Merry Christmas from the Sports World

First appeared on December 18, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

For you Christmas lost its meaning in third grade when the Santa outside 3D got mad at you for crushing the pack of cigarettes he’d stashed in his front pocket. And as his profane string of insults throttled your virgin ears, they arrived riding the strangest of smells.

A toxic potpourri that would remain undiscovered until many years later, where at a gathering of so called friends in a dark college apartment, full of crushed cigarettes and hormone-powered profanities, you found yourself bitten by the Wild Turkey for the first time.

Today the sermons sound simple and ring true. Speeches about caring for others and giving to the less fortunate, but for you Christmastime remains frozen in time. It’s the season to wish for the things you don’t have. Things that seem within reach but for a variety of reasons remain at arm’s length. And so you still compose lists in your head, your own personal get back for that rag tag Santa who shattered the world as you once knew it.

Those in the sports world profess to be selfless human beings, but we know deep inside the depths of their souls, in a place no probing journalist has ever found, lurks an ugly Grinch-like desire to lie, steal and cheat their way to the top of Mount Crumpit. Facts are facts, you don’t get to the top without a little of the green guy in you.

With this in mind, coaches and teams are not above wishing for things that could make them better. Tom Crean’s list begins, “Dear Santa, All I want for Christmas is someone taller than 6’8 who can play.” Meanwhile, eighty miles to the north, Matt Painter is up late baking gingerbread cookies to leave out with his short note, the one asking for a chance to play North Florida again.

John Calipari’s list is a bit longer. He wants an undefeated season for his Kentucky Wildcats capped by a National Championship, and he’d like it to arrive as soon as possible, that way he has enough time to enjoy it before the NCAA strips it away. Indiana fans want a chance to play the Wildcats again, while Kentucky’s faithful have written the North Pole hoping for things like some new socks, a professional sports franchise other than UK’s basketball team and more front porch space.

Frank Vogel wants his team to play hard, fight every night and scrap their way into the Playoffs. Apparently his list includes an opening round bloodbath at the hands of the Cleveland Cavaliers as well. Meanwhile, every Pacer fan on earth wants them to lose every game by 50 and stink their way into the lottery where they might luck out and pick up one of Kentucky’s bench players.

The Colts are asking Santa to bring Andrew Luck a pair of glasses so that he might see the opposing team’s secondary while Reggie Wayne is hoping to find a new pair of knees under the tree on Christmas morning.

For Cubs fans Christmas came early with the signing of free agent Jon Lester and for Lester’s kids, well there’s really no reason for them to make out a Christmas list now is there? But Cubs fans have been down this road before, they know it’s too soon to talk World Championship. This means they’ll just bide their time and wait for the wheels, or Lester’s arm, to fall off before their season crashes and burns up in a fiery, catastrophic and somewhat all too familiar, death.

Merry Christmas to you and yours and may God bless us everyone (even the Kentucky fans).

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

BEWARE: Bad Basketball Ahead

First appeared on December 11, 2014 in
The Lebanon Reporter

So David stood lock kneed and jaw set, stones in hand. Goliath loomed over him as the undefeated heavyweight champion of the Philistines, menacing scowl, bloodthirsty eyes and a frame large enough for ten men. And surely, at some point, David was thinking, “There’s no way this is going to work out.”

From the stands fish and loaves vendors wandered a sea of beige tunics as spectators stopped complaining about seven dollar hot dogs long enough to snort, “A rock? Really? Who brings a rock to fight Goliath?”

If you know the mascot of the New Jersey Institute of Technology (NJIT), Eastern Washington or North Florida then you should be pretending to be a sports columnist instead of me. And don’t worry, I’ve set the bar incredibly low so things should work out for you just fine. Of course what the NJIT Highlanders, North Florida Ospreys and Eastern Washington Eagles all have in common, other than the widespread publicity this column offers, is relative obscurity, entry level Division One status and the fact they’ve all beaten a Big Ten team this year.

The question isn’t how these schools can slay larger Division One programs, rather its why larger Division One programs continue playing these schools. Half of Indiana’s first ten opponents are so obscure and unknown their school names alone would challenge the most knowledgeable of U.S. geography buffs.

This in the name of 20 wins. And what does it really mean to win 20 games when half of them come against teams whose entire fan base could share the same Sprint Family Plan? Directional schools with names that appear to have been chosen by blindly dumping a Scrabble bag out and picking up the first four tiles to hit the table.

If college athletics is about television money, then someone needs to explain these tremendously weak out of conference schedules. Schedules that give us excruciating match ups that, excusing the random upset, generally spiral into glorified intra-squad scrimmages replete with terrible defense and a lifetimes worth of incomplete alley-oop passes. For their part the announcers do their best to spur viewer interest, digging up nuggets like the third cousin of the school’s first president was the man who sold John Wilkes Booth his fabled Philadelphia Deringer. Or they gush over the winning mentality the coach has instilled in his little program that could, this moments before the control room flashes his 143-287 record across the screen.

And don't rely on the coaches for they will only explain away their ridiculous schedules. They’re about exposure for former assistants or getting a player closer to home where they can play in front of friends and family. This comes as little consolation to fans. You know, the ones subjected to some really ugly games and truly bad basketball.

Justifying this scheduling is a fruitless endeavor. Some things are best left to discover on one’s own. For we adults this includes our faith and political persuasions, for three year olds it’s coming to the realization a toilet is in fact a germ magnet and not a giant empty bowl of Spaghettios or magic portal capable of producing Santa Clause or the Easter Bunny with each flush.

So NJIT stood toe to toe with mighty Michigan, just as David did so long ago. And while David’s victory would propel him to the throne, NJIT will most likely be forgotten before March arrives. What can’t be forgotten is the fact we as fans deserve more. We deserve a constitution of college basketball. One that guarantees equality amongst all schools and conferences, quality play and challenging match ups, or at the very least opponents we can find on a map.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

The Magic of Single A Football

First appeared on December 2, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

Like a caravan crossing the desert, they come. They come in droves from the far-flung regions of Indiana. Emerging from the dark corners where signs of a once prosperous past, empty dime store windows and faded billboards, are left shivering in the breeze. They come from the small towns, where long ago an affordable automobile left walls to crumble and businesses to fail.

They come from the plains where the winter winds sweep hard across fallow fields. They come from the hinterlands, where islands of grain bins rise above an ocean of brown and beige. They come with Carhartts and cowbells, arriving wide-eyed and ready for their chance to embrace history.

They are corn pickers and cow milkers and hog growers, the lifeblood of a state. And while their crops are in, the harvest of a lifetime awaits inside the walls of Lucas Oil Stadium. Their chance for history. Their chance to take a Single A Title back home.

The purpose and effects of class basketball will forever be hotly contested and roundly debated. Football is another story. Football, with its machismo, violent collisions and trench warfare commands regulation. Such is necessary to prevent injury and ensure a level playing field exists. One magical byproduct of this regulation is Single A football.

A state championship game in Single A is a hearty stew chocked full of dreams and memories. It's the exhilaration of reaching the end of the tournament mixed with everything Mark Zuckerberg set out to capture with Facebook. Its two hours of striking a balance between cheering on your team and catching up with old friends and family. It’s learning the worst kid in your class has since fathered a stud linebacker or the quietest girl is mother hen to a trash talking tackle.

And so they sit, two sides facing each other across the cavernous house that Peyton built. Like tiny grains of sugar, they cling to the rim of a mostly empty cereal bowl while young men cut and block and hammer away at each other for four quarters. Kids who’ve fought and bled for years to reach this point. A short lifetime spent dreaming of this one moment. And there it is. The blue turf, the horseshoe, their school’s name on the jumbotron. Their coaches howl and point from the sidelines, the crowd surges as a sweep develops before their eyes.

