Soaring to new heights

 Now that Match Madness is over and two terrific No. 1 seeds won the men’s and women’s NCAA basketball titles (though I was cheering for the other team in both final matches), I’ve been thinking a lot about organized sports.

And specifically sporting opportunities for girls and women. 

I was born in the late 1950s and basically grew up in the ‘60s and ‘70s. To say recreational opportunities of any flavor for girls were limited is an understatement. Depending on individual interest, girls could sign up for tap and ballet or softball. And that was about it.

And while dancers could start at age 3 (as long as they were potty-trained), organized softball started with the 9-12 age group.

I “signed up” for softball by showing up at a practice session on the lower, far field at Mars Estates Elementary School. Practices and eventually games were held there and down the street at Deep Creek Elementary. There was no registration fee, no forms to fill out, no parental signature needed. I played the whole season without my mother knowing. She found out only when a coach called my house to tell me I had been selected for the All-Star team. And then she made me quit, which is why I didn’t tell her in the first place.

The league was truly instructional and met most of the summer, which is unheard of these days. The first six weeks were spent with all coaches working with all the girls. We were taught all the basics: rules, hitting, fielding, throwing, even how to properly wear and use a glove.

After about six weeks, the four main coaches lined us all up along the first base line and, in true playground style, chose teams for about six weeks of league competition. I was chosen by Mr. Frank and off we went to separate fields to meld as teams and continue growing our skills and knowledge.

There were no uniforms and no real equipment to speak of. Mr. Frank’s team became the Green Team because it was determined that all of us already had shorts of that color. We competed against Red, Blue and Yellow.

We didn’t play with balls that cost more than $100 a dozen and we hit with chewed up, well-loved bats. There were masks and chest protectors for catchers and we had peg-down bases that were veterans of many, many seasons.

And we didn’t care! We were playing softball in an organized league! We made new friends, we acquired new knowledge and skills and we felt important — that we mattered to our coaches and our teammates.

Some of my best childhood memories are of feeding the loop of my glove over the handlebars and jumping on my bike to head to softball. Such freedom!

As a player, I alternated between first base and catching and became a pretty decent hitter. But only after Coach Frank figured out why I was striking out so much and taught me a better stance and told me to pull my bat back in that stance.

After each and every game, we were all herded to the 7-11 across the street, where the coach treated everyone to a Slurpee.

At the end of the season, there were no awards banquets, no league picnics, no trophies. The coaches thanked us for a great season and said, “See you next year.”

I played two sports at the community college level and it was pretty much more of the same. As a field hockey player, we were given a pair of cleats and one pair of practice shorts and one T-shirt. We played in the traditional kilts that had quite a few seasons on them and we were issued polo shirts to complete the game uniform. Shin guards — thin guards, as we called them — also had quite a few miles on them. 

During out-of-state trips, we received a per diem to cover the cost of meals (think McDonald’s). I seem to remember it being about $7. 

We traveled in college-owned passenger vans to get to and from away games. There was a rule that vehicles had to be driven by college employees and because I had a campus work-study job, I was part of the driver rotation. Let me tell you it was no fun to drive to New Jersey, play a couple games and then drive home with my teammates asleep in the seats behind me.

These and other memories came flooding back as I marveled at women’s college sports finally getting some first-class treatment. It saddens me that it took this long, but I’m nonetheless happy that it’s happening at all.

I thought of beat-up bases and tattered balls as I watched Iowa star Caitlyn Clark autograph a pair of $500 (or more) shoes and hand them to a little girl in the stands.

I thought of threadbare kilts and stained polos as I watched teams play in three or more uniform colors after they paraded into arenas wearing warmup sweats and jackets with personalized gear bags slung over their shoulders.

I admired modern and well-outfitted locker rooms with all the amenities an athlete could want or need. I watched well-trained coaching staffs tend to each of their individual responsibilities. 

I looked forward to press conferences to hear coaches and players dissect games and individual performances. 

Much has been said about the individual performance of Clark and the multitude of records she set this year. There will be debates for years to come about the validity of her passing players from past eras when rules, playing conditions, equipment, and training and coaching techniques were vastly different. One popular target that many argue makes her scoring records invalid is the relatively new existence of the three-point shot.

But here’s the deal. Sports (and most activities of any sort) evolve over time. In-game plays and plans become more strategic, intricate and academic; equipment is improved; rules change; innovative uniform fabrics are trade secrets with protection rivaled only by that of Homeland Security or the military.

Throughout all these sweeping changes in any sport, you don’t see asterisks, bullets, hashtags or any other symbols alongside names in the record books to denote different eras (not even the PED era). The home run king is the home run king, the 400-meter freestyle world record-holder is the record-holder and so on. 

