Friday, December 29, 2023

Same As Ever

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

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Podcast-land is a vast landscape of diverse interests and budding obsessions.  Every media member, former athlete, B-list celebrity or grasping-for-fame influencer has one.  And much like a tour through any team roster, this massive ocean of multi-media content contains some standouts, a host of solid contributors and some unfortunate (that they exist) filler, sans any trace of killer. 

Avoiding the regrettable and finding quality topics of interest takes some effort.  I wouldn’t say it is an exercise that makes me long for the pre-digital days of five television channels and three radio stations, but there are certainly moments when the appreciation those far off, simpler times rises.  When lacking the opportunity to proactively pod-surf, say when life suddenly bequeaths you a rare hour to kill, finding an instant treasure in the podcast hinterland is daunting.  Channeling Dirty Harry, the obvious question is, “Do I feel lucky?” 

When faced with such a dilemma last week, the universe was kind to me.  The dumb-luck discovered podcast was “Plan English”, hosted by Derek Thompson.  The selected episode was titled “What Most People Get Wrong About Wealth, Fame and Happiness” and featured author Morgan Housel and his new book, “Same as Ever”.  It was fantastic. 

The title introduces the content.  Housel’s book, which features stories illustrating historical patterns and habitual human flaws, accentuated the conversation with proof of our repetitive “wrongs” and the hope that awareness produces wisdom, which leads to better choices, which leads to greater wealth, and a better understanding of fame and happiness.

This, curiously, got me thinking about sports and the holidays.  My brain: when you figure out yours, help me with mine.

Let me try to connect the dots.  You may want to grab a beer.  Nothing in sports is the “same as ever.”  Some things stick for a long time – Andy Reid coaching winning NFL teams, LeBron James dominating basketball, the Houston Astros in the MLB playoffs, and the Washington Commanders playing losing football, for example.  But nothing lasts forever.  That counterpoint’s examples: the Bill Belichick-Tom Brady Patriots dynasty, the Nicklas Backstrom-Alexander Ovechkin connection, and the Capitals and Wizards leaving D.C. (probably). 

For those of adequate vintage, this fluid dynamic creates a coexistence of nostalgia for the past, appreciation for the present and excitement for the future.  Two good examples are the Orioles and Nationals.  For the O’s, it’s impossible for anyone over 40 to see the warehouse at Camden Yards and forget the numbers counting down Cal Ripken Jr.’s march to the consecutive games played record, while also being jacked about the youngsters that arrived this season and the promise they offer for the future.  Similarly, for Nats fans, the yearning for Juan Soto, Trea Turner and that magical 2019 team is palatable; but the rebuild is underway and 2024 should mark the arrival of more future stars.

In my scrambled mind, this seamlessly transitions to the holiday season.  Whatever you celebrate, this time of year is often – and hopefully - synonymous with family gatherings and reconnections with good friends and loved ones.  It is that rare opportunity to dismount the hamster wheel, wrestle control over the pace of life and invest in cherished relationships. 

Of course, for those who have lapped the sun a few dozen times, the emotions of the holidays, like those of longtime sports fans, cover the gamut – the togetherness is special and the promise of the years to come is alluring, but these feeling share headspace with a hint of nostalgia for yesteryears and an ache for loved ones lost. 

The popular saying is life throws a lot of curveballs.  But curveballs are predictable.  No, life is more like a knuckleball – fascinating, beautiful and unpredictable.  As Hunter S. Thompson quipped about life’s complexities, “Hope rises and dreams flicker and die; love plans for tomorrow and loneliness thinks of yesterday; life is beautiful and living is pain.”  Recognizing the personal emotional complexities of the season, I supposed the holidays are simply a time to seek joy in moments, to find hope in a future waiting to be revealed, and to feel gratitude for memories now locked in the past. 


Vegetable Stands and Frozen Pizza

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

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

A modified bookshelf sits prominently in an inviting living room that is otherwise decorated with memorabilia spanning 40 years of D.C. sports history.  On the shelves are hundreds of vinyl records; some are new but most are old, several even older than their present owner.  Conditions vary from pristine (great survivors of an untold provenance) to the “well played”, the latter population delivering that warm, snap-crackle-pop through the speakers as they spin across a needle delicately navigating ancient surface grooves.