In the end someone must win and someone must lose. Champions are revered for their exclusivity. It’s a life lesson, taught on the biggest stage most involved will ever see. And as the clock expires and the teams are left forming a line to shake hands, the Single A families pick up their belongings and move on. Back to the hinterlands. Back to the empty storefronts.

They go knowing full well this is most likely the only chance they’ll ever have. For once, the stars fell into perfect alignment. And from this course of events came their one shining moment. A moment to be relived over and over again between church pews and along the counter at the Whistle Stop.

A moment created by a group of young men who in time will share it with young sons of their own; wild-eyed boys who throw themselves fearlessly at life, buoyed by their newfound hopes and dreams. Dreams of a far away moment arriving and with it a chance to carry the hopes of an entire community upon their shoulders.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Next year too far away for Crean and Painter

First appeared on November 25, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

Don’t look now but here comes basketball season. That familiar chill is in the air and suddenly moving to Florida to run the trailer park Uncle Rich left behind doesn’t look so bad. A few backed up toilets and a gator in a kiddie pool sound fairly glamorous when stacked up against shoveling snow in thirty mile an hour winds and subzero temperatures.

If football sends us out on a Friday night under a blazing fall sunset to breathe in the first chill of an emerging winter, basketball finds us huddling around a space heater and blowing into our hands while passing a bottle of something warm around. And for the first time in a great long while, it would seem fans of basketball at Indiana and Purdue find themselves passing the bottle around in the same place (all regards to both Nick’s and Harry’s).

So fans are left muddling through this contentious congregation in some dark room in the back as head coaches Matt Painter and Tom Crean are forced to leave the party early. Sharing the same elevator, an awkward moment finds Crean tugging at his belt nervously while Painter uncrosses his arms long enough to wipe a stream of sweat from his forehead. And as the doors slide shut, both are left to wonder if they’re bound for a higher level of success or coaching purgatory.

Once again we find Matt Painter struggling to construct a time machine capable of catapulting him out of the Baby Boiler era. Finding a fresh group of talent to regain solid footing in West Lafayette has become Painter’s white whale. For since Moore, Johnson and Hummel left town, Purdue has floundered through one untimely departure after another and a seemingly endless supply of Johnson’s.

But fear not Boiler fans, for the cupboard finally appears stocked with some promising, and conveniently interchangeable, pieces. These young players should fit nicely around a battled tested big man in Carmel Junior AJ Hammons, also known as the most intriguing (and at times frustrating) talent Purdue has seen in many moons.

For seven years Tom Crean has been living off the life insurance policy Kelvin Samson’s untimely death caused. Hoosier fans rallied around Crean in the beginning. They welcomed Cody Zeller with open arms and celebrated the evolution of Victor Oladipo. But somewhere along the way a really talented and deep team failed to escape the Sweet Sixteen. Fast forward and we find Crean’s program hit with one unexpectedly terrible black eye after another. Now he’s hoping a young and tremendously undersized team is enough to keep his red hot seat from turning white.

What we have here is a story of two programs. Two programs, once proud and accustomed to high levels of success. Two programs suddenly stuck in a perpetual state of mediocrity. Two programs who find themselves relegated to middle of the pack horses in an ever widening race. Two programs struggling to strike a balance between lofty fan expectations and the realities of college basketball as we know it today.

Still, it’s no secret these fan bases are growing restless. Both coaches have reached the point where next year is too far away. Crean’s advantage is a set of talented wings who can make plays and score, but Hammons size gives the Boilers the best chance to win in the Big Ten. And be wary of that guy, the one saying there’s no way either coach will be fired; for this is likely the same person who’d tell you the best way to get that gator out of the kiddie pool is to dive in after it.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Loyalty and the NBA: Strange Bedfellows Indeed

First appeared on November 18, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

When I was in the Third Grade I had a crush on Mary Beth Stevens. She of the hair like golden shocks of wheat and dangerous blue eyes so crystal clear they cast perfect reflections of the checkerboard tile floor in the multi-purpose room. Then at recess, while Mary Beth was in a heated game of tetherball, I confessed my love only to have the cutest girl in the Fourth Grade ask me out moments later.

As a simple boy who still raced Matchbox cars and believed the Legion of Doom was in fact the greatest threat facing the world, how was I to know it was a test of my loyalty? A devious plot hatched by the Black Widow Mary Beth herself. But I stood tall and strong, like a 4’3 oak. And for two magical hours we were Charles and Diana, until Mary Beth asked me to dump her lunch tray and never spoke to me again.

Perhaps it’s no secret that, just like fashion in North Korea and the careers of most male meteorologists, loyalty is dead. It’s a powerful statement indeed and one that applies wholeheartedly to the National Basketball Association.

So LeBron is hailed for his loyalty after abandoning Cleveland only to return on a hobbled white horse with two rings earned in the service of another kingdom. How quickly it was forgotten, that ill-fated night Cleve-landers torched King James jerseys in the streets, stomping and dancing all over them. Or what about the “Witless” and “LeBum” posters they displayed when LeBron returned with the Heat?

And then there’s Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert; also known as the one welcoming James back with open arms. This after penning a scathing letter to his fan base denouncing the King 30 seconds after LeBron announced he was divorcing his “hometown” four years ago. A fickle beast loyalty is not. Loyalty is an eternal test of ones will and, when the going gets tough, the truly loyal go nowhere.

But what exactly does loyalty get one? For Cub fans it’s apparently a lifetime of disappointment, frustration and embarrassment. For members of ISIS, it’s a date with a Hellfire missile and an eternity spent looking for a glass of ice water. For Kobe Bryant it’s pumping in 31,000 points for the Lakers and dropping five championship trophies in the broom closet only to return from injury to find trade rumors flaring up after going 1-6 out of the gate.

And before we carve the NBA up for being selfish and materialistic, its best to understand professional basketball is likely a product of our own society. Sports fans, not unlike your two year old, want everything immediately. There’s no waiting in life. They don’t want to hear another one of Daddy’s sermons on patience.

They want the best coach, a franchise player, deep playoff runs and championship trophies, and if they don’t have them by the close of business, the bandwagon gets lighter and season tickets wind up on EBAY with an opening bid of twelve cents.
Loyalty is hard work and we’ve become a people who are, by and large, highly allergic to hard work. Of course there are times when loyalty pays off. For if there weren’t, who in their right mind would ever have it?

Truly rare moments that are magical and powerful and lasting and try as we might we can never get them back. Moments that often take a lifetime to reach and mere seconds to expire. And yet it’s the allure and rarity of these that keep the truly loyal in the game. Moments that keep us picking ourselves up and dusting ourselves off time after time.

So here’s to you who count yourself amongst the loyal, that ever dwindling crowd of the lonely and the ridiculed, smile and wave at all those chasing empty calories, for you know your moment, far off as it may be, does in fact lie ahead somewhere.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Pep Hamilton, Meet Andrew Luck

First appeared on November 6, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

As Joe Colt Fan watched his team destroy the Giants on Monday Night Football, there were many positives for him to dote on. The offense was clicking, the defense ground up the Giants and Pat "boomstick" McAfee continued his stellar special teams play. Lost in the shuffle however, was one small U-turn that has completely transformed the Colt offense.

When Pep Hamilton was asked to write the Colt offensive playbook, his declaration they would become a “power running team” caught many off guard (and by many here, we mean everyone but Pep Hamilton). And while most first time NFL coordinators would tailor their offense around the strongest pieces they have, like say maybe a 6’4 lumberjack of a quarterback who happens to be a number one overall pick blessed with an uncommon natural play-making ability, Hamilton shocked the world by choosing to go against the grain.

It’s true we as red, white and blue blooded Americans love celebrating those who find success in unconventional ways, but in this case success and the Colts as a “power running team” are mutually exclusive. Coming in to play Monday night, the Colts rushing attack was ranked 15th in the NFL; a position that doesn’t warrant the descriptors “power” or “running team”.

