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August 24, 2007 > Sports > How one series can change a glorious summer

How one series can change a glorious summer

By Casey Michel | Thresher Editorial Staff

As my Rose Garden ticket stubs can attest, I spent the first 18 years of my life at the tail-end of the Oregon Trail, and I wouldn’t change it for a thing. Sure, living in the Rose City has its downsides: hippies, rain, smelly hippies, Darius Miles and dirty smelly hippies. But in the summertime, when the sun is shining and The Simpsons Movie, the brainchild of Portland’s own Matt Groening, is making more money than Tim Donaghy at the Bellagio, there’s no place I’d rather be. Except in 2007.

Last summer wasn’t just another season for me. No sir. You see, I had just completed my first year at Rice, and as the first one in my family to go off to study at a university — besides my parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. — I was the big man on the block. The ladies swooned, the old guys at the corner market said, “Way to go, son! You made it!” and my parents bought me a 1988 Honda Accord. OK, maybe that last part is a lie; my parents would never buy me a car, let alone an Accord.

Making matters even sweeter, all of my favorite sports teams were overachieving. The Jail Trail Blazers finally found some luck, landing the top spot in the NBA draft lottery. His Holiness Kevin Pritchard selected man-child Greg Oden, who, at 19, is poised to become the only NBA player to simultaneously endorse Boost Mobile (catchphrase: “IDK, my BFF Kevin Durant?”) and Bingo Night at Denny’s — not because Oden looks like he’s sixty, but because Grand Slam breakfasts are delicious. And not only were my Mariners were finally winning, they were showing some spunk. During a recent road swing, the normally reserved Ichiro remarked, and this is a direct quote, “If I ever saw myself saying I’m excited going to Cleveland, I’d punch myself in the face, because I’m lying.” Clearly he’s not a fan of Drew Carey.

However, my allegiances were not all geography-based. As a new fan of our beloved Rice baseball team, the start of the summer held seemingly limitless possibilities. We entered the 2007 College World Series not only as the top seed, but as the king of all seeds, a seemingly unstoppable behemoth on the diamond — the Jessica Alba of college baseball teams, if you will. Trendy, multi-ethnic — how exactly do you get the name Diego Seastrunk? — and firing on all cylinders, the CWS title was ours for the taking.

In the end, however, we were no Jessica Alba. In fact, it turned out we were little more than a horsehide-and-ash version of Lindsay Lohan: On top of the world a few years back (2003 CWS championship; The Parent Trap), a glorious return that fell tantalizingly close (2006 semi-final losses to Oregon State; Mean Girls, which was plenty tantalizing in its own right), and an infuriating repeat of past offenses in 2007 (consecutive semi-final losses to UNC; another DUI and another stint in rehab.) At least Wayne Graham didn’t hoard and sell painkillers after his knee replacement.

What made those losses to the Tar Heels, in their thoroughly un-intimidating powder-blue threads, all the more painful was their context. Obviously, it was difficult to swallow, since we could feel the finals — we only needed one win. And since when does history repeat itself? Is it really possible to lose four straight semifinal-clinching games and not have a curse? Or perhaps we do: If the Cubs can be blighted by a farm animal, then I suppose it’s possible we could be hampered by that frozen squirrel that was launched off of Wiess College a couple years back. The Curse of the Frigid Furball has a nice ring, doesn’t it?

But beyond the situation in the tournament, losing in that semifinal prevented the cosmos from aligning, at least for me. There would be no rematch between Oregon State and my Owls, and any and all bragging rights would automatically go to my friends from back home. That one hurt. Even friends who didn’t go to OSU were ragging on me, claiming that “Rice is only good when you’re hungry and want to eat 3000 of something” — a blatant rip-off of Mitch Hedberg.

In the end, it’s safe to say I never caught the Beaver Fever, and no, contrary to my mom’s wishes, I didn’t collect the headlines that read “[OSU head coach Pat] Casey’s squad wins again!” I want nothing to do with the Beavers, if only because you can’t take a team seriously when their best player is named, quasi-ironically, Darwin Barney. Plus, who looks good in orange? However, I will not deign to deface the Beaver mascot: Although not necessarily the most noble creature, a beaver dam is by far the sweetest pad in the animal kingdom.

While I don’t know if my Blazers will make the playoffs, or if Ichiro will hold true to his word, I do know one thing: Rice is still improving, at least, when it comes to drainage of their ball field. Reckling Park was torn up this summer and a new drainage system was installed. Maybe this will be enough to excise the demons that have plagued my team these past two years. But if not, hey, it’s still Texas, and at least we’re not overrun by hippies. Dirty, smelly hippies.

Casey Michel is a Brown College sophomore and Thresher sports editor.

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