What Happened to this Game?

First appeared on February 25th,
in The Lebanon Reporter

Far be it from us to wax poetic about the golden days of the Indiana-Purdue rivalry but after watching Saturday’s latest version, like a size 12 Timberland rocketed off our forehead by a member of the Iraqi press, we were brutally reminded this isn’t 1989. Hoosier fans knew going in beating Purdue was going to be a mighty hill to climb and, even though blind climbers have summited Everest in the past, Hoosier fans (those realistic ones who have been through enough therapy to accept the fact that Bobby is never coming back) also knew it would be a hill left to be climbed another day.
After watching Purdue Saturday one has to wonder if head coach Matt Painter didn’t recruit his current team with some former Boilers in mind. Chris Kramer’s guts and orthopedic faceguard are hauntingly reminiscent of Brian Cardinal’s knee pads and annoying, gnat like ability at being a complete distraction to anyone who enjoys fluid basketball. E’Twuan Moore was especially sharp in the Boiler win and his knack for scoring from all over the floor reminded us of a smoother hybrid between Troy Lewis and Woody Austin. Purdue has been pleasantly surprised by JaJuan Johnson’s development this year and we were impressed enough to classify his game as being half Mel McCants and half Steven Scheffler; the major difference being Johnson’s ability to make lay ups on a consistent basis of course.
Based upon previous experience, it appeared to be a semi- warm welcome the crowd gave Hoosier coach Tom Crean on his first visit to Mackey Saturday. And perhaps, like the dog catcher who doesn’t have the heart to pick up the mange-riddled blind dog with three legs, the Paint Crew may have even been sending a little sympathetic love coach Crean’s way. After all, who couldn’t feel sorry for these guys? You’ve got to give them credit for saddling up this season and trying their best to ride their way out of a basketball wasteland left poisoned and lifeless by the atomic bomb that was Kelvin Sampson.
Don’t let them fool you Tom. The first time you come back with a ranked team these Boiler fans will show you what this rivalry is really about. The Paint crew that looked the other way Saturday while Kramer and Company handled your young Hoosiers will do everything but ride you out of town on a rail. It’s best now to understand-THEY are the enemy. Don’t let them fool you Tom, for they are merely kryptonite wrapped in black and gold packaging.
While the difference between the two teams on the scoreboard Saturday was noticeable, and on paper the difference is night and day, somehow the Hoosiers and Boilers really aren’t that different at all. Both play hard nosed basketball. Both pride themselves on hustle and doing the things most big-time college players dread; you know like taking charges, diving for loose balls and playing defense for 40 minutes.
With another not-quite-ever-in-doubt installment of this rivalry in the books, we are filled with the hope that someday soon the status of this game will return to what it once was. Someday soon perhaps it will once again be a legitimate match up instead of resembling something on the level of Evander Holyfield versus the 87 year old greeter at Wal-Mart. Someday soon perhaps we will return to the days when water coolers and lunch tables across the state squawked with the incessant chanting of “How many national championships do you have?” and “Who leads the all time series?”. Questions both parties can answer with great clarity.

