Sorry Becks

Attention American soccer lovers: The arrival of David Beckham to the United States is a great thing. It is the steal of one of Europe’s greatest stars to America’s most star studded city. It doesn’t get any bigger for the MLS. It marks the first time other than the World Cup that I can recall major sports websites and television stations having soccer as the number one story. Beckham has it all; the good looks, athletic prowess, and pop star wife. He is as can’t miss as it gets.

His arrival to the states though does not matter.
Basketball, baseball, and football are the backbone of American athletics.

Despite this monumental day in United States soccer, do not expect to see the world’s most popular game take center stage in America. American sports fans are creatures of habit and routine. We are what we’re taught. And just as our dads grew up watching baseball, so did their dads. Soccer in America has merely been a slow heartbeat for a few years. Some would say it started when Pele arrived in New York to play a few seasons with the Cosmos in the mid 70’s, or perhaps when the U.S. hosted the World Cup in 1994 and the Americans advanced to the second round. Kids in Washington D.C. grow up with the Redskins, not D.C. United, just as kids in Denver grow up with the Broncos, not the Rapids. The fact remains simple. Kids will follow the team passed down to them. Unfortunately for the MLS, the arrival of Beck’s – although celebrated – is not enough to spark nationwide interest and support for soccer. Until the day comes where American sports fans are willing to conform and accept the world’s game as one of its own, its fate will remain the same.

Class-Time

I sit here amongst my peers in class listening to my professor for an hour and a half blabber on about women’s movements and the role of feminism in America today. I listen faithfully to him, bored but still intent. Looking around the class of nine, I begin to wonder what my peers are thinking. Is the girl with the turquoise tank top sitting to my left really listening or is she simply pretending? I wonder is the tiny Asian girl across from me really taking notes or merely doodling? I wonder what the tall black kid at the head of the table thinks about this lecture. Did he tune out when the prof compared women’s struggles in the past 50 years to black’s struggles in America? Or did he appreciate his honesty? I wonder why the brunette in the corner with the push up bra keeps pulling her shirt up every five seconds as she passionately debates the difference between radical and liberal feminists. I wonder if the professor thinks the kid to my right with the Mohawk is actually typing notes or searching Facebook viewing useless photos and wall posts.

I wonder if the pretty girl wearing the UCLA sweatshirt three seats down is listening or simply nodding her head to appease the prof. I wonder if the freshman blonde girl from Miami sitting next to the prof is purposely playing with the pen in her mouth – thus fulfilling the fantasies of every guy in class, or if she is simply too innocent to even know the effect she’s having. I wonder if the shorter Latino kid wearing an Oxy v-neck actually cares about this class, or if he is scripting out his homework plan in the weekly planner hidden under his notebook. I wonder if the other eight kids in this class understand anything this professor is saying about the book, or if they just use free Sparknotes online to dissect this ridiculously hard novel that we would never read outside of class. Probably so.

Night Hoop

When we completed dinner, dad and I would take the half mile walk to the school yard, often in near freezing temperatures. Basketball in hand, pop only let me dribble with my left hand as we made our way there. When we did arrive, I’d begin our workout by shooting 100 shots around the five spots of the perimeter to warm up. Anything above 75 makes was a plus, anything below a negative. Every shot was charted, every spot noted. Upon its completion, I began a variety of ball handling drills, going between my legs, around the back, cross over left to right and right to left. Ball handling never elapsed more than 20 minutes, because the colder it got the harder it was to shoot. Pop then had me start from mid court to work on fast break situations. I’d dribble three times to the right or left elbow (16’) and pull up. 50 of these; I needed to hit 40 of them for a plus sign in the book. We’d then move beyond the arc to work on my range. I’d shoot 150 three pointers from all around the arc. I needed 115 for that elusive plus sign. After threes, I shot 75 free throws, with my dad trying everything possible to distract me. “You suck Schultz,” he’d yell. “Booooooo, down 1 with zero seconds on the clock, ohhhhhhhh!” I needed 68 out of 75 for the plus sign.

