When Nothing Is Owed Or Deserved Or Expected; And Your Life Doesn't Change By The Man That's Elected...

Having the opportunity to see dozens of high school games each year, I have the privilege to see some of the things that make sports great. Milestones reached. Davids knocking off Goliaths. Come from behind victories that nearly leave you breathless. And while all of those things are awesome, this job also gives me the opportunity to see the less pleasant side of sports as well, namely referee abuse.

I’m the first to admit that there are some bad officials out there, but the times when these officials actually result in a team winning or losing are probably few and far between. Unfortunately, this opinion isn’t shared by a pretty vocal percentage of the fan base of almost every school in our area, and I’m sure well beyond it. It seems like regardless of the call, or non-call in some cases, someone, either a fan or a coach or a player, is always there to disagree with it, usually in a way that would make sailor blush.

Granted, I do take a small level of personal enjoyment from these individuals. Some of my fondest memories of high school were attending games with my buddies and mimicking the random guy that used to call for “THREE SECONDS” and “DOUBLE DIBBLE” every thirty seconds. We’re still not entirely sure what “dibble” means, but he seemed like he knew what he was talking about.

Most of the time, I just find it kind of sad. A lot of these people have kids either on the team or sitting with them at the games, meaning that they are the shining example of how to act. I could totally be off base about this, but it seems like the behavior of fans over the last few years has gotten progressively worse. Assuming that today’s fans learned how to act from the previous generation, things are only going to get worse before they get better.

That’s why moments like the one I witnessed last Thursday give me hope for high school sports. During the girls basketball game between Litchfield and Greenville, Greenville’s Kassidy Alderman drove to the basket, drawing a pretty significant amount of contact along the way. The referees’ whistles would remain silent on the play and Alderman’s shot missed its mark.

The no-call drew the ire of Greenville’s coach, who had been pretty unhappy with the officiating throughout the game as it was. In his defense, the officiating wasn’t particularly good (on either side of the ball) and I can see his hopes of influencing a few calls to go his way.

What really impressed me was Alderman’s reaction to the play. Rather than question the call or get mad about any kind of perceived injustice, Alderman got back on defense and said three little words to her coach that gave me hope for the next generation – “It’s okay coach.” It wasn’t disrespectful. It wasn’t forceful. It was just a quiet little statement that showed me that at least someone in the gym could put the play into perspective. After all Greenville was down by quite a few at the time (late in the fourth quarter) and complaining would probably not help the Lady Comets shake off a cold snap from the field.

Now, I don’t know Alderman, but her actions made me a fan during that game. It gives me hope that those who keep their attitudes and emotions in check will at least even out, if not overtake, those who can’t do so at high school sporting events. I know that’s a lot of pressure to put on a 16 or 17-year-old shooting guard, but it’s the idea that if there is one, there are probably more out there that act in a similar way.

Whether this is the case or not, who knows. Regardless, I’m sure that moment will stick with me the next time I hear the dulcet tones of “THREE SECONDS” echoing through the gym.

The Road Goes On Forever... And The Party Never Ends

On Saturday, Dec. 29, I watched my final day of basketball for the 2012 calendar year. As it turns out, it was also one of the more intriguing sports days of the year as well. The day before I decided to attempt a triple-header of sorts, planning to hit the Hillsboro girls game in Jerseyville at 3:30 p.m., followed by the girls and boys championship double dip at the Carlinville Holiday Classic, starting at 6:30 p.m. That meant that there was a pretty long day of driving and basketball in my future, but figured I'm young(ish) and it beat sitting at home by myself.

So at 2:30 p.m., I departed Hillsboro and pointed my car due west on Rt. 16 for the land of the Jerseyville Lady Panthers. An hour an 15 minutes later, I arrived at Jersey Community High School, roughly a quarter and a half late for my game, which has become an unfortunate trend for me. I'd like to blame my rash of tardiness on the addition of my one-year-old daughter Grace into my life, but in reality, I haven't been on time for much since birth, and I may have even taken my sweet time on that one as well.
 
With the contest set to be a battle for seventh in the eight team tournament, the game may not have been a "must-see" one for individuals without a vested interest. But the match-up between the Lady Toppers and the host school definitely had it's intriguing moments. When I entered the gym with 4:30 to play in the second, Hillsboro led by just two. By the time the quarter ended, the Lady Toppers had scored 20 unanswered points and had all but put the game away.

