The Texas baseball team is going to the College World Series for the 33rd time this weekend (for those counting, that's
10 more appearances than the next closest college, or 8.25 x the Aggies—whichever is easier to understand).
I got to cover Omaha in 2004, and every year around this time I wish I could go back. Beautiful weather. No pro contracts. Fans from eight schools. It really is baseball at its best.

My dad drove up with a friend and watched four games with me, fulfilling a sort of dream we had. The day he arrived, it was 40 degrees and raining. My future wife (I think we had met the day before—she likes to establish her authority quickly) had told me it was silly to pack a sweatshirt in June. She's hot and I "don't get cold," and my dad rescued me with a jacket, fulfilling his own dream of proving that I "still need his advice"... and credit card.
Another writer at my paper drove up with me (who later became one of
two writers we had that would get drafted by foreign militaries—he's somewhere near the Korean DMZ). We spent the two weeks there playing golf, doing the best writing of our young careers, draining half (no exaggeration) of our department's travel budget for the year, and playing Hunter S. Thompson in the seedy underworld of Omaha, Nebraska (something involving a skunk, a used car lot, three Koreans, and the Council Bluffs, Iowa police department..).
Texas, meanwhile, steamrolled through to the finals, allowing us to stay long past the opening weekend that had
sent most of the SEC fans moping home. The Omaha paper called that Texas team the best it had ever seen. I'd discreetly wear a Texas baseball t-shirt underneath my neutral pressbox yellow, and was planning my victory column well in advance.
But then an amazing thing happened. Texas
lost, inexplicably blowing leads to Cal St. Fullerton in two consecutive games despite having the two future first-rounders in the bullpen (including the following year's AL Rookie of the Year). A few unlucky bounces, a few bad pitches, a very, very good Fullerton team (albeit one Texas had pasted earlier in the season)—it just happened. Baseball at its best.
Following the game, Texas failed to show up for the second place trophy ceremony. Apologetic Longhorn coach Augie Garrido attributed it to a communications error (I believed him, and was one of the few people publicly defending Augie
in this article). Most of the rest of the media there attributed it to simple, indefensible sore loser-ness.
The team had also wrongfully cut media access short—denying reporters a chance to explore what happened—so the pressbox was left alone to stew and work itself into a tizzy on deadline, throwing unverifiable rumors around with an appalling lack of professionalism and restraint. I might've been naive in my caution, and simply loathe to criticize "my team." But you could
feel the press getting angry and vindictive, and sure enough the next day sportswriters from across the nation published columns calling for blood—including one from an uninformed twit at my own paper.
Mob mentality over a sports issue that simply
did. not. matter.
Last one in said press box, writing my non-victory column.Overall, Omaha was everything fantastic about baseball, summertime and college sports—and it convinced me that I really, really didn't want to be watching from the same pressbox ten years later.
And that's how I ended up a career-less (
hire me) journalistvagabond in Thailand. Go Horns.