Once free throws were complete, came the best part of every night. It was 10:00, sometimes snow flakes were falling, often times we had rain coming down, but it didn’t matter. It was time for one-on-one for dad and I. First to 5 baskets, all ones, winner’s out. He didn’t have the first step he once had, so pop has to use that “old man strength” to have a chance. He backs me down to the block; turn around jumper over the left shoulder, buckets; 1-0. Again and again, and then more time; 4-0 dad. Finally a miss; I get the ball back. I blow by him and finish with the left hand; 4-1. I nail two outside jumpers; 4-3. I cross over left to right, but he meets me. I counter with a step back, buckets; tie ball game.

Another outside jumper if off the mark, dad rebounds. It’s game point and I know he’s going down to the block. He backs me down to his favorite spot on the left block. I know what’s coming. Turn-around jumper, this time I block it. I clear the ball. Dad in full defensive stance, arms up, I jab step with the right foot, but he barely moves. I do it again, this time he drops back. Bingo! I head fake, cross back to the left, now I got him on my right hip as I drive to the tin. Two dribbles and I jump off my right foot to use my body to shield him away. I hold the ball with the left hand so he can’t strip it away and soar to the hoop. I release the ball with the left off the glass and in. Game over, I win. “Yesssss,” I yell. “Great game dad,” “great game Jordie. Getting better young man, getting better.” In a night full of pluses and minuses, reassurance from dad is the biggest plus of all.

Big River

Culture is an ongoing debate. It’s like the Mississippi river flowing powerfully in one direction. Conflicting powers and currents flowing in all different directions. Undemocratic sentiments must be broken down. Some women believe women contained in the confines of a house all day subordinates women, thus making culture a struggle rather than a rigid and concrete notion. Anybody of this generation who believes in participatory democracy will thus appreciate the nature of culture. We need an electoral campaign that focuses on the issues at hand, both in America and in foreign affairs and policies. Notion of debate allows everyone to enter, participate in this debate! But somehow I find it hard to pursue.

Given the upcoming presidential election, the topic of politics will be at an all time high. Who can lead our nation the best? Can a black man really gain the respect of white traditionalists in the Deep South? And can a woman capture the respect of men across a nation that until now has never known a president to be anything but a Caucasian man? With all of these questions surrounding a country knee high in a war most of its people don’t even support anymore, questions of concern and angst fill surround all three prospective candidates. Democratic, Republican, or Libertarian, it doesn’t matter. A vital key to a successful government is the participation of people in American culture. Whether it’s a positive or negative contribution doesn’t matter. Hence is the beauty of American politics. Participatory democracy remains at the height of a successful Mississippi River.

Heel-Time

The Final Four is one of the premier sporting events in the world. Bringing together the four best college basketball teams in the land, the Final Four represents the culmination of a wondrous three weeks of March Madness. It signifies the end of tournament darlings and cinderallas, small schools who gained national prominence during their 15 minutes of fame. For the college basketball traditonalist, this year's final four boasts the classic powers of UCLA, Kansas, Memphis, and North Carolina, four number one seeds in the Final Four for the first time in the tournament's history.

Personally, I think Carolina is the most complete team. Admittedly, I picked the Bruins of Westwood to take the title before the toumost tournament started. I thought they possessed the most depth and overall talent. But as I've watched the last set of games, I've learned that Carolina is by far the most gifted and athletic team of the bunch. The Heels have the player of the year in Tyler Hansborough, a dynamic point guard in Ty Lawson, and two very gifted wing players in Danny Green and Wayne Ellington, not to mention a Hall of Fame coach in Roy Williams. Ultimately, I think Carloina beats a tough Bruins team in the national final Monday evening, 78-74. One thing's for sure, I can't wait.

Opening Day

The Mariners are looking very good. We are one game into the 2008 season and I'm already predicting a pennant. This is the beauty of opening day. Hopes and dreams aren't yet squashed, and perennial losers like the Tampa Bay Rays and Cincinatti Reds have hopes of October magic.

But back to my precious Mariners. In our first game of the season yesterday against the rival Texas Rangers, the M's used their largest offseason acqusition - pitcher Erik Badard from the Baltimore Orioles - to shut down the praised bats of the Rangers. On a chilly opening day on the final day of March, the Mariners failed to cross the plate until the 7th inning when thier young and talented 2B Jose Lopez perfectly executed a called hit and run to advance Ichiro to 3B. This is surely a sign of things to come. With young and live legs, the Mariners finally have to opportunity to play aggressive baseball. They now have the ability to push their opponents into feeling uncomfortable wuth double steals and suicide squeezes in the 9th. All of this came to fruition in the later frames yesterday st Safeco Field, when the M's turned around a 1-0 deficit late in the game and took advantage of their speed and power, rallying in front of a racous sellout to win 5-2.