Viva la World Cup

First appeared on February 18th, 2008
in The Lebanon Reporter

To be honest we know as much about soccer as Tom Daschle apparently does about filling out a 1040 EZ. Outside of there is only one goalie and you can’t touch the ball with your hands, we have nothing else to add to any intelligent discussion on the sport. This being said, something compelled us to tune in to the recent World Cup qualifier pitting the U.S. versus Mexico.
It was clear this match up was huge because ESPN repeatedly broadcast this fact and, not to mention, it was being held in Columbus, Ohio. Now, while it is a beautiful town, Columbus just doesn’t strike us as the international sports capital of the United States. Apparently, to convince congressional Republicans the stimulus will work, Democrats should recruit the guy who sold FIFA on holding a soccer match outdoors in the middle of February, in Ohio.
This match up quickly became much more than a battle of two soccer teams; it was a clash of cultures. It was the battle of sombreros versus sweat-stained baseball caps. The battle of the taco versus fried anything on a stick. Chihuahuas versus American Bulldogs (don’t mistake that for an endorsement of dog fighting), Corona versus Budweiser and Vincente Fox versus George W. Bush.
ESPN would have had us believe it would be a seminal moment comparable to Zachary Taylor’s victory at Buena Vista during the Mexican-American War. Zachary Taylor? You know, 12th President of these United States? “Old Rough and Ready”? The man who beat Lewis Cass (of Lewis Cass High School fame) in the election of 1848? The man who won the presidency despite having never voted in an election before? Nothing?
There are 6 teams in the USA’s pool for World Cup qualifying. From what we could gather, these 6 teams will play 10 games of round robin (home and away). The top 3 teams from this pool will move on to face the other qualifiers in the 2010 World Cup being held in South Africa.
Evidently the World Cup is a big deal (like a 700 million viewers worldwide kind of big deal). To put it into perspective, during a 2007 trip to South Africa we found people raving about their turn at hosting the event in 2010. Billboards had been erected and paraphernalia was for sale everywhere even though no soccer team or fans would be showing up for another three years. The equivalent here would be seeing Super Bowl gear for sale today touting Indy’s 2012 game.
After our first soccer match we can draw a few conclusions about the sport. With so much to decipher (stoppage time, free kicks, red and yellow cards) the only thing we can say with certainty is that soccer mirrors life in that time stops for nobody. When Michael Bradley scored the first goal for the American’s at the 43 minute mark, the clock continued to run while he celebrated with his teammates.
Soccer fans are notoriously rabid and now we understand why. Spectators spend so much time waiting for a goal they literally begin to go mad, drooling with anticipation. Goals are so rare the prospect of seeing one becomes a mythical scenario not unlike the Lochness Monster or universal health care. Like hunters using a duck call, fans spend most of the match attempting to capture the elusive goal by luring the ball into their net with near constant air horn blasts. Experts have the U.S. already qualifying and, powered by two goals from Bradley, the team took their first steps towards South Africa by notching a 2-0 victory over Mexico.

One Big Ugly Stinking American Mess

First appeared on February 11th, 2009
in The Lebanon Reporter

As citizens of Earth’s greatest nation we enjoy invaluable freedoms. Included amongst these are a series of inalienable rights we should feel fortunate to have such as life, liberty and the right to bicker endlessly as to the shortest way out of a very deep hole; a hole that was mostly the product of the aforementioned bickering to begin with.
After more names surfaced from the so called “anonymous list of players who tested positive for steroids in 2003” apparently the Founding Fathers also saw fit the need to guarantee professional athletes the right to inject themselves with performance enhancing drugs. Was it not Jefferson after all who fought so hard for those rights not specifically reserved for the federal government to fall into the hands of Major League Baseball?
Two questions leap to mind. How could baseball NOT have seen this coming and had a system of penalties in place before 2003? And how many times are we supposed to pretend we’re shocked when another player who hit over 50 dingers has tested positive for steroids?
There was a time in the not so distant past known as our youth that the magic number for round trippers was 30. If a guy hit more than 30 home runs we saw them as the reincarnation of Babe Ruth rounding the bases; minus the cigar and glass of brandy. Now if a slugger doesn’t have 30 long-balls by the All Star Break ownership is waiting at home plate with a wheelchair and his social security paperwork.
While Hollywood couldn’t have scripted the summer of 1998 better, at the time something told us it was too good to be true. A sport that had been brought to its knees by its own self-made kryptonite (labor disputes) only to be given a hand up by two men chasing each other into baseball infamy. Of course just exactly which one of infamy’s numerous junior high dance halls they will be forever standing in a corner tapping their feet and sipping cream soda in remains to be seen, but during the summer of 1998 Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa gave baseball its own shot of HGH just when it needed it most.
Of course at the time we knew better than to believe these two were slugging one homer in less than every 10 plate appearances legally, yet we were fascinated nonetheless. Fast forward and those shocked by the Mitchell Report should beware salesman touting tickets for a return flight on the Hindenburg.
With the summer of ’98 in mind, maybe the easiest solution is none at all. Don’t ban anything. Let them take whatever, whenever, however. One can imagine the big hits on Sundays resulting not simply with somebody lying on the turf being attended to by NFL doctors, but rather simply disintegrating like a piñata. NBA players would be able to literally rip the rim off the backboard and fling it into the crowd collaring some hard working fan in a manner more reminiscent of a carnival ring toss. The kicker being instead of a goldfish in a Dixie cup, we give them 20 million dollars for doing it.
Today America’s youth are fueled by role models. With so many staples of popular culture waking to the UPS man delivering a package of bad press, perhaps the black eye of steroids is simply sport imitating life. Unfortunately finding role models for our youth today amidst a jungle of bong hits and hypodermic needles may prove a fruitless search comparable to photographing or plaster-casting the Yeti or, his equally-as-hairy English speaking cousin, Bigfoot.

