Joel Frey

Michigan & Trumbull

After reading this article on the 20^th anniversary of the notorious Major League Baseball strike, I posted it on my Twitter feed, coupled with this amateur commentary: “#MLB never fully recovered.”

Later, I realized that this is a moot observation. Baseball seasons will fade in and out for decades into the future, regardless of labor struggles, bloated schedules, overly long nine inning affairs, $5 hotdogs, $10 beers, $20 parking, $50 tickets, and controversies orbiting around age-old vices like gambling, drugs, alcohol and tobacco. And those who don a uniform will continue to enjoy the earthly blessings they’ve been afforded and, hopefully, share in their good fortune.

My thoughts eventually shifted from matters that I will never influence. The ’94 strike was on my mind, but my peevishness evaporated as I instead reminisced on my first and only trip to Tiger Stadium on the corner of Michigan and Trumbull Avenues in Downtown Detroit.

That summer Dad and I committed to a father-son pilgrimage that had taken root 10 years earlier when the Tigers barnstormed their way to a World Series victory. We road-tripped from Memphis to the Motor City, took advantage of the $15 room rate I received as a Holiday Inn employee and met up with Grandpa Frey, Uncle Lance and Cousin Chris on an August evening for a tilt between the Tigers and the Brewers. The looming work stoppage dictated the game we chose and the series ended up being the finale before the remainder of the season, including the World Series, was scrapped.

I had forgotten about that circumstance until reading the USA Today story. Whenever I had given thought about that evening the memories that stuck were my grandpa seated in the stands munching on a hotdog, trying in vain to get Alan Trammell’s autograph with my 12-year-old cousin, and the above photograph taken at a relative’s home before heading to the ballpark. The finer points were fuzzy until I sought assistance from the Internet. I knew the Tigers lost, but the only other fact I could recall was Travis Fryman hitting a solo homerun that barely cleared the left field fence. Like the strike, those details became insignificant to me over the ensuing years.

The ill-fated 1994 Major League Baseball season is history. There’s no need to dwell on it or its repercussions, but that’s not to suggest that MLB's leaders should not embrace its past and those fans who long for fleeting moments that transcend the action on the field. Such nostalgia was a big reason why we all returned to Detroit 10 years later and it will also factor into us one day taking a new generation of Tiger fans to Comerica Park. Chris, when do you think your boys will be ready?

BTHO 49ers!

As a young boy growing up in Louisiana, I was almost without fail twice annually subjected to the Joe Montana and Jerry Rice led 49ers absolutely pummeling the hapless Saints. On rare occasion, the Saints scored an upset, but overall the rivalry was decidedly one-sided.

One game, pre-dating the 49ers dynasty years, stands out. It was during the Saints unforgettable 1-15 season in 1980 and though I was only six-years-old, I still recall it. The Saints, led by Archie Manning, traveled to Candlestick Park late in the year sporting an 0-13 record. By then, the locals had notoriously dubbed the team the "Aints" and thousands of fans had taken to sporting brown paper bags over their heads on sojourns to the Superdome. The team had become a punchline and as the losses mounted from week-to-week, it seemed likely that the Saints were destined for the infamy of a winless season.

So imagine the delight of Saints fans young and old alike when on December 7, 1980 the team raced out to a 35-0 halftime lead over the 49ers. The streak was about to end! The revelers in the French Quarter could roam the streets with glasses held high! The Aints were about to win a game! But then the second half commenced and, unbelievably, the 49ers mounted a comeback, tying the game at 35 by the end of regulation.  I no longer recall the details of the overtime period, but the 49ers kicked a field goal, won the game 38-35 and sent the Saints back to New Orleans 0-14. (note: the next week the Saints squeaked out a 21-20 win over the Jets and finished the season 1-15)

Cast into separate divisions when the NFL realigned prior to the 2002 season, the frequency of Saints-49ers match-ups have decreased. The teams fortunes have as well. The Saints are just two years removed from a Super Bowl win while this is the first time San Francisco has even made the play-offs in a number of years. In fact, ESPN just informed me that the Saints have won the last six times the two teams have played.