It is a brand of baseball we as Mariners fans have been waiting for far too long. It is a brand of the game this team can play, and play well. Maybe I am an optimist. Maybe I am a naive fan who lets my desire for success convolute the actual image of my team. But it's April in the major leagues, and right now, everyone has a shot. Everyone is in first place. Everyone wakes up in the morning to see their club at the top of the standings. And I don't know about you, but I'm sure as hell going to enjoy it. God I love this game.

A Trend

As my junior year of college nears its end, there is a recurring trend I have noticed about myself. A trend I do not know whether to be proud of, or ashamed of. A trend I do not know if I should be bothered by or appreciate about myself. But one thing is for sure, I hate it. The trend is simple. I am cheap.

When I go to the grocery store and need gum, I won't buy the 12 pack of Orbit if its $2.47 because I know I can get a 24 pack at Target for $3.02. When I go to a decent restaurant and prepare to leave the tip, I often struggle with whether or not to leave an additional dollar. Seriously, I will sit at the table for three minutes and consider the service I got from the waitress to determine whether or not she deserves an extra buck. Are you kidding me? This trend has been an ongoing one for several years now, but lately its seemed to gain steam.

I'm not sure why this has happened, or how it's developed. Growing up an in upper-class family, my parents have always stressed to me the importance of appreciating money. They have taught me the importance of respecting money. I think I have taken this respect too far. I think when they taught me as a thirteen-year-old to respect money they wanted for me to not spulrge on unnecessary materialistic possessions, not spend five minutes at he gas pump debating whether or not to fill up my tank with unleaded or premium. But hey, in the era of high gas prices and an unhealthy American economy, maybe my biggest pet peeve will serve some good.

Baseball

I have a special passion in my life. A passion so vast that I will never fully have the capacity to express it. This passion stems from a time as a youth so pure and untainted that not even nature herself can understand. This passion began when I was six years old. It began at 4501 S. Jackson St in Seattle, Washington. It began in a place where children’s dreams come true, and where moments so precious only a father and son could fully appreciate them. This passion began in the midst of 60,000 other people, in an old run down dome where America’s pastime was played. It began when I saw #24 come to the plate for the very first time and when I saw old men cry after losing a child’s game.

I was just six years old when my father took me to my very first baseball game at the Kingdome. I remember walking down 5th street in Pioneer Sqaure past the smell of hot dog and pizza vendors. “Cheaper here than in the stadium, $2.00 a dog,” they yelled. My dad always stopped for a “dog.” My mitt in hand and filled with anticipation, I was so excited to go see the Mariners play.

When we approached the dome for the first time, a sudden sense of excitement filled my every bone. We walked into the stadium and up the ramp. I saw the field for the first time walking through Aisle 111. I couldn’t contain myself anymore as I ran to the seats. Looking up at my dad with the purest of smiles, he glanced back at me smiling even bigger. It was the most genuine of father-son moments being shared together at a baseball game; America’s pastime in its most untainted state. Enamored by every little sight and sound, I couldn’t help but look around the park and take in the resonance of the stadium. I loved every second of it. I loved the fresh smell of peanuts and the cracking sound they made in your hands. I loved the way the fresh cut grass looked from up above. I loved the way the players stood at the edge of the dugout and cracked open sunflower seeds. I loved the signs the third base coach gave his hitter on a 2-1 count facing a lowball pitcher. I loved hearing my dad’s passion as he described the hit-and-run to me and when to execute the double steal. I loved hearing about his hometown team, the New York Yankees, and how he used to write #7 all over his shoes and shirts to honor his favorite player of all time, Mickey Mantle. And most of all, I loved just being at the ballpark with my dad for the first time. For this was a moment etched in time and a moment I will forever cherish. I love you dad.