Then, somewhere along the way to Monday night, Hamilton’s approach changed. We may never know if his recent revelation, the one better known as the decision to focus the offense around Andrew Luck instead of an ill-conceived vision for becoming a “power running team”, came because Hamilton realized Luck is a rare talent, or he simply wanted to keep his job.

For all Joe Colts Fan knows Hamilton woke up one day, still fully committed to developing his “power running team”, only to slip on the bathroom floor and hit his head on the tub. Perhaps it was the ensuing case of amnesia that led Hamilton to call Chuck Pagano for advice on the Colt Offense. It’s quite possible Pagano told a foggy Hamilton, “Well, Pep, I don’t know much about coaching that side of the football, but seems to me the ball should be in Andrew’s hands 90-95% of the time.”

Or maybe Hamilton woke up one night, clad in striped one piece PJ’s complete with long sleeping cap, only to find the ghost of terrible first halves past had jangled his way to the foot of his bed to remind Pep how many times the Colts had been down double digits at halftime only to abandon the power running game and storm back on the arm and legs of Andrew Luck.

It’s of little consequence to Joe Colts Fan what predicated the switch because his life is now far too exciting to waste time on conjecture. Suddenly Joe Colts Fan’s phone is blowing up because Luck is an MVP candidate and the Colts are Super Bowl favorites. Let us not forget, they’re also the gold standard in the AFC South (OK, so maybe it’s entirely possible their position in the AFC South would remain unchanged even if Roy Rogers’ stuffed horse Trigger were taking snaps).

The moral is Joe Colts Fan shouldn’t get lost in the semantics of varying offensive philosophies. He’s always been a give me the facts kind of guy. And, as of this week anyway, the facts remain Luck is doing what Luck does best, making plays with the ball in his hands. So fear not Joe Colt Fan, for it seems your team has finally realized what you and those in your inner circle, including that one brother in law who says he played in high school but you suspect doesn’t know a football from a coconut, knew all along. Andrew Luck is a rare talent and a horse that should be ridden for four quarters.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Big Issues for the Big Ten

First appeared on October 16, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

Dear College Football Experts,

Hello, my name is the Big Ten Conference. Recently, I’ve heard a lot about these so-called glaring deficiencies destined to send me spiraling down a path towards humiliation and national disgrace. I’ll be honest, it’s a lot to take, this constant belittling and the nonstop comparisons to the other power conferences. And I’m not afraid to admit that one coping mechanism my therapist suggested was reaching out to you so that we might find common ground.

I guess I’ll start by facing the elephant in the room. Just exactly why do you hate me? I believe that being the oldest conference in Division One sports should account for something. Where I come from, a place where God fearing people still have faith in Washington and families eat meals with the television off, we respect our elders.

So you’ve got some newfangled four team playoff system you’re shoving down everyone’s throats and somehow I’m supposed to be a major player in it. And now that my preseason Heisman candidate is done for the year and none of my teams can seem to keep pace with the best of the SEC, the sports world wants to look down their collective noses at me? Awesome.

Let’s not forget, I never pretended to be the football power conference you made me out to be. After all, how can anyone expect me to compete when I don’t get the best recruits money can buy? And, yes that was meant to be a literal cliché. Besides, my students have been busy doing amazing things off the grid iron. Things like becoming President, walking on the moon and being Cindy Crawford.

See, in the Big Ten we’re about tradition. Traditions like the Old Oaken Bucket, Paul Bunyan’s Axe and repeatedly coming up short in National Championship games. That last part might be what my therapist refers to as a ‘Freudian slip’. At any rate, when people say we need to care more about your four team playoff system or find new ways to evolve because we’ve fallen behind, we just smile and wave because that’s how we in the Midwest were taught to deal with criticism.

As the proud parent of 14 beautiful institutions, it’s very hard to sit by idly while you drag my family through the mud. When you’re left to play god with college football by telling us who can and can’t participate in your four team dog and pony show, the result will be counterproductive.

You’ll unintentionally breed an entire generation of fans who long for the unattainable spotlight, thus trivializing the accomplishments of those regional schools they follow. In other words, not everyone can be Gerald Ford, Neil Armstrong and Cindy Crawford, so why not learn to celebrate joy in your own life where it exists? Don’t worry, I won’t charge you $75 an hour for that advice.

So yes, I’m writing you today to concede I’m old fashioned. However, I’m also loyal at the same time. And while these things may fall flat with the cool kids and won’t qualify me for your four team playoff, over the years they’ve garnered the support of throngs of diehard fans. Fans who consider themselves part of a larger family. And you, with your panel of experts and supercomputers that have never tailgated before a game at “The Big House”, will never understand what we dinosaurs in the Midwest came to realize a long time ago. That time with family will always carry you further than the spotlight of any national stage possibly could.

Yours truly,

The Big Ten Conference


© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Now that they're awake, Hoosier fans want more

First appeared on September 24, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

The state of football in Bloomington and West Lafayette is exceptionally unclear. And by “exceptionally unclear” here we mean something on the level of the leader of a world power admitting to his constituency that he doesn’t have a plan for one of the largest threats currently facing the world.

And while ISIS has been busy conquering land in the Middle East few cared about or lived on anyway, Darrell Hazell and Kevin Wilson seemed to be in a footrace for the unemployment line. All this changed Saturday when Wilson’s Hoosiers upset nationally ranked Missouri on the road. One win a job doesn’t save, but it does buy him a heck of a lot more rope and propels Hazel into a clear lead. And while it’s a race Darrell Hazel doesn’t want to win, at this point he seems willing and able to take a win wherever he can find it.

The Hoosiers should be 3-0. Instead a disappointing loss at Bowling Green sends them into Big Ten play with a 2-1 record. And while they won’t play Wisconsin this year (this is the point in the column where Badger fans will pause to lament waiting another year for their chance to set an NCAA single game rushing record), the Big Ten schedule won’t be easy either.

Still Indiana will play two programs, Ohio State and Michigan, which appear to be in full-fledged free-fall mode. Throw in North Texas and Hazell’s Boilermakers and what you have is a group that seems to offer three winnable games for the Hoosiers. Especially if their defense is going to consistently perform at the level they reached Saturday.

And while Kevin Wilson seems to have several arrows aligned, there still remains little to no buzz surrounding his program. This likely speaks more to the coach than his football team. In the 21st century a head coach, especially one daring enough to wade into college athletics, needs to be have an enormous business card.

They’re expected to have more than just a great mind for the game. They need to be charismatic masters of time management. They need to be innovative and creative, well schooled in their discipline as well as polished speakers and, in what few hours are left in a day, attempt to be a father figure to dozens of young men. They are one part expert in their sport, three parts used car salesman.

By setting 22 school records in three short years, Kevin Wilson has proven himself an offensive genius, but he falls well short of the mark in salesmanship (see asking the band to stop playing during offensive possessions). He rode the wave any coaching change creates, but has done little to endear himself to Hoosier fans since. Of course, winning changes everything; especially when nationally ranked teams are involved.

Still, this is Wilson’s first major win in three years which is why Hoosier fans still can’t be certain what they have. The elephant in the room has long been defining success for football in Bloomington. Wilson’s teams have been ultra-competitive with the best in the conference (the lone, glaring exception being Wisconsin), but they’ve also looked disconnected and disinterested against teams they should beat by 30.

In the end, all Saturday likely did was stir drowsy Indiana fans from their slumber. And now that they’re awake, they’re left to decide if posting 500 yards and 6 touchdowns in a three point loss is enough to keep them coming back. Or do they long for more? And if it’s more they want, is Kevin Wilson the man for the job?

