Jackie Robinson, Where Art Thou?

In faded green sweatpants and worn out sneakers, he stuttered every four words like a 1989 Hyundai engine trying to start up. But sometime between slobbering over tacos and repeatedly stroking his gray goatee, I realized he is everything I want to be.

Michael Vaccaro, a New York Mets columnist, wakes up a little after noon to his two kids, wife, and a table of eggs and bacon with a sprinkle of the morning Times on the side. On his more strenuous days, he may read up on some statistics and histories of great baseball players and games. As the sun sets, he heads over to the ballpark with a laptop and a Diet Coke. Getting the best seats in the house, he watches the foul balls caught by grandmothers in the stands and the shade of dirt changing with each spit ball from the players. When three hours of "work" ends, he runs down to the clubhouse, talking and hanging out with the 150 million dollar team, eventually returning to his laptop in the press box or his car, writing a page long summary of what he just saw. He arrives back shortly after midnight and gets ready to start the whole day all over again.

Time out, Mr. Babe Ruth of all Candy Bars. So you get paid to give a book report on games that kids and adults are paying heavy dollars for? Living in every kid's dream, I run away like a giddy school girl in a suit as I imagine have a future like that, pretending to blend into the rest of the city's playground of jocks and jills in jackets and ties. But sometime between pretending to read the Wall Street Journal and looking at my own reflection in the window of the 2 train, I wondered if it was time to grow up.

I used to tell people I would be a part-time police officer, part-time professional basketball player, and a part-time stay-at-home dad all at the same time. But soon, I was exposed to the teaching that not only must one be committed to one profession, but it must be one of respect that has the ability to change the world - a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, etc. And even as a journalist, I can be like Edward Murrow, Oprah Winfrey, Walter Konkrite, or if I am fortunate enough, Jon Stewart. I should uncover the depths and gravity of issues like homelessness, racial relations, immigration, the war on terrorism, and the persidential elections. And yet, the little kid inside of me is shouting out what every other kid just wants to shout out: I just want to play!

And in my context, I just want to watch live games for free and get paid to write about it! And now, I'm searching for justification or at least a median between life changing hardcore view of society and play. I am no Jackie Robinson, Liu Xiang, or Lance Armstrong, who will bring countries to its feet or on its knees by the symbolic fulfillment of my enjoyment. But amidst these resumes, interviews, cover letters, references, and networking lunches where the end result is a bucket full of business cards, I am beginning to wonder, "Who cares?"

Maybe seventy years down the road, I will be seen as the first great Asian-American sports journalist or maybe my grandchildren won't even know my first name. But I'm starting to retract every message that has told me to look for something more meaningful and society changing (pre-med, sociology, etc), or at least look for something that pays well (business school). I have too long been asked to find fun in what I do instead of look for the fun and do it, essentially reserving playtime for after 5pm. But then again, if I become a sports journalist, the game doesn't start till 7pm anyway. So everyone wins.

(Except the Knicks).