Hall of Famer manager Sparky Anderson has passed away today at the age of 76.
Anderson, who was a manager of the Cincinnati Reds and the Detroit Tigers, died due to complications of dementia, according to a family spokesperson.
He led both the Reds and the Tigers to World Series titles, becoming the first manager to win titles in both leagues. He retired after the 1995 season with 2,194 career wins, which at the time was the third highest total in the majors.
Anderson is survived by his wife, Carol, his three children and nine grandchildren. Our condolences go out to the entire Anderson family.
Our latest post in the Why I Love Series is by Katherine Stone.
I used to have a Mike Singletary t-shirt. If you know me and my intense obsession with fashion, you’re probably pretty surprised to hear that. God, I loved that shirt. Singletary was a hero to me, with his intensity and singleness of purpose. I wore that shirt all the time. I wish I still had that shirt. I’d wear it. I would.
My adoration of Singletary, and football in general, started in high school. We lived in Chicago at the time, and my dad watched the Bears. It just so happens that this was in the mid-80s.
Yep. Those Bears.
I began watching games because I wanted to hang out with dad. I was a teenager. I was awkward and weird, and not at all sure how to connect with my father. I wasn’t exactly daddy’s little girl anymore. So I sat next to him on the couch and started watching him watching football. I saw how much he enjoyed it. How animated he was. How he yelled and screamed at the TV until he was hoarse. Before long, I was yelling and screaming too.
The Chicago Bears of 1985 were a great team for a young girl who was being introduced to the game. Full of personality and attitude. Jim McMahon and his crazy headband messages. (A precursor to Twitter, perhaps?) The Fridge. Walter Payton. It wasn’t just about great football. It was the fact that each person was so unique and had a story, a narrative. The smarty Gary Fencik. The ballet dancer Willie Gault. I fell in love with all of them, as did my dad.
We were joined together in our fandom, father and daughter. Sundays were fun, and became increasingly so as the Bears kept winning. I wasn’t hanging out in my room, alone. I was hanging out with dad, and I felt more and more connected to him as the season progressed.
And then? The Bears were going to the Super Bowl. It was like WE were going to the Super Bowl.
I immediately went and bought my very own 45 of the Super Bowl Shuffle. For those of you who aren’t old like me, a 45 is a small vinyl record that was played on something called, appropriately enough, a record player. (“I’m the punky QB known as McMahon …”) I listened to that thing over and over.
I wish I could recall more details of January 26, 1986. I’m sure my mom made her homemade potato skins. I’m almost positive I made onion dip, the kind created from a package of dry soup and sour cream. I know it was a full-day celebration, capped off by a glorious victory. I’m sure we danced and cheered and hugged, but I can’t see it in my mind’s eye any more.
I no longer have that Singletary t-shirt, or the Superbowl Shuffle record. The only thing I have left is my yellowed, tattered copy of the entire Chicago Tribune from the following day. I asked my dad if I could keep it, and he said “Sure.”
I don’t think I realized how much that team impacted my life until the day Walter Payton died. I was 29 years old, and when I heard the news I cried like a baby. Walter was amazing, that team was amazing, and the time I spent with my dad was amazing.
Football gave me something I could share with my father at a time when I thought we didn’t have anything in common at all. Thanks, Bears.
Katherine Stone is a nationally-recognized, award-winning peer advocate for women with perinatal mood and anxiety disorders. She created and writes Postpartum Progress, the most widely-read blog in the United States on postpartum depression and other mental illnesses related to pregnancy and childbirth. Katherine is also BlogHer.com’s ongoing guest contributor for the topic of PPD, and her work has been featured on Mamapedia, Babble.com, the Huffington Post, NBC’s Todays Moms, ParentDish and PBS’ This Emotional Life. You can find her on Twitter at @postpartumprogr.
Today we welcome Jenn, our latest guest poster in the Why I Love… series, who shares her lifelong love for the New York Jets.
I love The NY Jets precisely because I’m not supposed to. If you use the gauge set by the Nike/Maxim/ESPN marketing machine, then The Jets are a bit like The Little Rascals. The Bad News Bears. Anyone on Jersey Shore. The quarterback isn’t married to a supermodel and there isn’t an audible ring whenever he flashes his capped pearly whites. Our coach is a potty-mouthed behemoth who could audition (and land) a spot on both the Biggest Loser and Extreme Makeover. But I have to admit that I did rush to my nearest store to purchase my Rex-inspired Chuck Taylors…until I found out they cost $40. (How do slackers and potheads afford it??) So, let me detail the reasons why I love The Jets even though I’m not supposed to.
“Fireman Ed” Anzalone
The ex-fireman who may (or may not) be the initiator of the omnipresent J- E- T-S Jets! Jets!! Jets!!! cheer. The cool thing about it is that this was all started by some guy. Not a team of pit-stained suits huddled around a table brainstorming ways to cultivate team pride and distraction for the New Yorkers with a looming 2-hour drive home. Nope, The Cheer was started by some guy hopped up on his brother’s shoulders in the 80s changed the face a national football team. And you know what’s cooler than that? He just got charged with assaulting a Giants fan earlier this season. Told you, Bad News Bears.
