A Hill I'm Going to Die On

I get asked a lot what my job as a sports information professional entails.

 

Well, there's a lot. Here's the break down: Write press releases, take pictures, update the web site, run social media accounts, be a DJ, act as (or coordinate) public address and other game operations, run the scoreboard (sometimes), make graphics (for social media and publications), and last, but certainly not least, do live game statistics.

 

Obviously, I don't do all of those things at once all the time. But it's that last job there that is, generally speaking, the most vital. Game statistics are the final record of the game. It will be what others look at to gauge their success over time. There's a reason that we know that Aaron Judge set his American League home run record in 2022 - because there were people around to keep the statistics of every baseball game played through history.

 

As a statistician, I take my job seriously. I want to get everyone the credit they deserve for their accomplishments. Some sports are harder than others, and it really helps when you are able to have multiple people spotting and watching to help you track those games. For example, during football games, I have an extra spotter, but our public address guy and scoreboard operator also will usually be tracking the play and are able to call out the numbers for me to enter into the system. For the indoor soccer team, there is a team of spotters on field level who call out the player numbers as well.

 

I made a point of mentioning what the spotters are calling: Player numbers. I don't have a roster in front of me at games. I have a computer program that has quick keys to signify anything from a shot in soccer to a tackle in football to a dunk in basketball or a strike in baseball. As I enter that information it is VITAL that I (or my spotters) can see the numbers on the uniforms.

 

And this is where we get to the title of this blog post. I am sick and tired of bad uniforms. And people need to stop making them bad on purpose.

 

Here's the blue on black. It's not bad standing still. But a bitch at full speed.

What do I mean bad? I had a basketball team come through with black jerseys and blue numbers. Not light blue, THIS BLUE. I had a high school football team once that had white uniforms with light gold gradient numbers that were impossible to read on a sunny day. I have had soccer and basketball teams that come in with either a white or black top with just a colored outline for their number (so, technically, it's a white/white or black/black situation). And I've had multiple teams come in with gray jerseys with black numbers. And/or, the number will be some weird font that makes it impossible to distinguish numbers (Brazil's funky looking font for their numbers in this World Cup bother me, too).

Black on black. No. Never.

Enough with this madness.

 

Let's get one thing straight - they started putting numbers on uniforms for the ease of everyone involved to keep track of who each player was. Baseball was first in America, but there are stories going back to Aussie Rules Football being the first to implement it. The whole idea was for broadcasters, fans, and statisticians to be able to figure out which player hit that home run by just looking at the back of their uniform. They sold programs by telling you that "you can't tell the players without a scorecard." It seems like a no brainer, You put numbers on the uniforms, you should be able to see the numbers.

Why do teams do it? Aesthetics - "It looks cool!" - is a big thing. People who don't know or think about the practical reasons that numbers are used just want to make something that will look cool enough to sell lots of or makes for something that is eye-catching. 

 

The other reason is more devious. Old school coaches - especially in football - would do it so that when other teams were watching film, they couldn't easily identify players. But in today's digital age, no one is using film. Hell, no one is using video tape. And almost every team is using an online video sharing service that athletes can use to create their own highlights to send out to coaches at the next level in the hope of being recruited. So hiding numbers really doesn't serve the same purpose it once did.

You'll also ask, aren't there rules against this sort of thing? Well, yes there are. I know, because I looked them up (at least the ones for the team sports I deal with at the college). And each sport has uniform guidelines that teams are supposed to follow - some are longer than others. There are graphic examples in most of them showing that numbers on the back should be a certain height (usually 8 inches) and numbers on the front another height (usually 4 inches). Some of them even have width guidelines for the "stripe" or "stroke" of the thickness of the font. And all of them (except NCAA baseball, which has the least written about uniforms) plainly lay out that numbers should be a clearly contrasting to the uniform. And every one of the examples I laid out above are considered out of guidelines.

