Completing Netflix

So, I started using Netflix in 2006. No more trips to the video store. No more late fees. DVDs delivered straight to your door. It seemed a great idea, and it was. I could get almost any movie I desired simply by putting it in my queue and waiting for delivery. With so many options available, my queue started to grow to large numbers almost from the word go.

Early in my membership, I found out that there was a cap on the number of titles you could place in your queue. 500. It was a heady number and way more than any rational person should think that he could view in any reasonable amount of time. I was fortunate. When I first signed up, I had time to watch more than one movie a day, or burn through a season of a show I had missed in first run. But as new movies I missed in the theater became available, I had to cut some favorites that I had placed in the queue on a whim in the hopes that I might move it to the top to rewatch and reminisce about how much I enjoyed them. My queue became unwieldy and hard to manage. Deleting and adding. Moving some to #1 on the queue and letting others languish with the vague idea that "I'll get to that." Not to mention, I was trying to catch up on Oscar nominees or join in on the popular upswell of an unheralded hit. Add to that a new job, and the opportunities to finish my queue became fewer and further between.

Then Netflix offered unlimited streaming off its available titles. I started watching more TV series episode by episode before bed or watching a movie over a series of nights. I had DVDs that sat in my living room for over a year. With the new pricing for DVD delivery and streaming service, I had to take a look at my media watching habits. Do I even need to get DVDs delivered? I can watch a tremendous amount of media on the streaming option. Redbox or OnDemand allow me to get recent releases on a movie by movie basis depending on desire to watch. So, I have decided to discontinue my DVD delivery from Netflix.

Nevertheless, my queue is just sitting out there. I haven't updated it as frequently as I should, and some of the choices I added were not all that well thought when I made them. Being a person who hates to leave things unfinished, I have decided to no longer edit my queue, but I feel like I need to complete my queue as it currently stands. At this point, my queue lists 473 titles. Some good. Some awful. My plan is watch all of the movies on my list in the order they currently sit until the list is complete.

As I watch them, I'll post reviews and reflections on the movies themselves and what possessed me to add them in the first place. Stay tuned. Thank you for the indulgence.

The Midsummer Classic

And thus concludes another Midsummer Classic. It’s been a long time since I’ve really cared about baseball. I haven’t played the game in 18 years. My fandom consists of following the standings on ESPN.com without really watching the games or knowing the intricacies of the minor league prospects or who’s on the DL. I do, however, come alive when the playoffs hit, and I never miss a game in October. I still never wear a baseball team cap that’s not “my team” for some reason. So, why did I watch the All Star Game (an exhibition in the middle of the year), and why did it rekindled a spark in baseball I haven’t felt for many years?

It started on a Monday where I had no other TV to watch. I stopped, in the midst of frantic guide surfing, on the Home Run Derby. I haven’t watched the Derby in years, but the new format I had heard about caused me to pause when I saw it appear on the guide. Lo and behold, I happened to stop when Robinson Cano came up to bat.

It seemed a small thing when the round started, but Robinson’s father was the BP pitcher tossing lazy fastballs down the middle to a more than eager batter. I watched as Cano belted ball after ball into the stands. Smiling at times. Pausing for effect at others. The whole time I couldn’t help but notice the intensity on the face of the father throwing the pitches.

My own baseball career was inauspicious. A middle infielder, second base to be exact, much too tall to be playing the position, I made up for it in playing my position to the tee and always making the correct play. (Plus the fact that I could make a turn in spite of the fact I was way too tall and my arms too long.) Maybe it was the fact that my own father was my baseball coach through the majority of my little league career that I got to play such a prized position. But I wanted to believe it was skill that kept me in the position, or maybe it was the wishes of a tow-headed boy from the Midwest who wished to be Roy Hobbs. (Before I’d read the novel and had a better understanding of the story.)

The wish to be a great pitcher was brought to as swift an end as Roy’s without the need of a silver bullet. I pitched in one game in my career. I promptly allowed two base runners in as many batters. Always the competitor and hating to lose, I called a time out. The catcher came sprinting up to the mound, and my dad came strolling in from the dugout. On the mound, I said (approximately) “Dad, I can’t make the pitches. We’ll lose if you leave me out here.” My catcher nodded in agreement. My dad simply nodded at my logic and said “You wanted to pitch. Pitch. I won’t take you out til the end of the inning.” It was tough, but I threw enough junk to get some grounders and get out of the inning without any damage. And I never pitched again in my life.