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Cracks are forming in Goodell's Empire

First appeared on September 10, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

So Commisar Goodell has orchestrated the start of another NFL season. And as the shield reigns supreme over the landscape of professional sports, the good Commisar considers it all from his reviewing stand, looking surly and sublime. By the millions the masses, foam fingers flailing, faces painted and clad in Manziel jerseys, throw themselves daily at his feet begging for more.

His face is the picture of confidence, yet even the Gruden-like scowl he casts down upon the little people cannot drown out the whispers. Cracks are forming. Tiny fissures in the massive wall he’s so cautiously and callously erected around his kingdom are beginning to form.

There are many examples throughout history of empires outgrowing their reach, overestimating their power and falling upon their own sword. The Romans, Mongolians and America are but a few examples that immediately leap to mind. But the sun always shines in Commisar Goodell’s empire, for when it doesn’t, he simply changes his mind, or the rules.

Ripples of discontent first began forming when the Ravens’ Ray Rice was only given two games for assaulting his girlfriend. Storm clouds roiled when a few popular players were given longer suspensions for failed drug tests, toss in more rules in an already over-legislated sport and what you have is Perestroika all over again.

And as we loyally toil in the shadow of his greatness, Goodell’s heavy handed manner has turned inconsistent and his incessant tinkering with the rules of a game, already the most popular in North America, have left many wondering if he isn’t approaching the land of megalomania (and by many here we mean me, and you should you happen to agree).

The hailstorm of penalty flags we saw early in the preseason created an impressive stir considering they were thrown in meaningless games only season ticket holders and those in the Witness Protection Program were actually watching. And yet almost immediately they were silenced, as if Goodell himself had sent the league’s head of officiating on a media blitz of Siberia in order to assume control of rule enforcement himself.
Still it does appear more rules have been added to give Manning, Brady and Brees the best opportunity to continue obliterating NFL passing records. At the same time the changes conveniently bolster the chances of the greatest quarterback in NFL history scoring another title.

But all of this was forgotten Monday when Goodell changed his mind in the face of new evidence and suspended Rice indefinitely. The decision unleashed a torrent of negative reaction which could potentially become a tidal wave capable of destroying the entire infrastructure of his empire.

In the 1960’s the Communist Party of China pushed Mao Zedong aside when they feared he’d lost the people’s trust. If that’s the route we have to go to save football, John Madden seems the logical choice for a Liu Shaoqi-type figurehead puppet. That way, instead the blathering semi-apologies and incredibly shortsighted suspensions Goodell has given us, we’d get a “Boom! Pow!” or at the very least we'd have plenty of roasted turkey to go around.

For now the NFL remains king. The game has made instant replay cool, put some serious lipstick on rotisserie baseball and lined the pockets of every agent and small time bookie from Oxnard to Old Town. And while we haven’t reached the point where Goodell’s picture is hung above every locker room and his diary required reading for all 32 teams, the Commissar does loom large over his league for the time being. Still it would seem even Goodell, as polished and powerful as he may be, has chosen a path that could lead him to the point of no return.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Climb down from the ledges Ye Pacer Fans

First appeared on August 7, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

Paul George’s injury in the fourth quarter of a Team USA scrimmage last week set in motion a string of dominoes that, for better or worse, are still falling as we speak. Maybe it’s the fact George is such a promising star, maybe it’s the fact the injury was so horrific it made Kevin Ware and Joe Theismann both wince uncomfortably, or maybe it’s just late July, early August and there is nothing, absolutely and positively nothing, for sports writers and the talking heads to write or talk about.

Late July to early August is when Americans feign an interest in baseball, most big name sports analysts go on vacation and newspaper editors turn to their most talented part time pretend sports columnists to make it seem as though frog jumping contests are so compelling they deserve an audience wider than just ten year olds or men with two first names.

Enter a rising star, the cornerstone of his franchise, playing for his country in an already controversial Olympic system that allows professional athletes to compete in an arena traditionally reserved for amateurs. Throw in a compound fracture captured on film and you have the makings of great fodder.

Desperate times call for people to bust out their own personal agendas. For Mark Cuban it’s suddenly about respecting the fact professional athletes are commodities. For Team USA it’s about promoting the fact professional athletes are commodities who care about their country and for the players participating it’s about generating exposure to become a more marketable commodity. But let’s not get tangled up in the economics of it all.

This is more about the avalanche of speculation and negative reaction, both of which have reached a predictably fevered pitch given the timing. This simply means Pacers Fans need to take a collective step back from the proverbial ledge and remember one small detail so many seem to be overlooking. Despite the unfortunate nature of the accident, Paul George is still alive.

Obviously I’m not qualified to weigh in on the prognosis of George’s injury considering I’m not a doctor. I’m not an NBA Insider or classically trained journalist either, which simply proves America is the greatest country on Earth. Still, people need to stop talking about Paul George as if he has died. They also need to stop talking as if we can climb into the WABAC Machine and tell him to sit the fourth quarter out. Mr. Peabody isn’t walking through that door anytime soon, which means Pacers fans need to stop friend requesting every American named Sherman and shift their focus to what happens moving forward.

To be as completely unclear as possible, wholesale changes to the Pacers roster are not necessary, however they shouldn’t be considered totally removed from the realm of possibility either. Aside from the glaring fact George is in no way eulogy material, he’s also yet to reach his prime production years.

Only in his mid- twenties, George’s window for competing at a high level is so wide open even the average American could still squeeze through it. This means if we do see the Pacers brass dismantling this roster, there should be no panic. If Indiana chooses to retool, they still have a franchise player coming back in 2015; one who should do so at a high level.

While the sum of it all is maddeningly incalculable, the facts are somewhat clearer. Paul George has a long road ahead to make it back and the Pacers front office has went from having some really big decisions to make to having a lot more really big decisions to make.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Upon Further Review: Lance Will Be Missed

First appeared on July 18, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

Lance Stephenson’s signing with the Charlotte Hornets, or Bobcats, or Hornets again, whatever they've decided to call themselves this season, generated almost no buzz whatsoever. Considering it is the deadest sports week of the year, this must leave those in the Stephenson camp feeling somewhat inadequate; like a 'let's go buy a monster truck and cut the tailpipe off it and accelerate loudly through a retirement village trying to scare people' kind of inadequate'.

This in the wake of LeBron’s decision to return to Cleveland, one broadcast in 195 different countries and every planet from Earth to the one Vladimir Putin calls home. Meanwhile, Charlotte is bracing for Stephenson’s arrival as if he were Hurricane Lance instead of a mercurial, multi-talented guard who does nothing but play hard, agitate opponents and do his physical best to run through walls on a nightly basis.

And while only a loon would ever argue fans owe professional athletes anything, in this case one small exception should be made. And before you get started, it’s not about cars and gold watches and chains or free beer vouchers for the State Fair, though I’m sure this would be welcomed by even the craziest of loons.

In this case let us offer a kind-hearted “Thank you”. Thank you Lance, for being the junkyard dog. Thank you for caring in those times it appeared many of your teammates had forgotten the basic fundamentals of team basketball or the definition of the word 'compete'. Thank you for the triple doubles and spectacular finishes at the rim. Thank you for your goofy All Star video and your ‘never, ever, no matter what happens will I ever back down’ attitude.

While I’m at it, we probably owe you an apology for any Ron Artest comparisons you’ve endured. For all practical purposes, your actions never warranted those. People considered your roots and the things you were perceived to be capable of while passing judgment. You played for a franchise whose greatest player was renowned for flashing choke signs and is run by the NBA’s single greatest trash talker of all time; so if giving a choke sign and blowing in someone’s ear are the worst things you do in life, kudos.

For some, Lance’s departure is a somber moment. Don't confuse this with a eulogy for the Pacers title chances for that will come in November if they plan to head into next season with the current roster. Heart, toughness and playmaking are just three things the Pacers will lack in Stephenson’s absence.

