Check the Stats

Statistics involve numbers and information that I somehow find to be simultaneously incredibly interesting and tremendously boring. For example, if I were watching a football game between the Chicago Bears and Seattle Seahawks and Chicago goes into halftime up by a score of 7-6 and some blurb appears at the bottom of the screen that says "This is the first time in NFL history that two teams within the same conference that are named after animals have gone into halftime with a combined score that adds up to a prime number" part of me would think "Wow! That's fascinating!" While the less intellectually inclined side of me would be subconsciously screaming "Who the heck is digging this sort of information up?!"

This got me thinking on a more personal level. Although my competitive playing days in sports are well behind me since puberty seemed to hit all of the other guys in my school like a truck while heading at me with the ferocity of a tricycle with training wheels, I would be very interested to know if there were any stalkerish statistician who put to paper the final stats I compiled while participating in baseball, soccer and hockey in my younger years.

The first sport I remember playing as a youngster was baseball, or to be more specific, tee-ball. Chronologically, I was screwed from the start because by the time I signed up for tee-ball I had already experienced my first birthday party with a pinata. This set a precedent that if I was going to have to go through the effort of hitting something with a bat and run like a wild-man immediately afterwards, at least there would be candy involved. In the case of tee-ball, the only reward I got for reaching first base before the other teams' collection of kindergartners lack of communication and cooperation got the ball in that direction with the speed of a geriatric GPS, was being greeted by a five year old first baseman who looked and smelled like he had just pooped his pants in anticipation of absolutely anything happening in his general vicinity. On the defensive side of the ball, I was placed in the outfield and given the underdevelopment in the physical fitness of five year olds, I saw about as much action as was necessary to keep me conscious and in an upright position

"Is that ball coming over here? No? Oh, OK."  

I know that baseball is America's past time, but the only way you'll get a pasty, white child to stand around outside for a few hours with minimal movement is waiting in lines at an amusement park, because that way I am at least guaranteed some sense of excitement. Once the ball left the tee and I was being pitched to by opponents at my age level who still found it funny to call me "Four Eyes", I felt that it was time to call off the quest for Cooperstown and hang up the hat and gloves. Still, it would be interesting to know my batting average, on base percentage and number of RBIs, although I'm sure if I ever did find out these numbers I would be very dissapointed  

Next up in my efforts on the Spike TV series "Joes vs This Kid Blows" was soccer. My decision to play soccer was solely based on the economics principle of supply and demand. Soccer is the most popular sport in the world, therefore, they will be in need of the most players so that was my best bet as far as the probability of going pro was concerned. Unfortunately for me, as I would learn during the gym class draft for elementary school kickball, I fell on the wrong side of the line between demand and desperation. I may not have picked off any passes, but I picked so much grass I should've gotten a cut of the pay for grounds-keeping at Muldoon Park. Everyone else seemed to be able to kick the ball as if it were a spring-loaded from in a canon, but for whatever reason, when the ball got to me it magically transformed into a metal-plated medicine ball that traveled about as far as a stubborn child in a grocery store.

I started out playing goalie. This was a strategic move made by my first coach who was that dad who was determined that passing and kicking a ball were much more important life lessons to teach his son in lieu of unimportant aspects of life such as social skills, teamwork or even a pinch of politeness. I was placed in goalie so that, if we won, I had little or nothing to do with it. However, if we lost, the onus of the onslaught could be place on my seven year old inability to effectively cover the entirety of a net the size of a military aircraft hangar. I soon realized that an eight year olds shot has two settings, atrociously off-target and excruciatingly accurate because they were either kicking the ball no where near where they wanted it to go or right into the one understandably small area I didn't want it to go, that I would later learn had a relatively similar name. After enduring several years of the emotional and physical pain of losing faith in any future in FIFA or fatherhood, the coach decided I had graduated to play defense or Beater or whatever the heck it is called. I was the last obstacle between an opponent and a clean shot at the goalie and proved to be as much of an obstruction as a pylon or a person handing out water to runners in a marathon. Someone would get by me and I'd think "Wow! He's really good."

