Re-kindling an old flame

Last week I met with a friend of mine for a few beers and a catch up on life in an Irish pub here in Paris. Now, "Irish pub" is usually expat speak for "French bar which serves Guinness and Kilkenny", but in this case, it did have one authentic touch that you don't often find in French bars: a dartboard.

When the evening began, there was barely enough room to squeeze up to the bar, pint in hand, but as the young, beautiful Parisians left to go and do whatever it is young, beautiful Parisians go to do on a Thursday evening, the space around the dartboard cleared. As it did so, a couple of the regulars, who were neither young nor beautiful - my kind of people - grabbed the darts from behind the bar and started to play.

This is the kind of scene that plays out every day in pubs all over the UK, but I've been away so long that I'd almost forgotten what a dartboard looks like. But here, as I watched the two guys play, a vivid slice of my past life flashed before my eyes. I was suddenly taken back about 18 years, to a time when the great sport of darts ruled my life somewhat like baseball rules it now.

Back in the early 80s, my parents bought a dartboard for my brother and me and set it up in our bedroom. In hindsight, it seems surprising that they ignored the obvious danger inherent in letting two teenage boys loose with sharp projectiles, but I think that the theory was that if we were inside throwing projectiles at the wall, then we couldn't be outside getting up to potentially greater mischief. The upshot was that we spent hours playing darts and annoying the hell out of our parents with the rhythmic, dull "Thud!" of the arrows on the board hung up on the wall adjoining their bedroom.

I never played outside home, and so darts was only ever a family pastime for me. And when I left home to go out into the big, wide world and get myself an education, if I was thinking of any kind of sporting glory at all, it was in more classical realms. When I got to college, I quickly realised that rowing - although one of the über-status symbols of life at the University of Cambridge - requires not only a good deal of strength and skill, but also involves getting up at 5am four times a week in the freezing cold to get yelled at by some power-crazed midget enthusiastic coxswain. And so my dreams of sporting glory faded, leaving me to concentrate on other obsessions.

Then, one night in the college bar, as I sat supping a pint of IPA and wondering whether prolonged over-exposure to Deep Purple's Smoke On The Water could leave you permanently brain-damaged, I noticed a bunch of guys in the corner playing darts, and playing it quite seriously. When I sidled over there to get a better look, I realised that this was an actual darts match in progress. Darts! At Cambridge!! Stereotypes toppled in my mind like so many dominoes.

It turned out that this was the Fitzwilliam College darts team, playing one of their weekly matches against one of the other Cambridge colleges. When the match was over, I asked if they were looking for new players. An impromptu 'tryout' ensued (a couple of dozen throws and one or two vague questions about experience and availability), and I was invited to turn out for a 'B' team match the following week.

The match went well. So well, in fact, that my career in the 'B' team lasted all of one game. The senior players present decided that my darting talents would be wasted at this level, and I was immediately promoted to the 'A' team. That eventually led - the following year - to captaining the team and playing for the University, but that was a little way down the road. Right then, just being on the team and having some measure of recognition was enough for me. It wasn't exactly getting drafted in the first round by the Red Sox, but it was pretty much the first time in my life I had discovered something that I enjoyed and that I was actually good at. Good enough, in fact, to win the annual University-wide darts competition and have my name engraved on the trophy: "1988 - Iain Cash (Fitzwilliam)", a proud moment indeed.

Of course, breaking down the public-school, rugger-and-rowing stereotypes came at a price, and that price was the ridicule - sometimes gentle, sometimes not - of fellow students who claimed that darts was not a sport, but just an excuse to go down the pub and have a few beers. Of course, they weren't completely wrong. The beers are definitely a good selling-point, but I did end up trying to counter the "it's not a sport" argument on more than one occasion. No, it's not a sport that demands rigorous physical training, but it does require a lot of practice, a good head for mental arithmetic (or at least, a good memory for the combinations of trebles and doubles that allow you to finish a game) and solid nerves. I won several free pints in the college bar by challenging darts' most vehement critics to a game, with a generous head-start, the size of which depended on how much they had drunk. Those who took up the challenge quickly realised that throwing a 24-gram projectile over a distance of eight feet into an area about the size of a postage stamp is not quite as easy as it might look.