Few can argue there were instances where the ball stuck in his hands. Despite this, nearly every time the Pacers appeared rudderless, Lance was the only one who consistently tried his best to right the ship. He was a hard-nosed, high energy guy and that’s not something many in the NBA can boast on a resume.

It would seem we’ve been all too quick to forget the times the Pacers were booed off the floor last year (see being down 30 to Atlanta in the first half). In those games, Stephenson was by himself playing his brains out. He was a wild stallion who did his best to stay in the stall, who fought the urge to go ‘all out playground’ on opponents and tried as best he could to operate within the framework of Frank Vogel’s system; though we all witnessed how extremely difficult this was for him at times.

So now he’s left for greener pastures. And though a max contract guy he may never be, he was an important piece of the Pacer puzzle and one that must be replaced with another gutty playmaker. If this can’t be done, then the remaining roster has to be reshuffled. Either way, if the Pacers plan to contend in the East again, then their off season must be far from over.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

How Soccer finally gained its U.S. citizenship

First appeared on June 24, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

So the U.S. had Portugal on the ropes only to come up short. I say ‘short’ as a fan of the three big North American sports where to end in a tie remains a largely foreign concept (all apologies to the occasional NFL game and hockey, who will forever remain one rung above Disney on ice).
For those American’s still easing their way into the water, soccer can seem unnecessarily complicated. Red cards, yellow cards and a vaguely accurate extended period of play known as stoppage time all serve to muddy their understanding of the game.

Not to mention the fact the United States couldn’t dominate Portugal in the way the U.S. should dominate Portugal in absolutely everything known to man. Lowly Portugal, who’ve given what to the world in the last 200 years? The list is predictably short and is highlighted by cork production and the invention of the pre-paid mobile phone card. Certainly not on the same level as the car, airplane, computer or "Jersey Shore".

Still the World Cup finally appears to be making inroads in the United States. Part of this movement lies in the unique way the tournament brings so many together. It is the great unifier. Be it a local bar, gathering at ones house or public viewing party, when it comes to the World Cup at least, everyone finds themselves on the same team; save the stray exchange student or vociferous ex-pat snarking at those knuckle-dragging Americans only now waking to the allure of the draw.

For the longest time Americans couldn’t wrap their bulbous heads around the fact half the world is actually watching this thing, preferring instead to pretend half the world is far too busy marveling at the innovation and sophistication of Americans to ever have enough free time to watch sports on television.

Many Americans are beginning to see the World Cup for what it is however. The pageantry of the SuperBowl and nationalism of the Olympics combined with the kind of over-the-top acting generally reserved for a poorly directed production of community theatre. The real question begs however, as far as the U.S. sports consumer is concerned, has soccer finally arrived?

From the inception of the MLS down to the Indy Eleven, a burgeoning nationwide youth system and the fact the tiny 1A school I attended many moons ago, one where football has long been king, has finally formed a soccer club, all signs point to yes.

Considering socialized medicine, the death of imperialism and the rise of soccer, it would seem we as Americans have a history of arriving late to the all the best parties. With a national hysteria over the ending of the match with Portugal and the fevered anticipation of a faceoff with Germany that could propel us out of the vaunted Group of Death, soccer suddenly finds itself part of the national lexicon.

So it would appear the time has come to elbow Germany and England aside and assume our place at the trough. On the surface it’s a match made in heaven, for Bernie Madoff and those in the FIFA front office should hit it off smashingly.

So for all those years spent largely ignoring the World Cup. All those who gawked in bewilderment at Euro League jerseys tootling about the malls and theme parks of America. All the backyard fortune tellers espousing so passionately how “It’s catching on” or “One of these days it’ll be huge”. Mark this date on your calendars sports fans for, as far as American culture is concerned, it would seem soccer has finally arrived.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Jordan vs. James? Far Too Early For That

First appeared on June 12, 2014 in
The Lebanon Reporter

While San Antonio surges towards the fifth Title of the Gregg Popovich era, the talking heads are at it again. Creating news amidst a Finals devoid of sexy storylines. As the Spurs clinic on team basketball continues chugging towards the land of Larry O’Brien, the media yawns, rubs its eyes and turns its focus towards LeBron’s place in history. Is it time to say he’s better than Jordan?

The real problem is San Antonio. Their stars seem to enjoy playing together, their star in waiting appears to relish his role in the shadows and their head coach is about as quotable as Michelangelo’s David. Rare have we seen a blander shade of vanilla in Professional Basketball.

But the noise, oh the noise, noise, noise! Lebron James can’t fight through cramps. He’s the softest 6’8-280 the sports world has ever seen. Wait a minute, Miami won? LeBron is the best player in the world! Better dare we say than the man himself? Is LeBron James better than Michael Jordan? It’s a tantalizing debate indeed, and one those born in the 1980’s or after need to see their way out of immediately. To fully appreciate what Michael Jordan accomplished you had to be doing something other than filling your drawers and living bottle to bottle in the 80’s (insert poorly crafted Gary Busey joke here).

Secondly, all those closeted Bulls fans from the 90’s need to stand down as well. Those who were once so rabid and widespread, but have somehow largely disappeared, or simply grown too round to fit into their jackets, hats and jerseys anymore. The only people qualified to weigh in on this topic are truly objective basketball fans, or those who grew up despising Jordan, embraced an “NBA Small Market Conspiracy Theory” when the Lakers defeated the Pacers in the Finals and eventually found a gig as a Part-Time-Pretend-Sports Columnist.

Now that we have our panelist, let’s continue. As of this exact moment, Michael Jordan is the best basketball player this universe has ever seen (and yes, that includes the planet Lovetron). Perseverance is the first characteristic that sets MJ apart from LeBron. On his way to six titles, Jordan’s Bulls lost their first three playoff series before experiencing three straight season ending losses to the Pistons (once in the Conference Semis and twice in the Conference Finals).

Enter Exhibit A. Michael Jordan didn’t sulk his way into free agency. He didn’t shudder and quit in the face of elimination and he didn’t recruit other superstars to help him get to the top. Jordan went back to work and became a stronger player, helping the Bulls defeat the Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals the next season. This is perseverance and it’s a characteristic that separates Michael from LeBron. Advantage Jordan.

Exhibit B would be the Hall of Fame. When it’s all said and done, James will have played with no less than three Hall of Fame players (four if and when Chris Anderson is voted into the Street Performer and Carnival Worker Hall of Fame). Jordan’s six title teams fell well short of including four Hall of Fame players. Advantage Jordan.

Exhibit C would be Titles. Jordan has six, James two. Advantage Jordan. This is largely why expert witness Mark Jackson was careful to call James the “best small forward of all time” and not the “greatest of all time”. This is also why Jordan has no reaction when people call James the greatest. MJ knows facts are facts and right now the facts clearly show LeBron james, while amazing and seemingly inhuman, must bolster his resume to eclipse Jordan.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

BREAKING NEWS: First Round exit not what Larry wanted

First appeared on May 1st, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

My dad took me to my first Indiana Pacers game at 13. It was a regular season tilt featuring Larry Bird’s World Champion Boston Celtics. And while I knew the Pacers weren’t good, finding Market Square a swirling sea of green, an army of auto mechanics and accountants shoulder to shoulder in the same Bird jerseys each swooning over Larry Legend, was completely unexpected.

The Celtics arrival had inspired the first sell out since the last time they were in town, prompting a silver haired usher to gush about the curtains finally being raised on the upper level. In the shadow of a World Champion, the Pacers played like a semi-pro team. The crowd surged with every shot Bird made, chanting his name after every pass he threaded, and cheered for every rebound he corralled. Everything about the night seemed out of place as 17,000 strong appeared to resent any resistance the Pacers put forth.