My New Passion

Throughout my entire life, food has always been a wondrous passion of mine. I love to eat. Really any food other than meat I'll eat with a grand assault. Pasta, fish, vegetables, ice cream. I respect food and I enjoy it. But recently I have found a new passion. I have found a passion in the form of liquid. This particualr liquid is bith rich and calm. It is both refreshing and tasty. Full bodied and light bodied. It has hops and wheat in the form of lagers and ambers. It is my new passion. Before I turned 21, I hardly drank at all. In fact, despite my beard and older looks, I'd often order a shirly temple or coke at nice restaurants. But on January 21, 2007, all of this changed. That night I went to my local Ralphs grocery store, ID proudly in hand. For twenty exciting minutes, I searched the beer section left and right, and left again. I saw new beers I'd never heard of before; Pyramid's apricot hef, Shiner Boch, and Sam Adam's White Ale. I remember feeling anxious. I wanted to try them all.

That night I went home with a few different kinds. In response to my friend Ian's recommendation, I ordered Thai food to take out. He told me the spicy food matched the beer better than any other food. I must have had 8, 9, 1o beers. I was amazed at the refreshingly cold tastes of the different ales. Stella immediately became my favorite. Its tasteful, yet unfilling nature made it a perfect fit given my passion for eating. Ever since that cold winter night when I turned 21 my life has changed for the better. I am slowly becoming a beer connoisseur. And I'm loving every minute of it.

Seatown in Vegas

I recently got back from a trip to Las Vegas. To say it was special would be like saying it occasionally rains in Seattle. When you hype a trip so much after two years of planning, it rarely delivers the excitement you had hoped for. But this trip did precisely that. I went with four of my best friends growing up, Connor, Ian, John, and Ryan, aka, Donn, Imax, Bails, and Slem. In three nights of gambling, partying, drinking and doing whatever else we did, I slept no more than 14 hours. I engaged in hours of roulette play, blackjack, and even tried my way at craps. Okay not really, but I wanted to. Every moment with these guys was a thrill. We spent most of the day in the casino gambling and watching the NCAA Tournament with all the "regulars." Come night time, we would shower and reconvene around 10 to prepare for our upcoming adventure. Perhaps our most fun evening was Friday night when we visited Tryst Night club at The Wynn Hotel. We pulled out our wallets and all forked over a few hundred bucks so that we could have bottle service and have our very own table for the duration of the evening. Despite by early skepticism, this was a tremendous decision. Not only did we enjoy fine alcohol all night, but we were centrally located at one of the premier tables in the club. We danced, drank, and stared at hot girls. Watching my 6'9" friend Ian try and hit on a 5'3" latina girl that night may be the highlight of the trip.
On a serious note though, I feel so lucky to have a group of friends I have known for this long. I know our friendships will only grow in years to come and that we will forever remember this trip for all the fun times we had together. This is a very special thing. It doesn't get much better than this.

Tired...

I am tired. There I said it. Point blank, I am exhausted. It seems that lately I've been getting less and less sleep while doing more and more work. I do not understand why I can't seem to got to bed at a decent hour, but I can't. I just can't. No matter what I do or try, I literally cannot go to sleep before midnight. Some nights I even stay awake until 2 or 3 in the morning. When I complete my homework, I usually watch tv or play video games. During the summer I may choose to read leisurely, but not during the school year. I read so much during the course of a day that I simply do not want to read once my scholarly work is complete. Do my professor's feel that there class is all that matters? Do they feel that we do not have any more work to do? Its seriously gotten to the point where its ridiculous. I'm freaking out here man...

TRAFFIC

The traffic in Los Angeles is perhaps worst in the country. At any given time, freeways across the city are jam packed with angry drivers screaming on their cell phones and honking their horns. I guess it is to be expected that a metropolis the size of LA has this type of unforgiving traffic. The freeways are the main level of transportation for millions of workers in the area. But my qualm is not with this ungodly traffic – make no mistake I hate it as much as anyone else- however my problem is with the never ending traffic we experience in this city.

I am a reasonable person. I understand that from 7:30-9:30 am Monday thru Friday and 5-8 pm traffic will peak. But what I simply do not understand is how the 101 and 10 freeways are jammed at 3:00 in the afternoon or 10:30 in the morning. These are not lunch hours. These are working times during the day where working folks should seemingly be working, not driving. I am from Seattle, a city stricken with traffic itself (top 5 worst traffic in U.S.) But the difference between Seattle traffic and LA traffic are the times. Seattle highways – like LA’s – are a nightmare during morning and evening rush hour. But during the day and even during lunch hour, one generally doesn’t have a problem navigating around the city. In LA though, the traffic literally never ends. Never. Where the fuck are all you city dwellers driving to at 2:45 on a Tuesday afternoon? Don’t you people work?”