The second half went along the same lines as the later half of the first, with Hillsboro pretty much in control. The only drama that remained was whether Shelby Gray would get point number 1,000 for her career. Gray entered the game 22 points short of the milestone and got all but one of those in the Jerseyville game. Several times in the final minute opportunities arose to push the HHS senior into the elite company of Hope Schulte, Maria Pretnar, Kelly Seaton and JoGari Zerrusen, but shots that usually found their mark rimmed out, leaving her on the edge of the history books, at least until the Lady Toppers' next game, which is on Thursday, Jan. 3, in Gillespie. Despite the convincing win, Gray's face echoed the disappointment of not hitting the 1,000 point mark. Disappoint may be too harsh of a term, but it's definitely the saddest I've ever seen a player look at the final buzzer after a 21-point performance. Hopefully she enjoy her moment in Gillespie to the same degree.

From Jerseyville, I hit the road once again, bound for the Big House on West Main, which while not actually a house is fairly good sized for a school the size of Carlinville. The girls championship went pretty much as I expected, with Litchfield bringing home their third consecutive tournament title. I believe that I have been present for two of those three championships, and I'm not sure that this team is better than the previous two, but the potential is definitely there. A big part of that potential comes from sophomores Riley Scharf and Tessa Steffens, both of whom made the all-tournament team. All told, tenth graders would make up more than half of the seven player all-tourney squad at Carlinville, with the Cavies' Megan Stayton and Nokomis' Ashley Schneider joining the Litchfield duo. Coupled with a handful of other talented sophomores, like Nokomis' Josie Foster, Southwestern's Ashlyn Ringhausen, and Pana's Sydney Lett, among others, the future is pretty bright for girls basketball in the area.

About the time the boys championship game between Lincolnwood and Litchfield started up, so did a cold that has been kicking my tail for the last few days. The pounding in my head and the pressure behind my eyes was aggravated by the sight of my long-range camera lens bouncing across the gym floor when I failed to realize that my camera bag wasn't zipped up. Fortunately, the lens was fine (I'll find out next time I shoot whether or not it truly is) and my attention turned again to the hardwood.

The game wasn't quite what I expected as Litchfield jumped out in front early and stayed ahead by a large margin throughout the first three quarters. It's not that the Panthers were ahead that was surprising, it was the offensive surge that they presented. The previous few games that I had seen LHS in action, the Panthers had shown some trouble scoring, but on Saturday, they seemed to do so at will, with Mason Steffens having what I would call a career game. Less surprising, to me at least, was the Lancers comeback. I'd watched Lincolnwood pull off the same trick a week or so before when they turned a double-digit deficit to South Fork into a 12-point win.

This time, the rally came up just short, but the game itself was still an example of how sometimes big games can actually live up to the expectations that they sometimes bring. I pulled into my driveway at 10:30 p.m., eight hours, three games and more than 100 miles after I originally left it.

Looking back, the trip is probably part of the reason I've been sick the last three days, but I'm not sure I would do anything different. Moments like the ones that occurred last Saturday are why I like my job. I'm not always able to be everywhere I want to in person, but when I am able to go to a game, I feel like I have the ability to tell the story behind the stats. If you just look at the box scores of those three games, you don't have any idea that Gray so close to history, or that the Lady Panthers had continued their dominance in Carlinville, or that the Lancers had nearly pulled out another dramatic comeback.

The idea that I get to tell those stories is what helps inspire me to keep driving to those random gyms, and hopefully it will continue to do so for years to come.

One More Song...

If there is one thing that shapes your perception of a concert, it’s the encore. It’s the last thing you hear for the night and it can be the tipping point on whether a show is good or bad. Thursday’s encore from the Turnpike Troubadours definitely capped off their show in a positive way. The first of the two songs was “Whiskey In My Whiskey,” a heartwarming song about shooting a former love on the dance floor, with bassist and bearded American RC Edwards handling the vocal duties.

The second song was the hammer though. After going off the stage briefly, the group returned and fired through a solid version of the Mel McDaniel class “Louisiana Saturday Night,” which happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time. For those of you wondering, the line that refers to “a possum in a sack” is talking about lunch. I’m fond of saying that if a band came out and played nose flute for three hours and closed with “Louisiana Saturday Night,” I’d still be a happy camper.

My only qualm about the encore was the process of the encore itself. I understand the whole “go off the stage and make the crowd shout for more” idea, but I’m not a fan. I’d rather the band just say “Listen, we’re going to do two more songs then we’re out of here. Thanks for coming.” But that rarely happens so I’ll just have to be content with the current process and hold out hope that all will be made alright with the sounds of Mr. McDaniel. 

