Spring has Sprung

Saying this past weekend was "good" would be like saying the Yankees have an "expensive" payroll. Neither are fitting adjectives to modify their nouns.

Friday I went on a run with a former teammate. We talked most of the way, and we really ran the gamut with topics of conversation. We talked about girls, ex-girlfriends, and our three seasons together as teammates. We talked about how we need to handle ourselves to get what we want in life, and about how we're gonna make it. Most importantly, we discussed how running will always be a part of us, and how it will always be there for us. While it may never be like it was in high school and college, it will always be running, and we'll always be able to run. What we found funny about this was that while we needed running to some degree, running does not need us at all for that matter. Funny, something we need and love so dearly doesn't give two you-know-whats about us.

Our "jog" peaked when we got about a mile away from campus, and he looked at me with that face he makes when he gets an idea and regardless of what you think, he'll make you do it. We both had iPods, and he said to me, in a way only he can, "You got a good song on?" I gave him the nod, and he said, "You wanna pick it up?" Of course, this was met with both of us simultaneously dropping the hammer and really cranking the last mile. All cylinders. Nothing has felt that good in a long time.

Saturday I covered the Hofstra baseball game against George Mason. It was game two of a three-game home series for the Pride. The Patriots beat us, but while scoring the game, I saw true beauty all around me.

On the campus of Hofstra University, sport was alive and thriving. The culture of athletics, very rich and strong. Long Island has always been a hotbed for sports and I've always known this, but on a sunny Saturday afternoon, I saw and heard it all around me. Right next to the baseball stadium was a club lacrosse game between Hofstra and Sacred Heart. Adjacent to that was a field hockey spring scrimmage series amongst Hofstra, Rider, Monmouth, and [insert other Jersey schools here]. Behind University Field at the Hofstra Soccer Stadium, the men's and women's soccer teams were engaged in spring scrimmages much like the field hockey team. On the South side of the Hempstead Turnpike at Shuart Stadium, the Hofstra men's lacrosse team was in the process of defeating Delaware in a CAA match-up. I could hear the PA system from almost a half-mile away announcing Jay Card and Tom Dooley as they scored goals for the Pride.

Additionally, there was some type of high school volleyball clinic or tournament going on inside the Physical Fitness Center. All over the campus, and I hesitate to mention this as legit sport, but scattered throughout the intramural fields were Hofstra's annual Greek Week festivities, which consist mostly of sororities and fraternities playing kickball, softball, volleyball, tug-of-war, et al.

It was like a factory of sports. I would have loved to get in a helicopter and risen above the campus to watch all of the activity from a bird's-eye view. Hearing the whistles, cheers, grunts, and player communication made me smile. Everywhere I looked people were competing in sports. Boys and girls, men and women. Student-athletes earning their scholarship dollars, or simply playing for love of the game. It was simply beautiful.

After the baseball game, the teammate who I ran with Friday met up with me and we had a catch. It felt great to whip around a baseball and feel the smack of it on the palm of my hand. He loved the way it sounded, and I could only agree as we gave each other pop-ups and grounders. We had some poor throws, sure, but it was fun to pretend to be Derek Jeter, whipping a jumping, running, and diving side-arm throw to a stretched-out and frozen Jason Giambi, knowing the throw will come right to his chest. This game of catch was going on next to a pick-up game of basketball that featured not only Antoine Agudio but his father as well. It was fun to watch the two, father and son, on the court, interacting. Had my friend not pointed out Agudio's dad, I still would've known who he was.

After the catch, I went for an eight-mile run. It was the longest run for me since I've made my storied return to cross country, the first love of my life. I circumnavigated East Meadow's Eisenhower Park, a lovely place for recreational sports and picnics. While the sun was on and off most of the day, it was out for my run, and this pleased me. Sure, the eight was a little tougher than eight miles used to be, but I couldn't have been happier as I passed the Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum, home of the New York Islanders and Dragons. Once back on campus, I met up with my teammates who were at a track meet at Kings Point. [Editor's note: Since I'm getting back into shape, I'm not competing at all this spring for the Pride.]

I covered game three of the Hofstra-George Mason baseball series Sunday, another Pride loss, and interviewed the coach and players. I learned a thing or two about the frustrations of a losing team. Just in case anyone is wondering, covering a losing team is one of the most difficult things to do in all of sports writing. I'd like to personally thank Pride Head Coach Chris Dotolo and the players for giving me their time and patience when I interview them and ask seemingly stupid questions.

After the game, I got something to eat and then played ultimate frisbee with my team; the culmination of a spring has finally sprung, sport-packed weekend. While Sunday was my first day not running in two weeks, I got a satisfactory workout playing frisbee, especially for my subpar fast-twitch guys. Frisbee is probably the greatest sport ever. Sure, I love having a catch, throwing a football around, and even shooting some hoops, but nothing wets my athletic appetite like an intense game of frisbee. I get into it, and I hate losing. We played three different games, and my team won once, only to switch teams twice and drop the last two, but it was a blast.

I hadn't played in a while, but it's like riding a bike. Whether it's flipping the short passes back and forth while moving up the field, setting up a 1-2-3 score that spans the whole field, or simply sprinting all-out to reach a defender or go from playing defense deep to having to run a breakaway when your team suddenly becomes the offense, playing frisbee pleases me in a way nothing else does. In high school, we used to play 3-on-3 games everyday after cross country practice. That made us run. A lot. Before homecomings and proms, all the guys would get together on our high school's beautifully trimmed field hockey field and play some of the most intense neighborhood games of any sport the Pennsylvania suburbs have ever seen. We'd wear bandannas, cleats, fancy socks, just about anything short of tribal face paint. We'd play under the lights when we could; in the rain, sliding through puddles; we even played in a foot of snow. Diving catches? I wish I had a highlight reel. Cheap shots? Tit for tat. Fights? Let's just say boys were boys. We even created a PAT, which consisted of the team that had just scored nominating a thrower to try to zip one past a goalie from a certain distance into the field hockey goals.

From Sunset Lane to Bannister Street, we ran around like boys, but felt like Gods. Every now and then we'd let the girls play with us, and they'd get upset when we'd play without them, but there was nothing better than the spitting, cursing and body crunching of just us guys. Looking back, it helped define my days in high school, and yes, I'd do anything to go back.

But I digress. Unfortunately, my sport-gluttonous weekend ended when Hideki Matsui struck out in the ninth at Fenway Park and the Yankees dropped two of three to the enemy. The Red Sox are 7-6. The Yankees are 6-7. The Orioles are in first place. Toronto's second. Holy f*#$! Right now, the American League East is like a frisbee floating downward, with a crowd of players looking up, attempting to time their jumps precisely, jockeying for position with elbows and shoulders. As I always say when that happens, "Who wants it?!"