Cheers To The Calm

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

It’s the Saturday before Christmas.  The first college football playoff game was played the night before in whatever the postseason process of selecting the national champion is called now.  Today the sports calendar is packed: three more college football playoff games and two NFL games.  The Terps played Syracuse in NYC.  It wasn’t close; it’s cold outside but College Park’s reptiles blew out the Orange.  Oh, and on another unknown channel (who can keep track of such things these days), I caught a glimpse of two Woods’s – Tiger, of course, and his son Charlie playing in some sort of golf tournament together.  A broader view of the sports landscape delivers the good and the sad: a Capitals team among the best in the NHL, despite the prolonged absence of Alex Ovechkin and his “lower leg” injury (classic hockey vagueness) and the death of MLB Hall of Famer Rickey Henderson.

Regarding all of that football, resisting the urge to overthink this unprecedented college/pro intersection is proving to be a difficult task.  The right answer, if in the correct frame of mind, is to simply sink deeply into the couch, grab the remote and commit fully to consuming at least three times more calories than a sedentary body will burn.  Working the remote with fervor, though, has to count for some level of cardio, right?  Right.  I trust few readers will dispute that obnoxious and scientifically dubious statement.

When the bass player and drummer are out of time, the entire backbone of a song disintegrates.  Any compensatory actions by the singer or guitar player are futile.  The song is just off.  My mental bass player and drummer are not in synch.  I’m watching all of these college playoff games, every one a blowout, and trying to get my head around Notre Dame playing football non-descript Indiana and SMU playing Penn State in Happy Valley.  Somehow Arizona State and Boise State get involved later.  Gotcha.  And to clarify, all rosters of all schools get reset every offseason through the transfer portal.  Gotcha, again.  I’m sure this is totally legit.  Tons of money will not allow for any other conclusion.

As for the Caps and the Woods family, these are fantastic stories.  How the Caps are doing this I neither know nor need to know.  My interest in this completely unexpected success is only in its continuation deep into next spring.  The Woods’s story is, shall we say, uncomfortable for those of certain ages.  In a nut: How does Tiger have an adult son who will soon be (is?) his golf superior?  If Tiger is that old, what does that say about me?  Rhetorical.  No answer required or desired.  As for Rick Henderson, his death is hard to process.  He seemed indestructible and forever young, playing profession ball into his late forties.  He was just 65.  Double sky point to the greatest leadoff hitter of all time.

The holiday season lands in the middle of all of this change, chaos and surprise (both exciting and uncomfortable).  With it comes the familiar, the traditional, the reliable: the stuff that never changes!  Green and red.  Lights on homes.  Well-adorned trees.  A red-suited, rotund dude with a serious commitment to facial hair.  Flying deer.  Talking snowmen.  Elves on shelves.  An entire genre of timeless music.  Then New Year’s arrives: countdowns, descending balls, toasts, resolutions and hope for the year ahead (real…or manufactured in an attempt to fool the mind’s processing of a concerning future).

It's all a fantastic tonic: a pause on an impossibly fluid world where control is but an illusion, plans are merely suggestions awaiting inevitable modification, and nearly everything - except for entrenched holiday traditions - will be tweaked, manipulated or forever altered by the winds of change.  For a brief moment, things slow down and the world slips into an unspoken yet fully coordinated annual routine – fabulous repetition for the old and an amazing introduction for the young.  Unpredictable chaos, in sports and life, will return soon enough, but that’s a January 2025 problem, and that calendar hasn’t yet been hung.  In the interim, cheers to the calm.

Happy Holidays! 

Not Your Day

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

I walked into my freshman homeroom on 12 January 1987 tired and grumpy.  I did not want to be there.  Not that I ever wanted to be there, you know, because it was school.  But this was next-level resistance.  The rude alarm, the morning preparation, the drive to school, the cold January weather – it all added to my irritation.  With zero effort to control my non-verbals, I plopped into my desk and pouted. 

