Jules Tompkins

Yesterday, I wrote about the Diamondbacks weaknesses in my ArizonaSports.com column. More specifically, I explored the tendency in fans to not want to look at their team’s weaknesses. And my readership played their role flawlessly.

Responses to my article ranged from calling me a horrible writer to telling me that I should go back to Atlanta to informing me that nothing in sports should be analyzed but a team’s win-loss record.

Fans are irrational. That’s not changing any time soon. So, we may as well enjoy it for what it is. Here are some of the comments I received after publishing Diamondbacks particulars you don’t want to read: 

If you paid any attention to Arizona Diamondbacks baseball last season, you’re familiar with the phrase Gibby Ball. Defined, Gibby Ball refers to a voracious, blue-collar approach to the game –– something D-backs manager Kirk Gibson personified as a player and exudes as a manager. 

This temperament is what gave the 2011 D-backs their division pennant –– not a star-studded roster or vast sum of veteran experience. Indeed, Gibson’s ability to instill his baseball philosophy in his team was so evident that the Baseball Writer’s Association of America crowned him last season’s National League Manager of the Year.

Now, after last season’s surprising success, expectations are weighing heavily on this year’s team. Picking Gibson’s club to win another NL West pennant is becoming increasingly trendy, and some baseball aficionados are even picking the D-backs to make the World Series.

But the division won’t be any easier than it was last season, when the D-backs benefitted from inexplicably good health––getting Justin Upton in all but three games, Chris Young in all but six, more than 30 starts from Ian Kennedy, Daniel Hudson, and Joe Saunders, and a league-leading 133 games behind the plate from All Star catcher Miguel Montero.

This year, Giants centerpiece Buster Posey is back from injury, the Rockies have regrouped and healed, the Dodgers still have 2011 NL Cy Young winner, Clayton Kershaw, and MVP runner-up, Matt Kemp (plus new, competitive, now-moneyed owners), and the Padres are loaded with young talent. And while the D-backs added some pieces over the offseason, none were superstars, exactly, so improvements should be marginal.

Make no mistake, if they want to repeat last season’s success, the D-backs must stick to their trademark –– Gibby Ball –– for every game, every inning, and every at-bat.

I was recently found guilty of pollution. The specifics of my crime? I littered your Facebook timeline and Twitter feed incessantly with pleas for support in a contest I was in, called the “Big League Dream Job” contest. The contest is put on by 620-KTAR, a local sports radio station, and the winner gets a press pass to all 81 Arizona Diamondbacks home games, courtesy of the radio station. 

Tomorrow, I’ll find out if I am one of the two who’s advancing to the contest finals. I honestly don’t have a hunch about my chances –– whether or not I’ll be advancing –– but I feel like reflecting on my journey in this thus far. (If you’re reading this and you’re someone who was put off by my persistent requests for support in the contest, I’m secretly hoping that the following serves as an explanation for my nuisance.)

I’ve dreamed of being a baseball writer since I was in junior high. The job is a kind of convergence of my premier interest –– baseball –– and my only real skill –– writing.

But I never considered this dream to be too practical. It seemed childish, since it was, in fact, first conceived when I was a child. And so I wrote it off as vain and unrealistic and I exiled the idea to the far-flung quarters of my mind, the places reserved for “maybe someday” ambitions and “wouldn’t it be cool” fantasies and “what if” dreams.

Then, a little over a month ago, I was listening to the Doug and Wolf show on 620-KTAR when I heard about the Big League Dream Job contest, and I immediately began to retrieve my suppressed dream. Immediately, I was enraptured with the possibility of winning this contest. Immediately, I was dreaming again.

You see, I don’t deserve to be a baseball writer. I don’t have a journalism degree from Columbia or UCLA or Missouri. I haven’t stepped foot in a big league clubhouse and I don’t really know press box etiquette.

What’s beautiful about the Big League Dream Job contest, however, is that it isn’t a credential contest; it’s a talent contest. In a sense, it’s like a localized, small-scale American Idol for sportswriters, giving people like me, who would otherwise never get a second look from a legitimate journalism outlet, a real shot to do what they love.

And whether or not I win, I must say –– I’m grateful for this contest, because it inspired me to reconsider my dream and showed me just how realistic it is.

To those of you who voted and asked others to do so –– thank you, again. To those of you who were annoyed by the amount of Facebook posts and tweets about the contest –– I’m sorry.

We’ll see what happens tomorrow… Whatever the case, know this –– your dreams may be more realistic than you think.

I love when I find out that the coffee shop patron who appears to be purposeful and focused, intently staring at his laptop –– glaring at anyone or anything that breaks his concentration, is really just lurking someone on Facebook.

Wife: “You wouldn’t believe how many notifications I got on Facebook today.”
Husband: “Really? Why?”
Wife: “Because it’s my birthday!”
Husband: “You can put your birthday on Facebook?!”

Waiting in line at LBI’s Skipper Dipper — where there’s always a line out the door and around the corner. (Taken with instagram)

If this magazine stand is at all indicative, love is in the air in my state. (Taken with instagram)

Probably my favorite picture of my friend, Virgil. (Taken with instagram)

Face 6 inches from fan = Phoenix summer (Taken with instagram)

My caddy/ course chauffeur, @ameliatompkins (Taken with instagram)

Shirtless light rail rider = Phoenix summer (Taken with instagram)

The whip I take to work. (Taken with instagram)

Sometimes Virgil — my bulldog — likes to sit like this. (Taken with instagram)

One of my colleagues. (Taken with instagram)

My new pal, Virgil.

I’ve worked at this table for more than 500 hours in 4 zip codes, 3 states, inside and outside.

Halfway between Kansas City and *home.

Coffee siphon: mutual V-day gift for the wife and I.

I came to Los Angeles to sit in this chair for 12+ hours a day for a week.

No exaggeration.