babbling

It's self-indulgent, really, isn't it?

Sure, I can sit here and put all sorts of names to this invisible malaise that steals my joy and makes my brain run slow, but it's self-indulgent, really. To think that I could be good, to think that I could be well-known, to think that I could chase and catch that fickle fucker fame.

I vacillate between some form of utter self-delusion and self-loathing. If I'm as good as I think I am, where are my awards? Where are my haters? Where is this proof of my existence other than my meaningless words on a page?

I am full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. I am angry about all sorts of things, white-hot in my righteous rage, and yet I fall prey to the same words that wound me, that feeling - insistence - that to be the only is to be the best, to be the best is to be the only, and that if I'm not the only then I'm overshadowed.

I write these self-flagellating raw posts out of my head and at the same time I loathe myself for them - what am I doing but indulging in some bit of amusing self-promotion? I write in the interests of honesty, but who am I fooling? It's all just this exercise in pretentious word-smithery, pretending that I'm better than you because I'm more honest, or some nonsense like that.

I wouldn't be writing these self-searching pieces of bullshit if I were writing real honest genuine work, of course. This is easy and requires no research, no work, no anything except the moving of my fingers and giving written voice to the constant voice inside my head.

What do I strive for? I don't even know, except for this yawning hunger in my chest for more - for better, for faster, for higher, for more and more and more.

Maybe I could have been a genius if I'd had an axe to grind, but I've had axes to grind and I've ground them and I've come out on the other side with nothing - maybe I didn't grind hard enough! At the end of the day, the three other fingers still point the blame back at me and self-indulgently I welcome it, roll in the mire of anger and frustration because it's easier than moving on.

Easy is a funny word. Is something worth less because it's easy? Probably, which is why these bitter ramblings I post out of a desperate sense of something unnameable detract from my value, but I've never known when to shut up.

It's self-indulgence, really.

relationship status: hockey?

There’s no insanely sappy, sentimental story tying me to hockey, honestly. There’s no childhood memories, no inherited passion, no tradition of fandom passed down from on high. There’s just me, a friend, and a promise that “come on, you have to watch one game. One game! One game when they come back from the lockout.”

The Dallas Stars either have a very simple or a very complicated history, depending on who you ask. They’re a team that moved, or was stolen, or was stolen and moved, and their fans are either a small but intense group, a bunch of immoral bandwagoners for rooting for a stolen team, or nonexistent. I knew that Mike Modano existed, somewhere in the back of my mind, as I was growing up, flipping past Stars news in the paper on my way to the baseball. Hockey was kind of there, but so was basketball and football.

Hockey lockouts are the worst, but I probably wouldn’t be a fan without the last one.

I wasn’t hooked the first game I watched, but I was intrigued. I don’t remember many of the specifics, really, other than the fact that the Stars won - one of the seemingly few times they’d do so that season. I was drawn in by the rush of it, though, despite the fact that I understood basically nothing about the game. It was fast and frenetic and I was watching it on a 13-inch screen across a living room in a desolate apartment in Waco, TX and while I didn’t fall completely in love at that moment, I at least felt some kind of stirring, something that kept me tuning in the occasional times I found them on whatever channel they’d gotten shuffled to.

I fell in love, though, in October 2013, when my good friend Graham Jenkins, himself a dedicated and long-time Stars fan, the one to whom I’d made the promise to start watching, and I went to the Halloween game, and I got to experience the adrenaline rush that is live hockey, even near too many Jets fans. I was in. Hockey, and specifically the Stars, had me - even though they lost that game 2-1 in a shootout.

Of course, it’s not been without growing pains. Hockey has its share of issues, things I can’t wallpaper over with my love of the game. There’s the sexual assault and rape allegations, the standard issue problematic teams and fans, the whole fighting and concussions and players encouraged to be too tough for their own good thing, everything you have to make your deal with the devil’s sport-related minion in order to remain a fan of any sport. It’s a part of being a fan - and so far, the positives have outweighed the negatives.

I got lucky, you know. The Stars have turned from laughingstock to powerhouse in the few seasons I’ve been a fan, making the playoffs, gathering young talent, having their captain turn into one of the best players in the entire league, getting new uniforms, the whole kit and caboodle. I don’t know if I’d be planning to buy half-season tickets if they were still at the bottom of their division, but now I can’t imagine my life without losing my voice in Victory Green.