Meanwhile, from the row behind, two rosy cheeked draft experts blasted the Pacers 6’7 rookie wing for not being Steve Alford. The gangly kid from UCLA with the ears. “They should have drafted his sister, she’d help the Pacers more.” “He didn’t play for Knight, he doesn’t know basketball.” Brilliance personified.

Life is funny. Who could have known that so much of Indiana’s history as a franchise would be tied to that fateful night in 1987? Who knew that wide eyed rookie with the big ears would put the Pacers back on the map, shoot them into the Finals while sticking a finger in New York City’s eye along the way? Reggie Miller was fiery, fearless and played with a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas.

And when Reggie and Larry joined forces in 1997 Pacers fans rejoiced in George Costanza-like fashion, “Worlds are colliding!” But alas Reggie’s Hall of Fame career is over leaving Larry to look on helplessly from his perch along the baseline, in the city he once dominated as a champion, reduced to watching all his hopes and dreams for a Pacers’ Title swirl down the proverbial toilet.

This unforeseen tailspin has been rife with misery and heartbreak, confounding experts while putting a once effervescent head coach firmly on edge. And as Pacer Fans everywhere hold their collective breath, waiting for the moment the Hawks realize they are the 8 seed and decide to give up and go away, everyone with a brain has reached the conclusion this current group of Pacers are not Larry and Reggie.

They don’t necessarily play together. They don’t consistently outwork opponents. They aren’t hard-nosed and seem to floudner around in an unfocused manner for most of a 48 minute game. For proof one need look no further than Hawks Forward Mike Scott, Reggie would have told a Davis boy to put him in the second row before Scott could make five three pointers in a quarter (Larry would have done it himself).

By Nature Midwestern sports fans are a tolerant lot. They’re willing to suffer through almost anything (see Cubs, Chicago). But a perceived lack of effort is taboo in the Midwest. The Pacers branded themselves with defense and hard work, but there’s been nothing ‘Blue Collar’ about them since the calendar turned 2014.

This isn’t about X’s and O’s. It’s about guts, bravado and playing fearlessly. These are qualities that allowed Larry and Reggie to excel. These are also qualities the current Indiana Pacers would be well served to develop quickly. If Paul, David, Ringo and Roy don’t come to the realization soon that nothing easy is worth having, the only thing hanging from the rafters in Banker’s Life will be a curtain blocking empty seats.


© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

While many words may describe Pacers, none are good

First appeared on April 11th, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

The Pacers are in a freefall. And this would be entirely understandable if Head Coach Frank Vogel sat on the sidelines in an ultra-cool top hat wailing on a Rickenbacker 12 string as 30,000 strong swayed in unison with Bics blazing, “she’s a good girl…” But alas, there are no vampires walkin’ through the valley and it looks like the only people who are ‘gonna leave this world for a while’ are Pacer fans.

So the Pacers have a case of Full Moon Fever, or at the very least are experiencing the largest identity crisis in the history of Professional Sports (all apologies to Dennis Rodman). Either way, there’s only one word to describe the month of March for Indiana; well there are actually many words to describe it but my editor has shot most of the others down.

Indiana has been terrible. They haven’t even been good enough to be classified as the proverbial “shell of their former self”. Up and down the roster, up and down the stat sheet and up and down the court, the Pacers have set professional basketball in the state of Indiana back 5,000 years in a mere 30 days.

And when you’ve played your way down to the bottom of the barrel you get a pat on the back and some time off. Who knew refusing to come out of the locker room after halftime could be so taxing? Or perhaps the most exhausting part was refusing to stand and join the team huddle during time outs? Or was it going online to complain about hard working people who’ve grown so disgusted with the spectacle that is your team right now that they chose to boo?

These would be the same hard working people who made the conscious decision to take time from their lives and money from their pocket, money that could have as easily been put to something more worthwhile such as feeding their children or buying their brother-in-law’s family a hotel room, to drive downtown and watch a team that claims to be the flagship for an entire state.

By nature Hoosiers are not quitters. Whiners maybe, but not quitters. So our flagship team only has it half right at the moment. It’s too late for solutions. It’s also too late to pay some high priced sports psychologist to lug his oversized crushed velvet couch from the big city all the way out to the sticks. There are no trades to be made. There are no speeches to be given. There is no time to move west down Ventura Boulevard for a barbeque at Paul George’s house.

The Playoffs are coming. And while Frank Vogel can stop the bleeding temporarily by sitting his starters in Milwaukee, what he can’t stop is Fate. Fate allowed Indiana to start the year 33-7. Fate made Paul George an All Star and Fate kept Lance Stephenson home. And Fate, fickle as ever, helped Memphis defeat Miami Wednesday night propelling the lackluster Pacers into first place atop the Eastern Conference.

So for as bad as it’s been, lest we forget just how unbelievably bad it has been, the Pacers’ main goal still remains within reach somehow. Friday night they play the Heat (perhaps it’s better to say the scheduling gods have the Pacers and Heat in the same building Friday night). And while it will appear to some as simply 1 of 82 regular season games, Friday night will speak volumes. The season won’t be won on Friday night, but unless Indiana arrives with the mentality that they ‘Won’t Back Down’, there’s a real possibility it could be lost.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Prepare to be Shocked: Wichita State no Cinderella

First appeared on March 26, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

The blueprint for life is simple. Eight glasses of water a day, four glasses of milk, six helpings of fruit, a teaspoon of red meat here and there, stay on the right side of the road, avoid falling space junk, squeeze in twenty five hours of exercise a week and maybe you live to see sixty.

The blueprint for building a college basketball program is a bit more complex. Recruiting used to be simple. A high profile coach takes a Friday night trip to a small town gym. Red faced locals stop riding that new coach, the one who thinks you can win games playing zone and walking the ball up the floor, long enough to fawn over the big dog in the crowd. The high profile coach smiles, shakes hands with the parents, walks around and kicks the tires while saying all the right things. The deal gets done with a handshake, sealing a young player's lifelong dream of playing for State U.

Today coaches are up against ESPN, internet rankings, Twitter and the seedy underbelly of AAU circuits. Maybe that’s what made Gregg Marshall and Wichita State so appealing. They seemed to provided a much needed alternative. On the surface they were everything big time college basketball wasn’t.

Enter Kentucky and their high flying Blue Bloods. Hot off the AAU circuit, the best recruiting class in college basketball history. Enter John Calipari. One part college coach, one part politician, one part Dark Lord of the One and Done World. Work the phones, kiss some babies, get the top five guys on the board and ride them like the British are coming. And when the dust settles and they’ve all declared for the Draft, pick up your phone and start over.

Surely Calipari would take one look at Gregg Marshall and tell you that boy’s climbing on the horse from the wrong end. For if John Calipari’s a chef, Gregg Marshall’s an architect. Building something from the ground up. Taking kids so far from Kentucky’s radar they might as well have been playing in some remote Pacific island near Kiribati, shooting coconuts into empty oil drums nailed to palm trees. Molding them, shaping them, teaching them to be part of something bigger than themselves.

Maybe it was the fact Marshall’s speeches seemed so authentic, his words bordering on the prophetic that made me want to see Wichita State drum Kentucky Sunday. “Play angry, play for each other”. Maybe it was the little dog in the big fight that had me clambering onto the Shocker bandwagon, or maybe it was simply the fact that, as a Hoosier, I’m blessed with a bottomless reservoir of hatred for the Wildcats.

Either way it was short lived. In the end Kentucky’s thoroughbreds thundered past the Shockers. Thirty five wins and a cloud of dust. Still the power of the team isn’t lost. What five players, five recruits the big schools barely knew existed, connected on both ends of the floor can do, even when pitted against the best recruiting class in NCAA history.

They took Kentucky to the edge. They mussed Calipari’s perfect hair. And though they came up short on the scoreboard, Gregg Marshall did more than put Wichita State back on the map, he reminded us all what college basketball is supposed to be. Players committed to each other, committed to the name on the front of the jersey.

