end of year (2015)

I've started this post a good half-dozen times, taking different tacks on breaking down a year that has felt like three - from the trite to the overly-serious to the profanity-filled. 

Nothing really works, because, man, trying to describe this year is fairly futile. Broken down simply, I -

• Got a job
• Left that job
• Got another job
• Presented at a conference
• Wrote an essay that will be published in a real, live, buy-at-Barnes-and-Noble book
• Joined two other "jobs." 
• Realized that my dream job is maybe achievable
• Fell in love with a movie
• Fell out of love with an idea
• Moved out of my parents' house
• Made friends
• Lost friends
• Went to Boston and New York
• Realized that writing lists is no real excuse for poor writing
• Started playing flute again and not hating it or myself.

Maybe in 2016 I'll write a proper post, something more in my normal style, that blend of high-falutin' and hard talk I think I've cultivated a fair amount over this previous year. For now, though, since I have errands to run, and a day job to do, and a hockey game to get to tonight, I'll just link all of you to the pieces I'm proudest of, and finish off with some sincere words. 

I'm proud to have written on what the Baylor sexual assault case means to me as an alumna - in all its shades and complications. I'm proud to have talked about women in sports - hiring, self-promoting, and mentoring - and why we're not faking it. I'm proud to have talked about mental health, and my own struggles with creating. 

I'm proud to have written about the Cole Hamels trade, one of my better pieces of baseball work in the year. I'm proud to admit I was wrong about Nick Williams! 

For Baseball Prospectus, I was proud to write about failure and Daniel Murphy. I also wrote about Matt Harvey being okay, and with two of my favorite people, I wrote about the stupid outfield things every team should have. 

I wasn't as productive in 2015 as I was in 2014. A lot of that can be chalked up to being employed, but some of that is a fault of my own fear - fear that I couldn't write the way people expected me to, a fear that paralyzed my brain and has kept me from trying, because if I don't try, I don't fail. In 2016, I resolve, I promise, that I will not let this keep me down. I'm going to write, and some of it will be crap, but I'm going to write anyway. I'm going to write about baseball, and I'm going to write about life, and I may even write fiction for the fun of it. 

In the end, we are what we choose to be, and I choose to write. 

Love, 

Kate

Particular thanks and love to: Jen Man Ramos, Kailen Nourse, Graham Jenkins, Jarrett, Michael Baumann, Patrick Dubuque, Sam Miller, Harry Pavlidis, Russell Carleton, Mike Gianella, the people of EDSBS, Katy Clarke, Levi Weaver, Or Moyal, and my collegiate sister Sara. 

on words, onwards

As we come towards the end of this year, it's a natural time to stop and take stock of everything that's happened in the last block of human-designated time. It's also a time to look forward, perhaps more than we normally do, and attempt to make plans that surely time and providence will throw astray.

Being a writer is part of my identity. It's how I see myself, it's part of the lens through which I view the world. Sometimes, though, things happen that make me wonder if it's time to hang up the old inkwell, stop pretending to myself that I can do this, and take those tentative steps to finding out something else I am - a painful kind of freedom, perhaps.

I'm a baseball writer, or I was - a narrowing of the view, a specific set of talents. I worked hard and studied and drove and spent time I didn't really have to spend throwing myself into this world I wasn't born to, for a good portion of the time relishing my outsider status, using it as the fuel of the engine that drives me to be the best at something - the very best.

There comes a day, though, where you realize you aren't. You aren't the best female writer. You aren't the best female prospect evaluator. You aren't the best, at anything, and you never will be. Hell, you're barely more than mediocre in a lot of ways.

That hurts. It's a realization everyone but the most self-deluded has, but it hurts, particularly in a year when so many other things had gone wrong.

I haven't been able to really write, recently. Yes, there are these blog posts, and these rants, and the 500 words I spout on Twitter daily, but there has been no inspiration in me for big, life-changing works. It's even more difficult around this time of year, because (a) there's no baseball to look to, no commonly available source of even artificial inspiration and (b) I'm a sad jealous soul, who can never be content with what she has.