My homeroom teacher approach with caution.  He possessed a personal knowledge of his students that provided a solid hunch as to what was bothering me on that dreadful morning.  He cut right to the chase, knowing I was in no mood for generic questioning about my mood.  Referring to the Washington’s 17-0 loss to the New York Giants in the NFC Championship Game the day before, he offered a direct, “Tough game, huh?”.  I needed the opening.  This being the days long before Twitter or group chats, the emotional rage has been boiling in my brain without a release valve for about 12 hours at this point.  Sleep hadn’t provided relief as the consequence of the outcome had permeated my subconscious.

The simple question triggered a flow of frustrations, what if’s, officiating gripes, grievances over player performances and general despair over how far the Burgundy and Gold had come only to lose to the Giants, Washington’s primary rival in the NFC East at that point.  My teacher listened, and acknowledging my feelings without arguing any points.  He noted that he shared my disappointment and then pivoted to the positives: they team had come far, had a strong roster, excellent coaching and, in all likelihood, would be in the Super Bowl mix for years to come.  Then, before turning back to his homeroom duties at the cusp of another school day, he said, “You know, Ron, sometimes it’s just not your day.”

At that moment, and for years after, that summation stuck in my craw.  It felt so submissive, like a lame excuse after getting defeated.  It implied that the loser didn’t do anything wrong, that they gave their all and it was just the forces of the universe that had conspired against them to produce this unfortunate outcome.  Could I use this in my own adolescent life?  Sorry for wrecking your truck, dad, it just wasn’t my day on the road.  Hey, mom, I know I flunked calculus, but, you know, it just wasn’t my semester.  Apologies for tanking that presentation, boss, Tuesdays on cloudy days when the temperature is below 50 degrees just doesn’t jive with my psyche. 

The years since that long ago January day have proven my teacher correct.  The 1986-87 season was the Giants’ year, not Washington’s; it was the culmination of an impressive crescendo from a three-win Giants team in 1983, to 14 regular season wins in 1986 and a Super Bowl victory in January 1987.  My initial disdain for my teacher’s explanation – that it just wasn’t our day – and my snap judgement that it was nothing more than personal therapy talk for not getting it done, was flat wrong. 

What he knew that day was that competition is impossibly complex and the verdict – winning or losing – is comprised of tangled web of variables, some controllable, some not.  Physical effort, film study, pre- and in-game strategy certainly influence a game’s outcome.  But so does a fingertip on an otherwise perfect pass, an untimely gust of wind, the fickle bounce of a loose ball, an untimely injury, the alignment of a locker room and emotional state of a team.  The answer to who won is always clear; why they won, well, that’s a lot more complicated.  

That long-ago homeroom lesson has come to mind many times in the decades since.  Like sports, life is complex.  Every situation, be it personal or professional, is influenced by a myriad of factors.  Regardless of effort or intention, sometimes it just won’t be your day.  That doesn’t mean you’re a failure, or that success is beyond your grasp; it only means that you fell short in that moment. 

Hmm…maybe school wasn’t so bad after all. 

Perfect Strike

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Another long week was ending.  The sun had set hours before in what seemed like the late afternoon as much as the evening; November offers rare daylight in the northern hemisphere.  This being Thursday night, a prize awaited – an NFL football game.  The offering didn’t promise much.  The visitors arrived red hot, winners of five straight games.  The home team was, needless to say, adrift – victors in just two of 10 games, a coach in peril and with a regrettable quarterback situation.

With no expectations or rooting interest, this appeared to be an uneventful, semi-competitive affair supporting an early trip to bed (not a disappointment).  But this game was played next to Lake Erie, and it being mid-November that meant weather was a wildcard. 

The snow started with a few flurries then intensified into near whiteout conditions.  The underdog took an early lead.  The favorite was inefficient on offense and uncharacteristically leaky on defense.  A back-and-forth struggle in the second half saw the home team score on a dramatic touchdown run with just 57 seconds remaining.  The favorite stormed back in the last minute, driving to within range of a final heave to the endzone.  The pass fell incomplete.  The spirited crowd, unaffected by the weather or dismal state of their team (and perhaps energized by adult bootleg elixirs smuggled through stadium security), went nuts.  Players did snow angels on the field.  And at least for a night, the woeful Cleveland Browns could claim supremacy over the Pittsburgh Steelers.

