“I’m all alone in rowboat in middle
Of ocean wide — and you’re not there!” you cried
(Thus my wife grieved like lost child). Life’s riddle
Old and fears unknown with our hopes collide,
As ship with iceberg — and indeed alone
We’re left, in the perfect storm’s raging sea.
Thus has it always been (this we bemoan).
Yet If you’re in that rowboat, I must be,
Not Coast Guard vessel come to save the day,
Nor knight in shining speedboat, but instead
A simple sailor likewise blown astray,
Joining you on journey to far beachhead…
And I can offer this: I’ll help you row.
Let’s together pull — and our fears forgo.
I have lived pain, and my life can tell: I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks [for] the heavy perfume of wild roses in early July and the song of crickets on summer humid nights and the rivers that run and the stars that rise and the rain that falls and all the good things that a good God gives.
— Ann Voskamp
Summer Sanders — swimming
Ray Searage — baseball
Elissa Steamer — skateboarding
Mike Summerbee — soccer
Rob Summers — baseball
Le’Veon Bell — football
Doug Flutie — football
Ramon Sessions — basketball
Vijay Singh — golf
Alex Song — soccer
Vida Blue — baseball
Litterial Green — basketball
Hue Jackson — football
Amber Orrange — basketball
JayVaughn Pinkston — basketball
The major league baseball season has heated up like the spring weather here in New England after a frigid winter. The Yankees and Mets — the two teams I rooted for as I grew up in Jersey — are in first place in the AL East and NL East, which means order has been restored to the baseball universe … in the New York metropolitan area, anyway.
Yet for some baseball fans, their concern is not with actual teams and standings, but rather with fantasy teams and standings — yes, the world of fantasy baseball.
In a previous FAST Blast, at the beginning of the NFL season, I explored the relationship between fantasy sports and trust — and the connection of trust to everyday life, whether you consider yourself religious or irreligious. Let’s explore further.
Following are five excerpts from Internet media coverage of fantasy sports (in bold), along with some musings about how the realm of fantasy sports dovetails with the realm of faith, worldviews and real life.
(If you’re unfamiliar with fantasy sports, see below for a capsule explanation.)
Fantasy Focus: Working The Wire
Eric Karabell discusses the waiver wire and whether to trust the recent hot streak of Oakland A’s outfielder Josh Reddick.
Fantasy: Bengals vs. Eagles Preview
Christopher Harris discusses who to trust in Bengals vs. Eagles.
There it is: trust. Trust and faith are, of course, essentially synonymous. And it seems that some consider trust and faith to be the domain (mainly) of organized religion.
After attending a forum at which a Christian minister and a leading atheist debated the reliability of the Bible, I spoke with the atheist and noted that while he didn’t believe the Bible, he still had faith.
When he disagreed, I asked him: How can we know who won the first World Series in 1903? We weren’t there, so we must take someone’s word for it. Given that example, the atheist agreed that he’d have to take someone’s word for it. Apparently, based on his atheism, he disagreed that he had faith, but he agreed that he would need to take someone’s word about the first World Series.
As far as I can see, “taking someone’s word” for something is the same as putting faith in what that person has said. This observation, it seems to me, is on the level of 10+10=20.
Since we all must trust, the key questions become: Who will we trust? And who is worth trusting?
Most faiths and worldviews have appealing aspects, and I believe there are elements of truth in each one. As we investigate their various claims, whose “hot streak” — to use the fantasy phrase from above — will we trust?
In the second excerpt above, the analyst identifies which players in the Bengals-Eagles game to trust in a fantasy lineup.
Safe to say, a more essential question is: Who will we trust in the proverbial game of real life?
Fantasy Now: Reds’ offense
Eric Karabell analyzes who is worth the risk in the Reds’ lineup this season.
Fantasy Football Now: Week 14
Cary Chow, Christopher Harris and Stephania Bell discuss high-risk, high-reward players for Week 14.
That’s the high-stakes reality of the human conundrum. According to the Christian worldview, when God created human beings He engaged in an undeniably high-risk, high-reward enterprise.
The risk: If humans chose to stiff-arm God’s love and split the unauthorized atom, they would become radioactive, poisoning themselves and creation with the blight of death.
