H
hockeybeat
Guest
Moddies, webby, I'm not sure if this belongs here or Journalism Topics. If I posted this in the wrong forum, feel free to move it.
Thanks,
HB
Generally, I'm not one for introspection or sentimentality. But I thought I'd share the epiphany I just experienced.
I was writing at Yankee Stadium tonight. I got there late and my credential wasn't ready, so I had to wait. When I finally got into the park, I raced to the clubhouse to do interviews. After I finished, I went into the press room only to find that I didn't have a seat in the press box and was relegated to the dungeon-esque press room.
Okay, fine. There are sets around me and I have to write, anyway.
Sometime around 10 P.M., I try to go to baseball-reference.com to check on stats and can't access the site. I try to access Google and its down. The wireless internet at the Stadium had died. I can't file. I hit refresh once, twice, a hundred times. Nothing. I have clumps of hair in my hands because pulling my hair out seems to be a better option than drop-kicking my laptop.
After the game, I trudge into the post-game presser and clubhouse, asking halfhearted questions because I was too focused on a crappy internet connection.
I finish what I'm doing and I begin to walk out the Stadium. And that's where I saw my salvation: A clump of dirt.
There was nothing remarkable about it. It's the same clump of dirt that's found in ballparks from Anchorage to Ottawa to Boston and to New York. Nothing special about it at all.
Then I began to think. I was lucky enough to walk the same pathway as Ruth, DiMaggio, Gehrig, Mantle, Maris, Ford, Berra, Reggie, Jeter, ARod, Oscar Gamble, Chad Curtis and Mel Hall. Okay, maybe not the last three. But you get my drift.
My mind wandered from the legends to family. My grandfather was born and raised in Hell's Kitchen, a Yankees fan. A catcher, 5'4 by 5'4, he wasn't good enough to do more than play in adult leagues. His biggest contribution to baseball in the City of New York was that he brought Little League to the borough of Queens. He raised his clan to root for the Yankees, including my pops.
I thought about my old man. Another catcher, 5'8 and 160 pounds, he was good enough to play at the high school level. For whatever reason, be it he wasn't big enough or strong enough or couldn't hit a jockey's weight, a lifelong baseball junkie wasn't blessed with the ability to live out his childhood dream.
I stopped. Here I am, an almost funny kid with a laptop, able to do something that my father and grandfather and uncles and cousins and friends could only dream of. While they toil at jobs that don't provide any excitement, I'm lucky enough to walk into the Yankees clubhouse and say I'm doing my job.
And I began to feel bad because I didn't enjoy it. I didn't soak up the atmosphere. I stepped onto the Yankee Stadium grass, looking to talk to a couple players standing around the batting cage. I could have stopped and took a second to look around and realize how good I have it. Tomorrow, I'm back at the Stadium. I guarantee you that I will take time out to enjoy myself and to recognize what I could be doing.
I implore you to sit back and really think about how cool our jobs are. I know not every park is Yankee Stadium. Not every rink is Maple Leaf Gardens or the Montreal Forum. Not every football stadium is Lambeau Field. Not every basketball court is Madison Square Garden. But the venue is irrelevant. We're fortunate enough to go into places than fans only dream of. For as tough as we make our jobs out to be, and yeah, sometimes they really suck, it's certainly a lot better than a 9-to-5 office job.
Thanks,
HB
Generally, I'm not one for introspection or sentimentality. But I thought I'd share the epiphany I just experienced.
I was writing at Yankee Stadium tonight. I got there late and my credential wasn't ready, so I had to wait. When I finally got into the park, I raced to the clubhouse to do interviews. After I finished, I went into the press room only to find that I didn't have a seat in the press box and was relegated to the dungeon-esque press room.
Okay, fine. There are sets around me and I have to write, anyway.
Sometime around 10 P.M., I try to go to baseball-reference.com to check on stats and can't access the site. I try to access Google and its down. The wireless internet at the Stadium had died. I can't file. I hit refresh once, twice, a hundred times. Nothing. I have clumps of hair in my hands because pulling my hair out seems to be a better option than drop-kicking my laptop.
After the game, I trudge into the post-game presser and clubhouse, asking halfhearted questions because I was too focused on a crappy internet connection.
I finish what I'm doing and I begin to walk out the Stadium. And that's where I saw my salvation: A clump of dirt.
There was nothing remarkable about it. It's the same clump of dirt that's found in ballparks from Anchorage to Ottawa to Boston and to New York. Nothing special about it at all.
Then I began to think. I was lucky enough to walk the same pathway as Ruth, DiMaggio, Gehrig, Mantle, Maris, Ford, Berra, Reggie, Jeter, ARod, Oscar Gamble, Chad Curtis and Mel Hall. Okay, maybe not the last three. But you get my drift.
My mind wandered from the legends to family. My grandfather was born and raised in Hell's Kitchen, a Yankees fan. A catcher, 5'4 by 5'4, he wasn't good enough to do more than play in adult leagues. His biggest contribution to baseball in the City of New York was that he brought Little League to the borough of Queens. He raised his clan to root for the Yankees, including my pops.
I thought about my old man. Another catcher, 5'8 and 160 pounds, he was good enough to play at the high school level. For whatever reason, be it he wasn't big enough or strong enough or couldn't hit a jockey's weight, a lifelong baseball junkie wasn't blessed with the ability to live out his childhood dream.
I stopped. Here I am, an almost funny kid with a laptop, able to do something that my father and grandfather and uncles and cousins and friends could only dream of. While they toil at jobs that don't provide any excitement, I'm lucky enough to walk into the Yankees clubhouse and say I'm doing my job.
And I began to feel bad because I didn't enjoy it. I didn't soak up the atmosphere. I stepped onto the Yankee Stadium grass, looking to talk to a couple players standing around the batting cage. I could have stopped and took a second to look around and realize how good I have it. Tomorrow, I'm back at the Stadium. I guarantee you that I will take time out to enjoy myself and to recognize what I could be doing.
I implore you to sit back and really think about how cool our jobs are. I know not every park is Yankee Stadium. Not every rink is Maple Leaf Gardens or the Montreal Forum. Not every football stadium is Lambeau Field. Not every basketball court is Madison Square Garden. But the venue is irrelevant. We're fortunate enough to go into places than fans only dream of. For as tough as we make our jobs out to be, and yeah, sometimes they really suck, it's certainly a lot better than a 9-to-5 office job.
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