Will post-pandemic sports be a relief or reminder?

I miss sports, terribly, but I’m not convinced their return will be much of a diversion.

Maybe. Maybe not.

We’re 10 weeks into a world without sports (and movie theaters and church gatherings and sit-down restaurant dinners and going to the gym and everything else). This sports vacation is the longest such stretch since spectator sports became a major draw in late-19th century America (and probably the longest stretch since whenever people started watching others fight or race or hunt). Some sports started returning in the past few weeks–mixed-martial arts, NASCAR races, German soccer leagues. All without fans.

This weekend the absence is stronger, because Memorial Day weekend is big weekend for sports: The NBA and NHL playoffs are usually in full swing, the baseball pennant races are shaping up, the Indy 500 is held and we’re two-thirds of the way through horse racing’s triple crown.

None of those are happening. Most of the sports world froze in mid-March and remains on ice (except the NHL, of course!).

There’s some good news: Major league baseball hopes to return around July 4, the NBA is talking about resuming its season in mid-July, the NHL is similarly looking at a summertime resumption and the NFL expects to play this fall.

Other sports – minor-league baseball, most college sports and more – are done for the foreseeable future. They financially rely on fans at events rather than TV contracts. In a world without large gatherings, that’s impossible.


That includes the Pacific Association of Professional Baseball, which includes the Vallejo Admirals. It’s possible, of course, that the league could choose to play and rely on fans maintaining social distancing protocol, but it’s  a huge hurdle until there is a vaccine for the coronavirus.

So major sports could come back soon.

Even looking at the potential return of baseball, basketball football and hockey, the question how it will feel to watch sports contested in empty arenas and stadiums. How will it be to see players wearing masks on the sidelines and sitting in the stands to maintain distance? How will it be to see everything being sanitized over and over. How will it be when an athlete or coach or official tests positive for COVID-19 and the league plays on?

Will sports be a diversion from regular life or a reminder?

The NFL – likely the last to return — will probably fare the best of the major sports, with TV networks using more cameras and additional technology (microphones and cameras on players? New camera ideas?) to bring us close. Baseball will seem strange, played in empty ballparks. Hockey and basketball will be the most affected, due to how roaring crowds affect our enjoyment and excitement.

What will it be like to see an NBA team win a championship in an empty gym, with only the players and coaches celebrating? How will we be affected when we see a champion crowned in baseball or hockey and watch the post-game interviews with everyone wearing masks and gloves, avoiding each other.

Will it be an escape from reality or a harsh reminder of life in 2020?

I love and miss sports and I’ll watch.

But man, it’s going to be weird.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Older generations owe an explanation for nickname choices

The Social Security Administration delayed something that I consider a birthright (pun intended), due to the pandemic: The annual list of the most popular names for babies.

That announcement is usually made around this time of year, giving me a chance to make fun of infants and their parents:  "Maverick is a top-100 name now? And Axel? What happened to normal names . . . like Bradley (which is 247th)?"

Ha ha ha.

Really, it's all in fun. I don't quibble with the fact that Liam and Emma are the most popular names. They are fine names and the names of my generation – Michael, David and John were the most popular names for boys for the decade in which I was born; Lisa, Mary and Susan were the most popular girls' names – are now associated with old people.

Times change.

So what to do? Without the annual list to inspire cheap jokes at the expense of nervous young parents and their infant children, I turn to a related issue: How did we get some of the nicknames for members of the Greatest Generation?

I mean, I understand how Samuel becomes Sam or Sammy. I get how Francis becomes Frank. I even grasp how Dorothy becomes Dot. Derivative nicknames make sense. My name is Bradley, but everyone calls me Brad.

But . . .

How did Richard get shortened to Dick? Shortening Richard to Rick is a little bit of a stretch – there's no "k" in Richard. Would advocates of the Richard-Rick scheme also approve of calling someone named Blanche, "Blank?" Not likely. Shortening Richard to Dick is even more baffling. Different first and last letters!

Dick isn't alone. How did we get "Bill" from William? Liam, the most popular boys' name of 2018, is short for William (something I realized about six months ago, when I Googled "where did we get the name Liam?"). So is Will. But Bill? There is no B in William. How does the nickname start with a B? That's like me going by Wrad. ("My name is Bradley, but you can call me Wrad. All my friends do.")

It's nonsense.

You know what else is crazy? That Peggy is a nickname for Margaret. How did that happen? Did someone sit down and say, "Hmm, Margaret is a long name and has too many syllables. How about we shorten it? Maybe to something that sounds nothing like it. How about Joan? No, maybe Peggy? That's it! Brilliant!"

Dick. Bill. Peggy. Everyone in my parents' generation had a nickname that made no sense. James became Jim. Charles was Chuck. Edward was Ted.

And then, the most mystifying: Jack.

Jack, of course, is the nickname for John. There are plenty of people named Jack because that's on their birth certificate (from 2011-2018, John was the 27th most popular name, Jack was 41st. In the 1930s, John was third, Jack was 18th).

There's a long history of people  named John. There's a long history of people named Jack. And inexplicably, there's a long history of people named John who are called Jack.

Jack shares one letter with John. Jack has the same number of letters as John. Jack has the same number of syllables as John.

Yet we have Jack Kennedy. Jack Nicholson. Jack Lemmon. All guys actually named John.

We can all laugh at the names that young parents give their babies and chuckle about how things were different in our day. However, my generation and those who came before me have to answer for the shortened nicknames.

How did we get Dick? Peggy? Bill?