That same tough love washed over me as I watched Jose Cano throw pitch after pitch to his son during the Derby. No smile. No emotion. Round 1 went by and round 2 as well. Only a well practiced eye watching his own misses along with his son’s. Only as the very last ball in the final round crossed the fence did Jose Cano smile at the accomplishment of his son for winning.

All of this brought back a nostalgia for the game. My own adequate, yet never great, performances that helped win three little league and bambino titles in a row. I even remember trying to switch hit one season (on my dad’s recommendation) to try and overcome my tendency to bail out on inside pitches. Somehow that father pitching to his son in the Home Run Derby made a connection.

I felt like maybe now, at 30, I could watch the All Star game with a renewed interest.

The first few innings went by with little excitement. Many first swings on bad pitches just trying to avoid the dreaded All Star strike out. But I couldn’t help jumping in my seat as a Red Sox player (my sworn enemy) hit a home run to take the lead. And I couldn’t help but be equally as crushed when Prince Fielder hit the definitive three run shot to give the National League a 3-1 lead. Why, after so many years of apathy and playoff bandwagonning (is that even a word?), did I suddenly care again about a game that had long since dropped from my radar?

It was that old connection. That draw that has been around since Doubleday, Ruth, Clemente, Rose, Mattingly, Griffey, Jr. and the others. A time honored connection that allows men in America to say “Did you see that hit last night?” Maybe it was spurred on by the Chevy commercial employing the soundtrack from The Natural, and the memory that for a time between age 6-8 that my dad referred to me as Wonder Boy like the eponymous title of Hobbs’ bat. Something happened.

Baseball meant something again. Maybe not what it did watching Gibson hit a home run, or Maddux being masterful, or Rivera playing executioner, but it meant something.

Even in a time where 84 players were named to the All Star team, and the names of those not in attendance topped 90% of those who actually showed up for the game, I cared about the game. I watched the whole thing with a new enthusiasm and wonder. I was invested in the cut-offs and when players decided to run. Pitching changes took on meaning again.

The game ended not in the favor of the team I had hoped would win. But I couldn’t help smiling when Prince Fielder accepted the MVP. His two boys shunning the spotlight and only coming to life when they had a crystal bat to play with.

This game will always be about fathers and sons. A shared experience. A timeless reminder of what is past. It’s an opportunity to reconnect to days gone by and remember the successes, failures, and failures that turned out to be successes. In a week or a month, will I still be watching entire baseball games? I don’t know. I do know that I will remember where I was to watch the 2011 All Star game and the connection it made to my past. Was it the best game ever played? Probably not. But it is what it was.

The Midsummer Classic.

Someone Has Been Hearing My Prayers

A short post, but a great thing to write. Billy Packer will no longer be commenting on the NCAA tournament for CBS. Let that sink in a moment. It's a beautiful feeling which accompanies the announcement that I can't rightly put into words. Just bask in the gloriousness of it.

Chicago, My Kind of Town

So, I found myself in a quandary this evening. As per usual, I was at a trivia quiz at a nearby bar on Tuesday, and the first question threw me for a loop. It was a family feud style question (which for the purposes of this post and not to sound like I'm complaining about the outcome, I misheard) and the question asked, "Besides athletes and sports venues, name a person or event that Chicago is known for."

Being a Midwesterner and an avid fan of Chicago as a city, I was at a loss for a moment. All my favorite memories and surrounding names dealt only with sports. Seeing Michael at the United Center. Games and snow at Soldier Field. Dogs, Old Style, Sandberg, Dawson, and Shawon at Wrigley. Bullet holes in seats at Old Comiskey. Where did my memories beyond sports go? I immediately thought of St Pat's and the green river, but this being a quiz in NorCal, I figured this wouldn't be the right answer. I sat for a moment puzzled. Oprah came to mind as the most logical answer as her hold of the nation emanates from the Windy City, but could that really be number one? Some others at my table suggested Capone, Obama, and a video game with Jordan in the title. Lollapalooza came later as Chicago is now the home to the once travelling show, but none of them seemed right. How could a city I love to visit and which has always provided great times be only about sports in my mind?