It Has A Certain Ring To It

A few weeks ago at my brother’s wedding, Daniel asked me when I got used to wearing my wedding ring. Having been married since February of 2009, I told him I’m still not used to it after more than three years.

There is just something about that little metal band around your finger that begs you to do anything but just keep it there. Daniel didn’t have his on for more than an hour when he started fidgeting with it. My co-worker Pavel got married a few weeks before Daniel and I can constantly hear him playing with his ring, which has a section that spins while still on his finger.

I myself mess with my ring way more than I should, at least according to my wife. I spin it on my desk. I flip it up in the air. I sell it at a pawn shop. In short, I’m not nearly as careful with what is supposed to be a symbol of our love.

The closest I ever came to actually losing it though came during a time when I wasn’t messing around with it. I keep my ring in my wallet at night so it won’t be misplaced, which is all well and good unless you lay your wallet on the top of your car before you go to the gym then drive off. I still consider myself lucky that some Good Samaritan found it a few blocks from our house and took it up to the office after recognizing my name from the newspaper.

Not that it would be the end of the world if I did lose it. My dad lost his first ring after a softball game when it fell off his motorcycle. He lost his second a few months ago while doing yard work, although he did buy a metal detector and the search for the ring continues. It’s hard telling whether or not he’ll get a third, but my parent's marriage is just fine without it. Dysfunctional as ever, but fine just the same.

While a ring may symbolize a love that has no beginning or end, it’s still just a piece of metal. It doesn’t matter whether it cost $10 or $10,000. What matters is the love and support you give your significant other. And I hope my wife remembers that when I inevitably drop my ring down the sink, or in a sewer grate or whatever other stupid thing I do because I won’t keep it on my finger.

Center and Guard: Burning The Olympic Flame At Both Ends

I fully admit that I am addicted to the Olympics. It’s not just the overwhelming sense of patriotism I get while watching the Americans win that draws me into the games. It’s the opportunity to become fully engrossed in a sport that I wouldn’t give the time of day if it wasn’t on the Olympic stage. A few good examples of this are cycling and women’s weight lifting, which were the bookends of my Olympic watching experience on Saturday.


I woke up a little before 9 a.m. (don’t judge me) and flipped straight to NBC for their Olympic coverage, which happened to be cycling. Even though I didn’t watch one second of the Tour De France just a few days before, I found myself glued to the television and buying completely into the story lines the announcers were feeding me.


In the end, some guy from Kazakhstan won the medal and hopefully he got to hear his actual national anthem.Earlier this year, at the Arab Shooting Championship in Kuwait, a Kazakh athlete had to stand on the podium and listen to the rather offensive version of the anthem taken from Borat, a movie that did for the nation of Kazakhstan what Deliverance did for the idea of southern hospitality, which was mistaken for the actual anthem. Thus ends the part of this column where I tell you everything I know about Kazakhstan.


The day ended with me falling asleep to the dulcet tones of women’s weightlifting, specifically the 48 kilogram class. Like most Americans, the metric system still gives me some trouble, as in I have no idea what kilos are in pounds, but eventually the announcers helped me with some of the conversions. While weightlifting is something that I rarely watch, or participate in for that matter, it’s pretty amazing to think that a 106 pound woman can lift more than 250 pounds over her head. Plus the names of the weight disciplines (the snatch and the clean and jerk) make me laugh every time.


Saturday’s viewing will most likely be a prime example of my viewing habits for the Olympics this year. There will be a lot attention in the Herschelman household to the popular sports like swimming and track, but there will also be time for water polo, judo and handball, which kind of looks like a sport my brothers and I may have created in our back yard.


And watching those sports is probably as close as I'm ever going to get to actually being in the Olympics, unless useless trivia becomes an event in Brazil in 2016. But I'm okay with that. Even the sports that look easy take years, if not decades, of practice and preparation. In the end, while it'd be cool to have a gold medal, I'd much rather spend all that time at home with my family, where we can share in thrills of victory and the agony of defeat from a comfy spot on my couch.

Running With The Big Dawgs

I admire the people that been bitten by the running bug. Many of these people aren’t super athletes or longtime runners, but each one has embraced the lifestyle of putting one foot in front of the other, a few miles at a time. I’m not one of these people. After my 5K adventure last April, I promptly dropped off the face of the map when it came to running. I can list off a ton of excuses (a hectic work schedule, the impending birth of Mary and I’s first child, alien abduction), but in reality, I just didn’t want to do it.

