Growing up in suburban New York, there was only one divisive subject in an otherwise extraordinarily homogeneous area. That was sports. My community was decidedly more Yankee-friendly than Mets-loving. We were more even split when it came to Jets or Giants. There was no other professional basketball team in New York other than the Knicks, so the large majority cheered for the team that played in Manhattan (although I did lead a rebel tribe that rooted for the Celtics in secret). Even in my own home, there was a bit of a divide. My father, from whom I get much of my fanaticism, and I rooted wholeheartedly for the Mets, while my sister took the easy way out and adored the Yankees after her first grade teacher confessed her love for the pinstripes.

I took sides in the lunch debates for years, but I admit that I never really knew what I was talking about. As a quiet kid growing up, I always let the loud talkers, those gifted early with the ability to speak up for themselves, drive the debates, and backed up their opinions with an timid, half-scared head shake.

Then, 2006 came. I was at the tail-end of my 3rd grade year (with perhaps my favorite teacher ever, but that doesn’t matter). What matters is that I finally convinced my mom that baseball isn’t dangerous and I finally got the opportunity to play. Naturally when I started playing, I watched more baseball to see how the pros do it. I tried to model my swing after the dangerous first baseman Carlos Delgado, then scrapped that idea when my coach gave me strange looks during my first BP session. He, along with my dad, taught me to keep my bat flat to get it through the zone quicker, to not move as much so I’m not off balance, and to keep my eye on the ball. My coach was one of the best minds for young ballplayers I’ve ever met, and since he has a son my age, I have been able to consult him throughout my playing career.

My not-so-meteoric rise to being a decent ballplayer in ’06 coincided with the meteoric rise of the Mets. Led by the offensive prowess of a young David Wright and by the precision pitching of a 40 year old Tom Glavine, the team won the NL East and rolled into the NLCS, where they ultimately lost.

The core of the ’06 Mets, david Wright and Jose Reyes.

I was disappointed by the finish of the Mets (thanks, Adam Wainwright), but my little league team won the title, and I was encouraged to sign up for football, coached by the same man that ushered me through my rookie year in baseball. Football was a rough season for me in the fall of ’06. The team finished under .500, and I was used sparingly as a short, scrawny tight end. The team I chose to follow, the Jets, fared far better, winning 10 games with rookie coach Eric Mangini, and making the playoffs as an upstart team.

Me in my rookie year of football.

After 2006, I was hooked. Playing the games helped me understand them better when watching, and I was finally making my own opinions on certain subjects. I didn’t like Chad Pennington as a quarterback (overrated), I loved Billy Wagner (it was a lefty connection), and I thought that Beltran could’ve hit that Wainwright curveball in the NLCS (upon further review, maybe not).

I think watching the pros helped me be a better ballplayer. I broke through in my second seasons in both sports, establishing myself as a force at the plate with tremendous speed, a good fielding first baseman, and an above average arm on the mound. On the gridiron, I switched to center and emerged as the most consistent player on a county champion 10 year old team. After finding success, my love for sports only grew.

Circa 2008, during a Little League game.

Middle school was strange for me. By then, I was a Madden playing, Sportscenter watching junkie. I suffered my first injury, a broken thumb during 6th grade football, and felt what it was like to watch from the sidelines. It was difficult, but it was fun for me to watch the game develop from afar. I decided there that baseball was a better path for me, and after a brief comeback in 7th grade, hung up the football cleats forever. Football remains a favorite for me because of the variables involved with needing 11 men to be on the same page and to do their job perfectly each play.

I got cut from the baseball team in 7th grade. I was heartbroken. I gave it my all in tryouts, everyone said  I was a lock to make it, and I came up short. It pained me to listen to my closest friends talk about something funny that happened in practice, or how well the team played in a game. I had little league, but I outgrew it; I felt too mature to play on the little fields. My final year in little league was the year that Josh Hamilton made his MVP comeback in astonishing fashion. Most of my teammates were well versed in the art of baseball, and the chatter was rampant during the games we played.

7th grade, at a tournament in Cooperstown, NY. Homered on this pitch.

It never really occurred to me that I could talk about sports for a living until high school. By then, I had “burned out” of playing; I was more interested in the storylines that came with the performance of my peers. I would frequently give reports on my high school team to my dad, who either patronized me or was genuinely interested in why so-and-so was overrated or unfairly benched. In 11th grade, my varsity baseball team was a state semi-finalist, but my role was no more than pinch running outfielder. My life revolved around sports jargon; calling people by strange nicknames and turning everything into a home run analogy was commonplace. I decided to step away from the dugout my senior year, and focusing on honing my sports writing skills to get a leg up before I enrolled in college. I still follow my varsity team (my best friend is the catcher) and I do miss it. But the ball finally left the park on my playing career.

The teams I loved were inconsistent (hence “The Underdog), but one simple fact remained: I loved them, and I loved the sports.

The final sports team I played on. The Long Island Champions, and state semi-finalists.

Why did I choose sports? At first, it was to fit in. But I found that the competitive nature of the sports world took hold of me, and it came so naturally to me. Once I realized this natural ability to understand complex games, I went with it. There’s something so majestic about sports, something that pleases all senses. The “crack” of a wood bat, the view of a perfect touchdown pass, the feel of a perfectly inflated basketball in your hands, and who could forget the taste of a ballpark hotdog or the smell of freshly cut grass.

More importantly, the games we love have given me memories that I will not forget. I watched Barry Bonds’s record breaking home run on vacation with my dad. I saw an unassisted triple play with my step dad, live. The countless hours talking sports with my best friends during sleepovers. And, of course, I can still hear my first baseball coach, inspiring me to continue to play the best games in the world.