In the days after this monumental NFL upset, other stuff happened in the sports universe.  A mediocre Oklahoma Sooners team hanging out at the bottom of the SEC standings beat Alabama.  Quarterback Daniel Jones, a first round pick by the New York Giants just five years ago, was released after an inconsistent tenure.  Florida ruined Mississippi’s promising season.  Auburn broke Texas A&M’s heart in triple overtime.  And the St. John’s Red Storm defeated a loaded Maryland Terrapins team in the 1999 NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament.

The outcome of any of those individual games was, in the moment, surprising.  Jones’s fall from franchise savior to released failure was more of a gradual tragedy and an organizational indictment.  The random 25-year-old Terps basketball reference?  My son mentioned Meta World Peace, formerly Ron Artest, last week for some unmemorable reason.  It opened a wound.  World Peace starred on that 1998-99 St. John’s squad.  They were tough, gritty and talented.  They ran into an elite Terrapins squad led by Steve Francis in the Sweet Sixteen of the 1999 NCAA tournament.  The game promised elite competition and suggested a Terps win.  It wasn’t close.  The Red Storm outclassed the Terps in a soul-crushing 76-62 defeat.  Yes, it still hurts.

Reflecting on these recent and aged occurrences, ranging from unexpected to bizarre, it feels like sports’ wink to life’s uneven ride.  Not every day will be our best.  Not every moment can be met with maximum physical and emotional energy; humans are not machines.  And even at max effort, the breaks might not fall our way.  Sometimes it’s just not your day.  If The Dude were to interject at this moment, he might suggest, “The earthly journey is filled with strikes and gutters, man.”

It is, indeed.  Sometimes the ball obliterates all ten pins.  Other times it lands in the gutter after a disgraceful roll.  Still others it slams the headpin dead-on and leaves the dreaded 7-10 split.  Regardless, the ball returns and begs for another toss.  The pause offers a moment to reflect on what went right, what went wrong and, most importantly, another chance to succeed.  When next tossed, the ball won’t care what happened before, only the quality of this attempt; the pins will react only to this effort, agnostic to all others.  A second chance, if one’s so courageous to give it a roll. 

The rewards for resilience can be quite profound, as a future Terps team proved.  That disappointing 1999 Maryland squad had two freshmen on the roster named Juan Dixon and Lonny Baxter.  Steve Blake arrived a year later.  Fast-forward to April 2002 and the Terps threw the perfect strike.

Please Rise

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Hundreds of spectators shuffled around team tents, food trucks and the course.  With a ten-minute warning from the public address announcer, a noticeable concentration of humans began building near the starting line.  The opening lane of the cross country course parted in biblical fashion, revealing dozens of athletes going through final preparations.  The stretching was complete, pre-run jogs were wrapping up and team chants where echoing across the massive field.  Everyone was loose, lathered, hyped and ready to beat feet across the hinterland.

As is tradition at many sporting events, there was one remaining pre-race order of business.  The PA announcer’s voice boomed with familiar instructions: “Please rise and remove your hats for the singing of our national anthem.” 

Many visions pass through the mind in such moments – Francis Scott Key penning the words, the Fort McHenry flag at the Smithsonian, the brave souls signing the Declaration of Independence (literally putting their lives on the line), the veterans who have preserved our freedom (some of whom gave their lives), those serving today, our very complicated history (both extraordinary and disgraceful) and our nation’s present status.  The dominant feelings, down to the bone, created by any rendition of the “Star-Spangled Banner” are pride, gratitude and responsibility – to maintain our great American experiment and advance it closer to the nation contemplated in our Declaration.   

This version, landing just two days after a presidential election, was complicated.  Anyone that’s been in the presidential election game for several decades will tell you this: your candidate will prevail about half of the time.  That’s the nature of whipsaw American politics.  Until very recent history, the unsuccessful candidate and his/her supporters were disappointed in, but respectful of, the losses and the sanctity of our democratic process; winners felt tremendous satisfaction, but also the heavy responsibility of governing this great nation.  The overall feeling was relief…that it was over, that annoying commercials would stop, signs would be taken down and mailings would cease, and that we could collectively get back to our universal American cause.  Losing recent elections, though, has resulted in genuine despair at best, violence at worst; winning, meanwhile has left some seeking retribution for past failings and emboldened to dominate, not serve within, the newly elected executive and congressional branches.