Hockey’s seen me through depression, through frustration, through friendships and the dissolution thereof, through baseball, through writer’s block. It’s good, as a writer, to have a sport you can unashamedly love, a sport that you don’t have to hide or get rid of affiliation, a sport you can watch through green-colored glasses.

It’s bad, but all sports are bad. It’s good, in that all sports are good. It’s communal, it’s crazy, it’s impossible, and I’m in love with it.

A Personal Dissection of the Letter from Ken Starr and Baylor University

Now, a few notes before we dive in: I am not a rhetor (someone who studies rhetoric) but I do have some experience in this field. Anything and everything presented in this article is from my own interpretation of the letter from Ken Starr and Baylor University, and my line-by-line readings were done on my own time, and for no compensation. Additionally, I am not a lawyer, nor have I ever been to law school, nor have I played one on TV.

Diving in, then: The first thing this letter does is try to appeal to the sense of family that most Baylor students graduate with. “[W]e celebrate the founding of Baylor University on February 1, 1845...” history, tradition, tradition and history. Disarm and, as we’ll see in the next sentence, deflect.

“Today, in this Anno Domini[1] 2016, we continue to carry forward our Founders’ vision to address the needs of the broken world around us.”  Well, seeing as the school was founded in 1845, I think that while the thought may be to carry on their vision, some attention must be paid to the, you know, here and now. Additionally, this is deflection - “broken world around us.” It’s not our fault, you guys, it’s the world’s!

“Consistent with our Founder’s vision, Baylor has always been - and steadfastly remains - firmly committed to providing a safe and supportive environment for our wonderful students.” Well, visions, but not really reality. Maybe they’ve been dedicated to a safe environment, and in certain circumstances supportive, but there’ve been some consistent failings across the years to fully uphold the second point.

An interlude, before I go farther. I love Baylor - or at least I love the Baylor that I was lucky to experience. I did have that promised support, in the form of therapists who bent the rules to give me more sessions than allowed, professors who were brilliant and kind and understanding[2], organizations and friends that became family for me. It’s because I love Baylor, because I love that Baylor, that I’m writing this. I want everyone to have that - I want Baylor to do better.

Back to the letter: “As a community, our care and concern extends throughout every area of our campus life, including our efforts - like those of other colleges and universities across America - to eliminate the scourge of sexual violence. Such despicable violations of our basic humanity contradict every value Baylor lifts up as a caring Christian community.” Well, this is a nice sentiment, except for the fact that every single such incident of the “scourge” has been met with no effort to eliminate it, unless by “eliminate it” you mean “marginalize and silence the victims because, hoo boy, let’s not tarnish that golden halo we’ve set up for ourselves.”

“Our hearts break for those whose lives are impacted by excrebale acts of sexual violence. No one should have to endure the trauma of these terrible acts of wrongdoing. we must never lose sight of the long-term, deeply personal effects of such contemptible conduct has on the lives of survivors. Let me be clear: Sexual violence emphatically[3] has no place whatsoever at Baylor University.”

The previous paragraph is full of the right phrases, the right sentiments, the right words - but what really matters is in what follows. Does Starr lay out a coherent plan for atonement, improvement, and deep, administration-centered, reflection? We’ll have to see!

Also note that there is still no apology. There’s a lot of “This is wrong!” “This is bad!” “We won’t stand for it!” without admitting and begging forgiveness for the fact that...they did.

A summary of the next two paragraphs: Baylor’s Board of Regents hired the law firm of Pepper Hamilton to conduct an external review of the University’s response to reports of sexual violence, a review which started in the fall and will continue to the spring. The goal of this investigation is to create an assessment of past practices and recommendations to move forward. When the review is complete, the Board will determine how to share the firm’s recommendations[4], while conforming to the restrictions of FERPA.

That’s good, that’s something. While the review is not complete, we can’t expect them to say any more than that.

Now we dive right back in to smarm.

“In addition to the media coverage about this review, you may have seen or heard recent news reports that focused on Baylor’s response to incidents of student-involved sexual assault. We were deeply saddened to learn about these instances of interpersonal violence; we acknowledge and commend the great courage these survivors demonstrated by coming forward to share their experiences. Their stories continues to raise consciousness and awareness about these critically important issues.”

