Welcome to Next Year

First appeared on April 19, 2016
in The Lebanon Reporter

In case you haven’t checked the calendar recently, let me be the first to welcome you to next year. Sure your phone says it’s 2016, but history will remember this as ‘next year’. Archaeologists in the foothills of the Andes recently unearthed a scroll containing an original version of the Mayan calendar. In addition to calling for the end of the world in 2012, this new document includes a small asterisk next to a phrase loosely translated as: “And if life should somehow continue, a small bear will conquer the world in 2016”.

For over 100 years now, beleaguered Cub fans have found solace in the battle cry ‘wait till next year!’ Let me be the first to say this excuse has run its course. Gone the way of the dinosaur, Ivory Billed Woodpecker and any hope Donald Trump had of becoming our next president. Welcome to next year friends, the year your Chicago Cubs finally get it done.

Did I write this same column last year at roughly this exact date? Sure, but we in the part-time-pretend sports columnist business don’t dwell on the past. We look to the future, because the future is rife with fodder for columns, commentary and, thanks to the information age ushering in the age of short attention spans, ridiculous predictions nobody will remember in three months anyway.

So next year turned on the calendar and you decided action was necessary, considering you’ve spent the better part of 30 years waiting for it. In your haste to squeeze as much as possible into the only next year you’re ever going to see, you threw the kids in the car and headed north as the rest of humanity was thinking south. Your goal? To see all five Great Lakes in one week by car, and return home alive and un-divorced.

Fueled by your desire to provide an invaluable learning opportunity for the hatchlings, you made your way from the angry shores of Superior down to Lake Michigan only to have your four-year-old ask if people in Michigan always swim wearing mittens and scarves. Then it was on to Lake Erie where your eight-year-old had the epiphany that it doesn’t really matter where you go, all the Great Lakes are probably going to look pretty much the same.

Basking in the manufactured world of Shedd’s Aquarium, you failed as a father when trying to explain the importance of the Stinkpot Turtle’s role in the ecosystem. This was only compounded after you found yourself unloading on the twenty-something guide who wasted half your tour building a case for Abba’s inclusion in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Still, you somehow survived it all, undaunted and filled with the hope only a next year can bring.

The Cubs have great pitching and incredible offensive firepower. They have the brightest front office mind in baseball and a manager who boasts the perfect balance of baseball knowledge and weirdness. Of course baseball knowledge is a necessity for, you know, winning games. It’s the weirdness factor that is so undervalued in the search for managerial talent today. And it is Joe Maddon’s exponential weirdness that should help a young team navigate the minefield ahead. A minefield dotted with the pressures of a World Series, and the mental fatigue a 162 game season will undoubtedly bring.

The result of all of this is should be a fully loaded steam train barreling down the tracks come October. One doing so with so much force there isn’t a goat, cardinal or Kansas City Royal strong enough to derail it; for this is it, there are no more next years friend.

© 2016 Eric Walker Williams

Fare Thee well Yogi

First appeared on March 29, 2016
in The Lebanon Reporter

This is the time of the year when people turn to sportswriters, be they real or pretend, to explain the madness surrounding them. By law, sportswriters possess an aura of all-knowingness. One granted by beings beyond this world, which only serves to make the power all the more dangerous, all the more mystical and pretty much unavailable on HSN.

It is a power that enables sportswriters to not only make sense of the madness, but also refuse to acknowledge when they’re clearly wrong. The good news is, supernatural powers like these come in real handy when Carol from accounting asks why the sportswriters bracket finished last in the office pool.

If you’re like me, you took the hard earned money your children were counting on, whether for immediate sustenance or future college tuition, and let it ride on your ability to see into the future. The madness arrived and suddenly it became wholly unclear why you made the choices you did. You’re left a confused mess, boomeranging to the day your second grade teacher failed at explaining why we have a seven-tee and a six-tee, but for whatever reason there is no five-tee.

These belong to the unexplained. Dark strands of mystery woven together by careful hands, forming the imperfect fabric of life. Things like why North Carolina doubled their three-pointers made against Indiana, why a large coke at Steak and Shake is the same size as a medium at McDonald's or why your father chose to walk around the house in his underwear after eleven o'clock.

And so you stand in the midst of destruction. Your flaming bracket, your cackling co-workers, your wife bellyaching your five-dollar investment in the office pool belies a potential gambling problem. And, of course, your children, who herd around the foot of your recliner like piglets at an empty trough, staring at you, their innocent eyes watering, impatient tummies grumbling.

March is when the great ones separate themselves. And while a fifteen-point loss in the Sweet Sixteen may not be the way Yogi Ferrell wanted to close his career as an Indiana Hoosier, such is the madness of March. Ferrell came in a highly touted freshman. Four years later, he leaves a truly rare species. He was both diminutive and powerful, a jitterbug with range. He wanted to rock u to sleep, he wanted to rip your heart out with the step back or orchestrate another thundering flush. He wanted to prove little guys still belonged, but above all else he wanted to win.
Ferrell finishes as one of only five Hoosiers to score over 1,000 career points, grab 300 rebounds and dish out at least 400 assists. He is the school’s all time leader in assists and stands sixth in scoring. But what makes Yogi so rare is not his rabid productivity, rather it’s the fact he was this productive and still chose to stay four years.

