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With every step we take, we leave our mark on history. Each
footprint changes the fabric of everything around it, and trickles down
like an uncontrollable set of dominoes, with everyone and everything
crashing into each other, pushing each other further and further out of
whack.
Thoughts like these have been weighing heavily upon me over the last few days.
With each passing day, there’s been one revelation after another
that casts a further shadow over our generation and the future of the
games we love. From scandals, to failed drug tests, to general
misbehavior not befitting of a role model, our generation is leaving
its footprint on the world of sports, and its crushing everything that
has come before it.
How is it that generations have come and gone in sports, some even
surviving being torn apart by war, but ours seems to be the only one
that has the chance of killing them off completely? Fans are growing
more and more disenchanted with each action, feeling more and more like
their heroes no longer are living up to their stature, but rather
overlooking those that granted it to them in the first place. Do they
not have responsibility to the fans to behave in a way that will
encourage and inspire others?
Then again, maybe I’m making more of this than needs to be said.
Maybe our disenchantment shouldn’t be with the players themselves.
Maybe the players of every generation has behaved in the way that those
in ours have, but given our constant need for instant information, the
media feels the need to expound every little detail of these athletes
lives in hopes of breaking the next big story. Maybe we’re to blame for
having unreal expectations of these people, maybe we expect so much of
them and the super powers we’ve elevated them to, that we forget that
they are in fact human beings as well, just as liable to make mistakes
as they are to reach great heights. We all loved hearing about how
Superman saved the world, maybe we just forgot about the damage he
caused in the process.
When I was a boy, I remembered collecting cards with the dream that
I would one day hit like Don Mattingly, or run the bases like Rickey
Henderson. I wasn’t privy to the information that Wade Boggs was an
adulterer or that Rickey was a clubhouse cancer. Maybe in our desire to
have everything in print or on the air right here and right now, we’ve
forgotten that feeling we had during the innocence of our youths, when
the game was a game, and our heroes were still heroes.
And that’s five minutes with Frag!
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