The reward: When humans, made in God’s image, choose to give themselves to Him in love and use their power for good, God experiences the warmth and joy and exuberant pleasure that human relationships exhibit at their absolute best.
A Christian worldview sees people as eternal beings, which only ups both the risk and the reward. And while some theists profess universal salvation, orthodox Christian belief ups the ante further — not only considering people eternal but also concluding that an ultimate either/or confronts us all: either choose to be with God and forever enjoy the stunning goodness that comes from Him alone, or choose to be apart from God and forever suffer the drastic deprivations His absence entails.
Talk about a high-risk, high-reward circumstance.
Some question or dismiss the idea of hell, seeing it as unfair or inhumane, counter to God’s love.
Others grant that it’s an apt punishment for certain horrors — such as the premeditated murder of a loved one, the Nazi abomination or a remorseless serial killer. Here’s one sentiment in response to such heinous crimes: A death sentence isn’t an adequate punishment — and neither is hell. Some simply say: I hope you rot in hell. And others would counter that forgiveness is the only way to find freedom in the face of such monstrosity. Nelson Mandela comes to mind as someone who lived such a philosophy.
A “Law & Order” episode depicts the execution by lethal injection of a convicted felon who committed a brutal rape and murder. “Today the state of New York got its revenge,” says Lt. Anita Van Buren at the end of the episode. “It’s not enough, and it’s too much.”
At face value, perhaps this sounds nonsensical: “It’s not enough, and it’s too much.” Huh?
Yet at a gut and heart level, this simple sentence resonates. There seems to be no appropriate answer to the problem of evil and man’s inhumanity to man. If God pardons a repentant Nazi war criminal and gives him access to paradise, some will vehemently object. If God punishes a cold-blooded murderer and denies him access to paradise, some will decry God’s lack of compassion.
It seems God can’t win.
One take on the “hell is fitting for murderers” mindset is that, hey, most of us aren’t murderers, so we’re good to go vis a vis the afterlife. In the Christian worldview, however, all humans share in the crime against humanity and divinity that is known as the unjust execution of Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of Man and the Son of God. Thus, we all are guilty of murder — though at first glance we may not believe we fit the profile.
Still, I tend to struggle with this. I identify with the side of the equation that wrestles with how a loving God could see hell as a solution.
Of course, if the atheist is right and there is no God, the risk/reward factor for each person is limited to this life and then is swallowed up by nothingness.
If the pantheist is right, the risk/reward factor is also limited to this life in the sense that we get multiple chances via reincarnation.
If the polytheist is right, the risk/reward factor is determined by which god is ultimately calling the shots.
But the philosophy with the most extreme risk/reward reality is a theistic worldview with the either/or of heaven and hell. Islam and Christianity are two such worldviews — and, of course, they offer drastically different solutions to the human predicament.
In Cam We Trust
Even with his limited NFL experience, Cam Newton is quickly gaining loyalty from fantasy players everywhere.
So we’re back to trust.
And the above discussion begs some further questions: Whatever our knee-jerk feelings are about the Christian faith’s stance on eternity, the more vital issue is this: Is that stance accurate? To boil it down — which worldview is true?
Naturally, that’s the worldview worth trusting and buying into.
To rephrase: Fantasy owners have trusted quarterback Cam Newton. Which real-life QB will you and I trust?
Fantasy Sports in a Nutshell
Fantasy sports give fans the opportunity to be the owner and general manager of a team.
Fantasy team owners draft actual professional players to form their teams in fantasy leagues, and the actual stats of those players from each game count toward the fantasy team’s score in head-to-head matchups with other fantasy owners. During the season, owners can make trades with each other, release players who underperform or become injured, and pick up players who are available.
Fantasy sports writers aim to give fantasy owners advice about which players to release or keep on the bench, and which ones to acquire or start for a given game.
Devoid of breath, in darkest cave enclosed,
I lie here, four days’ journey with alone.
Deceived by Death was I — he slyly posed
As Sickness and then sold me tomb of stone
For resurrection waiting room. To die —
Be silent witness to my sisters’ grief —
I now perceive in Adam’s alibi
The futile folly of a dying thief
Who never can steal back his life. Today,
While worms approach my lifeless flesh, I plum
The depth of human tragedy, my clay
Returning to — oh, hear Him bid me come!
