I Still Want to Hate Derek Jeter but I Never Will

Ever seen a grown child cry? Just put me in front of a baseball-centric, father-son tale and it’ll happen.

When I watched Derek Jeter 3K – an HBO special documenting the lead up to Jeter’s dramatic 3000 career hit – I was alone in my living room and consuming a burrito filled with lean cuisine. I had stumbled across the documentary while flipping channels and was very excited to find that I had an hour to watch it.

Bear in mind that I hate the Yankees. It’s easy to do and as a lifelong baseball fan you only have two choices: love them or hate them. I hate them. And Derek Jeter is the Yankees.

But I can’t hate him. I can’t hate him because of this and this and this. The term “gamer” gets tossed around quite a bit. Someone slides hard into second base and Tim McCarver wants to call him a gamer and make some obscure analogy. Mr. November is a gamer. He’s the quintessential player you point at and say to the nine-year-old at his first baseball game, “See that one, at shortstop, number 2? Play like him.”

There’s an undeniable romanticism to the sport well documented in flowing prose by many an author. It’s seemingly interwoven with the fabric of our nation. As Terrence Man (James Earl Jones in Field of Dreams) said, “[America has] been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past.” Flowing hyperbole indeed. But it’s far bigger than a sport and country. 

Watching Jeter talk about his childhood dream of playing shortstop for the New York Yankees, hearing his mom tell him before each game to “have fun and get two hits for me,” listening to the support of his father, I realized this was beyond bats and gloves. I was watching a universal story of family and a story that, frankly, any kid who ever played little league can relate to. Baseball marks the universality of childhood.

For me, Jeter’s career is interwoven with my childhood. He was the star as I wanted to be the star. He was the face of baseball when I was playing catch with my dad and when I was telling my dad I was going to be better than Derek Jeter. And while that never quite came to be – my dreams erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again – baseball is the simple game that reminds me of where I’ve come from and how I’ve come to be. 

Jeter dramatically belted a 3-2 pitch deep into the left-field bleachers, the 3000 hit of his career and second of five on the afternoon. In the mold of the gamer he is, the Yankee shortstop also delivered the game winning RBI. He talked about the pressure of it all and how surprised he was and how he agreed to do the documentary so that someday his kids could see what their dad once did. 

And I teared up, just a little bit.

And then the documentary ended. As the credits rolled, short clips of congratulations from relevant parties played: Tony Gwynn, Joe Torre, Michael Jordan, Bernie Williams, team trainer, etc.

And then his mom congratulated him. 

And then I realized it was probably good that I was home alone.

And then dad congratulated son.

And then I lost my shit. Straight up Field of Dreams style.

In Tim McCarver's Words: Game Five

This World Series was clinched with a Giant performance, by a small man.  Tim Lincecum stands just five feet and eleven inches tall.  He weighs just one-hundred and seventy pounds.  But he casts the shadow of a giant with his changeup that Bruce Bochy calls a changeup, definitely not a splitter, but I definitely think it looks like a splitter and acts like a splitter but its a changeup.  Must be his hands.

And it was a giant victory for a small city.  Just seven miles by seven miles, San Francisco is a small city.  But today it is a Giant city.  The baseball Giants that is. 

And it was a giant victory for a group far from gigantic.  Misfits and outcasts they called themselves.  They can now call themselves the giant Giants of the giant trophy of baseball.  They've accomplished a big thing despite their little resume.

They overcame giant odds.  Cliff Lee had been a giant World Series pitcher, twice beating the New York Yankees last year and pitching dominantly throughout this playoffs.  If the the little team that could from San Francisco who is ironically called the Giants were indeed to win this World Series, they were going to have to do their best Jack and the Giant Bean Stock to slay the giant arm of Cliff and bat of Josh.  What an ironic analogy!  The team that had to slay the giant was called the Giants.

How fitting.

A Giant Fight Finally Broke Out

For half of a season I've been observing the San Francisco Giants.  A team built around pitching and little else, I could not bring myself to become a fan.

I watched games in which their right fielder missed the cut-off man.  Three times.  I watched their self-serving closer with his ridiculous beard and moronic quotes somehow get the job done but never without some angst.  Seriously, who throws a 3-0 slider with a lead in the 9th?  I watched as the Panda went AB after AB without having a clue: he's hitting lefty with a runner on second and nobody out, watches a fastball in for a strike, waves at a breaking ball, then pops up.  Have a clue.  I watched as Andres Torres, the team's leadoff hitter, take the sombrero (4 strikeouts) ALL on fastballs out of the strike zone.  And by ALL I mean he swung and missed at eight (5 consecutive) fastballs up and out of the zone.  The same damn pitch.