 

But what none of those sets of guidelines has any real consequences for failing to follow the rule. I think I saw that the NCAA football rule book said maybe a 15-yard penalty before the kickoff. NCAA basketball probably would award a technical (and two free throws) before the game. Nothing that would necessarily be a full punishment that would affect a team long term. I suppose you could hit a team with a lost time out, maybe. Or fine a team for doing it at the pro level - but those leagues have people who make sure that the numbers can be seen. (Oh, and have access to replays and have multiple people keeping stats.)

So, I am up here on my soapbox screaming at the world trying to raise awareness that we need to stop making bad uniforms. Numbers need to be seen - and be on the front and back of jerseys in most cases. It will help the fans, the broadcast audience, and people like me - who get called into question when stats aren't correct.

Wanna Fix Mental Health? Start 'em young.

 

As we reach the end of another school year, we were slapped in the face last week by the reality of the country we live in.

There’s no reason to rehash what happened. Because, in all likelihood, we will have to go through it all again within the next few weeks (thanks to summer vacation, it hopefully won’t be at a school).

Through all the noise of people arguing about what we should or shouldn’t do, there has been one thing that those arguing against further gun control keep bringing up – mental health. We need to address why young people are doing this over and over again. They always bring up the usual suspects: video game violence, lack of religion, the eroding of “traditional” family values. And through it all, the number one solution from some is to harden schools. Improve security. Make them more like prisons. And, gawd forbid, arm the teachers.

However, I would argue that one of the best solutions that I can think of – and we’re playing the long game here – is the exact opposite. We need to soften schools.

What exactly does that mean? If the people who make the decisions are going to throw all kinds of money to help fortify the schools, why don’t we find a way to make sure that our schools are places where kids are going to feel safe, protected, loved, and helped? Make them a place where students are excited to be rather than places that they dread.

Remember, we’re looking at the long game here. So let’s look at some options to address things long term.

How much better might a child grow up if they weren’t hungry all the time, or facing food insecurity every day? Let’s take that money and invest in making school cafeterias places where they can get healthy food they want to eat. There were several instances in my time working at the elementary school where the students didn’t want to eat the food they were being served by the cafeteria because the district’s food budget wasn’t covering better, healthier options. Several studies over the years have shown how much better a child does in school when they are able to have breakfast. A good lunch will help propel their growth just as much – especially if they go home to little or no food.

How much better might a child grow up if there were enough counselors to help guide them through the rough patches? To help them cope with their lives in this hyper, short-term attention span society? Our schools do not have enough counselors to help them cope with the stresses they have to go through. Food insecurity is only one thing many children have to deal with. Anger from living in a society where a child goes home to see an exhausted set of parents who are constantly working to try and keep their family just above water, making sure their kids have the proper clothes, shoes, and school supplies, while also trying to give them the things they need to remain children. Schools nee people who are trained to help kids cope with – and teach ways to stop – bullying.

How much better might a child grow up if there was universal broadband? As children get older, and as the education system evolves, the need for home internet is going to get exponentially more important. This isn’t the era where a family can have a set of encyclopedias to look up the information they need to complete reports, or assignments. The pandemic put a spotlight on the immense gap there is between the haves and have nots when it comes to computer and internet access. We were lucky enough to continue working and being able to pay for better internet service. Many, many more were not. And those kids fell far more behind than the others because they didn’t connect online with their teachers every day.

How much better might a child grow up if there are more people supporting them in the classroom? I get that things have changed in the long time since I was an elementary school student, but I know that it helped the learning environment that we had instructional aides in the classroom every day in the early grades. One teacher cannot be everywhere at once to give the attention that each one of the 20 first grade students need when they are learning a new concept. Or to be able to separate students into groups based on their reading strength and just focus on one group and hope the other group (or groups) will remain quiet. Or to take one at a time aside to do individual assessments (schools tend to bring in substitute teachers to help on days like this). How much better would it be if instead of a 1:20 ratio, it was 1:10, even if it’s an instructional aide? Even if it’s just for four hours a day?