There are criticisms that can be leveled at darts, but lack of skill is not one of them. To illustrate my point, I would often refer to the professionals playing the game. For those not familiar with the game, you begin at 501 and count off the totals of your throws, down to zero, finishing on a double (the small 1/2-inch ring around the outside of the board). The minimum number of darts you can throw to achieve this is nine, in three visits to the board: 60, 60, 60 - 60, 60, 60 - 60, 57, 24 (or 51, 54, 36 or some other such combination of 141). For an amateur player, the nine-dart finish is an almost theoretical notion, a mere dream, and even for the professional, the skill and mental toughness needed - albeit over a period of maybe 2 minutes - mean that it is still the Holy Grail, as rare as a perfect game in baseball.

This was all brought back to me the other night in the bar, watching the two guys play enthusiastically but terribly, just beneath a TV which was showing a professional darts tournament. I tried to explain to my friend that, although the pros made it look easy, the amateur level was more the norm. I did my whole "See - darts is a real sport" speech, and after a few wild throws that went nowhere near the board, but which did endanger the lives of several people entering and leaving the men's room, he concurred, and another small battle in the war for recognition - a war I hadn't fought for years - was won.

I wanted to drive my point home with one last illustration, but the bar lacked the tools I needed. However, on my return home I found what I needed: a PC and an Internet connection. I looked up the very first televised nine-dart finish in professional darts, and - God bless YouTube! - it was there. So, for your education and amusement, here is my all-time darts hero, John Lowe, in 1984, with a little bit of perfection:



I'm willing to bet you anything you want that, with $175,000 at stake, 1,000 rowdy darts fans watching in the auditorium and hundreds of thousands more watching on TV, you wouldn't hit that double-18 if you kept throwing all night.

So now the question is: can anyone tell me the way to the nearest darts club?

Lowell on Manny

From Boston.com, via Joy of Sox.

"I get along with [Manny] great. He's a different personality. I think he has this, I think, stereotype about him that he's just this aloof guy who has this amazing ability to hit, who just comes to the field and puts up unbelievable numbers. That's really not true at all. On the road he's lifting weights in the morning. It's not like he shows up on a Tuesday and then he'll show up maybe four weeks later. He's got his own plan hitting. A lot of times he doesn't like to hit outside, but you know what, a lot of guys don't. But he's inside the cage, does a lot of those visualization drills before the game. That's kind of an accelerated type thing. Most people don't really concentrate on the visual. He feels comfortable with that. So I mean, he could eat four bananas and a slice of pizza before every game. If it makes him hit that way, you'll see a lot of guys eating four bananas and a slice of pizza. There's a method to his madness, though, it's not just like this guy shows up with his crazy hair and starts killing pitchers. He's got a plan."

When does he become a distraction?

"We'll wait and see. He can be great. He can be phenomenal for this team. He actually can be slightly a uniting guy. It's not where you guys see it, you know, it's on the team bus where he feels more comfortable. I think he can be a tremendous asset to this team. Our chances of winning a World Series are much better with him than without him."

Mike Lowell: my hero.

Now can the Boston press please shut the fuck up about Manny?

Two Cool

I'm sat in the office this afternoon trying hard to focus on some extremely dull meeting minutes. To help concentrate - and to drown out the over-chirpy inanity of my colleagues - I'm listening to random stuff on my iPod. (And when I say random, I mean random: Led Zep's The Battle of Evermore backed up into Nat 'King' Cole's Christmas Song, anyone?).

As I listened to Bono's 'Little Steven / Artists Against Apartheid' speech during Silver And Gold on the excellent Rattle And Hum this profound thought occurred to me: you know you're officially cool when you have not one, but two, great nicknames. For Little Steven is none other than E-Street Band-er and Sopranos star 'Miami Steve' Van Zandt.

Steven - the nickname-less Baseball Desert salutes you!

Foul lines

Nice Guys Finish Third made an astute observation last week about the month of February, with which I wholly agree. It's a waste of a month. A non-month, in fact, full of non-news. I got all excited about Truck Day and Matsuzaka arriving in Florida, but now? Nothing doing. At all.