Joe Namath
He was a bit before my time, so I don’t know from legendary thumbed-nose at the establishment quarterback. Only slurry Broadway “I want to kiss you” Joe. If you’re a gal with all her teeth that makes it through a Jets tailgate with only those 5 words hurled at you by an old man, you’re wondering what the big deal is.
They are Manning-free
I hate Eli Manning. Yeah, hate. If you need a reference for how I measure hate here goes. I realize David Duke just needs a hug from me. I know snakes didn’t choose to be snakes. I tolerate the middle seat on a plane. I’ve accepted that my husband experiences selective blindness when it comes to dirt, the toilet, and cat vomit. But I hate Eli Manning. Eli stupid Manning. The kid who ousted a rule established in 1936 where the first round college draft goes to the crappiest team. Since 1936. Until Eli said “I don’t wanna” and the Chargers said “Oh, OK.” WTF?
Herm Edwards
Thirty-two teams. The number of black head coaches that can, literally, be counted on both hands. Awesome.
The Cheerleaders
Yeah, so the Cowboys cheerleaders have a whole show devoted to their auditions. The Jets cheerleaders will cut you. Seriously, they are bruised and, probably have records. They will cut you. And that rocks.
My Dad
I’m fairly certain this bit is recycled, but the NY Jets mean family to me. They are countless Sundays spent freezing my nuts off in a dome-less stadium, sucking down tasteless hot chocolate, raising my mittens in the completion of the “And it’s another Jets (first down!)” cheer. Its opening season tailgates in the Meadowlands parking lots with the same families I’ve seen year after year. We’ve traveled to Dallas and stood by the team as they were slaughtered by the Cowboys on Thanksgiving Day and squished the fish in Miami this year. Plastic jets on their heads, ritual rubbings of team paraphernalia, green monster tattoos. And my dad has taken me there longer than I can remember. My Dad and My NY Jets introduced me to loyalty, resilience, and the notion that you are part of the family, no matter where you live.
2010 Hotty Soup
Mark Sanchez. Jason Taylor. LaDainian Tomlinson.
What? I’m a girl.
Jenn writes about the countless ways she makes a fool of herself through her persistent, incurable inattention to detail that exercises itself in her missing obvious social cues at Jennerilizations. my dad has taken me there longer than I can remember. My Dad and My NY Jets introduced me to loyalty, resilience, and the notion that you are part of the family, no matter where you live.
According to reports, Magic Johnson really wants an NFL team to return to LA. Why he is concerned with football, I have no idea.
Johnson, who is not related to me, in case you were wondering, recently sold his stake in the LA Lakers team to some doctor. And he also sold his Starbucks outlets. Wait, Magic Johnson owned Starbucks stores?
There were rumors that Johnson had interest in buying a stake in the Dodgers and the Detroit Pistons. He also had talks about purchasing a stake in the Golden State Warriors, but apparently nothing came of that.
But Magic really thinks LA should have a team.
I don’t, because they don’t have a stadium and I don’t think that football would be any more successful in LA than it was before. If it didn’t work for the Rams and Raiders, it isn’t going to work with another team.
Every Sunday morning I start out the day reading the paper. It’s my favorite way to start/end the week. This Sunday I read an article about a local high school football team that had me in tears. Normally I can’t stand the little high-schoolers, but these kids may have restored a little bit of my faith in people and hope in the future.
My husband threw away the article, but I need to share it with you even if I have to paraphrase, because I know you will appreciate it too.
So there is this kid, Ike, and he attends a local high school. His parents were starting to worry because he wasn’t his usual shiny happy self for a while. His parents approached the football coach and asked if he could be a part of the team. They thought it would help his self-confidence and feelings of self worth.
Normally, that would be a crazy request, but because Ike was born with Down syndrome they made it anyway. The coach said yes and Ike was welcomed with open arms by players and coaches alike. The team even came up with a couple of plays called the “Ike Special” that they run once a game so he can have a chance to be on the field.
We come to the team’s game against their division rivals. They were getting blown out. The score was 35 – 0. Their coach, Perry, calls a time out to get ready to run the “Ike Special”, because win or lose, they were still going to run it.
Perry had already discussed the play with their rivals coach. The opposing coach was okay with it. Perry went out to talk to the opposing players and asked them to let Ike run 10 yards or so before they tackled him. He told them they deserved their shut-out so just a few yards would do, and thank you very much for letting him run.
Here’s what happened:
Sometimes it’s how you win, lose and play the game.
Mighty Hunter: What you can't tell from the picture of the Gints Super Bowl ring is t...
Snarky Amber: Beckerman deserves a permanent red card for those filthy dreads....
Snarky Amber: Talk about an upset with Kansas City. I'd say, "Well done, Montreal," ...
GoonSquadSarah: The last MLS game I attended was a Tampa Bay Rowdies game. Time to che...
Louise Ducote: Dude, I can't believe you're a fan of the D.H.! I love watching pitch...