#1

SPORTS is the manifestation of our own insecurities and hope, our personal failures and achievements.

Athletes are our superheroes, grandiose versions of the "me" we wish to be.  And while one man may be my Batman, he necessarily and simultaneously plays the role of The Joker, the villain, for another.

Our affinity for the superhero necessarily blends with our family lineage.  And within that merger, an intricate web of passion and love, hate and glory, failure and immortality is spun through bloodline and geography.  Without effort the web grows exponentially stickier from each moment spent watching, cheering and feeling.

Anyone who has taken jump shots alone, in the cold, on a goal grounded by a father, has performed his own color-commentary, simultaneously mimicking Marv Albert and Mark Jackson.

For those who live on the web, who whisper while dribbling, and who yearn for the energy that flows from  Gibson beating the Athletics; Langoria shattering Red Sox Nation; Eli to Tyree, undoing Patriot perfection - Batman and the Joker become a collage of fear and exuberance, painted and resolved in moments, not minutes.

We oftentimes refer to our superhero by a single name or by initials: Bird; Shaq; The Babe; Cal; Peyton; A-Rod; MJ; Magic; Iceman; Pistol-Pete; Black Mamba; Juice; Herschel; Sir Charles; The Admiral; The Kid; Matty Ice; Iron Mike; The Rocket; and Junior, to name a few.

Batmen.

And somewhere between the stars and where we stand, "Baseball Gods" and "Football Gods" abound, with maps and compasses, preset GPS systems, torturing and tormenting the hero-worshipers.  

Ask generations of Cubs fans.

For every action and reaction each of our superheroes has on a playing surface, there are mystical and magical forces playing puppeteer.  Documentaries have been made about Steve Bartman and Jeffrey Maier.  Hero worshippers caught, quite literally, in franchise changing moments during which each was nothing more than an arm of the Gods.

And while physical manifestations of their glory are raised to the rafters in assembly halls they once roamed, superheroes are small compared to each one's Legion.  MJ and Magic fade into the backdrop of of a larger collage.

Bulls.

Lakers.

Hero worship shifts.  It bobs and weaves between newer versions of faded heroes.  The new sometimes barely reflects the images of the old.  Sometimes the new transcends them.

Our fathers and mothers cling to the jerseys of the teams from the cities where their fathers' fathers were born and raised.  And we too cling to the jerseys.  We pass the love for the cloth to our children.  On Sundays in the fall and Wednesdays during the summer, we close our eyes and chant simple reminders of our past, while we stretch our legs during an arbitrary inning, a ritual, which undeniably represents all that is grander than us, and all that binds us to older of versions of us.

In many ways, we love our Mets and our Bulldogs and our Cowboys and our Bulls because our fathers did.  Our mothers did.  Our grandparents did.  Regardless of economic constraints at a particular time, we cheer and we love because neither costs anything and both reflect our raw and uninhibited connection to our past, present and future.

Like our superheroes, we too fade into the backdrop of the larger collage, as it is continuously colored, obscured and refreshed.

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POLITICS is the (sometimes) intellectual version of sports.  Similarly to how we are placed in particular sections of the web, and injected with familial passions and prejudices for specific Legions of superheroes, we are raised in part by villages of people whose values are described through political party and ingrained in us from the moment we can hear.

For every father who beams with pride as he purchases a Jeter onesie for his newborn son, there is a father who speaks with union pride at the kitchen table, while denouncing a party for its plan to destroy it.

In 2012, one-hundred eighteen-million Americans watched the Super Bowl; more than one-hundred twenty-million Americans voted in the presidential election.

We oftentimes choose party based on our parents' choices - to follow them or to spite them, but because of them, nonetheless.  And sometimes we are exposed to people from other villages, with different ideas but the same or similar values, in environments conducive to sharing, and our party preference is determined or shifts through the exposure and the experience.

Politicians are also superheroes.  Their parties Legions.

What Barack Obama means for young, black children, at a minimum parallels what Jackie Robinson meant in 1947.  Joe Lieberman and Sandy Koufax are a symbol for young Jewish children who aspire to anything.  Condoleezza Rice and Hilary Clinton, while from different villages, have simultaneously blazed a proverbial trail for young women, as have Sheryl Swoops and Pat Summitt.  Barney Frank, Tammy Baldwin and Greg Louganis are symbols of hope and normalcy for young homosexuals across America who have been made by many of us to feel less than normal.

And while the political players also fade into the backdrop of the collage, their parties and there images pervade the picture, regardless of the version, for eternity.

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SPORTS and POLITICS diverge when the game ends.

The handshake dates back to the 5th Century BC.  It was and remains a gesture of peace.

There is something beautiful about the Hockey Handshake, which occurs at the conclusion of a playoff series, wherein players from each team line up and skate past each other, honoring one another with the peaceful gesture.

Even as early as four years old, our children emulate the hockey handshake at the conclusion of a t-ball game.

Our politicians and their legions have not only failed to master the handshake, they've gone years without even attempting it.

Such is a disservice to those young children who dream of being Condoleezza Rice; it is a disservice to our veterans; its a disservice to our nation.  That we cannot honor each other with a handshake is a disservice to the fact that we each have a story with glorious chapters and sad pages and confusing paragraphs comprised of our own experiences.  And it is these experiences, molded by and shared with each person in our lives with whom we have shared anything, that form our list of grievances and cares, our platforms and positions, our political preferences.  But to shake hands is to acknowledge that your experience is yours.  And mine is mine.  And neither is more or less important than the other.

So put your skates on.  Lace them up.  Get out there.

Be the superheroes we so badly want you to be and bring your respective Legion with you.

Shake hands.