How much better might a child grow up if the teachers who were in their classrooms wanted to be there and were paid well enough to live in the neighborhoods they teach? A teacher’s attitude rubs off on his or her class. If a teacher is struggling, it will show, and it will change the tenor of the room. Especially if they’re being counted on to buy their own supplies, get their own incentives for the students, and, in some cases, paying for food to help keep the children in their class from going hungry. Right now, we expect too much from our teachers, especially with how little we pay them. Most “teachers” are also: counselors, protectors, doctors, nurses, psychologists, IT workers, surrogate parents, and students themselves. And none of that includes what their lives are like outside of the school campus, where they are also parents and providers for their own families, who have to put up with them bringing work home at night and on the weekend (we saw a woman grading papers at an Ontario Reign game once).

How much better might a child grow up if the school they attended was fit for use by the students? Schools are aging, and many need renovations to be make them environmentally safe. Many are too small for everything that a proper modern classroom needs. Desks and chairs are not outfitted in ways that a child can have a Chromebook on their desk and do anything else. Most probably need power upgrades to run new tech along with new roofs, insulation, and heating/cooling systems, not just a coat of paint and new carpet. And that’s not to say anything about the need for books, pencils, pens, crayons, paper, and enough supplies so that no child ever has to share.

Now will all these change anything, stop mass shooting on campuses? Probably not right away. There are too many things that are wrong that can’t (or won’t) be fixed in time to put an end to all of this madness. So, yes, there will be the need to make security fixes on some campuses. Many schools have gates are push open out, and you need a key to get in – and many of them are chained shut as well. And if the school has a public park attached to it as well (an extension of the playground), then there are entry points that are accessible by anyone willing to hop a fence. But the older the kids get, the harder it is to funnel them into one entrance, especially when they start driving. Add in the hormones of confused teenagers, and you will never be able to stop all incidents on campuses.

The thing that bothers me the most by the main argument I hear is that putting common sense safeguards in place won’t stop all these things from happening. To which I answer “Duh.” People argued that mandating seatbelts wouldn’t stop people from being hurt or killed in car accidents, but they sure as heck have helped cut down on fatal incidents. We can’t be looking for elusive cure-all solutions that are going to be 100 percent effective immediately, that’s impractical (cynically, I think that may be the point for some of these people). But make a start. Little changes can make a big difference.

After all, could you imagine a world where school age children are treated with a level of dignity and humanity that many espouse would be the Christian way of doing things? Treated in a way where their problems mattered and there were people who were willing to listen and help them? Able to go home after getting a nutritious, filling meal (or two) without feeling ashamed of their family’s financial situation (without being shamed by cafeteria workers because they can’t afford to pay their bill)? Or to go through the day without being bullied for being different because there are enough adults there to make sure that bullying is nipped in the bud?

Maybe then, a lot fewer of them might grow up so emotionally detached that they think the only way out is to get a gun and shoot up others.

The Long and Winding Road to McCartney Had a Major Detour

After Paul McCartney finished his nearly three hour set (pre-encore) by playing “Hey, Jude,” I turned to Gina and told her:

“That’s it, I can die now. But I don’t have plans to do it any time soon.”

Sure, it is a bit of innocent hyperbole following the bucket list of bucket list moments – it’s my all-time favorite song performed by its artist. But after the previous few weeks we had gone through, it was nowhere close to innocent.

Less than two weeks before the concert, I was rushed to the hospital for what turned out to be a stroke.

Yeah, a stroke.

Now, let’s get it out of the way – I’m fine. Back to my normal self – whatever constituted normal in my world. I took a week off work, spent the next week working from home and returned to the office this past week. Still taking things slow, but it’s the perfect time, because the Friday before all this started was our last team sporting event. If you want a point of reference about what happened to me, you can look at Pennsylvania senate candidate John Fetterman.

I woke up on a Monday morning, and I had a blood clot in my brain that was jumbling up all my communication skills. People – including Gina, who called 911 immediately – would ask me questions and I couldn’t find the answers. I had some answers – I knew my name, I knew where I was – but it just wasn’t coming to me the way should. I wasn’t showing any of the signs they tell you to look for – drooping face, lack of strength (I walked down the stairs at home by myself) – just the fact that I wasn’t making any sense. My memory of some of it is foggy, but Gina says she asked what city we lived in, and I answered “Thursday.”