I have trouble explaining my affinity for these records.  And as a writer, my struggle for words is bothersome.  On the surface, it makes no sense.  I could compile all of these albums in no time – click here, click there and boom…they are on my phone, tablet or computer in digital form.  Access would easy and from anywhere.  The sound would be crisp and clean.  The total acquisition cost would likely be less.  Storage - simple.

So why would I choose to attend countless records shows, hunt down record stores in every town I visit and sift through stack after stack of dusty vinyl just to assemble this swelling mass of music artifacts?

I don’t know.  But I can hypothesize.  And Sports Illustrated (SI), the once great must-read magazine for sports fans, provided a fantastic data point for my contemplation. 

Life moves fast, so in case you missed it (I did), SI recently faced heat for getting caught using content generated by Artificial Intelligence (AI).  The content not only did not disclose it was computer generated, it was attributed to a human author – a person who does not exist in carbon form.  When sleuths confronted SI, it did what many exposed people and entities do now: deny, divert and embrace victimhood.  SI’s official response was it used a third party for content and was duped themselves.  Ah, so SI wasn’t being disingenuous, it was incompetent.  That makes things so much better.

Spineless SI aside, AI content isn’t coming, it’s here and is poised to spread.  Disclosure of its use, at least by professional journalistic forums (there’s no hope for social media), is critical.  From there, consumers will decide its fate and proliferation.  As a sports writer, is it threatening?  Somewhat.  It is difficult to comprehend how pernicious it could be.  But human writers should gladly accept the challenge.  I believe sports fans will always want content – good content, not lazy, slap-it-together generic poo - generated by a fellow human.  It ensures accuracy and source-authenticity; and, if a piece is well-written, I refuse to believe that a machine can adequately capture and convey the intricacies of and human emotions generated by a sporting event.  For example, if you’re telling me a machine can properly communicate the passions of degenerates at Philadelphia Eagles games, I ain’t buying it.

Gut instinct (something AI doesn’t have): at the end of the day, most people will tolerate some AI for basic information, but will continue looking to other humans for deeper meaning and more thought-provoking stories.  I think – hope – the same will apply to other artforms.  AI-generated movie scripts and scores, faux lip-synched “live” concerts, hologram shows (ABBA, KISS) and macro, AI-generated pop songs have their place, I suppose (being kind).  But brass tacks: how much ultra-processing can the soul stand?

Which of course circles back to those vinyl records.  Why the allure?  They represent the music’s original intended form.  Led Zeppelin’s “IV”, Rolling Stones’ “Exile on Mainstreet”, Stevie Wonder’s “Innervisions” weren’t meant for a digital format.  An MP3 of Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” piped into your brain via ear buds will never be an adequate substitute for holding an original album in your hands while the record spins and you work up a sweat dancing in your living room.  Records are music’s version of the local vegetable stand and farm-to-table food.  It's as good as it gets.  Digital music files are like facsimile autographs and frozen pizza. 

And much like frozen pizza has its place (especially at 2am), AI will no doubt become a regular source for sports information.  Let’s just hope it’s never more than niche.  Everything in moderation, eh? 

The Standard

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

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

At some point, the sun set.  The exact moment is foggy, shrouded by years of ineptitude.  Such details are irrelevant.  What does matter is that, for a time, it was bright – squint, reach for some cheap convenience store glasses, blinding bright.  Sundays would come and good times would roll.  Stressed vocal cords required days of recovery.  The stadium was packed by the blessed souls in attendance (there was a decades-long season ticket waiting list).  Games were appointment television for those lacking a ticket to ride.  Fans of division rivals were sent home in shame and with a regrettable beer buzz on the regular.  It was a destination town for players, a place they longed to be; the team turned the marginal into solid contributors and the good into masters of their craft.  The organization was run with class and ranked among the league’s very best.  Characters with character filled the locker room.  Supporters felt like more than just fans; we were part of something – our region, our town, our team.  A family.

And then?  Darkness.  The sun dropped below the horizon.  The light faded.  The beautiful colors glistening off the clouds disappeared.  Coaches departed.  An owner passed away.  Cornerstone players moved on without comparable backfills.  The head coaching gig felt like a series of temporary hires.  Big name players came to get paid, not to perform.  The losses mounted.  The business ethics disintegrated.  The passion faded.  The ticket waiting list disappeared.  There was no apparent accountability on the field or within the organization.  There was no legitimate ability to imagine anything beyond mediocrity.  There was, after three decades of rot, no hope…for the Washington D.C. football team. 