“May have seen or heard.” We’re hoping you didn’t! “...deeply saddened to learn...” See, this is almost criminal. Baylor knew. Baylor’s administration knew. The Outside The Lines report was nothing new to the administration. The court case was nothing new. The personal testimony was nothing new. The University knew. They weren’t learning anything. “...share their experiences...” like they’ve been at summer camp. How about “share their testimony” or is that only reserved for talking about how you found Jesus? How about “share their pain?” How about an apology?

The next paragraph is a summation of what the University is bound to by FERPA - they cannot comment on any individual cases, even if a student or former student shares those details publicly. Additionally, they cannot comment on policies and practices until the Pepper Hamilton review is completed, though they say (whether you choose to believe them or not) that they have met with current and former students who expressed concerns.

The next paragraphs describe in broad terms Baylor’s work, beginning in 2011[5], with the federal Title IX office to bring the University into full compliance with the law, including hiring a full time Title IX Coordinator, Patty Crawford, in 2014[6]. Part of Crawford’s responsibilities include “[ensuring] students have unimpeded access to both support and resources, including academic accommodations, access to counseling, residence modifications, “no contact” orders, and other interim remedial and protective measures.” The next paragraphs delineate the Title IX’s responsibilities regarding accusations, including that “[when] a student is found to have committed an act of sexual violence, strong disciplinary consequences ensue in accordance with the University’s Title IX policy.”

This is all well and good, but Crawford wasn’t on campus until November 2014.

“We have been equally engaged in prevention and education efforts.” Now, I have not been a student at Baylor University since December 2013, nor have I been able to reach out to current students to inquire as to what these prevention and education efforts entail. I can say, though, that religion-based ideas to which some parts of Baylor, including the administration, adhere, would have “prevention” be somewhere along the lines of “dress more modest, don’t go out after dark, don’t invite boys in, don’t make yourself the victim, ‘Take Back The Night.’” There is something to be said for a level of common sense, but as a woman, you don’t have to tell us that. We’re painfully aware.

I would be incredibly surprised and pleased if the education and prevention efforts instead focused on preventing perpetrators, rather than victims. - on reminding them that their Christian duty involves not forcing themselves on a non-consenting partner, reminding them that even if they aren’t Christian consent is not an option, and making sure that everyone knows the real, enforced consequences for anyone who would do such a thing.

“Needless to say, our work is not done. In this sensitive arena, it may never be. That said, this is an important moment in time for American higher education - and for Baylor. Here at Baylor, we have a unique opportunity to evaluate culture and climate, to identify challenges and to model the faithful Christian community we continually aspire to be.”

All true - though I would have put “Baylor” before “American higher education,” as a style choice. Something about cleaning one’s house first, I suppose, or removing a stick from your own eye. Additionally, some humility might be nice.

“We know from past demonstrations of your gracious support on various matters of crucial importance to our success that you deeply love and treasure Baylor University.” I’ll spare you the next self-serving sentence and instead say, as I did above, that yes, I do deeply love and treasure the time I had at Baylor University. What isn’t needed here, though, is blind support, and definitely not blind, gracious support. What is needed, is, again, a more humble attitude from the University, which seems more concerned with hedging its image with elegant language than service. “So it is that Baylor Nation repeatedly has come forward with linked hands to champion Baylor’s sacred mission, especially in times of challenge.” What’s needed here are linked hands with the survivors who have suffered on your “sacred” campus. What’s needed here is loving admonishment, the willingness to correct and chastise those you love, the clear-sightedness to not let your ideals get in front of your reality.

“We are deeply thankful for your abiding belief in and generous support[7] of Baylor University as a place where a transformational education prepares students for worldwide leadership and service. By God’s good grace, and guided by the vision of our wise Founders, Baylor University has served a hurting world for these past 171 years.” Except for the years when you focused on the external world, the cause célèbre, and not your hurting students. “Through thick and thin, Baylor has come through the storms and vicissitudes of a broken and hurting world.” We’ve come full circle narratively, going back to the Founders and the broken world, and we’re being asked to blame the broken world for a problem that, in all honesty, Baylor caused for itself. This isn’t the armies at the gates of the ivory palace. This is happening from the inside.