Within minutes, I was at Loma Linda University Medical Center. The folks at Loma Linda were amazing. Within minutes, I was getting a CT scan. Not long after that, it was off for an MRI (never want to do that again). Within three hours of arriving via ambulance, I was in the operating room as they went in and cleared the clot: And I was awake for the entire procedure. At some point, I realized they were playing music in the background (“Hotel California” was the first song I heard). Just was they finishing, I was reciting the lyrics to the song (“Stuck in the Middle With You”) that was playing at the time (singing would be a charitable description). I was back to “normal.” Heck, the anesthesiologist and I had a conversation about hockey (it was the day of Game 1 of the Kings-Oilers series). Turns out he loves going to Reign games, at which point I tried to sell him on the Fury, which ended when he said he tried it once, but didn’t like all the diving the players did (he must have come to a game against San Diego … I kid).

By mid-afternoon Monday, I was out of my ICU bed and sitting up watching TV, ready to go. The following morning, that was the first thing I wanted to do after waking up – get out of bed and sit up. I got a visit from the doctor who had done the surgery, and he spelled out all the issues I might run into – speech or physical therapy to help me regain any skills I might have lost, all the things associated with a stroke. Not long after he left, the therapists came in and tested me out – fine motor skills like brushing my teeth, and then walking around the ICU. After our short walk, they turned to Gina and I and said that they were going to let them know that I wasn’t going to need any of the therapy.

Tuesday late afternoon, I was transferred to a regular room, hooked up to far fewer gadgets, and free to move around without having to page a nurse to help me unhook or watch over me. And Wednesday morning I was given the all clear to go home.

Since then, everything has been good. We went to a baseball game that Saturday and attended the McCartney last Friday all the way in Inglewood.

As far as the cause? Stress played a role – the weeks leading up to the incident was full of the unease from the stolen McCartney tickets to some work-related drama that was causing all kinds of frustration. But that was a bit player in the process. Recently, I was diagnosed with atrial fibrillation, which was causing high blood pressure. Afib, I was told, is pretty common. I was prescribed some blood pressure meds, and was told in a very casual way to take baby aspirin and sent on my way. Because of several factors (relatively young age, non-smoker and non-drinker), I was considered to have a very low risk for any effects from the meds or the condition. I should also note that the Afib was found by doctors after another recent emergency room visit that turned out to be a pinched nerve in my arm. We now know how that risk assessment turned out. So there’s been some medication adjustments and a new focus forward.

As far as what I can pass on from this experience, a few thoughts. First, know the signs. The suggested acronym to think of is FAST: Face (does one side droop when you smile?), Arms (does one side fall when held up?), Speech (slurred, or strange when repeating a simple phrase), and Time (as in, don’t waste it, get to the ER). The one thing that I was told by the hospital on a follow up call is to absolutely call for an ambulance. The ambulance will get you to the hospital faster, and will be able to alert the hospital that a patient is incoming, rather than just having someone drive you there. After my procedure was done, they were gearing up for another stroke activation alert in the ER, and they were coming in via ambulance. I have no doubt that Gina’s no hesitation call to 911 that morning was what has me back to normal today.

Going forward, it’s the same push, to be better with one big subtraction: caffeine is out – it’s a big Afib no-no. I’ve never been a coffee or tea person, but the (too many) diet colas I was drinking every day are gone. Chocolate is another one that’s being severely cut back.

So, why am I telling you all this now? I don’t know. Just the overwhelming desire to write about it, I suppose. To tell my story. It’s what I do.

Anyway, I just thought it would help me process everything to put it out there. I’m not dying any time soon, so don’t lose any sleep. Know that if you’re reading this from my feed, that you matter, and not to ignore anything that might be bothering you health wise. We’re all in this together.