My gut tells me that they will make it seven on Saturday though it will be tough. Between now and kick-off, the skeptical pundits will tell you that the Saints vaunted offense led by Drew Brees isn't as prolific away from the Superdome. Those same talking heads will also remind you on the Saturday morning pre-game shows that the Saints' three losses this year all came on the road, two against the hapless Bucs and Rams. At some point, they'll also mention that they've never won a play-off game on the road and that they were upset just a year ago by the 7-9 Seattle Seahawks. The ones who have really done their homework might even mention that the last time the two teams played early in the 2010 season on Monday Night Football, the Saints barely eked out a 25-22 win on the 49ers home turf.

I will tell you that all of these points are with merit. But I'll also say when it comes to the NFL play-offs, it's never wise to bet against the hottest team playing. The Saints, riding a nine game winning streak and a quarterback in Drew Brees who is playing in his prime, are that team right now. Yes, the 49ers defense is formidable, but I firmly believe the Saints will win on Saturday, once and for all vanquishing the memories of that aforementioned Sunday afternoon 31 years ago.

Final score: Saints 31, 49ers 16

 

Missing the news cycle

As a PR professional, my cohorts and I are constantly assessing the "news cycle." As it ebbs and flows from important and not-s0-important happenings and events, it factors into our discussions and planning everyday. Weather, politics, war, terrorism, and the economy are just a few of the topics that we compete against in our never-ending efforts to get journalists, news producers, bloggers and social media mavens to consider Travelocity for inclusion in a story, segment, post or Tweet.

As you read the rest of this, note that I've decidedly missed the news cycle on the 10th anniversary of 9/11. My plan was to follow the status quo and share my observations on that Sunday, but other priorities at work, home and church won out. Now, 10 days later,  the seasons are set to change and we have moved on to more pressing matters: taxing millionaires, airshow safety, the 2012 election, conference realignment and the latest iteration of everyone's favorite social network, to name a few. Though in the grand scheme, we likely won't reflect upon any of these topics 10 years from now.

As Sept. 11, 2011 came and went, I was surprised by own memories that surfaced. For example,  I vividly recalled the tennis match I played the evening before the tragedy. It was a long three setter against a guy named Sam who I had never beaten. We played to a third set tiebreak and I had a match point, but couldn't cash it in. When I woke up on 9/11/01, my defeat was the first thought that popped into my head.

I remembered the fall boots my colleague Judy Haveson wore to work and how she paced nervously up and down the hallway as the tragedy unfolded, anxiety covering her face. She was only days away from moving from Texas to New York and, suddenly, all of her plans were in doubt. But a month later, as the nation healed, Judy was in the stands at Yankee Stadium cheering on the Bronx Bombers as they valiantly tried to win the World Series. Today, she's still a proud New Yorker and mother to Jack, her own little Yankee fan. I thought about Pastor John Koelpin and the special service I attended at Calvary Lutheran Church. For a few weeks after the towers collapsed, worship and prayer were in vogue. Then, predictably, our post modern sensibilites awoke from their slumber and carried on as before. 

I remembered the first flight I took post 9/11, an hourlong hop from Dallas to Memphis on American Airlines. Not only was I nervous, I found myself sizing up my fellow passengers before we boarded.  After safely arriving to my hometown and having breakfast with my parents, I drove to Oxford, MS and cheered on Middle Tennessee State, my alma mater, as they took the field against the University of Mississippi, led by their All-American quarterback, Eli Manning. Fast forward to the present and he is the quarterback for the New York Giants and commercial airlines have taken me to countless places near and far, including LaGuardia, Newark and JFK.

Thanks for indulging my utter disregard for the 9/11 news cycle. I look forward to writing about more subjects that were yesterday's news as soon as the opportunity presents itself. If you have any thoughts, please share.  Cheers, ya'll.

 

 

"Not in a million years..."

If I had any friends on Facebook who didn't realize that I am a lifelong Saints fan, they are now fully aware of this fact. Beginning in the second half of Sunday night's NFC Championship game, I began a running commentary on my profile page that ranged from optimistic, to encouraging, to frustrated, to forlorn and, finally, exhilarated. As Garrett Hartley lined up for his Super Bowl clinching kick, I was certain he would miss it. "Not in a million years," I proclaimed.