I'm Rattled...

I am rattled. I am very rattled. Every year when the NCAA Tournament brackets are announced I begin my research of all the teams in the field. I discover disturbingly useless information like computer rankings and RPI. I learn what time of day teams play best in, and how they fare on back-to-back nights. I learn how many seniors they have, and how many freshmen they start. All of this for attempting to fill out the best bracket of all my friends. Think this is silly? Think again. I am fighting for the bragging rights of college basketball braket supremacy for the entire year. But every year the field of 64 seems harder to predict. With the growing existence of parity in college basketball, any team can beat another on a give night. Top ranked high school players aren't just choosing the Carolina's, Duke's, and UCLA's anymore. Now they want to turn small programs like St. Joes and Drake around to beat these powerhouses. Such decisions only make handicapping the jam packed tournament even harder. Choosing the 11 seed over the 6 seed isn't easy. It is hard, really hard. The challenge of pulling such a trigger is why I am so rattled. I do not want to make a mistake. I'm terrified of doing so. The NCAA Tournament isn't just important; it's monumental. Yes I will forget all of the useless information by next month, but I won't forget my 2nd consecutive year of victory. At group functions or night clubs, I will reign as champion. My knowledge will be feared. I must win "bracket challenge."

One Big Disappointment (cont)

I vowed that when I got back healthy I would get myself back to where I was before my injury. When I transferred the next fall to DIII Occidental, I felt confident that I could help the team right away. I was healthy again and felt good about my game. Unfortunately the coaching staff didn't feel the same way. I played sparingly for much of the year, and although I had a few breakout games of 12 and 21 points, I still didn't feel good about my role on the team. The next summer I worked harder than ever. I worked so hard that I got in even better shape than where I was two years ago at SU. In my first game of the year against D1 NCAA Tourney bound San Diego I scored 12 pts off of the bench in front of all my friends and family. "This was it," I thought to myself. This was the turning point. This season would be different, I just knew it.

Three months later I had once again grown accustomed to the bench. As the season progressed the coaching staff decided to shrink the rotation and cut my playing time. It didn't hurt that during winter break I sprained my mcl in my knee and gained 15 lbs over two months. Nonetheless, I feel i wasted another year of my college career and now find myself left with one season of eligibility, a fractured relationship with our head coach, and not knowing whether or not I should continue to play in the hope that next season will be different. Coming out of high school four years ago I certainly saw this differently...

One Big Disappointment

My collegiate basketball career has been a disappoitment. There I said it. Coming out of high school, I led my team to a 17-game winning streak and its first state tournament appearance in school history. I averaged 18 ppg, and was first team all-conference and second team all-state performer. When I enrolled at Seattle University in the fall of 2004, I didn't have particularly high expectations for my freshman year. SU was a full scholarship Division II school with superior athletes to myself. Our team was stacked with talent. We had two D1 transfers and a plethora of guys who could have easily played at that level. After getting my ass kicked freshman year in practice - I redshirted meaning I could only practice - I worked my ass off in the summer to prepare for a successful sophomore season. When I got into camp the next fall, I was in the best shape of my life. I was outplaying pne of the scholarship senior guards and felt confident about my game for the first time at this level. After one of best practices of the early season, I was messing around trying to dunk and came down on my teammates foot. I tore every ligament in my left foot and was essentially out for the season. I was devastated... (cont)

Job Interview

I have a job interview today. An important one to say the least. As a junior in college, this summer's internship (the last of my career) is probably the most meaningful job of my life this far. For when I graduate next spring, it is imperative that I get a good first job that lets me fulfill my passion for writing and broadcasting. The interview today is with Foxsports television, and is the job I am hoping to earn for this summer. If I can do so - assuming all goes well this summer - I will set myself up very well for post-under grad life. Am I nervous? No. But at the same time, I am curious as to the type of questions I will be hit with. Sure he'll ask me what my passions are and where I see my career going, but what if I'm asked questions like what my role in the world will be? I hardly know my role on my own basketball team, let alone the planet. I look forward to the interview but I know there will be a point where I'm not sure what to say. I hope all goes well...