I guess the iconic figures of the city have always been sports related in my mind. I still remember that Jordan never won a playoff game in Indy. Harry Carey taught me the words to take me out to the ballgame on WGN. The Fog Bowl was one of the most interesting games to attempt to watch on TV. Chicago has always had a certain gravitas for important or compelling sports stories. I know it's the home of Second City, a beautiful opera house and a fantastic museum of art, but what is Chicago, really, to the rest of the country if not the home of sports legend? Babe Ruth pointed to the stands against a Chicago team. A billy goat has cast a curse. A man sharing his name with a character created by Matt Groening caused heartache. The Black Sox speak for themselves.

Considering all that, I say embrace it. Once, it was the Windy City. Hosted a spectacular World's Fair. The city with broad shoulders that packed meat and shipped coal. Embrace the notoriety of sports fame. Sports have always been a focal point of our nation. Being known for that can't be a bad thing. Chicago, I applaud the fact that I think of sports when I hear your name. To think otherwise would leave you with only pizza as your mark. (Pizza was the number one answer to the question, by the way, and I missed that because I did not hear "thing" as a category I could choose from for the answer.)

NFL Cheating

When did the NFL become OK with cheating? Major League Baseball has been complicit with, if not supportive of, cheating for many years. Spitball pitchers are in the hall of fame. Finding new ways to hide pine tar or Vaseline or sandpaper has brought accolades from the writers and players and the higher ups for as long as baseball has been around. Stealing signs with a hidden camera in the center field scoreboard was thought of as commonplace. Catchers change the manner of giving signals when a man is on second for fear that he may now what pitch is next and tip off the batter. Only recently has baseball started to try and polish it's image. Steroids have been a polarizing issue for the American sports fan. Barry Bonds is vilified for never testing positive, but being accused of doping. Steroids now carry a stigma in most sports, baseball especially. Why all this talk about baseball when I started this piece with a line about football? Well, I'm glad you asked.

Where baseball has embraced cheaters to a certain extent, football has not, especially not the NFL. When people have found a way around the rules, football has rewritten them to stamp out cheating. Early on in the college game, a coach sewed a patch looking like a football onto the jerseys of his team to disguise the ball runner. Football changed the rules to disallow that. On kickoffs, one team placed the ball up the jersey of a player in a huddle so no one appeared to be carrying the ball. Football changed the rules to disallow that. NFL linemen gained an advantage by whacking the opposing linemen on the head to disorient them. Football changed the rules to disallow that. A referee changes the course of a game by interpreting a long forgotten rule to negate a fumble. Football changed the rules to disallow that. Football seemed to be trying to deter cheating and keep the game clean, that is until recently.

Last season, a linebacker was suspended for using performance enhancing drugs. He was a starter on a playoff team. He was briefly suspended. He returned. He also made the Pro Bowl. The honor of making the Pro Bowl and the bonus that accompanied it were not taken away from him. He was allowed to play in the game supposed to highlight the best and brightest the game has to offer. A cheater was allowed to represent the best players in the NFL. How does that happen? The man was found to have broken the rules of the game. Specifically, a rule that prevented him from making himself bigger, faster and stronger than anyone else on the field. Yet, he was physically better than the others (hence the election to the Pro Bowl) and allowed to be showcased at the event for premiere players as a starter no less. How does this possibly make sense?

Recently, the New England Patriots were caught taping signals from the opposition. Did the coach get suspended? Did the coordinator get suspended? Did the team forfeit the game? Is the team forbidden from playing in the post season? No. A monetary fine was levied. A fine which any team, even the Raiders or the Bucs could easily pay. The biggest penalty is contingent on the Pats making the playoffs. A different coach was suspended for violation of the substance policy of the NFL, but outright cheating by a coach has to only pay money. Really, a coach on forbidden substances doesn't help a team nearly as much as a coach outright cheating, does it?

Apparently, the NFL is OK with cheating as long as you are on a popular, playoff quality team. The other teams have to deal with costly suspensions and disgrace. So, I guess the message is if you're good, cheat and be even better, but bad teams shouldn't cheat to even try to compete with those the NFL likes.