In many ways this non-month makes me feel a little sorry for journalists. The more observant readers of this blog will have noticed that when I have nothing to say, I say nothing. Unfortunately the journalists at the Globe / Herald / MLB.com don't have this luxury - they have to submit their daily offering. And in Red Sox Nation right now, that usually means something about Manny: Manny Being Manny, Manny turning up late for Spring Training, Manny selling his vintage car / looking after his Mom. A word to those journalists in question: I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT WHAT MANNY'S DOING, NOT DOING OR PLANNING TO DO!

I love Manny, because he plays for the baseball team I follow with a passion. To do that - to play a game for a living - he gets paid a lot of money, more money than I will ever make in a hundred lifetimes. The reason he gets paid all those dollars - some of which come out of my own pocket - is that he is one the best hitters who has ever played the game. I'm not looking for him to lead the league in triples or stolen bases or be the world's greatest left-fielder. What I as a Red Sox fan want and expect from Manny is production on the field - 30-40 HR, 120-130 RBIs every year.

What I am most definitely not looking for from Manny - or any other millionaire ballplayer - is a shining example of a blue-collar work ethic. It can happen - my favourite ballplayer of all time, Cal Ripken Jr., is my favourite precisely because he displayed that kind of ethic in playing 2,632 straight games. But as a general rule, I'm not looking to be shown that kind of example in professional sports. If I need an example of that, I only need to look around at friends and family to find one.

As a Red Sox fan - someone who devotes an unhealthy amount of time and energy to following a game played by millionaires - I feel as if I've pretty much forfeited any right to demand that the people who play that game play by the same rules as I do. "But it's not fair!" I hear those journalists cry, "They make all that money playing a game, whilst poor old Joe Shmoe Red Sox Fan works his ass off 40 hours a week for peanuts." Well, no, it isn't fair, but then I'm not asking it to be fair - I'm asking the Red Sox to provide me with the thrills and excitement and the sense of community that I can't get doing my shitty job for 40 hours a week. For them to be able to do that, I have to compromise. For my part, I'm as put out by Curt Schilling being an opinionated, loud-mouthed Republican as I am by Manny's alleged 'attitude', but I live with it, because I want to have the guy who will win 15-20 games every season and be a leader to the Sox young pitching staff. The guys I root for are Red Sox players, not my role models for life, and whatever lies outside the foul lines - be it religious beliefs, political leanings or sexual preferences - has no bearing on that. I want my guys to produce in the workplace, i.e. on the field. Period.

Before you jump up and wave your hand around like a lunatic, I know what argument is coming next: "But Manny sometimes doesn't run out ground balls, so his lackadaisical attitude does affect what happens on the field." (For those who can stomach it, the Globe has actually spent time putting together this piece of shit: a gallery of 'Manny moments', including a "Need we say more?" caption on a photo of Manny with an wild Afro. Oh my God, stop the presses - Manny has a wacky haircut! If somebody can explain to me just what the fuck Manny's hair has got to do with his ability to play the game of baseball, I'm willing to listen...). Well, here's a little thought for you: every season a bunch of Red Sox - professional baseball players with years of experience - get doubled off second base on line drives to the opposing shortstop, and nobody says a word. That's a terrible out to make - even I know you shouldn't get doubled off in that situation - but nobody makes the same kind of song-and-dance as they do for Manny's occasional lapses. Be critical, by all means, but be consistent whilst you're at it.

Contrary to what much of the Boston press would like us to think, Manny arriving after the other players for Spring Training - for whatever reason - is not a big deal. He'll be where he needs to be - on the field - doing what he needs to - scaring the shit out of opposing pitchers - when he needs to do it - when the Sox season begins on April 2nd. Outside of that, he can be as Manny as he likes. As is often the case, Red said it best:

As I've said before, I don't care if the shows up with two minutes of Spring Training left to go, visibly drunk, wearing no pants, and stubbing out a cigarette on my forehead. He gets the pass. 'Cause he's the Manny.

Seeing is believing

So he's not just a figment of our imagination, a phantom conjured up by the front office to prevent us all going batshit crazy over the winter. He's a real, live human being, and he's wearing the T-shirt of the Boston Red Sox:

(photo: Boston.com)

OK, we're now officially ready. Bring it on...