About six hours northwest of Southern Maryland, there’s a place that’s like ours used to be.  The journey there wraps around D.C., heads up the I-270 corridor, snakes through Hagerstown into southwestern Pennsylvania and due west on the PA turnpike.  After a short drive down I-376, it appears: Pittsburgh…Black and Gold country.  There, the beloved Steelers are in the midst of recording another winning season (they haven’t finished below .500 since 2003!) and are firmly in playoff contention – again and, seemingly, as always.  The fanbase is passionate.  The stadium is packed.  There is a palatable energy exuding from the franchise, into the city’s pores and through a nation of fans across the globe. 

But there is a fly in the ointment.  The Steelers are hardly winning in style this season and, by any objective measure, haven’t been Super Bowl contenders in years.  The alibies are sound.  The late-career version of Ben Roethlisberger was choppy, and transitioning from a Hall of Fame quarterback is often difficult.  Accelerating Pittsburgh’s fall from the league elites was Antonio Brown’s disturbing career self-sabotage and Le’Veon Bell ruining a budding legendary Steelers career in a bizarre contract squabble.  Regardless, for a city that is accustomed to winning titles, frustration has grown with the good/not great Steelers of recent vintage.  And now there’s this: the once whispered calls for head coach Mike Tomlin’s job are now aired openly.

Such are the quibbles of the uninitiated to the depths of NFL despair.

Removing all emotion, it’s remarkable what Tomlin has done in Pittsburgh in recent years.  The gap between roster talent and on-field results is significant – the latter being greater than the former.  But the importance of Tomlin to the Steelers transcends the overachievement of his teams.  Tomlin inherited a unique, winning culture in Pittsburgh and has dutifully sustained it.  When faced with adversity, he defiantly refers to “The Standard” – a level of expected performance regardless of circumstance.  Tomlin maintains a link to the franchise’s decorated past and is a cornerstone for a brighter future.  He’s a foothold for the organization: an example for new arrivals and a conscience for veterans with wavering commitment. 

Lose a foundation like Tomlin, and it becomes easy, perhaps inevitable, to remain adrift.  Same applies in any professional setting.  Same applies in life.  Without a North Star, so to speak, it can all go dark – trust me.  If you can be a beacon like Tomlin, do so; if you find one, grasp it tightly.  

A Complicated Knight

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

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

The NFL was my first sports love.  As I was coming of age, my football team, the one in Washington D.C., was consistently among the best - even the very best, several times over.  It is hard to imagine now.  The relics I retain from that era seem as much magical fiction as historical fact.  But it all happened, “Once upon a time”, as all good stories begin.

A close “2” and “2a” to the NFL were the NHL and college basketball.  I owe my love of hockey to my dear Uncle Wayne.  He dedicated so much time taking his son and me to Capitals games.  I’m eternally grateful.  Every nephew should have an Uncle Wayne.

As for college basketball, my timing was impeccable.  I was nine when Patrick Ewing and Georgetown lost to Michael Jordan and North Carolina in the national championship, 10 when N.C. State upset Houston’s Phi Slama Jama, 11 when Georgetown beat Houston to win the national championship, and 12 when they lost to Villanova.  I saw Ralph Sampson, Chris Mullin, James Worthy, Tim Duncan, Christian Laettner and Grant Hill.  I worshipped Terps such as Adrian Branch, Juan Dixon, Joe Smith, Walt Williams and Len Bias, my first sports hero. 

Unlike the NFL, NCAA basketball games were on every night.  A game between giants on a random Tuesday was a fabulous distraction from my horrendous attempt to flirt with the cute girl at lunch earlier in the day or the upcoming math test I had no interest in studying for.  Gleaning a few new moves to try at the next day’s basketball practice was emotionally safer than forays into adolescent infatuation and far more appealing than algebra.

After Maryland icons Gary Williams and Lefty Driesel, and long-time Duke head coach and Maryland nemesis Mike Krzyzewski, Bobby Knight was the college basketball coach who most preoccupied my mind.  The curiosity of Knight was multi-faceted: a brilliant basketball coach who won over 70 percent of his games and three national championships at Indiana, and an equally indisputable hot head who coached and seemingly lived like a 24/7 drill sergeant (hence his nickname “The General”). 