I had numerous people tell me that once I finished my first 5K, I’d want to do it again and again. That didn’t happen. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy my race and the journey to get there, it was just that my desire to continue running was knocked down and stomped on by my desire to stop running. I’ve thought off and on about trying to get myself back on track and try another 5K, but I’ve resisted the temptation so far. The strongest pull to lace up my Asics once again came recently with running of the inaugural Big Dawg Dare just outside of Litchfield.

The course for the Big Dawg is a nice easy 5K run, except it’s anything but easy. With competitors running up hills, through culverts, over walls and through water, the course resembles more of a boot camp obstacle course than your typical 3.1 mile jaunt. It also looks like a lot of fun. As I covered the race for the paper, I watched runner after runner splash through the final obstacle with a tired smile that conveyed not only relief that they were almost to the finish line, but also a sense of accomplishment. That’s one of the things I miss about running. I miss the thought that I accomplished something that depended solely on my abilities.

As hard as I tried to ignore the pangs of guilt for not signing up myself as I sat near the finish line, the nagging feeling that I should be out there as well kept creeping in. But I realize you can’t undo the past, although you can take advantage of opportunities in the future.

With that in mind, I’m here to say I will be participating in the second annual Big Dawg Dare, providing the event continues (and talking to race coordinators Brian Hollo and Jim Hewitt after the race, all signs point to the fact that it will go on). Hopefully I can convince my siblings to partake in the event with me. While Shane was busy at school, Mikaela and Daniel both ran the first 5K with me and the picture of all of us after the race is one of my favorites.

This pledge doesn’t mean that I’m all the sudden going to catch the running bug, although I will definitely do some training after watching people much more in shape than I suck wind after their run. It’s just an opportunity to prove to myself that I can do this. I can accomplish something far outside of my comfort zone. I can get off the porch and run with the big dogs.

Saying Goodbye To Ray Winder

Paul Allen, my friend and former roommate during our interning days in Little Rock, tagged me in this photo of Ray Winder Field, which is currently making the transition from  historic ballpark to less than historic parking lot.

After 81 years, a significant chapter of Arkansas sports history has come to a close. Ray Winder Field, the home of minor league baseball’s Arkansas Travelers from 1932 to 2006, is being brought down piece by piece to make way for a parking lot for the University of Arkansas for Medical Services.

I myself have mixed feelings about the former relic. In 2005, I spent seven months at the park as an intern for the Travelers. I remember cursing the fact that we had to pick rocks out of the infield and questioned why the playing surface was no where near perfectly level. I remember picking up peanut shells and scraping gum off grandstand seats that were 75 years old at the time. And I remember power washing – dragging a hundred foot of hose up and down ancient stairways to hose off the nasty things that accumulate after a few months of baseball.

But no matter how many bad things I recall about Ray Winder Field, I can’t help but feel saddened by its demise. The place holds so many fond memories for me that it will always hold a special place in my heart, even if the former field is on its way to becoming a slab of asphalt.

There was the time myself and another intern managed to wrangle a stray cat and her kittens out of the storage area between the stands with nothing but an old batting practice net and a wand off the power washer. There was the time that the relief pitchers took to the mound with pick axes and shovels just hours after their complaints that the mound was too low fell on deaf ears (the opposing pitcher nearly broke his ankle on the first pitch of the game just a few hours later). There was the time when I was doing donuts in the parking lot in one of the “Clunker Car Night” giveaways so the battery would stay charged enough to take it out on the field.

All of the fond memories I have of the park and the people that I worked with cloud out all of the negatives about that summer (the heat, the long hours, the unabashed stupidity of some people).

In June of 2010, I got what would turn out to be my last chance to see Ray Winder Field thanks to a surprise birthday trip planned by my beautiful wife Mary to go see the Travelers play in their new stadium in North Little Rock. After being out of commission for four years at that time, the stadium was obviously rough. Weeds and grass grew where the ball diamond once was and much of the paint was faded on the billboards that dotted the outfield wall.

But there was still something special about the place. You could almost close your eyes and hear the crowd cheering for that big hit as it cleared the 30-foot “Screen Monster” in right field and bounced across I-630. You could see the joy on the faces of the millions of baseball fans who had set foot inside the park to watch the next big thing come to the plate.

And now it's gone, but not forgotten. Someday though, when Mary and I take our daughter Grace down to Arkansas to see the Travelers for the first time, I'll drive past where Ray Winder FIeld once stood and remember all of those sights, all of those sounds and all of those memories.