All I could think about was the field goal he shanked on the afternoon of December 27 against the lowly Tampa Bay Bucs that would have clinched home field advantage for the Saints in the play-offs. After the Bucs won the game in overtime, my Dad and I both realized we had witnessed a Saints game reminiscent of those we watched when we lived in St. Charles Parish 25 years ago. The template for those contests were along these lines: Saints grab an early lead, make a few boneheaded plays and then, eventually, choke away what seemed a certain win. Heading into the play-offs, it was an ominous reminder that even after a 13 game winning streak, we were still pulling for a team that does not have any of its former players in the Hall of Fame. Thankfully, the following evening, Hartley's miss proved irrelevant when the Chicago Bears pulled out a gritty overtime win against the Vikings, ensuring that the road to Miami would go through the Dome. After the Bears victory, I thought that maybe all of the voodoo hexes that the Saints have endured over the years were finally lifting.

When Hartley's kick sailed through the uprights, I did my best impersonation of Phil Mickelson after he sunk a clutch putt on the 18th hole at Augusta National to win the Master's. We called Mom and Dad. "That was exhausting," Dad said.

I won't rehash all of the commentary from the people who get paid to do it. I am, however, dumbfounded by how much the talking heads love #4, especially Chris Berman and Tom Jackson at ESPN. Even last night, a full 24 hours after "the gunslinger" threw the crucial interception that essentially lost the game for the Vikings, Jackson was still, literally, professing his love for him. But that's okay. Those guys are suckers for good quotes and colorful characters and Mr. Courageous has always fit the bill.

Thanks for indulging my allegiance to the Black and Gold over the past few days. Hopefully, I'll have something meaningful to say as it relates to my writing soon. In the meantime, the countdown to Super Bowl 44 continues. Enjoy the ride my fellow Saints fans. We've definitely earned a little time in the spotlight. Cheers.

P.S. I've enjoyed this clip way too much. And this one too.

Let's go Aints!

I used to be a big fan of nostalgia. Over the years, however, my opinion has shifted and I wrote in Cypress Walls that "I doubted that such longing for the past is healthy." I was reminded of this as I read Truck: A Love Story on a business trip to Toronto this week. The book's author, Michael Perry, loves nostalgia and it's a theme that prevails throughout his memoir as he writes about his relationships, his hobbies and his quirks as a single man in his late 30's, wondering if he'll ever find a lifelong partner.

It's not that I don't savor good memories and appreciate what I've learned from the bad ones. Plus, it's impossible not to look back at times, but at this point in my life, I don't want to get bogged down watching "I Love the 80s" reruns on VH-1. There's too much on the horizon...like tomorrow evening's NFC Championship game between the New Orleans Saints and the Minnesota Vikings.

Perhaps being a lifelong Saints fan subliminally factored into me rethinking this notion. As anyone who shares my affection for the team understands, there really isn't much over the last 43 years that we would want to cherish. Sure, there have been a few good seasons, but generally, the "Aints" have notoriously been the most snake-bitten franchise in the NFL. This, of course, culminated four and half years ago when Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans and the Superdome. After being farmed out to Baton Rouge and San Antonio for the 2005 season, I thought the Saints would move to a bigger city far from the Gulf of Mexico.

Thankfully, that didn't happen. With a new coach and a new quarterback the team almost made it to the Super Bowl in 2006. Tomorrow, they will have another shot though this time they will play before 70,000 people screaming "Who Dat?! Who Dat say Gonna Beat dem Saints? Who Dat?!" all night long. 

Final thoughts on Tiger

It took some digging, but I found an old Cypress Walls manuscript with the entry dedicated to Tiger and his win at the 1997 Masters that didn't make the final draft. Given recent headlines, I thought I'd share it with ya'll. I wonder how he'll mark the passing of his 34th birthday next week...

Sunday, the 13th of April

There's a 21-year-old kid from California who made more money this afternoon than I'll most likely make in my lifetime. His name? Tiger Woods. His occupation? Professional golfer. And it wasn't any old tournament he laid claim to. No, his coming out party rocked the hallowed grounds of Augusta National during spring's rite of passage, the Masters. Furthermore, he annihilated the field on his way to slipping on the green jacket, winning with a record breaking score of 18 strokes under par, his nearest competitor 12 strokes off his scintillating pace. Even more amazing about his romp was that he shot a rocky 40 on the front nine on the first day of competition before rallying with a 30 on the back, fighting through adversity and keeping himself in contention for the remaining three days of play. I've never been a big fan of watching golf on TV, but tracking Tiger's round this afternoon was riveting. Despite his huge lead and the outcome a foregone conclusion, his intensity was laser-focused, his concentration and poise unflappable as he adroitly negotiated one hole after the next. It was impossible not to root for him, knowing that he was on the cusp of fulfilling a dream that he's unquestionably sought to achieve from the first time he had enough strength to swing a club. Once that final putt was holed and he pumped his fist mightily into the Georgia night, it was nothing short of spine tingling to watch him stride through the gallery, remove his cap and wrap his arms around his father, overcome with emotion. Clearly the conquest of Augusta was not Tiger's alone. Generation X may have uncovered a legend, one capable of truly inspiring others. It's about time.

