Adam Karon Karon apologizes to any
professors, faculty members or super seniors who think he is a
complete idiot for feeling old. Comments can be sent to [email protected].
What did you do this summer? I coached baseball, and let me tell
you, it was a lot harder than you might think.
It was not difficult in the sense that most jobs are. I
didn’t have to take orders from an overpaid, uneducated jerk.
I didn’t have to work in a stuffy office that smelled of
stale doughnuts and mothballs. I never had to wear one of those
silly rainbow striped hats and serve hot dogs and lemonade.
No, my job was difficult for another reason. It made me realize
how old I am.
The kids I coached were between 8 and 11, but it was not their
age that made me feel old. While I believe some of them needed
tranquilizers in place of Ritalin, it was not their behavior that
made me think of my youth. In fact, when one came up to me the
first day and said, “By the end of this session you are going
to wish you never met me,” it was not even their attitudes
that made me feel old.
It was their sports knowledge that clearly set them aside and
left me wondering behind which outfield fence my younger years were
cowering.
The following are examples of ways my kids (or should I call
them ballplayers) made me feel old:
Chris Sabo ““ They had no idea who the Reds all-star third
baseman was, and when I told them he wore goggles they asked if
they were made by Oakley or Ray Ban.
When I asked them to name an athlete who played two sports they
went blank, and when I reminded them of Bo Jackson they responded,
“Bo who?”
We all know that Bo knows kids, but how is it that kids
don’t know Bo?
They were convinced the Rams were from St. Louis, the Brewers
were in the National league, and the Cleveland Indians never lost
105 games in 1991.
To them the name Everett meant Carl, a hot-tempered overpaid
centerfielder who head butts umpires, not Jim (the greatest
quarterback of all time). The name Stan meant some kid from a
cartoon called “South Park”, not a Super Bowl
quarterback for the Chargers with the surname Humphries. The name
Rickey still means Henderson, but it isn’t said with the same
sense of awe that inspired a whole generation of kids to slide
headfirst 10 years ago.
My kids listened to the Backstreet Boys, but thought the New
Kids on the Block was a nickname for the Oakland Athletics.
And speaking of the A’s, to them Mark McGwire was a
Cardinal, Jose Canseco a hired gun, and the Bash Brothers might as
well have been a new WWF tag team.
These youngsters thought Charlie Ward was a point guard for the
New York Knicks, but we all know he is one of the greatest college
quarterbacks ever.
To them tennis players are all overpaid and under 20 years old,
not legendary classy men and women like Jimmy Connors and Chris
Everett.
And speaking of Chris Everett, they were as likely to confuse
her with that greatest quarterback of all time as Jim Rome did in
April of 1994. Does anyone else remember that incident?
My kids thought Madonna was a just a singing mother of two, but
we all know she is the hottest thing blasted out of our tape decks.
They wondered what tapes are.
When we played ball, each kid would stand at the plate and watch
when he hit a long one, never putting down his head and hustling to
first as we all know Kirby Puckett or Lenny Dykstra would have
done.
No one imitated Julio Franco’s batting style.
They said things like, “‘sup dog,”
“that’s dope,” and “the bomb,”
instead of “rad,” “da hickey,” and
“yo momma.”
Not one kid wore Reebok “pumps,” LA Gear or British
Knights. At least the shoes were mostly still Nikes.
Michael Johnson and Maurice Greene may get all the endorsements,
but Carl Lewis got eight gold medals during our time.
My kids thought football players wore bandanas under their
helmets a la Deion Sanders, not headbands like Jim McMahon.
When I was young, professional wrestling consisted of Jake
“the Snake” Roberts, Hulk Hogan and Randy “Macho
Man” Savage. These kids lived and breathed Triple-H, The
Rock, and Stone Cold.
Nintendo has aged 64 years since I was a Little Leaguer and
Blitz has replaced Techmo Bowl. Oh, and Super Mario is to them what
Donkey Kong is to us.
Before the Lakers won last year, my kids thought Los Angeles was
on par with Barstow for athletic accomplishments. They had no
concept of the sports dynasty that turned this Northern California
writer into a Dodgers/Lakers/Rams fan in the late 1980s.
If I ask, “Who you gonna call?” they don’t
answer “Ghostbusters!” Instead they whip out their cell
phones and dial 411.
To them Tommy Lasorda was never on Slim Fast, Dwight Gooden was
never on cocaine, Rickey Henderson was never on the A’s …
and the Yankees and the Blue Jays and the Padres and the Angeles
and …
The point is, working with these kids made me realize how much I
loved my childhood. They brought me back to a time of innocence,
when athletes were named “Magic” and
“Sweetness.” Coaching made me miss youth soccer
tournaments, spring training and Dan, Frank and Al on Monday
nights. I longed for ugly orange and yellow Astros uniforms, RC
Cola, and the Smurfs or Ninja Turtles on Saturday mornings.
Coaching is definitely rewarding, but I swear it made me age 10
years.