The Clark haters also say that, despite her owning pretty much every basketball record there is to hold, she’s not the greatest player ever simply because she didn’t win a national championship.

But here’s what Clark did do that’s more important than all the records or titles in the world. She carried an entire sport on her shoulders and took it to unknown territories. While Iowa residents knew throughout her college career what they had, Clark caught the attention of the rest of the nation only last year. 

Bandwagon fans adopted her and started tuning in. At home, Iowa’s basketball arena was sold out for every home game long before this season’s competition began. And while Clark and Iowa head coach Lisa Bluder always talked about and praised the entire team, we all knew it was Clark people were tuning in to watch; it was Clark selling tickets; Clark was the reason hundreds of people were in line hours before games started.

And she didn’t sell tickets just at home. Her presence sold tickets at away games, where opponents benefited from the higher revenue brought in simply by Iowa being on the schedule.

Clark has done for women’s basketball what Cal Ripken did for baseball and what Michael Phelps did for swimming.

I’ll be the first person to say Clark isn’t perfect. She’s still a kid; she recently turned 22. She gets emotional, she throws little tantrums, she expects perfection from herself and her teammates. But I believe she performs quite admirably under one hell of a spotlight. She realizes she’s a role model for youngsters and acts accordingly. She’s generous with her time when it comes to signing just about anything thrust at her and she’s quick to give a kid a high-five, a hug or even a pair of shoes.

This past weekend, 18.9 million viewers watched Iowa lose to South  Carolina in the women’s title game. On Monday night, 14.8 million people watched Connecticut defeat Purdue in the men’s final. It was the first time in NCAA history that more people tuned in to watch the women’s championship game.

There’s no way to scientifically prove it but I believe Clark played a huge role in attracting those viewers. We’ll see what happens next year.

While the record debates will drag on for some time, here’s one thing that can’t be debated. Clark elevated the sport she loves to new heights. She did so with joy and, most of the time, a smile on her face. 

Thanks to a Covid-19 bonus year of athletic eligibility, Clark could have stayed in college another year and further padded her records. But she chose not to do that. She will receive her bachelor’s degree on time and she’s heading to the WNBA, where she’s expected to be the No. 1 draft pick.

She is passing the torch to the next cohort of athletes. She is choosing not to hog the stage; she’s choosing to leave so her fellow Hawkeyes, some of whom have undoubtedly played in her shadow, have their well-earned time to lead and shine.

Clark is passing the torch like many pioneers did before her, and like many stars, innovators and record-breakers will again do in the future. 

Many have and will continue to change the game, regardless of sport, because that’s the natural progression of life in general; because that’s how it works.

And the proof of that influence, that impact, that growth, is simple: Little girls’ teams are no longer known by names like Green, Red, Blue and Yellow.

Words matter

 It’s been a little over a week since the demise of the Francis Scott Key Bridge. 

My emotions have run the gamut over these 9 days or so, from profound grief for the families of the lost construction workers to the fear and uncertainty of the economic impact the loss will have on an entire region of workers, the Port of Baltimore and the underlying network of ancillary businesses.

But just today, I realized the thing bugging me way more than it should is the use of the word “collapse,” most often being used to describe what happened to the beautiful span over the Patapsco River.

I admit the recovering journalist in me frets way too much over word use, and I am way too picky and critical about things that don’t appear to bother other people. But hear me out.

The bridge didn’t collapse. To me, collapse is something you do after fainting, or perhaps experiencing something emotional that causes your knees to buckle. 

The Key Bridge didn’t faint. It died of blunt force trauma. It was murdered. The weapon of destruction was an out-of-control 984-foot, 95,000-ton (when empty) commercial cargo ship.

To me, the word collapse — used in this context— denotes weakness, fault, deficiency, neglect, deterioration.

If the bridge had plunged into the river on its own, with no apparent cause or reason but just crumpled without warning, I’d say the bridge collapsed.

That certainly wasn’t the case here.  Our strong and mighty bridge was destroyed after taking a direct blow from a formidable opponent in what could be called an extremely unfair boxing match. The bridge never stood a chance.

In the parlance of the medical examiner’s office, the cause of death was blunt force trauma, the manner of death was homicide and the weapon of death was the container ship Dali.

It is often said that it’s easy to blame the victim. “Collapse,” in my mind, places blame on the bridge, when in fact, the proud structure was just doing its job — the same job it has done loyally and faithfully since 1977 — when it was taken out in the prime of its service life.

It was a commuter road, a beloved and beautiful landmark, a welcome home beacon, and a monument to engineering and blue-collar tradesmen and women.

May the original span rest in peace, and may a new one rise in its place to honor the legacy of the old. 

