Postseason sporting events are the most popular television moments of the calendar year. The Super Bowl continues to smash ratings records. College football’s playoff renewed interest this season. March Madness, particularly the first few days of the tournament, is arguably the least productive time of the year in the workplace. There’s the Chase for the Cup, the Hunt for October and the Tradition Unlike Any Other. Each is exciting in its own way. Each is also very difficult to be around in the end.
You’ve seen the images on television or in the newspaper. When the game, the race or the tournament is over emotions overwhelm the athletes. The winners are elated. The losers? Don’t tell them it’s only a game. I can remember my freshman year of varsity basketball we were one of the top teams in Montana’s Class C basketball. We boasted one of the best players at any level in senior Joey Stuart. Our Kremlin-Gildford Kougars fell five points short in the Northern C Divisional semifinal to eventual undefeated state champion Heart Butte. Montana has double elimination tournaments so we still had a chance at qualifying for the state tournament. Unfortunately, we never received that opportunity. I’ll never forget looking Joey in the eyes in the locker room after the game. I was a little freshman with numerous games in front of me. He was a senior, his final high school minutes abruptly halted. As the tears streamed from his eyes I felt my own gaining moisture until I completely lost it. I remember seeing athletes cry after losing and never understood how they could be so upset. Suddenly I knew. Three years later my team lost in the District 9C semifinals. I pulled my jersey over my head and bawled so hard I needed to be led to the locker room. We were still guaranteed at least one game (we played two more, finishing 3rd) but I knew with that loss it was over. I never played competitive basketball again. 11 years have passed since that Saturday in mid-February, yet to this day I can recall the emotion that overcame my entire body. It’s a feeling I wouldn’t wish on an enemy. As it turns out, it’s also a moment I would witness on a very consistent basis. As a sports reporter I have seen some incredible moments. Carroll College football’s 10-7 win over Sioux Falls in the NAIA championship remains the best game, regardless of sport; I have ever seen or had the privilege of covering. Happy tears fell from the faces of the Fighting Saints. By the following year, those tears would return but for opposite reasons as Carroll lost in the championship game. It’s an awkward moment covering the losing team in an elimination game. The seniors are crying, reminding me of Joey all those years ago, and causing the rest of the team to well up. The locker room is silent. Then the reporters enter. It’s not something we want to do; it’s what our job entails us to do. Fans outside the industry call us disrespectful and rude for asking a team, still red in the face where the cries dripped down, about losing. Believe me, these moments are at the bottom of enjoyable media assignments. Someone has to lose of course. We play games to determine one winner and no more. Those same fans complaining about my job description are the ones paying money to perhaps watch their team lose. They know as well as I do what the odds are. But they don’t see what I see. There’s a difference between the sentiment you see on the playing surface and the true emotion I witness behind closed doors. The latest example came Saturday at Staples Center in Los Angeles. My co-workers and I were covering the Arizona Wildcats, a 2-seed in the NCAA’s West Regional final, against the Wisconsin Badgers. Arizona played well, but Wisconsin had one of those nights. It was the Wildcats who would be forced to watch the other team celebrate. If you watched the game you saw Arizona senior T.J. McConnell walk off the floor, tears flowing, to be embraced by coach Sean Miller. If you are a human being, you likely felt sorry for him. But as soon as the TBS cameras returned to Wisconsin celebrating, your attention left poor T.J. The post-game press conference was no different. McConnell cried. He apologized for not leading his coach or his team to the Final Four. He thanked the fans and the university. He cried some more. I was in the Arizona locker room during that time interviewing his teammates. Soon-to-be NBA lottery pick Stanley Johnson was in tears trying to describe how he felt for Arizona’s senior leader. “What do you say to a guy like that?” Johnson sobbed. “He’s a guy that’s given everything to this program. He gives everything he has to everyone around him: his teammates, his coaches, everyone in the locker room. What do you say to a guy like that? “I love him man. He knows I love him.”
Those words, the emotional honesty from an 18 or 19-year-old kid, cut at me. I felt a chill run down my spine. It remained as I watched others throw their uniforms into a pile on the floor, some to never be worn by the same athlete again.
I heard the locker room door open and in walked T.J. McConnell, fresh tears falling from his jawline to the locker room floor. Every media member remaining, some 30-40 people, rushed to the locker with the number “4” posted above. McConnell, like his teammates, was polite, respectfully answering every question thrown his way. He congratulated Wisconsin and wished them luck in the Final Four. He thanked his teammates and coaches. He recalled the last few years where he won 69 games and never lost a home contest in his Arizona career. When he was asked about the fans he broke down again, not once, but twice. “I want to thank literally every one of them,” McConnell said, choking up in the process. “What’s not to like about playing at Arizona? You play in a packed environment no matter who you’re playing. The fans make it so fun and the teammates and coaching staff too. “This was the perfect fit for me,” he said.
McConnell is the latest in a long line of athletes I have seen break down the moment they realize their current playing days are over. He’s 23 years old, still a kid in the grand scheme of things, only he’s probably in his mid-30s maturity-wise. There will be more, of course, in the future whether it is high school, college or even the pros. Once again I will be forced to put my personal emotions on hold while I expose theirs. This post serves as my apology, my understanding, to every athlete I have and will watch break down in their moment of weakness.
As long as we have sports we will continue to crown only one winner. Your television will focus on those victorious, perhaps showing a glimpse of the reaction from the other side. Just remember, the tears don’t stop when your television turns off. To them this is more than just a game.
1 Comment
|
AuthorRichie is a small-town boy chasing big-city dreams. When he's not involved with sports, he's spending time with his wife, Fallon; their yorkie, Tinker; and their Rhodesian Ridgeback, Rosie. Archives
April 2016
Categories
All
|