Just shutup

The other day I was at a friend’s birthday barbecue. Let me be more specific. I was at my girlfriend’s uncle’s (who is also a friend of mine) barbecue. It was a nice event. Sean and his wife are expecting their first child in a couple weeks so the mood was extra festive. Everything was going well; we were interacting with her relatives and friends. Drinking beer of course was one of my imperatives. After our beer run, I engulfed a total of about ten Fat Tires and Heineken, ate two pieces of salmon, and had a piece and a half of carrot cake. At 3:00 the selection show for the NCAA Tournament came on and my attention immediately shifted to the television screen. After all, I’d been looking forward to this moment for the past three weeks.

The tournament is my pride and joy sporting event of the year (See: “March Madness” blog). A few minutes passed and CBS announced the four #1 seeds and was about to announce the rest of the field. Anticipation mounted as I found myself on the edge of my seat when one of Sean’s friends came up and sat down next to me. “Hey man, what you watching?” “The NCAA Tournament selection show.” “Oh March Madness! That’s awesome dude.” Just when I was hoping to relax and watch the show, I was hit with the one question I didn’t want to hear. “So how exactly does the NCAA Tournament selection work,” he asked. “Did my Kansas Jayhawks make it?” “Ugh” I thought to myself. Noooooooooooo. This barbecue was a five hour function and all I asked for was 45 minutes of peace and quiet so I could watch my show. For the next 45 minutes, I was peppered with questions about who is this year’s dark horse and favorite? I guess March Madness has started.

My new puppy

Over spring break my dad and I embarked on three hour round trip drive to Bellingham, Washington. You see my family has always been about dogs. My whole growing up we always had dogs. Recently our 14-year-old German Shepherd passed away, leaving our 5-year-old Golden Retreiver all alone without a friend. Over the past few months since Gypsy's death we have considered getting a new dog, but didn't want to make any brash decisions. After all, it is a great responsibility, and with my sister and I both away at school we didn't know doing so was the right decision. When I arrived back home in Seattle after our loss in Spokane, I convinced my dad to take a drive with me to check out a rescued chesapeake bay retreiver puppy named Kimber. When we finally got to the animal shelter with our current dog Kiefer, they played together for an hour or so. I looked at my dad and he looked back at me, and we just knew. THIS WAS THE DOG. I am proud to say we adopted Kimber and changed his name to Luca last week. Now Keifer has a friend, and we saved a puppy!

My Journey (cont)

I couldn't believe my luck. I had just completed three mid-terms and two projects in one week, and was supposed to be on sky high because my team was playing in the NCAA Tournament. But instead I was worried sick about what the hell happened to my wallet, canceling my credit cards, getting a new driver's license, and if I would ever make it to the team hotel in time for the game Saturday night. Ultimately, our little plane took off into the Los Angeles skyline amidst great turbulence, something I actually expected considering my luck, or lack there of. When we did fly, I soon learned that my assigned seat had been changed and that I would now sit in the smallest airplane seat I'd ever seen, with the least leg room I'd ever had. But all of this was okay as long I reached Spokane. It's funny; growing up in Seattle Spokane was never a place I desired going. But all of a sudden, I felt I had to be there. I felt I belonged there with my teammates, even if I didn't play a single minute in the game. It was a weird feeling, and a feeling I did not expect to feel.

My journey

Last Thursday was not how I saw it going. In the midst of my first mid-term of the day, my backpack (which included my wallet) was stolen from the CAE. Upon learning about this after the test, I found myself scrambling around campus not knowing where to look. Eventually we discovered my bag, but it no longer contained my wallet. When I finished my second mid-term, I prepared for our NCAA Tournament game that evening. When we beat Pamona by one to advance to the second round in Spokane, Washington, I knew I was in big trouble. After speaking with my mom earlier in the day, we could not think of a solution to get my passport from back home in Seattle sent to me in time to make the team plane. So instead of flying with my teammates earlier Friday morning, I was forced to sit in my apartment and wait for the Fed Ex guy to drop off my passport. When it finally did arrive, I rushed to the airport and of course found that my 7:00 pm flight was delayed due to a mechanical problem.