Players thinking, acting, responding and moving as one. In today’s land of one and dones, Wichita State was ice cold lemonade on the Fourth of July, proving Marshall’s blueprint, while not the most popular, remains time tested.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Indiana Pacers will survive this Deep Freeze

First appeared on March 14, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

You know it’s too cold when a young and energetic State Representative, entirely convinced he was brought into this world to enact real change, surrenders and submits a bill to the Indiana House mandating the statewide erection of Penguin Crossing signs. What happened to the Global Warming goons and their rising temperatures? I suppose I need to get out and drive my car more. Turn on all the lights in my house and install a coal chute on my fireplace. Maybe that would warm this place up.

Perhaps the Indiana Pacers current free-fall is simply art imitating life. Losers of four in a row up until Boston came to town, Indiana helped the Celtics carry their bags from the bus, for nothing can stop a losing streak faster than facing a roster comprised largely of players who should be buried deep on another team’s bench.

How could a team with the best record in professional basketball appear so uncompetitive? Who knows. Why do news outlets insist on giving us poll numbers when we know they’ve been calling the same people over and over again for years? I don’t know about you, but nobody has ever phoned me about chemical weapons in Syria.

Some contend Indiana’s tailspin stems from a lack of ball movement, others blame poor defense. They look disinterested as a group, tired or it’s the impotent play of their young stud who’s been too busy reading writers far more gifted and relevant than yours truly telling the free world how talented he is. I’m sure at some point all of these apply and if I knew the real answer you’d find me interviewing Greg Popovich during a time out on national television.

Perhaps the Pacers, like their fans, have succumbed to temptation, looking past the remaining games on the schedule. The Playoffs are so close everyone with a horse still in the race can smell them. A potpourri of stale hot dogs, historic moments and 17,000 exuberant people with varying philosophies on personal hygiene sharing a poorly ventilated space in late May.

The playoffs, a place where Championships roam free in herds so large a man could sit down and watch them pass for days. Packed arenas in full throat and fervor, watching with wide eyes as careers are made and ruined with the bounce of one ball.

The unfortunate fact in all this is the Pacers are contractually bound to play the rest of the games on their schedule. Sure we’d all walk across the street to watch a seven game series with Miami tomorrow, but alas Milwaukee calls.

Milwaukee with its 51 losses and semi-professional roster, including one go-getter who stopped in mid play while his team was on defense earlier in the season to tie his shoe. Saying there are too many games in the NBA regular season is like saying Washington doesn’t work. We understand it’s a proven fact and to discuss it is simply beating a horse that died during the Stone Age.

So the Pacers are left to pick up the pieces and move on. Speaking in proverbials, they must rally, right the ship, circle the wagons and get everyone on the same page. It will warm up at some point and so too will the Pacers.

In the meantime sit back and enjoy the ride, this long and winding detour through Antarctica will soon be over and the Playoffs will be here. And if a banner is hung in Bankers Life come June, all the plunging temperatures, burst pipes and time spent digging out, which triggered an avalanche of blustery blizzard-like blues so deep and wide it buried our souls long ago, will have all been worth it somehow.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

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Bad Haircuts and the Death of America

First appeared on February 28, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

The Federal Court system is a complex entity managed by a group of highly decorated and intelligent men and women. The kind who rarely answer their own phones or experience the joy of cleaning up after their dog. People entrusted with the sobering responsibility of maintaining public order by holding dangerous criminals accountable or deciding if a basketball coach has the right to tell a player to cut his hair.

Nobody should take a 14 year old to task for anything his parents have allowed to happen. This is more about the parents. In fact, this is more about the parents currently suing their school corporation in Greensburg to challenge a coach’s right to demand his players meet certain expectations (hair that is above the ears, eyes and collar) in order to be part of a team.

‘Part of a team’. We don’t even understand what that means anymore. Today part of a team means everyone plays the same amount of minutes and receives the same sized trophy. This socialist approach has fostered a land of individuals choking on a sense of entitlement.

During WW II we were a team. Rosie the Riveter declared “We can do it”, not “I”. The result was a historic mobilization of labor and sacrifice that propelled us to Superpower status. This was unfortunately short-lived. We kept the Superpower status because it was cool and got us into all the best parties, we just gave up the working hard part.

In a world of instant gratification, ‘earning’ something through sacrifice has become altogether foreign. We round bellied Americans have been far too busy living off the momentum of the Forties and Fifties for any of that nonsense.

By definition a true team does not exist amidst the absence of hard work and sacrifice. Yet today hard work and sacrifice are looked upon as mere annoyances our great grandfathers had to deal with because there were only three channels on television and Al Gore hadn’t invented the Internet yet. Our younger generations have developed a troubling clinical phobia of sacrifice and nobody is to blame but we as parents.

So little Johnny crawls out to meet the world and is blanketed with the popping flash of camera bulbs before being crowned ‘Greatest Child Ever’. The way he slobbers and chews on his teething ring is unlike any before. He may not be able to fight through a setback, but he can count to twelve in French.

And when they leave diapers, the skies only darken. Far too often we as parents tell our children their teachers and coaches CAN’T do something, as if the Founding Fathers, when not busy framing the Constitution, were getting tossed from AAU tournaments and going nose to nose with little Sally Jefferson’s cheer coach. When I was 14 I brought a paper home to my mom, complaining the cold hearted snake who moonlighted by day as my English Teacher had “given me a D”. After reviewing my work, my mom’s immediate response was “You should be happy, I’d have given you an F.” And to his credit, my father never once questioned my high school coach for refusing to play the greatest shooter in the history of basketball more.

It’s not their fault. In trying to do the right thing for our kids we unwittingly take their side in everything, thus dismissing persistence and determination. We are poisoning their perception of reality and accelerating the deterioration of the American Dream simultaneously. It doesn’t matter if you’re talking about the Greeks, Romans, Egyptians or the Lakers, every great civilization throughout history has eventually crumbled. NEWS FLASH- America isn't far behind. The good news is China and India are loving every minute of it, the bad news is fixing it will require a lot of hard work.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Rushmore not big enough for Indiana Legends

First appeared on February 14, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

Completed in 1941, Mount Rushmore’s sixty foot tall façade was carved from sheer rock, blasted by dynamite and chiseled by hand. Commemoration on a massive scale, and yet only four men were chosen. Four Presidents of the 29 grazing in the paddock at the time. So much for the Adams boys or Woodrow Wilson. And what do you say to William Howard Taft? “We’re sorry Mr. Former President Sir, but the geologists feared there just wasn’t enough rock in all of South Dakota to carve you.”

Thanks largely to its remote location and proximity to nothing, Mount Rushmore has become one of our most forgotten National Treasures. But it surfaced earlier this week when LeBron James, apparently trying to change the subject from the fact he’s been looking up at the Pacers all season, offered his “Mount Rushmore of the NBA” instead. In the world according to LeBron, the four greatest players ever are Larry, Magic, Michael and Oscar Robertson.

The fact half of King James’ choices included former Hoosiers was immediately apparent. And while his comments inspired a flurry of lists including everything from the “Rushmore of NFL Greats” to that of “Best Sports Equipment Managers”, it did get this Part Time Pretend Sports Columnist thinking.

In a state infatuated with round ball, is it possible to determine the four greatest players ever? Any list involving the state of Indiana’s Mount Rushmore of Basketball surely must include Oscar Robertson first. The Big O remains the only NBA player to average a triple double for an entire season. His trophy case boasts our nation’s first State Title won by an all black school (’55-Crispus Attucks), a gold medal (‘60 Olympics) and a World Championship (‘71 Milwaukee Bucks).