When a friend texted me last week that Knight had passed away, several superlatives and criticisms flooded my mind.  Ultimately, I managed but a two-word reply: Complicated dude.  

Knight won nearly 900 games.  He hung a bunch of banners.  He made Indiana basketball a national power.  His structured and disciplined approach and demanding coaching style turned many teenage boys into strong young men well-equipped for life.

Knight was also a bully.  He tossed chairs across the court and feigned use of a whip on players as a motivational technique.  He could be verbally and emotionally abusive.  And in the case of former player Neil Reed, there was documented physical abuse.  He was so spiteful over his dismissal from Indiana after an incident with a student that he shunned the university for years and skipped a 2016 reunion for his undefeated 1976 team. 

Selfish.  Generous.  Mean.  Kind.  Highly effective.  Self-destructive.  It was all simultaneously true of Bobby Knight.  His traits were impossible to reconcile.  In a way, he embodied our complex world of coexisting contradictions. 

After his death, social media was filled with positive stories.  It was as if Knight’s supporters felt compelled to influence the narrative of his legacy, counterbalance the “yeah buts” and passively apologize for his significant shortcomings.  But Knight was certainly self-aware.  He had to have moments of self-examination where the broader impact of his behavior was considered.  That he never evolved and never yielded, despite a world yearning for him to do so, is disappointing.  It left qualified praise as the tone of his farewell. 

And that’s a shame.  But it was Knight’s choice.  There was – is - another way.  Coaches like John Wooden, Dean Smith, Bill Walsh, Mike Krzyzewski and Joe Gibbs followed a different, and more admirable leadership model.  Like Knight, they all won big, built a culture, benefitted a community and reached young men in meaningful ways.  But they did it with a grace that Knight never grasped and absent a complicated legacy. 

The Sanctity of Competition

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

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Remember when humans made telemarketing calls?  The next-level annoyance of the computer voice on the other end of those calls now makes one nostalgic for the uninvited, person-to-person contact of yesteryear.  Or what about when phones couldn’t suggest finishing words to text messages?  Or when homes lacked voice-commanded doohickies that could change the television channel or settle a trivia argument with a spouse?  How about stubborn automated phone trees for everything from a doctor’s office to a credit card?  Good luck circumventing these tangled systems to reach a live human.  And remember to listen to the message in its duration because “Our menu options have recently changed.”  Being lost in a corn maze has nothing on the hopelessness of a phone maze.

As for the writing craft, I do wonder what the future holds.  Perhaps it is time for a disclaimer to accompany this column: every single word you are reading was generated by a human (me).  No ChatGPT here, my friends.  Never.  Ever.

Professional integrity aside, artificial intelligence has arrived, and it promises unreconcilable change: a mind-scrambling coexistence of fantastic improvements, random frustrations, amazement (how far we’ve come) and fear (too far?).  As George Will once said, “The future has a way of arriving unannounced.”  And here we are.

Sports remain largely an analog-based respite from technology.  Sure, much has changed – how games are played, in-game communications, advanced statistics, athletic and orthopedic improvements, and the consumption experience (high-definition television, high tech stadiums, go anywhere viewing on handheld devices) – but sports are still about getting the better of the opponent on an individual or team level.  Did the ball go in the basket?  Was the puck buried in the net?  Was the ball barreled up at it crossed the plate?  The scoreboard is final judge and jury.  It is raw, unpredictable and fantastic. 

At the heart of sports’ allure is the sanctity of the competition itself – that unequivocable belief in the authenticity of the combatants’ struggle.  Without that, sports dissolves into nothing more than a charade.  The Big Lie, to steal from today’s toxic political parlance.  Something far worse than professional wrestling, fake reality television and faux live music concerts. 

It would be nice to report that such violations of trust never happen.  Nice just left the building, though, if it ever was present to begin with.  As with most things involving our species, the lure of fame, fortune, legacy and power has, on a few occasions, caused the integrity of sports to be recklessly peddled.  Quickly scan any moment in history and this is clear: hubris and greed are pervasive flaws. 

