Tragedy provides a lesson in what's really important

When disaster strikes, when lives are lost, many in the sports community immediately rush to a microphone to be the first to make the following statement. "Boy, all of this really puts things into perspective." The purpose of the statement is to teach all of us that the outcome of a ballgame is really of small import compared to other issues such as personal health and family. Making the statement makes you look rather wise.

Those who nod their head in agreement also look quite erudite. And then, by the next morning. it is all forgotten. Everyone is guilty, including myself.

I recall my sophomore year, two Octobers ago, when I watched from my Bradford apartment as Kenny Rogers walked in the winning run in the decisive game of the National League Championship series. My team, the Mets, had just lost the pennant because Rogers, who had to be the worst man on earth, couldn't put the ball over the plate.

I went to my room, locked the door and engaged in a 30-minute personal rampage that included wild cursing and chair tossing.

That following March, I watched as my grandmother finally succumbed to Alzheimer's disease. The emotions and thoughts that swept through my mind were many; but one of the most profound was that most people care far too much about things that count far too little.

I'm not entirely sure how long I allowed this very true thought to have an impact on my psyche, but its effects were certainly ephemeral because by April, I nearly passed out watching the Mets blow a four-run, ninth-inning lead to the Los Angeles Dodgers at Shea Stadium.

I got back to Baltimore last Sunday to begin my last year here at Hopkins. Living in New York over the summer, I watched in amazement as the Rolando Paulino All-Stars of the Bronx made it all the way to the Little League National Championship game behind the unreal right arm of Danny Almonte.

As many know by now, the storybook ending was not to be. The Bronx Baby Bombers were forced to forfeit their third-place finish when Almonte was found to be 14-years-old, two years older than is allowed.

I felt bad for Almonte's teammates and for the kids who were eliminated by the Bronx All-Stars earlier in the tournament. However, I felt completely horrified when I learned that winning was valued so highly by a handful of adults that they had to think, and act, based on the perspective of a child.

In the case of Almonte's father, it was keeping his son out of school for 18 months. In the case of some Staten Island parents, it was spending $10,000 to hire a private investigator to prove the young boy's real age. I guess being No. 1 was the No. 1 priority. The welfare and integrity of the children was simply going to have to take a back seat.

My own emotional development had continued from sophomore year, up to Tuesday. I had gone through several of these ridiculous cycles the past year and a half, losing then gaining then losing perspective once again.

As the clock struck 9 p.m. on Monday night, I wound myself up, sat on my chair and watched my other team, the New York football Giants, battle it out with Denver on national television.

The game was close for about a half, but when the Broncos went up by 17, I found myself walking around the kitchen, muttering expletives like a friendly resident of Wyman Park. I was angry, confused, betrayed. After all, the Giants had promised me a better pass rush from the front four linemen.

When I woke up on Tuesday, my roommate knocked on my door and told me that I should come to the television. Something big had happened at the World Trade Center's Twin Towers.

I spent the rest of the day glued to the television, just as I did for about three hours the night before. But this time, the nausea that consumed me didn't come from what I saw on a football field. A day before the Paulino All-Stars permanently fell from grace, New York City held a huge celebration for the youngsters.

Some were so proud of the pre-adolescent world-beaters as to call for a parade just like the real Bronx Bombers receive after a World Series victory.

The celebration proceeds down the canyon of heroes in Manhattan's financial district. Stockbrokers lean out their windows to shower the champions with ticker tape.

On Tuesday morning, the canyon of heroes saw a different type of procession. Toxic smoke paraded quickly down the street with people sprinting away in a futile attempt to outrun possible suffocation.

Stockbrokers leaned out the windows of the Twin Towers waving towels, trying to show rescue workers that they were trapped in a 110-story inferno.

I love sports. One of my most favorite things in the whole world is sitting at Shea on a summer day. I love the strategy of regular season baseball, the excitement and intensity that comes from high-stakes football and basketball games.

But I have come to realize one thing. The "big game" is just not that important in the scheme of things.

I may write about Bonds' chase of the home run record, or the very exciting Seattle Mariners race for the all-time wins record. These stories interest me. But their outcomes are inconsequential in the long run.

They have no lasting affect on me, or you or any fan. Some things matter and others do not. It is important to realize that sports outcomes are not the only things that do not really matter. Athletics is where I have my own personal difficulties in keeping perspective.

But there are lots of people who worry too much about other things outside of athletics. Do I look stunning each and every day? Are my friends cool enough?

Tuesday's cataclysm makes the distinction between what matters and what does not, easier to see. Family does, of course, matter.

Every time I have driven back to New York to see my family, there are seemingly 1,000 routes I can take. However, I always pick the same one. I took the Brooklyn Queens Expressway so that I was able to drive right along the East River and gaze at the beautiful, southern tip of Manhattan.

I had made the trip countless times, but each time I could always count on being awed by those two, monumental edifices that once stood side-by-side, towering over the other buildings.

Before Tuesday, I thought sadness came from watching a tough Giant's loss. Now I realize that sadness comes from having no need to take my route anymore. Devastation comes from the knowledge that this country lost thousands of men and woman within two minutes on Tuesday.

As I continue to sit in front of the television, watching continuous replays of impossible destruction, the idea that the Giants lost their season opener is rather meaningless to me.

I have a hunch many people feel the same way right now. But it shouldn't take the worst American disaster in 60 years for us to keep the proper perspective. It shouldn't take anything at all.