The day I left for college, my older brother pulled me aside to have a final chat before I departed. He's a lot older than me, the only child from my dad's first marriage. When I was little, most of our conversations consisted of me trying to impress him with stories of kissing girls under the monkey bars and beating Super Mario World in unprecedented time. I idolized my older brother, Seth. So when he approached me to have the final chat before I started on my college adventure, I was expecting the Alan Arkin "f--k a lot of women" talk from "Little Miss Sunshine" (2006). That seemed like the standard advice from a 30-year-old guy who, admittedly, was planning on living the next four years vicariously through me. But instead, Sethy just said three words: "Respect crunch time."
He closed his eyes, treating the message with such delicacy, you'd think he was Optimus Prime passing down "the matrix" to Ultra Magnus in the 1984 Transformers movie ("the matrix" is this pumpkin-shaped thing that only "the one" can open. That movie is "The Legend of King Arthur" (1979) with bazookas and planet-eating planets). He just sat there, letting the sentence hang in the air as if, with time, the wisdom of the words would suddenly wash over me. Not wanting to disappoint Seth, I acted like I understood the profundity of this mantra, "respect crunch time." But honestly, it just kind of sounded like a less-than-funny Snickers campaign slogan.
In a weird way, Seth has always known me a little better than I know myself. He could tell these were not the goodbye words I was expecting, so he explained that college was going to be a blast, the best four years of my life. But once in a while there would be challenging moments: Work was going to pile up, I'd miss home, friends would disappoint me or a girl would upset me, and it would be hard. That was Seth's "crunch time." That was what he wanted to prepare me for -- the moments that are blips on the childhood radar screen but seem a whole lot bigger when you face them on your own. His message was to recognize these moments and "respect" their difficulty. He was just being a protective older brother, excited but scared that his little bro was about to go it alone. A "f--k a lot of women" talk just wasn't going to do it this time.
I tell this story because I feel like "respect crunch time" applies to everything. And when I see someone/something I love approaching a long road, I can't help but think of the pithy advice I was given that day.
With the 2009 baseball season just days away, I'm starting to think baseball is going to learn the same lesson I was taught several years ago. With the steroid issue slowly fading into baseball's past and natural, young talent becoming the model of success in today's game, there's a lot of hope around the league. But in wake of the economic disaster facing this country, there is a new hill to climb for the great American pastime. Reports are showing that the Detroit Tigers' ticket sales are down by almost 50 percent. Whispers about the Padres' financial woes have a lot of writers wondering just what their attendance numbers could look like this year. Even the Yankees and Mets are having trouble selling their high-end seats.
Baseball, as an institution, must respect this "crunch time." Bud Selig and his boys must recognize just how fragile the game's fan base is right now. Owners must realize that, under these circumstances, it's hurting the game to charge $20 for the mandatory peanuts and Cracker Jacks. Players must understand that, during this downturn, we can't sit back and watch them get paid exorbitant amounts of money to take a leisurely jog down to first base.
When times are tough, it's luxuries that are hit the hardest. And for a long time now, baseball, as important as it is to the hearts and minds of this country, has been a luxury item. With this daunting year approaching, I hope the game drifts away from luxury status and back toward what I always envisioned it as: an inalienable right of every American.
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