For a team needing to scratch and claw for every run, they sure seemed content playing station-to-station and waiting for the three run homerun that no one could hit.  They relied on pitching and then the pitching relied on itself and in August, that just didn't work.

Giants baseball just wasn't a good watch.

Then the playoffs happened and the sexiest thing for a baseball fan in the playoffs is big time pitching performances.  How does opening the playoffs with 29 IP, 3 ER, 5 BB, 36 K out of your starting staff sound?  Sexy.  But I still wasn't a fan.

I became a fan - not just an observer but a fist pumping, jump-up-and-down-alone-in-your-living-room fan - when Pat Burrell, the now one-tool talent (power), went first to third on a flare down the left field line off the bat of uber-enfuego Cody Ross.  Standard Torture (the name given to the Giants' offense by the local paper) would call for Burrell to pull up at second.  Station-to-station.  Not that night.  Off the bat he was going to third.

Had I really just seen the Giants work to improve their own chance to score?  Indeed I had.  I was impressed and on board.

I'm not a Giants hater but I do need for my team to give the impression that they are gonna fight and when they punched back at the Phillies Wednesday night I saw something I hadn't seen before.  I saw a team not trying to belong but a team trying to win. 

The Giants followed with a double from struggling third baseman, Panda McChubby, and it was clear to me that this team had arrived. 

I don't necessarily need a winner but I need to see a fighter and, for the first and most important time this season, the Giants are fighting.

America's Pastime Shines in Autumn

America has it's flaws.  We have a makeshift economy, divisive political lines, crumbling health, and failing education.  We buy things we can't afford and eat things we don't need.  America is great, but it ain't perfect.

Our pastime, baseball, sure ain't perfect either.  There's steroids and too many games and a diluted talent pool.  Baseball just isn't as compelling as it once was.

But then the leaves change and the air grows crisp.  We widdle the league down to eight teams and four weeks.  October baseball is where fifth starters become legends and Mendoza hitting shortstops create stories we'll tell our grandchildren.

I could sit here and try my best to write something dripping with beauty and romanticism to try and capture the magnitude and excitement of playoff baseball, but I couldn't do it justice.  Instead, I'll give you the best baseball prose I have ever read.  It was written by Jeff MacGregor.  Enjoy.

Here's the link: http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/commentary/news/story?page=macgregor/100712

Toodles Tucson

The Homers were both born and raised in Tucson, Arizona. I followed that with a lovely four-year stint in San Diego and returned. While it wasn’t really my idea or plan to return, I’ve never regretted it. BH spent a shivery four years in Ithaca and a green three in Eugene. Next for BH, as you’ve read, is Portland. However you slice it, we Homers have spent the vast majority of our time on earth as Tucsonans and now I’m leaving; BH has been gone for a while. It’s been great and as the Homers leave Tucson for a yet-to-be-determined amount of time, some nostalgia has bubbled to the surface. A tribute ensues.

AB’s thoughts are in Red. BH’s thoughts are in Blue. In case you were wondering these are indeed UofA colors.

Tucson: The Mountains

I never appreciated their beauty until I left. While San Diego is absurdly beautiful, the stoic Catalinas never look the same twice. Although the sun setting over the ocean is timelessly captivating, the colors of an Tucson sunset are unparalleled. My favorite mountain view is the backside of the Catalinas, on the way to Oro Valley. Here I can see every nook and cranny of the mountains, highlighting the depth, size, colors, and magnificence of the range.
 

And Sabino Canyon, another place I didn’t learn to appreciate until I’d returned. I discovered the solitary beauty of this subtle canyon while training for a marathon. I’d run to the top of the Canyon – a grueling 3.7 uphill miles – early in the summer mornings. The shade of the eastern ridge was life saving. The monsoon run off over flowed the bridges and would soak my shoes, a mild concern compared to my burning lungs and quads.

My favorite Sabino memory is BH and my hungover hike to Hutch’s Pool. We started far too late, after far too late of a night, after far too much drinking. But we were determined to find water and swim in it. We asked the gate attendant if there was water and he said doubtful. We asked the information center and they said maybe. We took our chances and headed up. The hike was a moderate three miles and we were lucky to have cloud cover. Not knowing where we were headed, things looked grim as we saw only leaky traces of water heading towards our unknown destination. We turned a corner and there it was: a glorious, sparkling (in most parts), cool body of water. An oasis. We jumped in and swam and jumped in again. It was an incredible escape from many things in a special summer. Thanks BH.