Though Death shall beckon still, on skull-scarred hill
Shall Life — through death — triumph. Yes, come I will…
NOTES — POETRY 411
Who is the speaker in this poem? You can vote in the poll below.
Over the years, I’ve written a number of sonnets. Most of them don’t have direct sports themes, but some make references to sports. Naturally, those are the sonnets I’m posting on A Slow Life in the FAST Lane (where FAST = Faith And Sports Talk).
This sonnet, it seems to me, has an even less explicit sports connection. The “journey” reference is one such connection — since some sporting events can be considered journeys (a marathon comes to mind). Another is the mention of a “triumph” in the closing couplet. And there’s “steal” in the third stanza, with its baseball overtone.
Nevertheless, despite the oblique nature of the sports references, the seasonal theme of this sonnet resonates — given the celebration of Easter this week — and thus it finds a place here.
This is another Shakespearean (or English) sonnet — a 14-line poem comprised of three four-line stanzas plus a closing couplet.
Once upon a couch, I was home watching the pregame show before Game 5 of the 2000 World Series — the Mets-Yankees Subway Series. But I fell asleep moments before the first pitch, and soon I started to dream…
… At this outlandish nighttime parade, my eyes have been fixed on the first float, the one bearing the scrawled numbers 9/11 — which, as I’ve come to see, refers to an event that will supposedly occur on September 11, 2001.
The parade stopped soon after it began, when the 9/11 float was directly in front of me here on Broadway in the Canyon of Heroes. I’ve watched video on a gargantuan screen that was on this grotesque float: images of planes crashing into the Twin Towers, which became towering infernos. But then the screen disappeared, and as I peered into the darkness across lower Manhattan, I saw the Towers collapse as if they were made with a diabolical erector set. The skyscrapers imploded in a maniacal rush of severed steel and fractured concrete and shattered glass.
So now, adjacent to New York City’s Canyon of Heroes, the Crater of Broken Hearts, the Chasm of Crippled Hope. An unplanned cemetery and a makeshift memorial, right next door to the roadway where the renowned living have been honored with parades for decades.
As I ponder this, a parachutist descends and lands on the 9/11 float … it appears to be Denis Leary, the actor and comedian. When he unhooks his parachute gear, I can see he’s wearing a firefighter’s jacket emblazoned with the words “Rescue Me.” Behind him is a two-story building that seems to be a firehouse — I hadn’t noticed it before — and both garage doors are wide open. The garage bays are full of a cavernous emptiness. The fire trucks are out on call, apparently. Then it hits me: They must have gone to the Twin Towers.
Now I see a newspaper, floating in the air in front of Leary and to his right, too far away for me to see. Yet somehow I can read this headline: “Final episode of ‘Rescue Me’ to air tonight.” The date on the post: September 7, 2011.
As I read the headline silently, Leary says softly, “It’s really a hole that never goes away.”
Another voice — whose, I’m not sure, and from where, I can’t tell — echoes Leary’s last word: “away” … in a mocking tone, it seems, and again, “away” … now the voice sounds menacing … and a third time, viciously, “away!”
A rushing wind carrying thick dust and debris sweeps across the 9/11 parade float, and before I can react, it envelops me. I instinctively shut my eyes for protection — and without warning, the powerful wind sweeps me up, off the sidewalk! Opening my eyes, I can’t see anything in the hazy dust cloud, but I sense that I’m rising rather than falling, as I did earlier from the top of the Empire State Building. That recollection relieves my anxiety briefly — I somehow landed safely on a pole vaulter’s cushion here on Broadway — yet I’m still … terrified.
This vast dust cloud, I surmise, is the last exhaled breath of the dying Twin Towers. I don’t know why its spread was delayed, since the towers imploded some time earlier.
As I continue to ascend in the obscured night sky, something flies past me in a blur. What was that? Or who was that?
I hear the voice again, with the same mocking, menacing tone — and this time I discern that it’s distinctly a woman’s voice: “Away!” As I keep rising, the dust cloud is slowly receding and the sky becomes clearer. She rushes toward me again, and now I can see the unmistakable form of someone with a greenish face, a pointed black hat and a black robe covering all but her green hands — yes, it must be: the Wicked Witch of The West, flying on her broomstick, far from the merry old land of Oz.