The Haves and the Have Nots

First appeared on February 4th, 2009
in The Lebanon Reporter

Like an influenza pandemic, tough economic times have infected that which was previously deemed the healthiest economic model in the history of mankind: professional sports. Recently the Colts made some tough staff reduction decisions as attendance for all sports, going back to baseball season, has dipped noticeably.
But give the Indiana Pacers credit; while they have struggled to win games they have worked hard to get people in the door. Fifty dollars got you two seats in the lower bowl one night; forty bucks got you a seat and all you can eat another. The Pacers have come up with so many gimmicks to drum up bodies it’s as though the marketing department hired one of those corny commercial filming used car salesmen; you know the type-the guy who gallivants around with wads of cash in his fist while jumping a Shetland pony through a ring of fire-crazy Bob something.
Suckered by their “buy one ticket-get a free Thick Burger and T-Shirt” deal we headed to Cornseco Fieldhouse. At the ticket gate one wouldn’t have guessed we were gripped by the worst recession in modern history. The Fieldhouse was awash in an electric blue and gold as a band of comely 500 Festival Queens passed out free zip bags to the first 6,000 fans (the 4,000 leftovers are most likely for sale on Ebay).
Of course our “Free Thick Burger and T-Shirt” seats meant the balcony so we were herded on an escalator and carried past the lower bowl entrances and luxury suites. At the last stop on the up escalator, we headed for the concession stand where we were greeted by a worker who seemed eager, if not hungry, for business. While double-checking to see if they even sold the $6.00 hamburger advertised on the board a faint “I think we have some in storage” was heard in the back. Apparently ticket sales aren’t the only thing that have slowed at Cornseco.
After a few minutes, and an Alexander Hamilton, we were in our seats. The group of strangers we were shoulder to shoulder with seemed very polite at the least. After all, they did apologize for spilling their coke, popcorn, Milk Duds and candied peanuts on us. The usher wasn’t nearly as punctilious when, in a tone strangely reminiscent of a Fort Sill drill sergeant, he repeatedly commanded we get up to let people through.
After a phone call from the Brother-in-Law the Williams boys find themselves constantly measured against, we relocated from our seats in the crow’s nest to a pair of lazy boy recliners 13 rows behind the Pacers bench. By giving us his seats, the face value of which is more than the gross domestic product of Kiribati, for a brief moment in time we became honorary members of a different world. With room to stretch our feet out we found, instead of barking like short order cooks, the ushers whispered to see if there was anything you’d like fetched from the concession stand.
Placing an order involved a lot of swiping; the ushers swiping our credit cards on a wireless device and us swiping Dwayne Wade’s sweat from our faces. With feet propped up, a gaze high in the rafters of Cornseco reminded us of our own humble beginnings. There, somewhere between the Strato and Nimbocumulous, we saw the friendly Milk Dud spillers we had left behind, their faces mere specks in a sea of blue, gold, green and gray. One glance at the ticket price of our new seats reminded us that perhaps the hard times haven’t found everyone just yet.