A faith restored

This has been a summer for my faith to be tested. Beliefs I held to be self-evident were shaken. Much of what I deemed near-to-holy became vulnerable. Yes, the summer of 2007 was a tough time to a be a baseball fan.

What was once our national pastime may indeed, be past its time. Ours is a world that relies on soundbites rather than meaningful dialog. Instant gratification is expected and catered to, by our politicians, our corporate heads, the media. To expect the XBOX-generation to press pause on the Halo 3 long enough to watch a game that relies on strategy, individual skill and waiting -- for the pitcher to agree with the catcher on a sign; for the umpire to finish brushing off home plate; for Nomar Garciapara to adjust his batting gloves -- is simply not feasible. Moreover, it makes for a tricky marketing plan. Poor grammar, loose morals and shoddy behavior are increasingly permitted as the norm. For more examples, please see The National Football League. Sure, the NBA instituted a dress code, but that was only to hide the preponderance of garish tattoos that are, apparently, required if one wants to play basketball at the professional level.


Baseball need not look beyond its own borders for examples of bad boys. The selfish arrogance of Barry Bonds made his quest for and eventual accomplishment of sports' greatest record something best served with an asterisk. More players were suspended for violating the league's drug policy and a report is expected to be announced at the end of the season naming many more offenders. MVP-like seasons withered and died in the post season in spite of mind numbingly large salaries. I know I was not alone in saying that my faith in baseball was compromised. Fans everywhere are being turned off by a league that caters to corporate sponsors, and overpaid, overly pampered, morally challenged players.

Fear not, fellow baseball-fan-in-hiding. For on the eve of the 2007 World Series I present to you, the Colorado Rockies. Talking heads complained that they couldn't name the starting infield. "Who are these guys," they'd ask each other with a pompous laugh. I think that's a good thing.

The Rockies are a team. Yes, I can make that sentence more elaborate, but let the beauty of it sink in for a moment. They are a team. They are talented, convicted, hard-working and personable. They enjoy healthy family lives, one another's company, and winning. In a script that would be rejected as "unbelievable" by every Hollywood studio, they won 20 of their last 21 games. They are undefeated through the first two rounds of the playoffs. And still their are as unknown to most people, even most sports fans, as the inside of the Wal-Mart women's department is to Paris Hilton. Again, I'm thinking this is a plus for my Rox.

Tonight we play the Boston Red Sox, the World Series winner in 2004. Their bankroll is far higher, their fans are far more rabid, their players are far more colorful. Most sports pundits are predicting a Red Sox Series win, but I contend it is more out of convenience. While I love the human side of sports, I do it from a parent's point of view. I love learning that my son's favorite player has no criminal record. Those on the sports beat enjoy the absurd, the off-the-wall. Given this criteria, the Red Sox are a sports writer's dream.

Consider the two left fielders. Their team's is a sub-par fielder who has turned his innate sense of irresponsibility into an art form. When his home runs don't quite make the fence, but he's too busy admiring his handiwork to actually run the bases, he chalks up his 400-foot single to "Manny being Manny". Our left fielder is a good-natured Oklahoma boy who never quite lost the conehead from his birth. Oh, and he might just be the National League MVP this year. Our ace pitcher is a 6'5" Canadian with the face of a pre-pubescent.
Our veteran, our de facto team captain Todd Helton is a multi-Gold Glove winning, career .320 hitting first baseman who is such an amazing athlete he also played quarterback at the University of Tennessee. That is, until a young punk named Peyton Manning came and took away his starting job. We're not sure who will play first base for the Red Sox when they come to Coors Field and must abide by National League rules. Their star slugger, David "Papi" Ortiz is so lame in the field, he can only handle being a Designated Hitter. He spends the defensive side of innings on the bench, eating sunflower seeds. He's going to have to do some work in the field when he comes to Colorado. That alone should make for interesting, if not entertaining, viewing.

And let us not forget Clint Hurdle, the Rockies critically maligned yet wildly popular manager. His use of pinch hitters, pinch runners and pitchers in relief down the stretch was reminiscent of Billy Martin during the Yankees' The Bronx is Burning era. This one time baseball phenom suffered an injury early on and his career as a player never materialized. His career as a manger, however, is reaching its crescendo. After waiting out the lean years of the Rockies' rebuilding, this is Hurdle's time to shine. And no one deserves it more. When Clint's not in and around Coors Field, making the Rockies better than they ever believed possible, he's a tireless champion for those trying to find a cure for Prader-Willi Syndrome. His daughter Madison was born with the complex genetic disorder in 2002.

So perhaps baseball isn't your thing. Perhaps you are so blessed to live in a state where there is actually a fall and you feel like this is more football season. I hear you. But if you're like me, and you would like, just one more time, to feel good about rooting for someone, why not try the Rockies? If it doesn't restore you faith in humanity, it may just boost your faith in baseball.