Crackity Jones' Diary

Nationals pastime

Hello again.

There's no truth to the rumor that I filled up both arms with tatts and ran off to form a rockabilly band. I've just had a particularly tough stretch at the office, and the blog-o-rama was moved down to last on the list for a while. I'm back, though. I hope on a regular basis. At least for now.

Enough about me. How have you been?

OK, more about me. Sharon and I finally got to a Washington Nationals game yesterday, making us the last in the Greater D.C. area to do so. I'm afraid we weren't much help to the home team, as the Nats lost 6-0 to the St. Louis Cardinals and put another nail in the coffin of their playoff hopes.

I know what you're thinking. What's the big deal? You're a sports editor. You must go to baseball games all the time.

That's simply not true. But I can't blame you for thinking that way. In fact, most people I talk to think that being a sports editor is a really glamorous job. Granted, it's more glamorous than coal mining. It's just not as sweet as you might think. It's definitely a lesson in "be careful what you wish for."

Here are a few myths about being a sports editor that I'll dispel for you:

1. "It must be great to sit around and watch sports all the time": I guess that would be great, but when you have to be responsible for getting five editions of a newspaper out on time every day, it leaves little time to stay glued to the tube. I've missed more big plays in the Super Bowl than I've seen in the past 11 years.

2. "It must be great getting to go to games for free": Again, that would be great. But unless your newspaper is a corporate sponsor of a professional team, it's usually only a reporter or two who get out to the games. Going back to scenario No. 1, I wouldn't be able to be at the ballpark all the time and still get my job done.

3. "You must really love sports": I did. A long time ago. This is the dirty little secret of the sports business, people. A lot of us love sports a lot less than when we used to. I can't go so far as to say that I hate it, because I still enjoy watching college and pro football, March Madness and the baseball playoffs, particularly if the Red Sox are in it. Other than that, though, there's not much to be excited about. People outside of the sports department usually don't understand this. To those people I say this: If you read story after story about athletes holding out for more money, using performance-enhancing drugs, getting arrested for everything from drugs to beating their wives, and snorting coke off of strippers' asses, how much would you like sports?

So, needless to say, I don't have a burning desire to get out the the ballpark whenever the Nats are in town. Sharon and I both like getting out to a game on occasion, though. I also have to say, and maybe it's the former high school catcher in me, that once I get to the park I remember that I enjoy watching a baseball game and seeing the strategy unfold from the seats. Sometimes it even reminds me why I got into the sports business.

Souvenirs

The pending arrival of our daughter has forced me to undertake some long overdue spring cleaning.

Sharon and I had way too much stuff when we combined households. Probably when I moved in was the right time to weed some of it out. And I did, but not nearly enough. Now, almost four years later, the kid is pushing me into action.

I'll admit I'm a bit of a pack rat. I tend to save back issues of magazines that I subscribe to. I have various collections of memorabilia. I buy way too much music for a guy who lives in a townhouse and has resisted joining the iCult. I can also be sentimental about holding on to pieces of the past, which can only mean more boxes to move around later.

The Li'l' Peanut's entrance into the picture means parting with some of the past and embracing the future. I'm glad to do it, but clearing space for her in my life means hours of hard work. And I haven't even handled a shitty diaper yet.

I started with the guitar magazines. I weeded some out before Sharon and I got married, but I still had two boxes' worth sitting underneath the stairs in the basement. If nothing else, that space will be needed to store the changing table or crib when we're done with it. I just started tearing out articles or lessons I wanted to keep, and pitching the rest. I got it down to about 20 magazines, and I'm hopeful to do a little better. At the very least, there will be one fewer box in the basement.

Poring over some of the other boxes has been more problematic. When one of my favorite musicians or sports figures dies, I tend to collect newspapers and magazines that reported the news. As a result, there's a bunch of stuff related to the passing of Ted Williams, Roy Orbison, George Harrison, Johnny Cash and Stevie Ray Vaughan. A lot of stuff. Retirements are big, too, so there's no shortage of paper pertaining to Wayne Gretzky, Larry Bird, and Cal Ripken Jr. down there.

I've been a lot more reluctant to part with this stuff, particularly the music mags. I'm not sure why. I've gotten less sentimental about a lot of things. I considered throwing out the jacket I got for winning the Maine state high school football championship in '87. I didn't, but I thought about it. Because it doesn't really mean anything to me anymore. It was fun at the time, and I had a lot of fun with my friends. But it isn't part of my life anymore. It's almost like it happened to another person.

There will be fewer sports items saved from now on. That's for sure. After 11 years in sports departments and an increasing number of scandals, there's not much to look up to in sports anymore. There sure as hell aren't any heroes taking the field. September 11 finally drove it home for me. Cops and firefighters knew they were going to die in the towers. They went in anyway. Maybe Mark McGwire would have done the same, but I'm not betting my check on it.

I've found good homes for some of the sports stuff, so I'll rest easy knowing that the new owners will get enjoyment from it. The music keepsakes are staying, at least for now. I don't know if our little girl will care who Kurt Cobain and Carl Perkins were. They might not be part of her life, but their music, and that of many others, was with her daddy through good time and bad times. They're not going anywhere.