The Rookies

You know what The Rookies is. Here’s more on who we are.

First, we’re all either under 21 or current college undergrads, or both.

Second, we’re not all the same person.

AspieSkating Tomato

You could say my obsession with sports began around the time I watched my beloved New York Giants blow a nice-sized lead to the Minnesota Vikings and lost the NFC Wild Card Playoffs, 23-22. I certainly also fell in love with the Buffalo Sabres, just like everyone else in Western New York, during their improbable run to the Eastern Conference Finals in 2006. But I don’t think my lifelong intense interest in sports truly became an insatiable obsession until one fateful night in the spring of 2007.

That night, I saw the Sabres rally against the New York Rangers to take a 3-2 lead in the Eastern Conference Semifinals, a moment I have ever since referred to as the Drury Game. All game long, Rangers goalie Henrik Lundqvist had been doing his best Unstoppable-Supernatural-Force-From-A-Horror-Movie-That-Just-Won’t-Die impersonation and had completely stonewalled the Blue-and-Gold. With time running out, Sabres coach Lindy Ruff had sent goalie Ryan Miller to the bench for an extra attacker right about the same time my mom decided she couldn’t take it anymore and left the room.

Then with 7 seconds left on the clock, Chris Drury sent a miracle shot into the net, tying the game and paving the way for Maxim Afinogenov (!) to score the game-winner. My lungs and those of Sabres announcer Rick Jeanneret simultaneously exploded with exuberance as my parents ran into the room to see why I was shrieking.

That the Sabres were completely overrun in the Conference Finals by Ottawa or that they then lost Drury in free agency that summer made no difference on me. I started following as many sports as possible, searching for another moment like that game. Eventually that search led me to a little site called Deadspin and it’s my hope to use this new humble little site to chronicle moments like that April night.

CaliCheeseSucks

CaliCheeseSucks is a 22-year-old senior psychology student at a University of Wisconsin college. His favorite blogs are the National Football Post, Deadspin, and Cold Hard Football Facts. Cali is a fan of the Seahawks, Badgers, and any sports team in Chicago. A two-sport “athlete” in high school, Cali has a passion for football, football recruiting and offseason work. His posts will center on developing news stories during the evenings and fresh analysis of recent events.

ChalkdustTorture

Why do I love sports? Sounds like a simple enough question, right? For me, like most things, the answer is not so simple. There is no single sports moment that really sums it up for me. Can’t look to my family; as far as I know I’m the only one who plans evenings around watching games. Being a fan of sports, not just a selection of teams, I can only try to explain it as a passion that generally either grips you and doesn’t let go, or it doesn’t.

My family, and a good number of my friends find it weird that I spend so much time watching sports, especially when it doesn’t concern local teams. They probably find it weird that I read so much about sports, draft fantasy teams every year, and the fact that I can name backup, journeyman NFL players but can’t remember by social security number, most phone numbers, or appointment dates.

The best test to see if one is a fan of sports might well be to take people to see a game live, in person. There’s nothing quite like being a kid, maybe 10 years old at the time, walking to your seat in a packed (old) Yankees Stadium. And back in those days, I didn’t know who the players were, the fact that different pitches existed, or what the rules might be beyond what tee ball taught me. 

I can’t remember who played that day, what the score was, or what I ate, but I remember the experience enough that it sticks with me. I could bore you with other great memories I have, but those largely involve teams you probably hate.

Chilltown

I sat in front of the TV, watching the outs tick by at what seemed like an ever-slowing pace, I wondered when I could start counting, when it would be too late for a jinx. Sadly, this situation was extremely familiar. Only one short year earlier, I had been in almost the same position, counting down the outs to the World Series. The outcome had seemed destined; our ace, Pedro Martinez, was on the mound with only 6 outs to go and a three run lead. I think most sports fans know how that one ends.

I lay in my bed, contemplating yet another year of “Curse of the Bambino” moaning and “86 years” taunting. Another year of plaintively staring at the highway signs in Boston that had been spray-painted to read “Reverse the Curse” instead of “Reverse Curve”.

I was too young to remember past Red Sox collapses, the horror of Bill Buckner and Bucky “Bleeping” Dent, and had never experienced such failure before. But that night, I’d been initiated into the cult of the Boston Red Sox, and the sorrow that went with it. It might sound melodramatic, but in many ways, the Red Sox had taken my innocence.

Fast forward twelve months, and the roles had been reversed. The Evil Empire, seemingly on the verge of another crushing victory, had been improbably felled thanks to the heroic efforts of warriors with names such as Roberts, Damon, and Ortiz. We had swept through the first three games of the World Series, and now sat nine short outs away from that elusive prize. As the game drew to a close, my heart began to pound in my chest, and I hoped against hope that this year really was our year.

