I am just going to waste two paragraphs responding to Ethan Austin's column entitled "Dear Daniel Fowler," which appeared in the Daily on Monday. In his foolish attempt at satire he repeatedly mentioned how loyal New Englanders are and how unfaithful New Yorkers are. Roger Clemens, Bill Buckner, Drew Bledsoe, Ted Williams, and Roger Williams (the founder of Rhode Island) are just five quick examples of prominent and successful New Englanders who have been rejected by the allegedly "loyal" New England population. Those names obviously mean nothing to Mr. Austin. I'd also like to point out that when David Cone returned to Yankee Stadium in a Red Sox uniform last year, he was greeted with a standing ovation.
Furthermore, in his "rambling, jealous, and hate-filled rant" young Ethan mentioned an "old saying" that goes: "Success comes sweetest to those who ne'er succeed." Unfortunately, the "old saying" is not an "old saying" at all but instead is a line that Mr. Austin misquoted from an Emily Dickinson poem entitled "Success Is Counted Sweetest." The line actually reads as follows: "Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed." Incidentally, Ms. Dickinson hails from New England, and it appears that she is yet another distinguished New Englander that Mr. Austin clearly knows nothing about.
Enough about Ethan. Now onto bigger and better things.
Standing approximately 5'9" and weighing less than 150, I am not what you would call a monster of a man. In fact, you might even say that I am on the small to average side. You could also say that I am built like a runner. Sadly, I was a runner for a time, but at least in my mind I could have been a basketball player.
To begin with, I honestly do not like to run. This makes little sense considering that I ran track and cross-country for four years in high school and at one point was actually pretty good. I picked up a fair number of trophies and two impressive plaques for making the All-League team in cross-country during my junior and senior years. But I didn't compete for the accolades and while I made a good deal of friends by running, I didn't run for the camaraderie either. Quite frankly, it's pretty hard to run in race and carry on a conversation with the guy next to you, though you can be sure I tried. So if I didn't run for medals or to make friends it begs the question: Why did I ever run?
The short answer is that I wanted to be a part of a team that won the league championship so that our team portrait would be placed on the school wall of fame. I achieved that goal three times. The better answer is because I loved cross-country practice due to the fact that I got to play basketball during this precious time. That's right, instead of practicing we typically ran two blocks to the park, borrowed a basketball from our friend who lived near the court and got together a pickup game. That was where I shined.
My "official" basketball career had ended unceremoniously in the eighth grade when I was cut from the eighth grade squad. Not realizing when the first day of tryouts was, I arrived at the gym, presumably to practice by myself, only to learn that tryouts would be beginning in ten minutes. Of course I didn't have my gym shorts and was forced to compete in my tight blue jeans. This might be hard for those of you who know me to imagine based on the ridiculous size of my pants today. However, it's true.
Needless to say, my attire was not exactly appropriate and my game was disgusting as well. And when I say disgusting I'm not talking hip-hip lingo for really good, I'm talking terrible. Just like anything bad that happens and cannot be explained logically, the fact that I didn't make the basketball team was obviously my parents' fault. We didn't get a basketball hoop in our yard until after I was cut from the team in eighth grade. The lack of a basketball hoop in my yard coupled with the negative influence of a local hooligan named Butch definitely did not serve to aid my game.
As a youth, my buddy and I would walk down to the neighborhood courts and were frequently greeted by Butch who would proceed to hurl rocks at us and would demand that we let him shoot our ball. Clearly, Butch was a hater. He saw something in me and he was afraid that if I got the chance to practice my shot, I would surely usurp him as the man on the court.
Don't think for one second that my sports related problems were limited solely to basketball. Although I was fairly successful at it, I grew tired of running and instead turned my attention to other extracurricular activities such as imbibing, but that is a topic for a whole other column. My disillusion with running came after having mishaps in other sports such as baseball, where I was forced into early retirement because my freshman baseball coach didn't play me enough. This lack of playing time combined with the fact that he refused to call me anything but Danny, in spite of my repeated attempts to explain to him that my name was either Dan or Fowler, also played a causal role in my leaving the team.
Tennis was out of the question because as a youngster when I took lessons at the neighborhood park I failed to pay attention to the rules of the sport. Instead, I was more interested in hitting the ball over the fence behind the baseline, running around the "bases" and screaming "home run" for which the instructor routinely reprimanded me.
I'm not exactly sure where I went wrong in soccer. I remember scoring 16 goals for my third grade recreation team, though my parents say that never happened. I ended up quitting in sixth grade anyway, so I guess that doesn't matter.
Football was clearly out of the question due to my diminutive stature.
After examining my athletic-related struggles, it brings me to only one logical conclusion: God wanted me to be a basketball player. Based on all that I've said you may still be somewhat confused, but don't be.
I know I could have been a serious baller if I had only put more time into refining my game, coupled with a few other factors going my way. I know this because my little brother is a stud on the court. Despite standing a mere 5-4 and weighing somewhere around 100 pounds, this little man has game. He routinely makes all-star teams, coaches call him and ask for his services, and there is no doubt in my mind that when he arrives at White Plains High School (he is only in seventh grade) he will make the varsity basketball team. To put it bluntly, that should have and could have been me.
While I am surely happy that my younger brother excels on the court it pains me to think that God got the youngest and the oldest Fowler boys confused. Either the man upstairs got mixed up or my game was severely hampered by the sad fact that I didn't have a basketball hoop when I was young lad. Perhaps if I did have a hoop and Butch didn't live in my neighborhood, things would be different today.
Maybe its not too late to jumpstart my athletic career, but I'm still refuse to go back to the track, though that is the one place where I could conceivably shine, or at least not embarrass myself in the collegiate world of sports. But no, that would be too easy. Until God gets his Fowler boys straight, I'll be waiting in front of the TV, ready to do amazing things on the basketball court. Right now, I'm content to just sit around and write about what should have been.
And one more thing: Ethan, don't take yourself too seriously.
@s:God got his Fowler boys confused