A few of the 1919 Chicago White Sox (Black Sox scandal) sought a pay day.  The New England Patriots (Spygate), the steroid users of the late 1990s/early 2000s and the 2017-ish Houston Astros (sign stealing) sought a competitive advantage.  Who knows what Pete Rose (betting on baseball) was thinking.  The famous are now infamous.  All wear a scarlet letter, their legacies graced with a well-earned asterisk. 

Unfortunately, that dubious fraternity may have another member. 

The University of Michigan football team, a speed bump on Ohio State’s path to the Big Ten crown no more, is now the conference’s elite team and squarely in the national title conversation.  With head coach Jim Harbaugh already under NCAA investigation and fresh off a self-imposed three-game suspension, the compliance hawks have returned to Ann Arbor amidst allegations of illegal sign stealing.  Pulling from a familiar damage control playbook, Harbaugh has denied any knowledge and a lower-level staffer has been suspended.  That we’re left to trust the NCAA, not exactly a bastion of business ethics, to deliver justice only intensifies the stench of this situation.

Beside holding our noses, where does that leave sports fans?  Simply to digest another alleged episode of remarkable arrogance.  What was the impact of Michigan’s willful disrespect for competitive integrity?  Like the Astros and Spygate, there was certainly some.  So much for sports being a safe space from artificial intelligence.  In a traditional sense, it is; but when it comes to nefarious information gathering, humans can be as troubling as the machines they create.     

Filling A Void

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

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

Last Saturday, on an idyllic fall afternoon, the Baltimore Orioles did something they hadn’t done since 2016: take the field for a playoff game.  Between then and now, there have been many dark seasons, with three reaching the dubious 100-loss milestone.

Plagued by the cringe-worthy ownership of an ailing Peter Angelos and his family’s adversarial jockeying for team control, the organization, at least off the field, has been adrift (sound familiar, D.C. football fans?).  That chaos aside, the baseball operations have been crushing it.  The Orioles parlayed those poor seasons and draft capital into arguably the best young roster and farm system in MLB.  In 2023, ahead of all expectations, that talent announced its arrival with a 101-win season and the AL East Pennant.

Despite the euphoria, there is a tinge of sadness in Birdland.  A black circular patch with an inlayed orange “5” adorns the Orioles’ uniform.  The patch is a tribute to Orioles legend Brooks Robinson, who passed away on September 26th.  Robinson was 86 years old.

The measurables of Robinson’s baseball greatness are distinguished: 18 All-Star games, 16 Gold Gloves, league MVP (1964), Roberto Clemente Award (1972), two World Series championships (1966, 1970), World Series MVP (1970), Baseball Hall of Fame member and an unimaginable defensive highlight reel.  How good was he at third base?  For decades, if anyone at any level made a great play on the hot corner, teammates and opponents simply needed to utter “Brooks” with a tip of the cap.  You knew because you knew.  He was the best.

But in a full account of Robinson’s life, the baseball player would be in the shadow of the man.  Stories are the best way to understand Brooks Robinson, the human.  Scott Van Pelt, ESPN anchor and Maryland native had one.  His dad caught a Robinson foul ball at Memorial Stadium and gave it to Scott, who, as kids are apt to do, lost it down a storm drain after a stray throw.  Years later Van Pelt told the story within earshot of a Robinson acquaintance.  Apparently, the story got back to Robinson because, shortly thereafter, Van Pelt received a signed Robinson ball with a note that it hopefully eased the pain of the one that got away.

Sportscaster Rich Eisen had his story.  As a younger lad he was part of a charity golf tournament and, as youth sometimes does, vigorously imbibed the night before.  Nursing a hangover, he became frustrated when the shuttle to the course no-showed.  Eisen called the hotel front desk and asked if anyone was there from the tournament.  Somehow Robinson ended up on the phone with Eisen, addressed his concern and had a shuttle sent within minutes. 

I have two.  I was in Robinson’s company just once – an autograph show in Baltimore.  His interactions were fascinating.  Robinson treated everyone with the warmth of a long-time friend.  I mean everyone – staff, fellow luminaries, kids and star-struck, nobody autograph hounds like me.  The second is his voice.  I don’t remember Robinson the player, but I do remember him broadcasting Orioles games.  His delivery was so down-to-earth and unassuming.  To this 10-year-old kid, he made comic book stuff – major league baseball and greats like Cal Ripken Jr. and Eddie Murray – seem like reality (albeit an extraordinary one).  He invited you into the Orioles’ living room, so to speak.  All were welcome.  He made Orioles baseball feel like family.