It is, in a couple words, deeply troubling, and, to add a phrase, unprecedented in my lifetime. 

As our anthem played at that cross country meet last week, I wondered what everyone was thinking.  I assume the crowd was, politically, basically split down the middle; that’s just where we are.  How many people were thinking of our shared American cause?  Conversely, how many were fearful of the future or, for good or ill, excited about the prospect of ruling the next few years?  My suspicion is there were greater feelings of fear and glee, than reflections on the great, joint responsibility we all carry at this moment – for those who handed us the reins of this great country and those who will inherent our work in the future.

The daydreams ended as “…and the home of the brave” boomed from the speakers and the song concluded.  This allowed for a natural transition back to sports.  Soon thereafter, a gun sounded and young athletes were off, traversing fields and hills in a thunderous herd of humanity.  The competition, welcomed tonic that it was, immediately extinguished political thought.  Whatever anyone was thinking when Key’s song played was now a faded memory.  Athletes were competing and fans were lost in the moment – scrambling to and from various points on the track, snapping photos and offering spirited support. 

The last 50 yards before the finish line were electric – streams of unrestrained excitement, random names being called out at full throat, and strained faces of exhausted runners sprinting in one final dash to glory.  For most, winning seemed a secondary concern; exerting maximum effort and representing oneself well for their team and their school was the greater cause.  Pushing the “me” to best serve the “we”: Key certainly witnessed that when gazing upon Fort McHenry in 1814.  Whether it’s present and contagious today remains to be seen.    

The Fall

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Pre-dawn alarms begin long high school days; daily practices follow that end at dusk.  Various artifacts of competition – smelly uniforms, sweaty socks, blood-stained shorts and muddy shoes, among other aromatic articles – line garage floors and laundry rooms.  Wash, dry, fold and repeat.  This is the evening’s drill – shocking at first, then, for the fully initiated, it is executed with precision and barely a conscious thought.

Then the “fun” really starts.  For some, impossibly early mornings precede long bus rides where opponents are met.  For others, mercifully later bus rides, equally long, end deep into the night leaving no hope for adequate sleep.  The places they travel to have massive light pillars to illuminate fields, enabling competition beyond the bounds of the sun’s stay.  There are lines, goals, nets, fields of grass, sticks, clubs and rackets.  Pads pop and bells ring.  Fans scream.  The voices of athletes call out plays, encouragement and strategic advice.  Flags fly through the air to indicate infractions.  Cards are raised - some yellow, some red.  Balls smack against sticks, thud off of feet and are hurled through the air.  Dozens of runners line across a field awaiting the gun’s start before sprinting in mass through grass and mud, up and down hills and around turns for miles of lung-straining agony.  Ankles are swollen, shoulders are bruised, knees ache and flesh wounds are covered in gauze pads, medical tap or nature’s answer – scabs.

In the moment, it can all feel like agony – it’s all too early, too late, too hard…just too much.  Why am I doing this?  What was I thinking?  These are the early morning and late-night thoughts as aching young bodies are forced from or fall into bed.  But then the rewards completely rework the brain’s chemistry.  Personal bests, team accomplishments, teammates pushing one another to unbelievable heights or helping one another through difficult defeats.  The camaraderie, the friendships, the memories: This is worth it…all of it…without question.

As October turns to November, another season of high school fall sports draws to a close.  The tempo repeats annually, and similarly with winter and spring sports, as each school year unfolds.  Having been an observer (as a dad) of eight fall sports seasons now, there is much to reflect on.  I can see busses arriving back to school late at night; others are warmed up and ready to go before dawn.  There are scoreboards and race clocks.  Referees and event organizers.  Fellow parents.  Coaches giving so much to their schools and teams.  And, I see the athletes.  Goofing off before the games.  High fiving after strong efforts.  Helping teammates up, emotionally as much as physically, after a tough deal.  Mostly, though, I see their faces; they paint so many pictures – smiles, grimaces, confidence, uncertainty, determination, disappointment and joy.  And that timeless life lesson: You get out of something what you put into it. 