The Rocket would be next. Rick Mount’s picture perfect jumper and propensity for scoring propelled him onto a historic 1966 Sports Illustrated cover. This honor did more than introduce a phenom to the nation, it threw a national spotlight on Indiana High School basketball, effectively becoming the cornerstone for our state’s reputation as a hotbed for the sport. After 50 years, Mount’s 2,595 career points at Lebanon still ranks fourth all time in state history and his 2,323 points at Purdue is still the most ever scored by a Boilermaker. All this, it should be noted, done while being a sharpshooter with dynamic range playing in an era without a three point line.

Larry Bird’s journey began in the hills of Orange County. At Springs Valley High he averaged 31 points, 21 rebounds and 4 assists before going on to lead tiny Indiana State to a watershed Final Four match-up with Michigan State’s Magic Johnson. As a Celtic, Bird earned 3 league MVP’s and 3 NBA Championships in addition to a gold medal playing for the single greatest basketball team ever assembled (Note to younger readers: google the ‘92Dream Team’).

The fourth and final face was admittedly most difficult. Honorable mention goes to Marion Pierce, George McGinnis and Damon Bailey, but in the end it’s Steve Alford. A former Mr. Basketball (’83), Olympic Gold Medalist (’84) and NCAA Champion (’87), Alford was also a two time NCAA All American while playing for the legendary Bobby Knight at Indiana University.

From John Wooden to the Milan Miracle to over 150 players who’ve gone on to play professionally, Indiana has more than a passion for basketball, it has a rich history as well. And you can forget the side of a mountain, true Hoosiers will want these faces painted on the roof of an old Mail Pouch Tobacco barn somewhere far from the beaten path.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Manning is the 'Top of the Heap"

First appeared on January 30, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

Start spreading the news. I’m leaving today. I want to wake up in the city that doesn’t sleep and catch a train to the Super Bowl in New Jersey. Yes friends the infamous “New York” Super Bowl has finally arrived.

How fitting the forecast would be mid thirties and rain, considering the only thing worse than taking a train clogged with half-tanked businessmen in five hundred dollar arctic parkas before standing in a security line for two hours only to assume your tiny perch outside in a February rainstorm is the fact most have paid well over $3,000 for the chance to do so.

It’s been a long two weeks for Part Time Pretend Sports Columnists everywhere as storylines in New York, not unlike a meal for under $100, have proven difficult to find. They’ve done everything short of resurrecting Tim Tebow, bouncing from the Richard Sherman interview to Peyton’s legacy to the sophistication of New York to openly questioning the strong nose and masculine jaw line of Lady Liberty.

So the Mad Clapper, Seahawks coach Pete Carroll, giggle-snorts his way to the Big Apple as his Pro-Bowl corner reaffirms his position that he is in fact the greatest cornerback in our solar system. And as President Obama stood before a joint session of Congress to give his State of the Union address Tuesday night, surely even he must have realized that the Sherman interview, and ESPN’s subsequent fanning of the non-existent flames, did more in three days to galvanize the nation than he’s been able to do in the past five years.

Now we stand as an adopted nation of orange, shoulder to shoulder in our wooden barrels and Mork from Ork suspenders, our heads playing home, if only temporarily, to one of those ridiculous plastic horse-head hats that would make even Brad Pitt, dapper as he may be, look like a complete tool. Brimming with optimism, we are bolstered by the hope the Broncos will help Manning grab a second Lombardi Trophy, united in a mutual dislike for Pete Carroll.

The best Red Zone offense against the best Red Zone defense, a quarterback in the midst of the greatest season in the history of the forward pass and a notoriously loud, game-changing Twelfth Man left to scream their heads off in living rooms three thousand miles away. Yes, it would appear the only true hope Seattle has would be Chris Christie pulling a few strings to keep Manning out of the end zone.

For their part, Colts fans are left to cast a jealous eye from afar, knowing that no matter how many Super Bowls he may win as a Bronco, Peyton Manning will always be a Colt. Well at least he will be with the older generation whose attention span exceeds five minutes and realizes an appreciation for history is more than simply remembering how excellent those Pop Tarts were at breakfast.

So as ESPN beats the Manning angle to death and plays up the sophistication of New York City, its celebrities and everything it can boast that Indy could not, fear not fellow Hoosiers, let us rejoice in our forecast. No rain and a guaranteed 70 degrees. We can relax on the comfort of our own floral print couches, stuffing our faces with pork rinds, guzzling our 64 oz sodas while pausing our DVR’s to slop the hogs and open a fresh pouch of Red Man, all the while resting safe in the knowledge there’s a loaded shotgun behind the bedroom door and we hosted football’s big game long before the Big Apple. Good luck Peyton.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

As AJ Hammons Turns...

First appeared on January 17th, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

Potential. It’s such an enigmatic term. And as a rule, throughout history, in most credible walks of life and the marriages of at least one part time pretend sports columnist, ‘potential’ doesn’t get one very far.

Yet potential can mean everything to sports fans. You see a 6’7 Adonis-in-Jumpman shorts with the wingspan of Christ the Redeemer (yes Jay Bilas, we said wingspan) grab a nickel off the top of the backboard and immediately people are talking Championship.
But does potential really exist, or is it simply a term used to describe anything that’s underperforming? Few will argue the massive ‘potential’ Purdue’s sophomore center AJ Hammons possesses and Boiler fans will testify unanimously that, when AJ wants to play, he’s capable of completely transforming the make-up of Purdue’s team.

Many a late night has been spent by a bleary eyed Matt Painter, scouring EBAY for a Tyler Hansbrough-like motor he can score on the cheap. For he knows, if such a motor were propelling Hammons’, Purdue wouldn’t lose another game; ever. Well, at least not until he graduates or enters the NBA draft, the latter of which appears most likely to occur first.

What really exists is Hammons 7’0, 250 pound frame and wingspan; one rivaling a small single engine Cessna (yes Jay, that’s massive). In fact no player in the Big Ten, NCAA, or most of the NBA’s Eastern Conference for that matter, is capable of stopping an engaged AJ Hammons. The part where Matt Painter’s head begins to reunite with the locker room wall repeatedly is Hammons’ play, which was integral in Purdue’s road victory at Illinois Wednesday night but has been noticeably inconsistent.

Painter’s group garnered no preseason attention and, with Sparty still chugging along strong, Wisconsin entering conference play undefeated and Iowa busy opening eyes nationally, Purdue remains firmly entrenched under the radar. Despite this, Painter has quietly put together a promising freshman class.

Fort Wayne’s Bryson Scott leads the Boilers in steals while Basil Smotherman (Lawrence North) is a slippery wing capable of making heady plays. These two join a pair of transplants from the Land of Lincoln in Jay Simpson, a punishing 6-10 Red Shirt, and Kendall Stephens, who leads the team in three pointers and enters with the added pressure of being the son of Boilermaker legend Everett Stephens.

Clearly young talent abounds in Painter’s stable, but these pieces are rendered moderately ineffective when Hammons is battling fouls or taking one of his frustratingly frequent breaks from playing inspired basketball. The obvious elephant in the room is the fact Hammons appears to be everything Matt Painter never even wanted in a basketball player. A fondness for high energy, hustle guys who play their guts out has become Painter’s calling card and to this point Hammons simply doesn’t play his guts out that much, if ever.

His size, brute strength and wingspan (put the tape measure away Jay) makes it possible for him to dominate without, you know, breaking a sweat or increasing his resting heart rate. Hammons came into the Illinois game averaging just south of 10 points and 7 rebounds a game. Wednesday night NBA Scouts could only drool longingly as Painter’s pivot scored 17 points, grabbed 8 boards and rejected 3 shots, including a late run where he scored on an offensive rebound before notching a key blocked shot to help seal the win.

So as Painter labors to restore relevance to his program amidst a Big Ten season that can be brutally long, he does so knowing full well this particular season, much like Hammons, is chocked full of potential.


© 2013 Eric Walker Williams