 

A Gone Too Soon Moment

Grace was (very probably) the first person outside of my sports/elementary school bubble I met when I started junior high. Moving into junior high is the first real shove out of the comfort zone you're raised in. This makes the transition from elementary to junior high so much more difficult than the move from junior high to high school. 

We didn't "hit it off," probably because I did something stupid. Or because I was adjusting to life full-time with glasses (with really, really big frames that were probably too big for my face). Or because she wasn't there to suffer fools. But we did establish a relationship that was friendly and helpful, like you do when you're serious enough about your education that you realize that you don't have to do it all on your own all of the time.

We'd have classes together through the next six years - and seeing her in a class meant that you knew that there was one person in the class that would not cause unnecessary drama. In fact, to my knowledge, there was never any drama attached to her. She came to school, had her friends, got her education and lived her life. I'd bump into her (and her eventual husband) working at the local Target (back when, ya know, you could be a college student who could work at Target and go to school at the same time), and we were always friendly, have a quick talk (if we could) and move on.

And then, as we do, we moved on. Each of us has our own lives and paths to take. We drift apart from people who were friendly high school acquaintances, and cultivate new friends to add to the ones you may have kept touch with from your original bubble. Until social media, that is.

Like many, we reconnected on Facebook. Our relationship on Facebook was pretty much the same as it was in school - friendly acquaintances who shared the same basic upbringing in the shadow of Disneyland. A pair of Gen X kids who watched the world change around them and have their lives reflected back in the Offspring song "The Kids Aren't Alright." (Which shouldn't be a surprise considering the fact that Dexter went to high school in roughly the same period six miles down the road.) We got peeks at each other's lives, and commented on the milestones we each reached.

At our last high school reunion (30 years, almost 2 1/2 years ago now), my wife and I had a long conversation with her. Grace, like so many from my class, welcomed my wife as one of our own. And she was able to share some of her war stories of working in education with Gina, who had more than her share of war stories from working the playground - and getting ready to start her journey toward becoming a substitute and working toward her full credential.

And then we went on our way again. Back to Facebook friends. Hadn't seen her since that reunion. 

But that didn't mean that the news of her passing last night didn't hit me like a ton of bricks.

As I've pondered it the last 12-plus hours, I've gone many different directions with my emotions. We weren't close - she had plenty more friends from school with whom she was closer, especially the people from her elementary school bubble. But I guess it was her status in my life as the first person I met and developed a relationship with in junior high that made the news extra harsh to read.

But more than all that, I guess, is the fact that I don't feel like this should be possible. I don't feel like I should be at the age that I should be mourning the loss of a fellow high school classmate. She's not the first from my class, either. But she is the first of us to have passed after reaching the half century mark.

And maybe that's it. Almost all the folks from my high school class has reached the age of 50, and that doesn't seem like it should be possible. We can't be 50. Fifty is old. And I'm not old.

But, then again... I down ibuprofen and acetaminophen on a regular basis to deal with daily aches and pains. I had a hip X-ray recently that the doctor said he could see arthritis becoming an issue. And the same hip was causing sciatic nerve pain for the better part of three months. Many of my classmates - Grace included - have already seen their children graduate from high school. Some are grandparents. We're all at the point where our bodies have more miles on them than our mind is willing to accept - some of us more than others. You know how many of us probably walked off concussions back in the day and kept playing? I know I did at least once or twice, if not more. 

That's why I wasn't kicking or screaming when it came time for me to have THAT cancer screening. You know, THAT one. And it went smoothly, and the word is that everything looked good. Should be fine for another 7-to-10 years. Considering I lost a grandfather to cancer, and all the cigarette smoke I grew up inhaling around members of my extended family, I should be grateful that, for now, everything seems OK. 

But it wasn't for Grace. And that's what's so frustrating about it. She, by all accounts, was doing it right. I don't think she abused her body any more or less than the rest of us have over the years. But cancer chose her. The mom of two who spent her adult life as a teacher to countless other young people. It's not fair. 

Then again, life never is.

Fuck Cancer.