Pretty good article by;
Dave Hackenburg
Looking for reasons why we should care
It's not as easy to be a sports fan as it used to be, you know.
We grew up playing the games, from dawn till dusk at the parks and on playgrounds. Some of us were good enough to play in high school, some even in college.
Our dads took us to the stadiums. And we had our heroes, because sport, at its core, is hero worship. My generation cheered for Kaline and Clemente, for an old Howe and a young Hull. We'd marvel at Dave Bing's dribble drive and pull-up touch, and Walter Payton's sweet moves, and Arthur Ashe's grace. We had Ealey and Mix. We had Arnie and Jack. And, oh my, we had Ali and Frazier. We'd trade cards, two Joe Morgans for one Yaz, and we'd watch in black and white, and we'd lay in bed at night, listening to the roar of a faraway crowd, not to mention static, on a transistor radio.
The "youngsters" among us had Bird and Magic, then Air Jordan. They watched the incredible Barry Sanders and Nancy Lopez in color. Borg and McEnroe, what spectacular theater. The Great Gretzky and Super Mario, ballet on ice.
Sure, there were always characters. There were probably even some bad guys. Maybe our bubble burst that night we watched the cops in L.A. chasing the Bronco across our TV screens. Maybe it was the night Tyson bit Holyfield. Maybe it was Pete Rose who broke our hearts. Maybe it was the rage of Jack Tatum's's hit on Darryl Stingley. Who knows?
But I doubt it has ever been worse than it is right now.
Dave Hackenburg
Looking for reasons why we should care
It's not as easy to be a sports fan as it used to be, you know.
We grew up playing the games, from dawn till dusk at the parks and on playgrounds. Some of us were good enough to play in high school, some even in college.
Our dads took us to the stadiums. And we had our heroes, because sport, at its core, is hero worship. My generation cheered for Kaline and Clemente, for an old Howe and a young Hull. We'd marvel at Dave Bing's dribble drive and pull-up touch, and Walter Payton's sweet moves, and Arthur Ashe's grace. We had Ealey and Mix. We had Arnie and Jack. And, oh my, we had Ali and Frazier. We'd trade cards, two Joe Morgans for one Yaz, and we'd watch in black and white, and we'd lay in bed at night, listening to the roar of a faraway crowd, not to mention static, on a transistor radio.
The "youngsters" among us had Bird and Magic, then Air Jordan. They watched the incredible Barry Sanders and Nancy Lopez in color. Borg and McEnroe, what spectacular theater. The Great Gretzky and Super Mario, ballet on ice.
Sure, there were always characters. There were probably even some bad guys. Maybe our bubble burst that night we watched the cops in L.A. chasing the Bronco across our TV screens. Maybe it was the night Tyson bit Holyfield. Maybe it was Pete Rose who broke our hearts. Maybe it was the rage of Jack Tatum's's hit on Darryl Stingley. Who knows?
But I doubt it has ever been worse than it is right now.