Finally, Edgar Renteria  hit a weak ground ball back to the pitcher, who tossed it to the first baseman, and THE BOSTON RED SOX HAD FINALLY WON THE WORLD SERIES!

That almost ineffable feeling of euphoria mixed with relief is something I will never forget as long as I live. To justify or describe to a non-sports fan how or why this win meant so much to me might be impossible. After all, baseball is only a game, played by people who make absurd sums of money and have no real connection with the fans. But the depth of the passions that I felt, both in victory and defeat, are the reason why I love sports.

Chuck Knoblockhead

I owe a lot of my life to sports. I am incredibly lazy and refuse to exercise in any capacity. It is only through the grace of sports and the incredible adrenaline rush I get from any competitive activity that I have managed to avoid a life that could only be described as nasty, brutish and short. I learned how to read at a young age by staring at the local sports section until those seemingly random combinations of letters and numbers began to make sense. I devoured any and all sports related material I could get my hands on, but as I grew older it became apparent that something was wrong; the writing, across the board, was sub-standard. A middle schooler should not be put in the position to think that an article in a major newspaper is poorly written. A high schooler should not be able to detect an anti-intellectual bias in a column about his favorite sports teams. There is no purpose to pieces that are of a questionable quality or dumbed-down to the point where they became vague generalizations. There is no substance to be found in writers that fail to be curious about the entirety of the sporting world.

I was drawn to sites like Fire Joe Morgan and the work of my fellow Deadspin commenters because the people there refuse to write at a sixth-grade reading level. I can make comments on Deadspin and this site that relate to literature or Sabermetrics without being shouted down because “I think I’m so damned smart.” This is my first time blogging, so there’s no guarantee I can rise above the usual level of discourse, but it is in this spirit that I hope to contribute to The Rookies.

Kidcombustable

Name: kidcombustable
From: Frozen Death Tundra, Minnesota

Likes: Misspelling (apparently), the Twins, the Timberwolves, the Gophers, the Bills (long story), pro wrestling, cartoons, alt-country, media criticism, bad sportsmanship.

Oh yeah, also the ladies.

Dislikes: The White Sox, Joe Buck, Boston sports teams, racist tendencies in sports media, Joe Buck, sub-zero weather, Bob Costas, Joe Buck, essentially any sports broadcaster. And Joe Buck.

What I hope to accomplish: Sports media, in my opinion, is effed, and not just effed in the way that everyone knows it’s effed (terrible announcers, over-advertising, etc.). Hopefully I’ll have the opportunity to attack possibly racist/sexist actions in sports media through this blog. If not, however, I will dedicate my sports soul to bringing the funny.

The funny, of course, is why we’re all here.

LittleWaynesBleedingHead

LittleWaynesBleedingHead is a college freshman currently studying journalism while waiting for the sports communication program to start at the school responsible for this. Born and raised in America’s Dairyland, he roots for his beloved Green Bay Packers, Wisconsin Badgers, and, strangely enough, the Houston Astros, all the while living a life of blissful indifference regarding the NBA and NHL. He is a sportswriter and broadcaster while at school and plans on one day being the guy to put both Rick Reilly and Chris Berman out of their respective jobs. (You’re all welcome.)

He has one of the Midwest’s top-ten private DVD collections (Ed.: Hmm.) and currently holds a lifetime mark of 87-2 in sports trivia, and when not trolling DUAN or bemoaning the lack of athleticism inherent in most seven-footers he can be found making waffles and scouring the internet for his own personal nacho cheese dispenser.

Oh, and he would like to clarify that while he likes Lil Weezy just fine and wishes him no harm, his name is a reference to the movie Swingers.

OnBiasPercentage

I never went to any of the sporting events at my first college. Don’t get me wrong, I love college sports, but I think part of what makes a sport so compelling is the stake you have in your given team, your chosen team. Maybe you already get that, and many of the average Deadspinners do. This blog, and my articles, may not be for you then. Trying to write to a demographic that knows more about a given subject than I do, or at least has more experience, is a daunting task, one I’d rather not undertake. I’d rather take a relaxed, diluted approach to journalism, rather than focus on every little minute detail and make you feel like you have a second job keeping up with the sports world, a world that ostensibly is supposed to be an escape from the grindstone.

So now that I’ve preached for a good hundred words or so, a brief introduction. My name’s Dan, and I’m a second time freshman here at the University of Wisconsin River Falls. I flunked out my first time in college because, much like their sports team, I didn’t have an attachment to the school. After a year in an Ameri*Corps program, I opted to return to academia, and as such, am the only 21-year-old living in a freshman dorm on campus. Coincidentally, I’m stuck on a floor with a bunch of sports fans, which makes for an interesting dynamic.

I go to games now.