Personally, what is sadder than all of Tiger's foibles coming to light is that I can't think of a single person in our generation who embodies discipline the way he did. In a small way, Tiger helped dispel the notion that we are nothing more than a group of self-absorbed slackers as defined long ago in movies like "Singles" and "Reality Bites." Now that we know that his focus and determination were exclusive to his sport, these perceptions of Gen X will persist in my humble opinion. Collectively, all we have mastered over the last decade are the arts of shameless self-promotion, undying vanity and whining. As 2010 fast approaches, I pray that we get our act together because less than 20 years from now, one of us will be running for president and his name will not be Tiger Woods.

 

Tiger, revisited

Yesterday my cousin Chris sent me a text: "U should update your 11/30 tiger woods blog to douche status."

My response: "Ya, I will. I admit I gave him the benefit of the doubt."

Chris: "Ditto."

Millions of people are having similar conversations about Tiger. Certainly, just about every columnist and talking head has had something to say in the last 48 hours. In my opinion, most of the commentary has been drivel with the exception of this piece in today's Washington Post. I think it mirrors what many of us are feeling on the whole saga.

I've also been reminded of Jesus' words from the book of Matthew: "For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted." Many have asked the question "How could Tiger be so stupid?" But it's not a matter of one man's stupidity. Rather, it's one man's pride impeding upon his own good judgement.

Most of us place ourselves in sticky situations at some point in our lives - albeit without helicopters hovering over our homes and the paparazzi camped out on our doorsteps. Several moments from my early twenties captured in Cypress Walls exemplify this notion. Did I know my behavior from that time in my life was sinful? Sure I did. Yet, I kept choosing to go down the wrong path day after day, night after night thinking that I had everyone fooled. I now realize, of course, that I was the fool. Thankfully, when I woke up one morning and comprehended this, my name wasn't Tiger Woods.

Have a great weekend! Remember, Cypress Walls makes a lovely gift for the college graduate in your life!

"Have a biscuit Joel...and some gravy."

Last weekend, I traveled to Middle Tennessee and met up with college buddies Mike, Country and Justin for MTSU's big game against Mississippi State. The four of us called Reynolds Hall on the MTSU campus home way back when and it was the first time we had all been together in a dozen years. If you've read Cypress Walls, Mike, as you may recall, was with Heather and me the night we took a swim in a fountain near downtown Nashville. Country, too, is mentioned in the book, including a story about a late night frog gig at a Murfreesboro golf course. I'm pretty sure Justin was with us on that occasion too.

Throughout the weekend, we shared countless laughs remembering the people, places and events that made up that 18 months of our lives. On Friday night at Mike's comfy suburban home it felt little had changed as we stayed up until 1:00 a.m. with beers in hand, flipping between ESPN and reruns of "The Office." But as the weekend continued to unfold at Cracker Barrel, Johnny "Red" Floyd Stadium, and Toot's, our conversations took a more grown-up turn. Don't worry - there were plenty of sarcastic barbs flying back and forth, especially when I ordered oatmeal and a muffin for breakfast. Much of our discussions, however, revolved around our kids, spouses/significant others, pets, careers and mortgages. Later on Saturday night, Justin headed back to Shelbyville and Mike and Josh took turns dozing off as the Yankee-Angels game went into extra innings. I called it a night in the 11th inning. In the fall of 1995, none of us would have gone to bed without knowing the outcome.

Did we have a good time? Absolutely. Was anyone a tad disappointed that we didn't drink from a funnel or play a few rounds of beer pong? Nah, I think we all realized before our reunion that we left those days of incorrectness behind a long time ago. Plus, Mike's wife assured us on Saturday morning that she would not be bailing out anyone who felt the need to take any wayward detours down memory lane.

Fellas, let's not wait so long between visits. Hopefully next time the Blue Raiders will put on a better show, the sun will come out and there won't be an empty seat in the house.