Commitment

We armchair quarterbacks have it easy. We watch our favorite sports, scream and shout at everything we see, then turn off the TV and go back to our lives. The morning after, we make disparaging remarks about how lousily our favorite player or team or horse did. If we’re brave enough, we actually go to the games and yell our sentiments out at them face to face.

That’s our degree of commitment.

Having been at all three end of the game (spectator, commentator and player) gives me a different perspective. To me, the players aren’t performers. They’re people. And it’s hard to talk for them without seeming like an apologist, but there are times it needs to be done.

We’ve all had bad days, and we’ve all had days we wish we could do over again. But our days aren’t splashed across the sports page or chronicled in microscopic detail on television. We have a beer at a bar after 10:00 p.m., it’s no big deal. But when we spot our favorite athlete trying to unwind after six to eight hours of physical labor, it’s cataclysmic.

I was never able to fully explore my basketball career, but I’ve played the game (still do), and I’ve had the black eyes, fractured nose, sprained ankles (and every finger), strained knee, patelofemural syndrome (don’t ask), groin pulls, blackened toenails and other hazards of the job in big doses. It’s not fun.

Imagine having to get up at 6:00 a.m. to go to the gym. There’s stretching and getting a brief massage. Now, I don’t think most people are a big fan of the smell of oils and liniments, especially the kind that burns when you sweat. And that’s just for starters. Then, they’re taped up until their ankles and/or knees are practically immobile.

Players then run the equivalent of a few kilometers under time pressure. One team I know requires its players to run for half an hour before practice. I repeat, before practice.

Then there are the killer drills, constant sprinting, pivoting and jumping. Each jump brings five to six times your body weight down hard on your knees, ankles and lower back. Have you ever done the tip drill? Bounce the ball off the backboard, then jump back up and bounce it off the board again. For five to ten minutes. Still having fun?

Scrimmages are usually more exciting, unless you have to get a certain play down pat, so you end up doing it a few dozen times during practice. All in all, you’ve been running and getting banged up for a couple of hours. All this before lunch, usually.

Then you’re off to the gym for a couple of hours of weights, a must for any competitive athlete (yes, even golfers). And that’s just the physical part of the game. There’s tape viewing, lectures, diagrammed plays, visualization techniques and other mental preparation.

Some of us know all that.

But most of us forget that these players are also sons supporting their parents in the province, or fathers worrying about their marriages, children’s education, and family crises. If their kids are sick, they still have to play. If they fight with their wives, they still have to play. If a parent is in the hospital, they still have to play. If their knees ache and they’re afraid they may need surgery, they still have to play. If another player is fighting for their spot on the team, they still have to play. And if fans are rude to them, they still have to play. No days off. And we call them bums or other unspeakable things we wouldn’t even say to our worst enemies, all because they’re public performers, they should play well.

Always.

I recall a story about Bill Russell, who won so many NBA championship rings they wouldn’t fit on the fingers of both his hands. Once, at an airport, a rather unpolished, overweight man approached him and thrust a pen and paper at him.

"Here, sign this," the man demanded.

Russell never signed autographs, and told the man so. The man insisted, saying "You owe it to us. We made you."

The 6-9 center then sternly asked the man "Do you want me to bend over so you can kick my ass, too? You didn’t make me. You watch me play because I work hard and I’m the best at what I do."

The man left in a huff.

Once we’ve vented our frustrations for our world not being the way we want it to be, breathe a heavy sigh and head back home. The players, like the proverbial circus clowns, trudge back to the locker room, spent and aching, wipe off the cold sweat which may very well be garish make-up and a red bulb nose, and suit back up into their street clothes. But they can’t blend back into the background, can they? Nobody turns the spotlight off them.

Especially not us armchair quarterbacks.

Play hard, boys. Your feelings be damned. We’re unforgiving.