It's like we didn't know Jack.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Germophobes take a victory lap with COVID-19 pandemic

The worst part of the COVID-19 pandemic is the enormous loss of life.

The second-worst part is all the people who were made sick and the third-worst is the incalculable damage it has done to our economy.

The fourth-worst? Germophobes will now take a victory lap.

By that I don't mean the real germophobes – people who have a diagnosed phobia about germs, often related to obsessive-compulsive disorder. I mean others, who have fully embraced the idea that the world is a filthy place and that anyone who disagrees with them is wrong.

For years, they've refused to touch the doors in restrooms. For years, they've lamented how filthy hotel rooms or restaurants or offices are, while the rest of us don't notice.

Over the past few decades, they've included their children in their philosophy, constantly wiping the little ones' hands, anguishing when their child goes to the park or to a neighbor's house or eats food that dropped on the kitchen floor. All the while, they also criticized the rest of us. Sometimes outwardly, always inwardly. (Editor's note: Brad may be exhibiting paranoia about germophobes.)

For germophobes, COVID-19 is like winning the Super Bowl. Now everyone is constantly washing their hands, fretting about whether their groceries have a virus on them, keeping their children at home. Those restaurants and hotels are closed, because they finally have to admit they can't keep things germ-free. Finally everyone agrees: The world is a dangerous, filthy place and the only approach is to fear the germs and constantly clean things.

The germophobes won.

For now.

In 2020, the world looks to the rest of us like it always has to them: dangerous, unpredictable. There are invisible enemies that are out to get us. We need to go wash our hands – in fact, let's make sure we wash our hands in hot water for 20 seconds. We need to wear masks in public. We will never shake hands or hug someone – they might have bugs on them!

I've spent the better part of my adulthood mocking those who fear germs (again, not people with a real condition, but those who rush to embrace the fear). I've talked about drinking out of toilet tanks and of rubbing my hands all over restaurant tables.

Now I'm wrong. Those things aren't funny. The COVID-19 pandemic changed everything. Germophobes are on top of the world. They're right.

Except . . . this doesn't last forever.

Let me remind the germophobes that at one time, we all agreed that blood-letting was the cure for almost everything.

We agreed that smoking menthol cigarettes was healthy.

We agreed that Bill Cosby was America's father.

We agreed that the Internet would make us all smarter and more informed.

When COVID-19 ends –whether it's by herd immunity or a vaccination or an act of God – the world will be different. People will be less likely to shake hands. People will wash their hands more. People will be nervous about gathering in large groups.

But once we're reassured we're safe, here's what I will do: I will touch bathroom doors. I will wash my hands only when needed. I will not fear germs.

COVID-19 can change the world, but it won't make me into a germophobe.

Maybe it should, but this is where I draw the line.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com. But wash your hands first.

The strange story of Lil' Moon, our tiny second natural satellite

Here's how crazy 2020 is: It's May and the fact that we had a small moon circle the Earth and then depart isn't the wackiest story of the year.

You read that correctly: A second moon orbited the Earth, then left. Now its just a footnote, because of a worldwide pandemic.

A second moon? Yes.

Astronomers announced the presence of a miniature moon (which we'll call Lil' Moon) in February, informing us that Lil' Moon (also called 2020 CD3) had circled the Earth for at least a year before they discovered it.

Lil' Moon was there for a long time before anyone noticed, like that extra kid in the family down the street.

It was a miniature moon by any standard: Lil' Moon was described as "about the size of a compact car," which is a significant contrast to the regular moon, which is the size of a stretch limousine or a minivan (I didn't check that, but I think  I'm right).

Earth had a new next-door neighbor, a miniature version of what was historically described as our only natural satellite. We suddenly had two natural satellites.

It should have been cause for celebration. The number of moons orbiting us was up 100 percent!

Then came the bad news.

In early March, the moon left us to instead circle around the sun, leaving Earth to feel like Richard Burton when Liz Taylor left him for John Warner (a 45-year-old pop-culture reference!).

Scientists say Lil' Moon was was drawn by the superior gravity of the sun (to be fair, the sun has more gravity, but the weather there is way too hot).

We barely knew Lil' Moon. It made a living circling the Earth for more than a year, but as soon as we discovered it, it left. Kind of like Jim Croce's music career (another 45-year-old pop-culture reference!).

An article in The Atlantic explains the whole phenomenon, including why Lil' Moon didn't stick around: While our regular moon has a predictable orbit, Lil' Moon was unstable, conducting a rotation like a little kid learning how to ride a bike – veering from one side to the other and wobbling. It finally wandered off to orbit the sun.

This isn't the first time this happened. Nearly 20 years ago, a discarded rocket booster from Apollo 12 (which was launched more than 30 years earlier) looped the earth several times. Presumably there have been other rocks that have done likewise, since the Earth has a good gravitational pull and there are many, many rocks floating in space.

But Lil' Moon was different, partly because we don't know what it is.

Is it a chunk that broke away from our moon?

Is it a random space rock?

Is it cheese?

Here's the one thing we know: It left us and headed for the sun.

Bill Gray, an astronomy-software developer who was the key source for article in The Atlantic, said Lil' Moon left our orbit around March 7. Within 10 days, most of the U.S. was on lockdown and we had forgotten our former satellite – if we ever knew it was there.

Lil' Moon is gone, but not forgotten – at least by me.  Even if it's now circling the sun, I'd like to take the opportunity to say something I should have said nearly two months ago.

Goodnight, Lil' Moon.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.