As I ponder my own kids’ experiences, I wonder about the other athletes.  How did they all get here, in this moment of intense competition?  Beyond the school they are representing, where are they from?  How long was their bus ride?  How do they feel?  How much sleep are they working on?  What joint hurts the most?  None of it ever seems to matter in the moment.  They are all volunteers.  They chose this challenge and immersive journey in the sport they curse at times but love with every fiber of their being.  That love, with a healthy dash of youthful spirit, is what I will always remember from singular events and my now long mental scroll of seasons. 

For some sports, that magic is muted at the professional level.  College sports too, with NIL deals and the transfer portal, aren’t quite what they used to be.  There’s a business aspect of it - an “I’m all-in on this as long as it serves me” - that just isn’t as pure.  So as the high school fall sports season draws to a close, as athletes leave the field or the court or the trail for the last time, a final grateful thought comes to mind: This is the very best of sports.   

That Thing

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

One day last week marked the fifth anniversary of unforgettable October magic.  The exact date doesn’t matter.  The memory certainly does.  It was the deciding Game 5 of the National League Division Series.  The Nationals and Dodgers were tied 3-3 going into the top of the tenth inning.  Adam Eaton led off with a walk.  Anthony Rendon doubled off the wall in left.  Juan Soto was intentionally walked.  Veteran utility/do-everything player Howie Kendrick stepped to the plate.  He fouled off the first pitch.  The next pitch was a fastball.  Kendrick barreled it.  The camera switch to Dodgers centerfielder Cody Bellinger who was running back to the wall.  Just short of the warning track, he slowed, acknowledging the inevitable.  Kendrick’s blast landed beyond the fence - a grand slam that sent the Nats to the National League Championship Series and, ultimately, the 2019 World Series championship. 

Where were you?  I was standing in front of my television, pacing the floor and nervously flipping a football from one hand to another.  When Kendrick’s ball sailed over the fence I jumped, whipped my right arm in jubilation, and the football I held in my hand scraped against the ceiling.  It left a six-inch mark that is still there today.  It will never be cleaned or painted over.  Never.  “Kendrick Patina”: It’s a treasured artifact of that World Series championship. 

In 1998, Lauryn Hill released her epic album “The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill.”  Track 5 is a lovely little number called Doo Wop (That Thing) – the parenthetical being the catch.  Like the album itself, “That Thing” was both for its time and ahead of its time.  And I’m about to do it a disservice with a sports-related message reallocation.  “That Thing” is about toxic masculinity and its impact on female self-worth, a condition-critical topic that took another two damaging decades before it commanded serious social attention.  For this piece, just the “That Thing” chorus will be used to illustrate a point.  Shallow, I know.  Hence the advanced apology and acknowledgement of the song’s far greater intended purpose.

October: The best month on the sports calendar.  College football’s best are jockeying for post-season position.  NFL teams are rounding into shape and gearing up for a second half push.  Hockey is starting.  The NBA is about to tip off.  The World Series and WNBA titles are up for grabs.  It is a time for the hopeful.  The seekers.  The determined dreamers.  October: It begs for the spinning of Hill’s record and random the humming of “That Thing.”

From a sports perspective, “That Thing” is the nebulous, intangible force teams seek.  No proven formula to either acquire or retain it exists.  As a fan, it’s a presence or absence you can sense.  I suspect it’s the same for athletes and teams.  If a team has it and can hold it, they are practically unbeatable.  Fail to grasp it, though, and practically no amount of talent can overcome the lack of mystical magic.

The Nats had “That Thing” in 2019.  Crazy, explanation-defying, stuff happened after an ominous 19-32 start to the season.  Baby Sharks took over Nats Park.  Soto arrived as an MVP-level force.  Stephen Strasburg remained healthy.  Balls took funny hops in the outfield.  Veterans played out of their minds.  Youth was served.  A dugout aligned.  The energy grew into a raging winning fever.  Champagne celebrations. Trophies.  Parades.  Forever memories and beautiful scuff marks on ceilings.

Keep an eye out for it – “That Thing” – when watching teams navigate their seasons, and especially in the playoffs.  It is one of the best lessons from sports: a group of individuals, with specific jobs and skillsets, unifying behind a common goal, catching a mysterious wave of momentum and riding it to places where only dreams once resided. 