Maya Angelou famously said, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Whatever the name Brooks Robinson immediately brings to your mind, be it a signed ball sent to atone for an adolescent mistake, commandeering a shuttle to a golf tournament, a ridiculous play at third or even a voice over the airways on a perfect summer night, he made us all feel a little better – in the moment and about the course of humanity.  With Robinson’s death, the world is left less friendly, less humble, less decent and less kind.  His passing leaves a void; the challenge for those left behind is to fill it.   

Our Better Selves

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

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

The local Doppler radar looked benign last Saturday morning.  Light rain bands passed through D.C. and others loomed across the northern neck of Virginia, but Southern Maryland was precipitation free.  This was a surprise, given the warnings and promised weather calamity from tropical storm Ophelia.  But the visual was deceptive. 

A wider perspective revealed a massive system spreading rain from South Carolina to western Pennsylvania.  When set in motion, the image suggested this day would be best spent on the couch watching college football. 

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”  Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke those words a long time ago.  It came to mind when considering the stark difference between Ophelia’s narrow and expanded radar imagery.  It’s fascinating how seemingly unrelated things connect. 

Very different conclusions can be drawn from a simplified, micro or immediate consideration – a singular experience, a day or even a year - of an issue as opposed to broad, long-term analysis.  As a stock investor will tell you, growth isn’t linear; markets rise over time, but they do occasionally fall. 

The arc of social progress has encountered recent headwinds.  The FBI reported a 35% increase in hate crimes in 2021.  African Americans were the most likely to suffer from race-based crime; incidents against Asian Americans were also disproportionately high.  Sikhism and Judaism were the most victimized religions.  Hate crimes based on sexual orientation increased sharply, and gay and transgender victims were the most likely to be murdered.

A reflective pause to consider that last paragraph is appropriate.  Sobering.  Disturbing.  Infuriating.  Words that come to mind.  One that didn’t: surprise.  These statistics offered no revelation.  For a window into society’s pre-existing fear and consequential anger, see Bud Light. 

There is, as always, hope.  Sports are, despite obvious flaws, fabulously integrated (at least on the field); performance - not appearance, race, national origin or belief system - remains the ultimate determinant of advancement.  The best player in baseball is Japanese (Shohei Ohtani).  A Serbian (Novak Djokovic) is the greatest men’s tennis player of all time and the reigning NBA Finals MVP (Nikola Jokic).  The face of the NFL is biracial (Patrick Mahomes).  Women’s sports have never been better or more popular.  The WNBA is having a moment and its best player just happens to be lesbian (New York Liberty star Brianna Stewart).  While typing this piece (a tip of the cap from the universe?), news broke that Haley Van Voorhis, a safety for Shenandoah University, had just become the first female non-kicker to appear in a college football game.

Despite the hate crime statistics and palatable sense of national tension, these examples indicate a progressive, increasingly tolerant world.  Another recent sports event offered additional, macro-level evidence – a widened Doppler view, if you will – of social progress and Dr. King’s moral arc.  After Coco Gauff won the U.S. Open a few weeks ago, Billie Jean King was among the on-court luminaries.  King, after winning the 1972 U.S. Open, demanded equal pay for the women’s champion.  A year later, the same year King beat Bobby Riggs in the “Battle of the Sexes” tennis match, and 50 years before Gauff’s championship, the women’s and men’s champions received the same prize money. 

More time travel: Gauff’s victory occurred over 20 years after Serena and Venus Williams took over women’s tennis.  At the time, the Williams’s were more prepared to dominate the sport than the sport was ready for two dynamic, proud and unique African American talents from Compton, California to dominate it.  Thanks to the Williams’s, Gauff’s victory occurred in a very different world; her U.S. Open title was less a celebration of race and more about her being proof of the Williams’s legacy and the opportunity Gauff now has to influence young girls around the globe.   

This is all evidence of progress.  Slow.  Inconsistent.  But undoubtedly measurable progress.  That it comes from sports should not surprise; our games, while imperfect, have consistently been a leader on inclusion and acceptance, an example of our better selves and proof, even in the most challenging moments, that Dr. King’s quote is undeniable fact.