I grew up hiking in the mountains behind our home in the foothills. I fondly recall hikes in Pima Canyon with my family on weekend mornings. Often the hike was a quest for the rarest of things in Tucson: water. Going for a hike through a craggy canyon and a forest of cactus and then finding yourself playing in a river of water is magical for a boy growing up in the desert. I didn't realize at the time, but my parents were instilling in me a passion for hiking that would survive to this day. Thanks mom and dad.

Despite my early start I didn't truly appreciate the mountains until I left for college in the east. Out east you find rolling hills and winding roads shrouded by trees. A horizon line of any expanse is a rare sight in the east, unless you find yourself perched on a high peak or sitting on the Atlantic Coast. Rolling hills and an obfuscated horizon line are far different than the endless skylines and wide open expanses of Tucson. In Tucson mountains rise out of the earth and meet the sky in every direction. When the sun sets in the evening the mountains in the west turn a deep shade of purple and cut sharply through the bright red and orange sky. Some people take the sun setting over the ocean, but sunsets in Tucson are beyond comparison.

My favorite hike is the Finger Rock Trail. The hike is difficult, so don't skimp on water, but the views are well worth it. You start at the top of Alvernon Way and shimmy your way up the right side of a small canyon. A little more than half way up you can stop at Linda Vista Saddle and look out over the entire city--from La Paloma to Davis-Monthan. Several miles further you finally summit Kimball Peak. You are now above Finger Rock but you're looking down Romero Canyon on the backside of the Catalina Mountains. You can see Picacho Peak far away in the distance and off to your right you can see Mt. Lemmon looming higher than the rest of the Catalinas. I've been on this hike with friends from home, friends from college, family and girlfriends. I know almost every turn, every rock, and every place to stop. I love it, and love the mountains it takes me through.

Tucson: Growing Up

Manzanita was a great elementary school and I made some good friends in Kindergarten that lasted all the way to today. Pretty cool how that works. I made many other friends along the way, including BH in fourth grade. I even invited him to my birthday party that year for flag football. Evidently my dad yelled at him.

We finished school at Catalina Foothills but I think it might be safe to say we finished at the Foothills Baseball Academy; or at least got diplomas from there, too. It’d be an understatement to say we played a lot of baseball in High School. But ya know what? We were good and it was fun being good. I’ll never forget losing the 2001 State Championship or the overthrow stopped by Jason Pridie’s toe that – had the ball just hopped over his cleat – would have gone into the dugout handing us the State Championship. I’ll also never forget the game winning home run (orwas it game losing for us?) Pridie hit that is still in orbit.

One perk to growing up in Tucson (and you later learn is a downside when you grow up and have to explain that you’re not a cowboy) is Rodeo Break. What is Rodeo Break you’ll ask? Well, Rodeo Break is two or three days off of school for the Rodeo, duh. We take it in place of President’s day. Basically, it’s a chance for Zonies to go skiing or go to Disneyland. I suggest addressing it with your local school board and adopting it.

Now I was once told that it would be impossible for me to have a good childhood because of the lack of grass in Tucson. Not true. Have you ever built a fort in a wash? Played sports year ‘round? Lay poolside in February? How about November for that matter? Tucson is a beautiful, homey, simple place to be raised and a fun place to grow up.

I went to preschool at Tucson Community School (TCS). Both my sisters went there and my mom later became the director of the school. Incidentally, my three-year-old class teacher, Mrs. Lazaroff, was still teaching the threes when my mom worked there two decades later. TCS is where I met my best friend Koren, and as a result our families have become close friends over the years. Our families have vacationed together, shared holidays and countless dinners together, laughter, tears, funerals and musicals. My name is still in the cement foundation of a play structure at TCS--right next to Koren's. It's a unique place that was instrumental in my childhood.

I remember Saturday mornings at Mehl Park. On any Spring morning at Mehl Park you would find little leaguers from tee-ball to Juniors competing for the right to get a soda after the game--win or lose. Sure things got competitive. Dads got thrown out from time to time, kids--myself included--were moved to tears by failure. However, that was where baseball all started for me, and where I met most of the guys I'd be playing baseball with almost every day for the next ten years of my life. Thanks Mike, Charlie, & Jay.

As iterated above by AB and reiterated now by me, high school was defined less by folks in the classrooms than it was by Jason Hisey (see left). We played baseball or prepared for baseball year round. It all began as a little freshman in the fall of 1999 walking wide eyed out to "Iron Con:" the infamous Hisey conditioning program. For several hours we would sprint, jump, jog, run, push up, sit up, stand up and throw up. Iron Con only set the tone for summers, springs, and falls engulfed by baseball. If there's one thing Tucson weather allows for it is year round outdoor sports--we took advantage. I'll never forget the morning after losing to Pueblo (whom we had never lost to before). We woke up well before 5 am and drove to the baseball field. We were there so early the lights had to be turned on. On the way into school I passed my senior classmates getting onto a bus for a senior trip to Disney Land--I was on my way to run my ass off for the next four hours. Thanks Hise.