I finally crawl my way into an online newsletter, and I want to be in an end-of-year list. I have a position where I can write whatever comes into my head, as long as it is tangentially related, and I want to write non-tangentially related things (and I can't think of anything, at all, like my head is a radio tuned to an empty station.) I get a real job, I want a different one. I'm never content - which, sure, drives me to always want more, but is also exhausting.

If I give up writing, like something in my soul is clamoring for me to do - if I give up my position and my voice and crawl back into the hole so many wish I would - that's giving up. That's unacceptable to me, something I couldn't forgive myself for - but there's only so many more nights I can sit crying on my couch because my head is full of fog and I hate myself for claiming to be a writer.

Last year's end-of-year post was full of hope. Hope that I'd find a "real job." Hope that I'd write something incredible in 2015. Hope that things were finally turning around.

I wish I still had that much hope.

The "Columnist" Refuted

Every six months the clock turns over and it’s time for another writer to write a “comical,” “humorous,” “amusing,” “educational” piece on How To Be A Sports Fan Or How To Fake It As A Woman Because Clearly No Woman Is A Fan Of Sports.

Used to be that I’d get furious about this, get all up in a righteous froth about it, bang out a few hundred words on my personal blog, and move on. Now, however? I’m just tired, and a little bit sad.

This isn’t even truly a response to that article, because that article has been written at least a dozen times. You’ve seen it in Cosmo, you’ve heard it from your well-meaning but ill-advised friends, if you (as it seems 90% of the readers of this site are) are a male, you’ve probably benefited from its beliefs at one point or another in your life. Change yourself, fake it, because you need to even if you don’t want to.

I’m tired, because no matter how the situation improves for women in and around the sports community, it feels like there’s just one more thing, just one more thing that constantly proves that we’re not there yet.


If it’s not Dusty Baker spouting off about domestic violence in an uninformed way, it’s the reminder that Andrew Friedman knowingly employed a rapist for a considerable time, with little to no explanation other than he was valuable in a baseball way. It’s that femininity is demonized, and men die for fear of being called weak little girls. It’s walking into a press box and being told that you don’t belong there. It’s the constant stream of tweets, of being afraid to say what you actually mean. It’s this quote right here:

“Women have been pretending to like sports to snare husbands and fuck buddies for decades. This isn't anything new.”


This is how we’re erased. Painted into a corner, forgotten about, placated with “Groupie” shoes, “talent scout” tee-shirts, told our feelings, our thoughts, our opinions don’t matter. Our words, our bodies are only good enough to look at or laugh at, and certainly not respect. It’s funny to give a woman a “talent scout” tee-shirt, because heaven forbid she actually be scouting talent.


It’s funny how the assumption is that since only one thing is wanted from us, we only want one thing. It’s sad how that assumption can be taken as fact by the ones who it is assumed of.


Fake it ‘til you make it, girls, but also learn the blood type of the fourth coach of the team that was the spiritual predecessor to the current team that moved to your city from a different city ten years ago. Make yourself into their dream sporty girl, but also never forget that you’re not as good as they are at this thing.

Forget the “Girl’s Guide To Faking To Like Sports Because The Only Thing ‘Girls’ Want Or Need Is Men’s Approval And Desire.1” I need the “Women’s Guide To Surviving In This Awful World, Because I Dared To Love Something That Won’t Love Me Back.” Actually, even better: the “People’s Guide To Enjoying Something They Like In Various Situations, None Of Which Need To Be Connected To Anything More Than Enjoyment Of That Thing.”

Here’s my advice to any human on this earth wanting to learn more about sports, for any reason they see fit: Do it! Do it because you want to, not because you think or have been told you must. Go read the writing that’s out there, not because it’s going to get you a free drink. Ask questions, because you want to learn. Go to games because the team is hot. Go to games because the team is good. Go to games because it’s a good way to while away a summer’s afternoon.

Or don’t, because that’s completely valid, too. Just don’t do something you don’t want to because some misguided soul said you had to.

1) Please note the infantilizing “girls” in a piece aimed at women old enough to legally drink. Go get free beers at a bar, but don’t remind men that you’re a self-actualized adult capable of making your own decisions!