a Patriot touchdown. On their next possession, another obscure Belichick rookie find, Aaron Hernandez, who leads the team in receiving yards and yards per catch, makes two receptions.

But the old man's not done yet. Favre rolls out and completes a perfectly thrown pass to Harvin for a 30-yard gain. Aikman's commentary during this drive is insightful and enlightening. On a Bernard Berrian incompletion: "That's a play he's got to make." On coverage of Randy Moss: "I've never seen a safety play that deep in the NFL in fifteen years." On Adrian Peterson's not running of bounds after a catch: "I'm curious to see how many years he'll play." On Favre's intentional grounding: "You don't lose anything; he would have been sacked." On Brandon Meriweather's pass interference against Moss at the eight-yard line: "It would have been a touchdown."

Three plays later, in a bone-jarring tackle, Myron Pryor manages to get his helmet underneath Favre's face mask, breaking open his jaw in a blow that would require eight stitches. Favre is carted off the field "in tremendous pain" -- apparently its severity has been relayed from the field to the announcers in the booth -- another brutal sacrifice to the insatiable Gods of Football. Isn't this what we all watch for? Aren't hits and injuries like this "just part of the game?"

Even Favre haters have to be a little unsettled. After all, Brennaman reminds us, "People can say what they want about his coming out of retirement, but you're looking at a forty-one-year-old man playing a game with the biggest, strongest, fastest athletes in the world who are trying to hit him on every play."

Tavaris Jackson replaces Favre and completes a one-yard touchdown pass (interference was called on the Favre knockout) and a two-point conversion, closing the deficit to 21-18 Patriots, with seven minutes left, plenty of time (how well I know).

New England won't be denied today, however. Their running game is cranked up, and Green-Ellis is, well, unstoppable, biting off big chunks of yardage -- 14, 9, 5, 8, and 26, the last just after Brennaman tallies him at 84 in 15 carries -- before somersaulting into the end zone, maybe. Another excruciating review enables us to revel in the acrobatics six times before confirming the touchdown.

In the last desperate two minutes, which are mercifully shown without interruption, Jackson's best play is a 30-yard scramble.

That doesn't mean I haven't seen plenty of commercials during this broadcast -- most at least refreshingly different from those of the previous night. If I thought I had learned anything about smart phones, how wrong I was. The AT&T Torch makes broadband more affordable, and with it, "any moment could be the moment." The Droid can be its own security. The EVO-4G streams live video from the web. The I-phone-4 features the amazing retina display. (Does that mean I don't have to wear my glasses?)

Moving on to products closer to my level of sophistication, I learn that Toyota has total roadside assistance and great deals this month, especially at Danville Toyota; that Applebee's has one appetizer and two entrees for $2o; that Denny's has a nineteen-ingredient omelette for $4.99; that Lowe's valspar paint has hi-def color; that an ad for vloric includes more disclaimers than benefits; that Direct TV has new movies one month before Netflix; that Southwest is your low-cost airline (the best commercial I saw in two days); and that, inevitably, two days before the election, Tom Perriello, with his votes on health care and the energy tax, was Their Congressman, not Yours, but that all those hits he's been taking, like a punching bag, or a valiant Bret Favre, have been for You.

And with that, it's over -- six hours on the couch (actually, on the stool and the La-Z-Boy): four hours of sports programming, two hours of commercials (according to most estimates), and two rather uninspiring exhibitions. And as much as I hate to admit it, the football game had more action, more suspense, more excitement -- but not much more.

But in the final analysis, I believe the best way to enjoy a sporting event is to dial in periodically to the live play-by-play and statistical record on the Internet while reading a book and then catch all the highlights on Sports Center the next morning. Because I'll never watch another one start to finish -- until the next Game of the Century comes along.