In the swirling world of sports parity, one is naturally - and quite often obsessively - compelled to embrace what is constant: Cal Ripken, Jr. and Brett Favre's consecutive games streaks; Red Auerbach's customary victory cigar; Tony Dungy's deer-in-headlights NFL TV analysis; Mariano Rivera's unparalleled late-game lockdowns*.
*My name is Brandon, and I'm from Phoenix. I root for all the teams that play here, and as a Suns fan, I will commiserate that I do indeed root for the greatest sports franchise never to win a championship (thanks to the dynamic duo of Tim Donaghy and the San Antonio Sterns). The single sweetest time in sports for me is when the Yankees are in the World Series and the analysts talk about, and replay, the one time Mariano blew it: the 2001 classic - the best World Series ever played. Never could I have imagined that a bloop single from the bat of a man named Luis Gonzalez would etch itself inside my skull, leaving a more indelible mark than even Trapper Keepers (those were pretty huge for me) could. This is truly all I have to gloat about as a fan. Otherwise, it's John Paxson, James Harrison, and lamenting how we could have had AD every time Levi Brown is called for holding.
Unearthing this sort of unflappability is thinning out faster than Manu Ginobli's bald spot. Thanks to 24-7 sports coverage and incessant inundation of gossip, rumors, and sensationalism (let the Jets' rookie eat a damned hot dog in peace!), we're fully aware of every quality, good and bad, of our teams and the dazzling folks that are employed by those teams. Sucks a bit of the mystique out. Free agency, small vs. big market teams, and everything that comes with dollars, dollars, dollars makes it not only harder for players to deal with day-to-day pressures, but easier, as well, for players to simply mail it in after they get paid.
I think maybe some of us as fans have been mailing it in, as well.
That's why it is now time to reveal a simple, yet discerning, examination of what, during my own lifetime, has been an incredible testament to steadfastness: Baseball Hall of Fame slugger Dave Winfield's unchanging mustache.
He was born the day Bobby Thomson hit "The Shot Heard 'Round the World" - and even though David Mark Winfield excelled in three sports, baseball was to be his destiny. Moreover, it was his mustache's destiny to stay perfectly consistent, and he knew baseball provided the safest haven for upper lips (as opposed to football - excessive helmet rubs, and basketball - frequent face-to-elbow contact).
Like the nanoseconds after a young Stephen Hawking was accidentally wheeled into Pre-Algebra, Dave skipped the minor leagues entirely and went straight to the show. While his Hall-of-Fame career was burgeoning with the Padres, he let everyone know he could easily grow three mustaches at a time on his face.
(mustache #3 not shown)Winfield's storied time as a feared masher with the Yankees was marked by a long string of All-Star appearances, 6 Gold Gloves, 5 Silver Sluggers, and plenty of insane drama with George Steinbrenner. Though he was at one point the highest-paid player in the sport, Dave didn't let it go to his mustache.
Ah, the glorious summer days of Donruss Diamond Kings. It must have been an honor for the painter to add that mustache on there. You know he totally saved it for last.
Dave finally got his ring with the Blue Jays in 1992. Shame he and Don Mattingly's stellar mustaches couldn't celebrate together as champions.
In 1994, our hero was traded to the Indians for dinner. With the player's strike in full swing, Winfield called it a career.
Dave is now doing baseball analysis for ESPN, where you can see his tasteful, understated mustache, still, as it always will be, in it's glorious prime.
Another great constant in sports is music. Call up the theme from The Natural, Charlie Sheen's entrance song, or the "Steamin' Willie Beamen" rap from On Any Given Sunday. It's right there, isn't it?
Remember how you wanted your Dad to stand in the bleachers of your Little League game with a ghetto blaster stretched high over his head, Say Anything-style, blaring Fogerty's "Centerfield" as you trotted gracefully to your position?
My favorite sports-related musical moment is the line from Simon & Garfunkel's "Mrs. Robinson": "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns it's lonely eyes to you".
Incidentally, here's a photo of DiMag with John Oates' rug added in:
Dave Winfield has had the exact same mustache the entire time I've been alive. Like everything else in life that counts: it takes guts.
And a switchblade comb.
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