“Away!” she cries. “Away, I say!” As she rushes past me, I’m swirled around in midair and a vortex pushes me higher in the night sky. I’m caught in a mini-tornado. Soaring west, the Wicked Witch glares down at Manhattan and shrieks, “I’ll get you, my city — and your little god too!” (Or she may have meant uppercase “God” — tough to tell.)
Then she turns her hideous head back toward me and screams once more, “Away!” As she speaks that one word, a forceful gale issues from her mouth and I spin and catapult and tumble uncontrollably, rising even farther above the city.
As quickly as I rose into the sky, I begin to descend — I’m plummeting in a free fall far more terrifying than the ascent, with no guarantee of a cushioned landing this time. The asphalt is rushing at me like an angry pit bull.
But just as I brace for impact, choking on my regrets, another voice calls out — “Hey! What ya got here that’s worth livin’ for?” — and a different gust of wind forcefully catches hold of me, propelling my still-airborne body west. In a flash I’ve regained altitude and jetted across the Hudson River, passing the Wicked Witch as if she’s on a bicycle to my Volvo S60, and I cross over the Jersey state line (airspace-wise, that is). I look down, half-expecting to see a “barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge” … but no, apparently this dream doesn’t include Springsteen’s “Jungleland” coming to life.
The owner of the other voice, who has apparently saved me from a fatal descent onto a lower Manhattan street, speaks again: “And hey, what about a parade for me?”
I look to my left and there, soaring beside me, is Miracle Max!
My previous parade-going companion, of “The Princess Bride” fame, has returned in style.
“That was a close call, kid,” he tells me (as if I didn’t know). “I’ve dealt with some witches in my neck of the woods. But oh my, the bad breath on that one — I was about to lose my lunch. And you were about to lose a lot more than that. Glad I showed up when I did. Hey, they don’t call me Miracle Max for nothin’!”
“Thanks, Max — impeccable timing,” I reply. “But where did you go before? We were at the parade together, and then you vanished.”
“Listen, I can’t give away my secrets,” Max says. “I gotta make a living, you know — if I told you how I disappeared so quickly and quietly, maybe you’ll put out a shingle as a Miracle Man, and then what happens to me? I’ll tell you what — I’m on the unemployment line faster than you can say Prince Humperdinck. And he’s how I got fired in the first place.”
“Yes, I remember — I’m a big fan of ‘The Princess Bride,’” I say. “But I don’t need to know how you disappeared — I’d just like to know where you went.”
“OK, fair enough: I went to look for the mayor of New York.”
“Why the mayor? Did you find him?”
“So many questions!” Max says. “No, I did not find him, and if you must know, I wanted to tell him to throw a parade for me in the Canyon of Heroes. ‘Hero’ is my middle name— just ask that Westley kid I brought back to life.”
Miracle Max’s lined face and white hair are illumined by the light of a half-moon, which I can see clearly now that I’m free of the horrific dust cloud. As we keep gliding on this mini-jet stream that’s carrying us west high above New Jersey, I’m overcome with emotion in the wake of my near-death experience — and the tears flow.
Glancing at me, Max says, “What’s the matter?”
“Just … thank you, Max — thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, kid. All in a day’s work.”
“So Max, I can’t help but notice that we’re still, you know, up here in the sky.”
“Can’t put anything past you, pal,” Max says.
As I gaze at the stars — there’s Orion — I ask: “Where are we going?”
“Again with the questions,” Max says good-naturedly (sort of). “I heard there’s an airplane over Pennsylvania that needs help, so that’s where we’re going — to Flight 93.”
“Shot through the heart” — are You to blame? (Who gives
Love a bad name?) Oh human heart Maker,
When my heart aches, let it be … because lives
In me living Sword, the dark heart-Breaker …
Because Your arrow pierces wounded chest.
But You fired at me? How could you betray
So heartlessly, like sewer-lover? Oh, quest
Of ages, test of sages — and belay
Rope threads (as knee-jerk heart rages) into
Scarred soul-jest heart on harpoon of heaven.
Love-Slayer, help me pull Your sure shaft through.