Beware, brother, beware

A Valentine's Day story from the Baseball Desert:

Many moons ago, haunted day and night by the crush I had on a young lady I was acquainted with at college, but who was - as the parlance of the day would have it - "spoken for" or - as my parlance would have it - "way out of my league", I decided to have a "Screw This Valentine's Day Crap" outing. The trip had two things going for it: it was many miles from the object of my affection and it involved the legendary sports franchise that is Oldham Athletic, in a mid-week Littlewoods Cup semi-final.

I returned from the game full of the unique joy that can only be gained from a legendary 6-0 thrashing of West Ham United (in baseball terms, think Tampa Bay wiping the floor with the Angels in an ALDS), only to find an anonymous Valentine's Day card waiting for me in my mailbox. I didn't recognise the handwriting, and the only clue to its origin was this enigmatic note:

"Why do you love Oldham more than me?" A good question, to which I had no answer. However, it really didn't matter, because although I loved the idea of somebody desperately seeking me with undying passion, I also suspected that the card was a practical joke being played by one of my many oh-so-funny friends, so the question was, at best, an interesting rhetorical one. And besides, back then, I wasn't the handsome, charming, witty beast you see before you today; my success with the opposite sex was somewhat along the lines of Spinal Tap's "appeal becoming more selective," so my football team pretty much was my life. Even if I did love the Latics more than anything or anyone, it didn't seem like a big deal. And so on life went.

Fast forward several months, to a late-night, gin-fuelled conversation with the object-of-my-affection-now-turned-good-friend.

OOMANTGF: "Can I ask you something?"
Iain (expecting a "What's your favourite Elvis Costello track?"-type question): "Go ahead."
OOMANTGF: "How come you never responded at all to that Valentine's Day card I sent?"
Iain: "That what? What Valentine's Day ca...? [Little lightbulb pings on over my head] Oh shit..."

In the end, too much water had flowed under too many bridges and the OOMANTGF remained just that: a good friend. I still see her now and again, and never fail to ask myself the most pointless question known to man: "What if...?". I no longer, however, follow the fortunes of Oldham Athletic.

And therein, no doubt, lies a message. As wise-beyond-his-years Ryan asks of Jimmy Fallon's character in Fever Pitch: "You love the Red Sox, but have they ever loved you back?"


Here endeth today's meandering bit of nostalgia. Normal service will resume shortly.

A spring in your step

I'm 37 years old, have a wife, two children, an apartment, a car and a steady job and, despite all these outward signs of a normal existence, a photo of a truck 4,000 miles away from where I live is enough to have me grinning like a lunatic. The only reassuring thing about all of this is that I'm not alone in my madness. Spring is just around the corner. And all I can say is: about bloody time!

Beyond what Truck Day represents for baseball-hungry fans across the nation (Red Sox or otherwise), looking at the photos also made me realise one of life's essential truths: the Red Sox may be a multi-million-dollar business, but when it comes to movin' shit from point A to point B, they got the same crappy, taped-up boxes as the rest of us.

(photo: Boston.com)

And if you're wondering what is in the crappy boxes - outside of "New Long Sleeve Pullovers" - the Philadelphia Inquirer lets us in on some of the secrets: 1200 dozen baseballs, 400 batting helmets and - for all those budding Nuke LaLooshes out there - 100 pairs of shower sandals. (Hat-tip to Shallow Center for the link).

So here we go again - another Spring Training, another six sweet months of baseball. Enjoy it, folks.

Eat. Spit. Be Happy.

Best line of the week

Courtesy of The Soxaholix, who are keeping their eyes peeled for signs of spring:

- I nevah knew Manny had not one but two agents.

- Yeah, well, there's one for Manny and one for "Being Manny."

Life, the universe and everything

All those long, baseball-free days that the offseason offers are a perfect opportunity to sit down, take stock of one's life and ponder some of the universe's great questions. Over at Shallow Center, Tom is pondering one of the all-time biggies.

I fear that Tom's five-year-old is in for a rude awakening. I do, however, like Tom's Tarantino-esque vision of a future episode of Sesame Street:

One day Ernie is going to "move away," and then, years later, after Bert has gone off to the great Muppet Show in the sky, someone's going to find a bunch of tiny orange felt chunks in Bert's freezer. And no one who knew the two of them will be surprised.

That would be some major-league children's TV.