Matt Waters is a screenwriter currently living in New York. He has been writing about sports since age seventeen, about the time when it became painfully apparent that his athletic dreams would go unfulfilled, due to terrible luck and an obscene lack of talent. His favorite movie is “The Thin Red Line”. His favorite band is “Modest Mouse”. His favorite sport is baseball! With an exclamation point.
I’m sick of it. The absolute contempt that the media holds against Barry Bonds is descending into the depths of pathetic spectacle.
Does anyone else actually see what the hell is going on here? Are we all just mutually pleading ignorance?
The New York Knicks are a complete embarrassment to the city of New York, flaunting a league high payroll while producing a pathetic total of victories, an abominable mess that ceases to both disgust and amaze.
By Matt Waters
They called him a “Philadelphia Fighter” a definition that may require further explanation of its rather blunt meaning. A Philadelphia Fighter doesn’t quit, a Philadelphia Fighter never stops throwing punches, bobbing and weaving, never ceases to extract all the flight and fury his body could possibly handle. A Philadelphia Fighter never plays it safe, never allows his score on a card to dictate strategy, and most importantly, until he collapses, a Philadelphia Fighter answers the count.
Always.
Act One: Rise
Four hours. Sleep is the price I pay for negligence. I put off doing my English research paper, on the delightful art of sportswriting, until one in the morning, eventually concluding it’s subtly insane contents at 3:00 AM. There I was, scattered sources splattered all over my desk, one corner nestling a brilliant Best of book featuring the work of Tom Verducci, in another, a hard as nails pigskin pamphlet written by Mike Freeman. The paper was decent, despite an out of nowhere diatribe against Mike Lupica featured on the bottom of page three. Bitterness is a powerful thing, my friends.
There’s a gun pointed right in his face, and Curtis Martin isn’t scared, for that momentary time has passed. No, he is defiant, fearless in acceptance. He’s almost in a trance, captured by abject, inert peace. His fate, predicated in ghoulish, tragic nightmares, would be sealed and delivered, his destiny fruitlessly revealed, amiss in any grand design. His worst inclinations would be proved absolute in their truth, life, only through it’s conclusion, would at long last have essence. In a world only continued only through confusion, finally, an unbreakable certainty could and would exist: Curtis Martin is free to die.
Pennington drops back to pass and just sits there, prone, alone, under pressure in the pocket. The offensive line is under siege, armed torpedoes clad in black and gold launch themselves full bore, attempting to penetrate the line of scrimmage.
He has no time, knows it, and prepares a pass. Only, his throwing motion is awkward, discomforting to watch, bound to unleash yet another dying quail. Two steps are taken, meaningful, painful steps, before the fling could be completed.
It sails out of his fingertips, destined for doom, caught in the wind, dying slow.
He’s playing hurt, and will never be what he was, will never to continue to be who he is, and will never be properly acknowledged for his sacrifice. This is the definition of injustice, a miscarriage of information, the Legend of Chad Pennington, almost utterly unheard of.
I have this English teacher, and against my usual inclination, he got me thinking. Basically, he trashed sports, disregarding them as a mere figment of our imaginations, where life’s very real complications can be broken down into fantasy, where a champion isn’t so much delivered but demanded by a public with nothing else to do.
It really is incredible watch, bearing witness to such a colossal confluence of perfection, momentary as it can be. Length, distance, these are variables often misunderstood when attempting to define the home run’s meaning.
Indeed, it isn’t how far the dinger travels, it’s that moment, where 50,000 people can have their dreams made mutual, where the cascading tidal wave of sound, crashing with equal parts nuance and menace, can overwhelm every single thought that proceeded, and linger in every single second after.
“I see I said, jealousy I said” – Jay-Z, “It Was All A Dream”
In life, simplicity can rule nothing, which often results in everything. For instance, any trip to the ballpark somehow feels incomplete without the monetary waste accompanying one or more viable trips to the concession stand. However, without that six-dollar coke and seven- buck dog lying securely in both hand and lap, the three-hour vacation at any local Stadium results in an incomplete sonnet, an unfinished memory. Are we foolish for accepting this half-baked barter, memory for money?
“The stars… there’s no right or wrong in them. They’re just there .” – Elias, Platoon
A swing and a drive, followed eternally with a hop and a skip.
It was a big deal once, major news.
His joy was unbounded, unburdened, never prescribed to carry a synthetic image.
We were so ready for it to be real, zero questions were asked, no probing investigation regarding his jubilant sprint out into his fixed position in right, nary a cynic’s viewpoint following his indulgent celebrations.
The negativity had run its route. A new hero had emerged from a harrowing fog. Life not only welcomes simplicity in some instances, it demands it.
He is Sammy Sosa, in case we forget.