(When Your heart breaks, “no, it don’t break even.”)
Rappel, please, down Your arrow-toting rope —
Tie me and my pain to Your heartache hope.
NOTES — POETRY 411
The first stanza begins with a song lyric from Bon Jovi, and the last stanza ends with a song lyric from The Script. The sonnet addresses — and attempts to reconcile — some song lyrics from the Scriptures:
“Your arrows have pierced me, and your hand has come down on me.” — Psalm 38: 2
“He drew his bow and made me the target for his arrows. He pierced my heart with arrows from his quiver.” — Lamentations 3: 12-13
“The arrows of the Almighty are in me.” — Job 6: 4
This is a Shakespearean (or English) sonnet — a 14-line poem with 10 syllables per line, comprised of three stanzas (of four lines each) plus a closing couplet. The rhyme scheme — the pattern of rhymes at the end of each line — is as follows: abab cdcd efef gg.
For today’s time-challenged reader, the sonnet might be the best poem structure: 14 brief and (ideally) power-packed lines.
This is part non-sequitur, part quasi-funny anecdote and part riddle — and it’s a true story, too:
A high school soccer coach was doubling as the van driver — common enough at a small private school — and driving her team to an away game, when she cried out: “Be quiet, I can’t see!”
What could be the reason for such a strange statement?
“Sit down, I can’t see” — that makes sense. Or: “Move your head, I can’t see.”
But … “Be quiet, I can’t see” — huh?
Spoiler alert — if you want to ponder the riddle, hold off on reading the rest of this post…
At one point, the coach was backing up the van while listening to a player in the rear seat who was communicating how much maneuvering room the van had available. Since some players were talking noisily, the coach called out, “Be quiet, I can’t see!”
Without missing a beat, one player replied: “Coach, turn the light on, I can’t hear!”
P.S. How does this story shed light on a key factor to consider when we don’t understand verbal or written communication? Especially before we dismiss something we don’t comprehend — something that doesn’t make sense to us — as nonsense.
Could the communication glimpse this story gives help us in our relationships? Including the one that is said to be of utmost importance — the relationship with our Creator and His means of communicating with us?
Some samples of humor, intentional and unintentional, from the Internet journalism realm:
Notre Dame To Fix Souvenir Cup Error
Darren Rovell discusses the souvenir cups sold by Notre Dame that included the spelling error “FIGTHING IRISH.”
In other news: There is apparently no truth to the report that Notre Dame graduates have been receiving diplomas for years that bear the title, “FIGTHING IRISH DILPOMA.”
LeBron One Vote Shy Of Unanimous MVP Honor
… LeBron James laughed during a portion of the video when forward Mike Miller said the two of them now have four MVPs between them, “so let’s keep it going.”
In other news: Just to clarify, in case anyone is confused — LeBron has, yes, four NBA MVP awards. And in case the math is too complicated: Mike Miller has zero.
Name Of Four-Team Playoff Revealed
Rece Davis and Kirk Herbstreit report from the BCS spring meetings, where it was announced the four-team playoff will be called the College Football Playoff.
In other news: The NCAA has announced that the immensely popular annual basketball event known as the NCAA Tournament (aka March Madness) will be creatively renamed to … the College Basketball Playoff.
During Race, NASCAR Driver Receives Speeding Ticket
… NASCAR driver Brad Keselowski … was handed a speeding ticket in the form of a pass-through penalty when he tried to exit pit road a little too quickly [during a race].
In other news: There must be a safety reason for this rule, but it sure seems absurd. And from now on, boxers and MMA fighters will be arrested for assault and battery at certain random bouts.
Basketball Recruiting Update
… At 6-foot-11 and about 225 pounds, Turner is a face-up post man with range to the 3-point arc. … He runs the floor well, finishes above the rim, and plays with energy and urgency.
In other news: Is it, shall we say, necessary to write that he “finishes above the rim”? If you’re 6-foot-11 and you don’t finish above the rim … well, let’s go out on a limb: You won’t be showing up in a college basketball recruiting report.
Bruce William Deckert — Bio
Journalism career capsule
• Journal Register Co.
• SPJ award-winner — as you can see, I'm not listing the non-award moments ... presumably, we all have them, but go figure — we don't mention them on résumés!