“We ask you as an ever-widening circle of parents, alumni[8] and friends to pray for Baylor, for those who have been tragically impacted by ignoble acts of interpersonal violence, and for the continued and faithful pursuit of Baylor’s noble calling - Pro Ecclesia. Pro Texana.”

Baylor wants to be a shining light for the world. We have a responsibility to shine the light on ourselves, first.






[1] How freaking pretentious. Anno Domini? Give me a break.

[2] Including the one who let me put off a final because I was having a nervous breakdown after getting kicked out of my major and the one who let me turn in a paper two weeks late for only five points off because my mental state wasn’t such that I could write it. I had amazing professors.

[3] I’d honestly move the “emphatically” to before the colon, but that’s just me copyediting.

[4] Interesting omission here - they’ll share Pepper Hamilton’s recommendations, but not their reports on previous incidents?

[5] Which feels awful late, but I’m not sure how this compares to other universities, both private and public.

[6] Meaning that Baylor had no Title IX Coordinator for the entire time I was a student.

[7] Translated for you: “Money, pleassseeeeee!!!!”

[8] No Oxford comma. I am disappointed.

a small interlude

There are spoilers for The Force Awakens below. Consider yourself warned.

I've always been a Star Wars fan in one form or another. My parents made sure I was properly introduced to the original series when I was young, before I saw any of the prequels - and while the prequels dimmed my fascination with the story, I can't tell you how many times my brother and I beat each other up in our back yard with cedar branches, imagining them to be lightsabers - and us, Jedi.

Of course, back then, I didn't really have a Jedi inspiration to look up to. There was Luke, who I loved, but was yet another in a long line of guys who had the kind of symbolic resonance I wanted.

I mean, Luke Skywalker being Luke didn't stop me from dreaming, and I know it didn't stop anyone of my or other generations. We imagined our way into being Jedi, whether through Halloween costumes or through convention cosplay or though fanfiction - both terrible and sublime. One of the earliest recorded pieces of my writing is some truly awful middle-school self-insert fanfic, where my friends and I fall into the Star Wars universe through a store-portal in a mall.

There was always, though, that sense of frustration. I had to turn to the extended universe for my girl Jedi, for my fierce women warriors, for lightsabers wielded by hands other than male.

I went into The Force Awakens with little to no proper expectations. In fact, it was only a feeling that I should probably avoid spoilers that prompted me to go on the day after it opened, and I certainly wasn't expecting to walk out wanting to both cry and jump for joy. Finally, finally, years after the first time I asked for and didn't receive a lightsaber for Christmas, I felt like I'd gotten one.

Not only was Rey the protagonist, the eventual wielder of a lightsaber filled with so much internal mythology, a clear new "Chosen One" for this new age, but she was so utterly human. She was strong, without that strength leading to coarseness. She cried, but it didn't make her weak. She ran away from the call, but that didn't condemn her. She didn't lose half her outfit conveniently to a torture-porn style slash across the back - and her outfit wasn't sexualized to begin with. She didn't lose her agency in the name of plot.

She was everything I'd never known I needed to see in a movie, and in a Star Wars movie, no less. In a year that saw both the great (Mad Max: Fury Road, Inside Out) and the terrible (50 Shades of Grey, The Avengers: Age of Ultron,  ) for women in lead roles, The Force Awakens provided the shining bookend - and it wasn't just about Rey.

There are women pilots, women grounds-crew, women Stormtroopers, women commanders, women in power and women without, women scavengers, women existing in ways that the imagination can pick them up and carry them along - no need to invent these characters because they're already there.

Now, we come to my point: How important is this? I'm 24. I know the world, I know how I move in it, how I exist in it, how I can try to make changes in it. I don't need a hero on the big screen to show me that anything is possible - but it's a lesson I might have learned so much earlier than now if there had been.

Rey, and Rey's story, is so important because - because I would need extra fingers to count the number of times I've been told that a friend's daughter, a friend's cousin, a friend of a friend's child - their four-year-old, their ten-year-old, their young-enough-to-be-impressionable child - fell in love with Rey. How many pictures I've seen of these girls, the future, dressed in a costume that didn't have to be altered to be un-sexy on a seven-year-old. Dressed in a costume that maybe makes them feel braver, maybe makes them feel stronger, maybe makes them feel like they can take on anything.

I'm to an age where I don't need a lightsaber in my hand, a costume to remind me that I can be brave. It really doesn't hurt, though.

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!