I grew up playing in the desert: making forts out of saguaro ribs; climbing mesquite tress; taking our dog for walks in the wash; riding bikes around Via Entrada; and playing in the water after a monsoon. It was a good childhood, made possible by my family, my friends, my dog, and by Tucson.

A Juicy Big Mac

With Monday's admission of steroid use, Mark McGwire provided us with the "no duh" moment of the week. So, here it is Mark, "No duh."

Beyond that, we can say that you played this one right. Your steroid use was sparse, experimental, and for recovery purposes. Well-played Mr. McGwire. Well-played. These excuses are easily received and forgiven. You chose the Petite-path and for that you will - eventually - be welcomed back into baseball.

I also believe that you did a good thing for your new position as the Cardinals Hitting Coach. The team doesn't need that season long distraction and the steroids buzz you would bring. Joining the team as an admitted and repentant "user" increases your cred as a coach. Besides, you don't seem to handle media scrutiny particularly well and now you can keep them off your (huge) back.

I'm not sure if it was the right move to not announce this in a book. You could have cashed in and you may still. But no one has ever questioned your classiness and it's been reported that you retired with a two-year, $30 million offer on the table. That's good money. Better than book money no doubt.

But the big question is: how does this affect your Hall chances? Mark (deep breath, look down, sigh, look up) you no longer have a chance at the Hall. That became clear when the voters gave you just 21.9% of the vote. Do you really think admitting what we all knew will jump you to the requisite 75%? I'm sorry, it just won’t.

So your history book has been written. You oohed and ahhed us for a few truly amazing summers. And they were amazing. I remember missing number 62 because my mom was driving me to Hebrew school. Do you know how upset that made me? Not to mention I missed number 62. People dropped what they were doing to watch your at-bats. Your swing was compact and brilliant. Conversely, there was nothing compact about your home runs.

And then the steroids leaked. It started with Caminiti, but no one would believe a cokehead. Then Fainaru-Wada and Williams went after BALCO and Bonds. Out came Canseco's second-grade reading level book and it was a good laugh. Until it wasn’t. Finally, congress and Senator Mitchell (no seriously, the actual US congress) got involved. And you were just there to talk about the future.

Let me be clear Mark, this is not entirely your fault. In fact, we’re all at fault. The fans cheered, the owners turned a blind eye, and – perhaps the most arrogant of all – the baseball writers glorified you. The same men who waxed poetic of your heroics now vehemently refuse to vote you into their Hall. Please, they didn’t know? You were ten times their size and saving baseball, not to mention their jobs. They too built the steroids era and, just like you, wont stand up and say it.

Ultimately, your history should read: prolific home run hitter who admitted steroid use. Whether you used to improve (you still deny) or to recover (your admission), Mark: you were better than the others. Yes, you tainted the numbers, the most sacred thing in baseball. But the Hall of Fame is about talent AND accomplishment. You achieved both and belong.  

Unfortunately, you’ll never have your July afternoon in Cooperstown.

Why W.C. Homer

We are sports fans, outdoors enthusiasts, liberal supporters, competition junkies, ASU haters, and proponents of the left side of the country (pun intended).

A Homer is a supporter of his roots. We have roots in the West Coast. We support it. We are West Coast Homers.

We love Arizona Basketball, 10pm E.T. kickoffs, afternoon Super Bowls, shorts in November and sandals year round. We love the National League and playoffs at the lunch hour. We take our sunsets over the ocean, our highways without out tolls, and our horizons without ends. We play in National Parks, ski in the spring, and surf in the winter. We love Highway 1, Hood-to-Coast, high peaks, and hacky-sack. We love San Diego, San Francisco, and Seattle. We love the Rockies, the Rose Bowl, road trips, and Rodeo Break. We love the PAC-10, west coast offenses, NCAA Softball, and Mexican food at 2am. We watch College Game Day before the sun rises, we didn't play lacrosse, and our long boards have wheels. The southwest is our home, our street names are in Spanish, and we're W.C. Homers born and bred.

The authors of this blog are Homers (A.B. Homer and B.H. Homer). Followers of this blog are Homies (you). Comment on our posts. We'll thrive off of feedback. Share this blog with Homies, haters, and friends. Become a Homie for some chuckles, to be irritated, to be inspired, moved, shocked, informed, or entertained. But most of all, become a Homie because you know greatness resides on the West side and you're a W.C. Homer too.