And may we remember it didn’t quit on us. It didn’t faint. It didn’t collapse. It was destroyed in the line of duty. 

Words do matter.

It was ours

 It’s gone.

The Francis Scott Key Bridge is gone.

My brain is slowly beginning to wrap itself around that cold, hard fact but my heart is having difficulty following suit.

The catastrophic collapse of the structure made national and international news. It will fade from the headlines about as quickly as it made them, but we will deal with multiple levels of the aftermath for years to come.

That’s what happens with most disasters. The world offers its thoughts and prayers, fills some airtime with dramatic words and graphic images and perhaps even organizes a fundraiser or two. And then it moves on to the next disaster, the next catastrophe.

For those much closer to Ground Zero, it’s more complicated. In the case of the bridge collapse, several families lost loved ones. Individuals have and will continue to lose their jobs; other individuals will add significant time to their commuter trips; businesses will suffer; and one of the state’s most significant economic drivers — the Port of Baltimore — will lose hundreds of millions of dollars. Price hikes because of supply chain interruptions will again rear their ugly heads and consumers everywhere will suffer the consequences.

All of these elements are important, of course. But I’m not here to talk about those. I’ll leave those issues to the grief counselors, economists, engineers and the like.

I’m here to write from the heart, as a born and reared Eastsider.

The Key bridge was ours. We watched it being built. It was as if we collectively nurtured a pregnancy with an exceptionally long gestation period and in March 1977, we celebrated its birth with gusto. 

I was a student at Catonsville Community College when the bridge finally opened to great fanfare. College friend Pat Goucher and I scraped together a few bucks to put some gas in my trusty Honda Civic and have 50 cents left to pay the toll. With great abandon, we took a frivolous trip around the beltway so we could say we crossed the bridge the day it opened. 

With its completion, the bridge finally connected Southeast Baltimore County with the rest of the world. While it literally completed and closed the circle of the Baltimore Beltway, connecting Sollers Point and Hawkins Point, it metaphorically completed us. That bridge, that inanimate hunk of steel and concrete, made us whole, included us, made us part of, acknowledged our existence and importance.

Overnight, friends and family members who lived just a couple beltway exits apart could visit each other in 15 minutes instead of an hour. Workers shaved considerable time off their daily commutes. And, in addition to being a sturdy, functional piece of infrastructure, it was architecturally a gorgeous piece of art. It struck a stunning profile on the skyline and immediately became a beloved landmark.

The bridge was ours. In traveling the bridge in our daily commute, we forged relationships with friendly toll-takers. We deliberately drove to specific toll booth lanes so we could chat with our favorite workers for a few seconds; a few seconds longer if no one was behind us.

In my travels as a journalist, I was privileged to be escorted by MdTA employees to a pier beneath the bridge where I was allowed to photograph the arrival of the port’s first batch of super-sized cranes. The ship carrying the cranes, in an amazingly engineered piece of marine choreography, passed under the span with inches to spare.

Over the past two days, as many people turned to social media to discuss the collapse, a common theme surfaced: “When we saw the bridge, we knew we were home.”

The bridge was ours. Whether weary travelers had crossed the country or simply visited the Eastern Shore, spotting the bridge on the horizon brought a sense of relief that the journey was almost over. Home again.

Over its nearly 50 years of community service, the span was like family. Many area residents have a genealogical connection to the bridge, having family members who helped design and build it or manufactured the products used to construct it. Still others had family members who maintained or repaired the structure, whether they climbed to dangerous heights to replace lightbulbs or stayed at deck level to fill potholes or scrape rust and then repaint.

Nick Triantafilos, whose family owns venerable Dundalk restaurant Costas Inn and therefore knows a thing or two about the importance of area landmarks and institutions, eloquently expressed his feelings in a social media post.

“The Francis Scott Key Bridge was a part of all of us … our being … our history,” he wrote on Facebook. “A gateway to our past, where our dads and grandfathers forged the steel from the behemoth that was once Bethlehem Steel at Sparrows Point. The days when we were an industrial juggernaut and the backbone of the country’s steel industry. Now she’s all gone, and with it the connections to the people who provided the hard labor and took great pride in building that beautiful bridge.”

The bridge was ours. I likened its sturdy, dependable presence to that of the favorite, fun uncle who was always there for us. 

That “uncle” was a textbook example of gorgeous architecture, utilitarian infrastructure and, perhaps most importantly, an inanimate object that told a community it mattered, all at the same time. A steel and concrete embodiment of art, function and heart.

I can only hope that community isn’t left dangling any longer than necessary and that a new span is built as quickly as politics, economics and safety will allow. 

Dundalk deserves no less.

Because the bridge was ours.