So long as there isn’t a really good episode of Psych on, that is.

Rovitz

Hey, glad to be here, I’m Ron Balaskovitz, I’m 20 years old, and I’m currently a sophomore at Central Michigan University. I love any and all aspects of sports, and living my whole life in the great sports state of Michigan, I am a passionate, but logical fan and follower of all sports. 

As a Great Lake Stater, you’ve probably guessed that I am a diehard follower of the Detroit Tigers, Lions, Pistons, the Wolverines and of course, Chicago Blackhawks. Wait, what? That’s right, despite being born and raised in Michigan, I hate the Red Wings. I’ll explain: when I was little, my parents would send me to bed early for school the next day. But like any little kid who was obsessed with sports, I would not go to bed, but instead stay up and try and find anything on the radio. And since our town did not carry the Red Wings games on the radio at the time, I stumbled upon the Chicago Blackhawks broadcasts, and the sweet sound of Pat Foley. Ever since then, and because of Pat Foley, I have been a Blackhawks fan.

I’m extremely excited about this opportunity to be writing for all of you, and hopefully I can stir up some thought and emotion from you. Enjoy.

Samer Ocho Cinco

My name is Samer Kalaf.  I go by Samer Ocho Cinco on most online sites.  And by “most online sites,” I mean Facebook, this, and Deadspin. I chose Ocho Cinco not because I love the Bengals. I don’t, not at all, as I am a Cleveland Browns fan. I’m not sure why, I just love an underdog.

But I do think that Chad Ocho Cinco and Terrell Owens, and any player who does anything to draw an unsportsmanlike conduct flag and a fine, is adding character to the NFL. Without these players, we would end up like the NHL; look what they did to Sean Avery for saying something that wasn’t about the other team or strategy. 

I want a little depth to my sports, but I do not want another Summer of Favre.  I would marry Tina Fey in a second, and, like any male sports journalist, I have a near-obsessive crush with Erin Andrews. I’m a pretty big New England fan. The Patriots are my first team, and I watched them have the Super Bowl title swiped from them by Brett Favre back in Super Bowl 31, and I also watched them come back and win 3 Super Bowls in 4 years.  I used to love basketball when I was younger, and I remember having the cards of almost everyone in the NBA.  I had a heather grey Charlotte Hornets t-shirt, one I miss dearly.  I scour online for Charlotte gear. I lost interest, but when I found my old Michael Jordan card, it came back to me.  I’m trying to reconnect to the NBA right now, and I watch the Celtics as much as I can.  I don’t know if I can consider myself a good Red Sox fan, as I did not watch the 2004 World Series, but that was because I only had antenna TV and FOX wasn’t an option.

This is my first real blog, besides the obligatory middle school livejournal, where I posted immature and vulgar comic strips crudely drawn in MS Paint.  My goal for The Rookies is to have you discuss, laugh, cry, and hurl.

Oh, and me? I’m Rockabye, the editor.

When I was in elementary school, my backyard was a multipurpose field. I had and have little to no discernible athletic talent, but between those hibiscus bushes and the patio, I was Brett Favre, cocking back a bomb to the tangelo tree; Teddy Dupay, sinking another ridiculous three from the back fence; Chipper Jones, settling into that laconic stance, ready to uncoil a shot into the neighbors’ pool.

(I swear, the last one actually happened a couple of times.)

Sports were and have always been a borderline obsession for me, as a spectator, as a manipulator of virtual avatars, and as a thinker. I’d pull out the sports pages from the Orlando Sentinel, plop myself on the floor, and read for a half-hour before school; I remember, in first grade, plucking terms from “SportsCenter” to describe activity on the playground. The lingua franca of sports is what I speak; my nights are spent dwelling on the games of the day.

And, somewhere along the meandering road from there to here, I realized that those guys I imitated in the trampled grass were Vicodin-popping, law-avoiding, and adulterous jerks, that the writers I grew up lionizing were often plucking columns from the cliche cooler, and that I really suck at picking idols.

I also realized that there’s a vital, electric current of thought on the Internet, especially in the sporting circles of it, that makes sense of as much as possible. That’s why I blog, to be part of that; this blog exists because there’s no dedicated consortium of younger bloggers, and I thought that perspective ought to be added to the thought torrent. Hopefully, it will be a worthwhile one.

Our roster goes twelve-deep right now, and as such, this is just a smattering of the crew. Check the “Lineup” page on the top of the blog in the coming days for updates on the team, and profiles of all of the members.

And if you’re interested in being a part of The Rookies and meet the criteria at the top of this post, or if you’d just like to contribute a piece or two, drop me a line at therookiesblog@gmail.com and tell me why. I may not get to you immediately, but I will get to you.

Thanks for reading. Come back, okay?