Another key to success in sports and life is situational awareness.  To the heavy-hearted Orioles fans and readers, take some solace in this piece and the 2019 Nats.  “That Thing” is as elusive as is as it powerful; the Nats’ many pre-2019 playoff disasters are proof.  But the penance now will make it all the sweeter when October magic visits Baltimore.

Life Cycle

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Where has the time gone, my fellow Southern Maryland dwellers?  This column first appeared in The County Times in early 2008.  How old were we back then, my dear readers?  Unnecessary details.  Let’s just call it “younger”, shall we?  Gray was a less prominent color in our lives.  Aches and pains were fewer.  More beer could be consumed without consequence.  But think of the wisdom gained since then.  A consolation prize, I suppose…

Sports viewing offers no escape from the many logged years on Earth; it further galvanizes my significant conversion of oxygen into carbon dioxide.  As the band Bush suggested in their classic song “Machinehead”, “Breathe in, breathe out.”  Roger that: Have been, are and hope to continue to for years to come.  So yes, sports.  Hardly a game goes by where there isn’t a player named that leaves me thinking, “I remember when his father played.”  Or there is a coach who causes the mind to wander back to their playing career.  The roll call is long and distinguished.  Steph Curry (son of Dell).  Patrick Mahomes (son of Pat).  Cam Heyward (son of Craig “Iron Head”).  Arch Manning (Grandson of Archie, nephew of Peyton and Eli).  Marvin Harrison Jr.  Bobby Witt Jr.  Coaches?  Dan Campbell (Lions).  Rod Brind-Amour (Hurricanes).  Craig Counsell (Cubs), Jason Kidd (Mavericks).  Aaron Boone (Yankees).  I’m graying further just by typing this out.

All this time traveling brought one team to mind: the Washington Capitals.  They weren’t the first local professional team I saw live (Orioles).  Back when football was king in D.C. and the team had another name, I loved the Burgundy and Gold more intensely.  But of “my teams”, I’ve loved the Caps more consistently and seen them more live than any other – and it isn’t close. 

On October 12^th, the Caps’ 50^th season will begin.  There have been many changes in recent years.  Scarce few players remain from the 2019 Stanley Cup winning roster – just five years ago, a lifetime in professional sports.  Whether the Caps improve from their token playoff appearance last year is equal, if not oddly secondary, to another storyline: Alex Ovechkin’s pursuit of Wayne Gretsky’s goals scored record.  Ovechkin enters the season with 853 goals, 41 shy of Gretsky’s 894.

As a kid, I attended Caps games at the old Capital Centre and rooted for a team without much history.  I remember looking to the rafters and seeing just one retired number: Yvon Labre’s #7.  I knew little of Labre, only that he had served as the team’s first captain during the 1970s.  Over the years, company has arrived for Labre’s jersey.  Rod Langway’s #5, Mike Gartner’s #11 and Dale Hunter’s #32 now hang in Capital One Arena.

Oddity: I met Labre at an Ocean City pool in 2006.  His granddaughter and my daughter were surrounded by floats and attempting to swim.  My Caps floppy hat gave me away.  Admittedly, I didn’t recognize Labre, but we had a memorable exchange about Caps history and the yearning for a Stanley Cup.  At the time, the team was on the rise and Ovechkin was just a pup.  I could sense his optimism, and I trust he could sense mine.  But there was palatable caution in our words, the consequence of a player’s and a fan’s shared heartache. 

All these years later, it’s hard to believe the magic carpet ride the Caps and Ovechkin have provided.  But the end is near.  Life cycles with teams and athletes are finite.  Ovechkin is 39.  The careers of long-time teammates Nicklas Backstrom and T.J. Oshie are likely over.  What’s left?  Gretzky’s record, more retired numbers (19, 74, 77?, 43?, 70?) and Ovechkin’s Hall of Fame induction.  Then…memories…

Such is the fleeting time between special teams, iconic athletes and fans.  Such are the cornerstones of life – experiences, relationships, friendships, parenthood.  In the moment, it is sometimes hard to understand the context of what’s happening, where it’s going and what it all means.  That comes in time.  And time we’ve certainly had with Ovechkin - enough to know that whatever remains is to be cherished.  That’s all those years, gray hairs and acquired wisdom talking.