One particular year in elementary, my team featured a roster that would make up 2/3 of the names that ended up on the varsity football team that went undefeated for two years winning back to back state championships. We destroyed everyone and by "we" I played the role of that one kid in the group project for school who never did anything, but I watched as my team obliterated the opponents by double digit scores. We did everything we could to even the playing field, our team used less guys, I would say mean and hurtful things to my own teammates to try to get them off of their game (this did not go over well coming from a house where I was grounded for using forbidden four letter foul words such as "heck" and "dumb"). In an odd twist of events, I even scored two goals one game. I was so excited to actually have contributed to the clobbering that I hugged the guy who passed it to me. Teammates may shed blood, sweat and tears together, but they should never hug........EVER! I can tell you with relative certainty that the two goals I scored in that game were the only times that Telemudo  would've erupted as a result of something I had done, but there's just no way of knowing how many saves, assists, steals or hugs I provided over the years that helped lead my team to victory.

I have saved the sport in which I performed my best for last, hockey. That's right, I, Mark Woonton performed best in a sport that said "Let's take a physically and chemically imbalanced kid, slap a pair of razor-having high heels on his feet and place him on a sheet of ice." In contrast to my career on the pitch, I was disbanded from any defensive duties on the ice following the discovery that I could not (or maybe just would not) skate backwards very well. The trick I was always taught for skating backwards was to make a "c" with my skates. Given the lack of strength on my left side, that foot tended to just go along for the ride and slide back causing my skate marks to make a "Cl" in the ice, which, not for nothing, is the symbol for chlorine on the periodic table of elements. This may very well be the reason that my coach's eyes got all red and teary any time he saw me attempt to skate backwards.

As a Left Winger, I got to play in the offensive zone a lot and shoot the puck and I ended up scoring quite a few goals. My greatest asset was one that I inherited from my father. That is the fact that I am a "Morning Person" and my mental and vocal aptitude to annoy and perform are at their peak the moment my feet hit the floor as I get out of bed. This did not sit or skate well with the hibernating bunch of hormonal hockey players I took to the ice with at 6 a.m. on Saturday mornings.

There were two goals I scored that stick out in my mind. The first one I remember I was skating towards the goalie with the puck and gave my wrist the little "snap" that ensured the puck would see some airtime. While I openly admit the I had not planned on this next part, the puck headed right for the goalie's fully protected but somehow still fear-stricken face. Whether it be out of instinct or fear of injury, the goalie ducked his head and the puck met with the mesh directly behind him.

The story behind my second most memorable goal involves a beginning with a phrase that notably agitated comedian, George Carlin and  that I feel I reside a little to "up north" to start a story with. That is the phrase "My dad always told me." Nonetheless, among the many wise words I've heard from the man responsible for giving me life was "Play until the whistle." I can't tell you how many times on Sportscenter I've watched defenders in basketball and football seem to give up on chasing someone down.

Among my least favorite places to be on the ice rink was fighting for a loose puck in front of the other teams net. There's just a lot of swinging, slashing and suplexing going on that the ref can not see because of all of the commotion in the crease. On one particular play, the goalie had trapped a piece of the puck sticking out from under his pad so I blocked out all the noise and gnarly slashes to my knees, put my Athletic ADHD on hold and focused on hammering the puck home. I want to be clear, everything I did was completely legal. I was a hockey player, not Jason Vorhees and I understood the difference. I could still see the puck so, in the words of Happy Gilmore, I just tapped it in. His bags were packed all I did was send him home. Just gave him a little tappy. A tap tap tapperoo. The coach on the other team was furious and he shouted "Hey ref! Get that kid to stop digging on my goalie!"

He sounded pretty serious so I wanted to know the call and consensus on whether I would be skating over to my teammates to celebrate a goal or if I would be sent to the "sin bin" to think about what I had done. My gaze shifted from Old Yeller to the Zamboni Zebra just in time to see the official shoot the crotchety coach a look that said "Really? You want me to penalize him for what, excessive effort? Are you on crack?" I know refs are number two on the list of reasons why your team lost the big game, ranking slightly behind sheer, dumb luck and they are hated by the vast majority of the general public, but I have never wanted to high-five a ref so bad in my life and that is why that goal will forever be one of my favorites.

That just about wraps up my playing career, not counting all the time at summer camp I spent playing Ping Pong, Four Square and Knockout. Unfortunately, the stats for those and the sports mentioned above will forever be clouded in unathletic obscurity.