The one-and-done culture in which we exist is the reason for the death of really good college basketball. It's also the reason Calbert Cheaney’s record as the Big Ten’s all time leading scorer has stood unchallenged for almost 25 years. Decisions like Ferrell’s are one factor in the only equation complex enough to explain March Madness; I’d walk you through it here, but math is a lot like witchcraft and witchcraft creeps me out.
In the end, all we can say is thank you. Thank you, Yogi. Thanks for staying another year. Thanks for a lifetime of memories. Thanks for playing your guts out every single minute and, above all, thanks for being a Hoosier.

© 2016 Eric Walker Williams

Tom Crean is a Cockroach

First appeared on March 11, 2016
in The Lebanon Reporter

People ask all the time if I’ve ever killed a man. The answer is fairly obvious, considering the life of a part time pretend sports columnist isn’t all glitz and glamor. Sometimes we have to roll our sleeves up and do some dangerous work; things normally reserved for ninjas, trained assassins or Mexican plastic surgeons who work out of motel bathrooms.

Take last year for example, I killed Tom Crean after his team was bounced from the second round of the NCAA Tournament by Wichita State. He was done, the end of the line. After failing to get a team with two lottery picks past the Sweet Sixteen, missing the tournament the next season and then being routinely booed at Assembly Hall while coaching his team to an early exit from the NCAA Tournament, there was nowhere left to hide.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending upon who you are, Tom Crean is a cockroach; you simply can’t kill him. The coach of the Hoosiers is, in the immortal words of Frank Costanza, like a phoenix “rising from Arizona”. After a disastrous trip to the Aloha State, Crean returned, retooled and reprogramed his squad. In November, getting the Hoosiers to play defense would have been a lot like getting Donald Trump to admit he has a weakness. A weakness other than his massive dependency upon both hair product and the availability of mirrors of course.

Since Maui however, the Hoosiers have tightened their collective belts and dedicated themselves to competing on both ends. What Crean has performed is a Today show make-over without the hair spray, wardrobe change, caked on eyeliner and entirely predictable reaction of the over-exuberant, male-ish intern. Indiana has simply been unrecognizable since mid-December and the result of this spectacular transformation was recently recognized when Crean became unanimous choice as Coach of the Year amongst Big Ten coaches and writers.

Gone is the stagnant 2-3 zone which guaranteed a wide open perimeter jumper in 30 seconds or less, gone are the pants that could never to seem to stay up without near constant encouragement, gone is the revolving door at the scorer’s table which fed a seemingly endless supply of line-up changes and player shuffling with no apparent rhyme, reason, pattern or strategy.

For the first time since being announced as the head coach of the Indiana Hoosiers, Tom Crean appears to be at peace with who he is. And who can blame him? His point guard is almost unstoppable, his team is destroying opponents and his critics have been forced to turn their attention elsewhere. Crean is more than just a cat that has burned through eight of his nine lives and he’s more than a blustery and unpopular world leader who’s somehow dodged numerous assassination attempts. Tom Crean is a good basketball coach and for the first time in a long time Hoosier nation appears to be warming to this idea.

Despite this, if Hoosier fans are treated to another frustratingly early exit, Crean will need help getting out of Bloomington. In fact, doing so will likely require more than the best Mexican plastic surgeon, including the one who promised to make Mexican drug-lord El Chapo look like Harrison Ford in his prime only to turn him into a paunchy, middle-aged, little league baseball coach with my uncle Frank’s mustache.
So the challenge lies ahead. Indiana fans are hungry for far more than a Big Ten Tournament title. Their eyes are on a much bigger prize. Coach of the Year and Big Ten Champs or not, it’s time for Tom Crean to deliver in the NCAA Tournament.

© 2016 Eric Walker Williams

A rivalry for the ages

First appeared on February 25, 2016
in The Lebanon Reporter

It’s Sunday morning in the coffee shop and the old crows are lined up at the counter squawking about Saturday night’s game.
“Know why Indiana University got rid of Water Polo?” Lester asks, forearms sprawled out on the counter.

“Why’s that?” Earl answers, blowing steam from his coffee.
“All their horses drowned.”

So another installment of the greatest college basketball rivalry in the state of Indiana is over and what have we learned that we didn’t already know? Indiana is an amazing three point shooting team and Purdue loves to beat people up inside. The Boilers can’t make shots outside of the paint and the Hoosiers struggle to maintain defensive intensity.

Saturday night marked a massive opportunity for both. Boiler Head Coach Matt Painter hoped to derail his group’s sojourn into the land of underachievement. Meanwhile Indiana’s Tom Crean needed another quality win to bolster his team’s resume and give sportswriters, real sportswriters mind you, reason to vote them higher than 22nd.

“Know what you call a pretty girl on Purdue’s campus?” Earl asks.
“What’s that?” Lester answers, spoon clanking while stirring up his sugar.
“A visitor.”

In the end the Hoosiers hung on, despite a furious comeback by their nemesis. But more than resumes and statement wins, this was about two seniors. Two players who thumbed their nose at the conventional wisdom that to stay four years means to kill your professional prospects.
In staying four years Yogi Ferrell and AJ Hammons did more than become better basketball players, they became legends amongst the diehards. Despite their impending graduations, both are primed to leave campus forever welding their legacies with greatness.
Ferrell came in as a lightning fast guard who could score the ball. He will leave as a top ten scorer and school’s all time assists leader, as well as being a more competitive defender whose not only stronger physically, but a stronger floor leader and all around basketball player.

“What’s the difference between Indiana’s basketball team and a mosquito?” Asks Lester.
“Reckon I don’t know.” Earl grumps.
“Mosquitos stop sucking at some point.”

Before landing in West Lafayette Hammons wasn’t a household name in recruiting circles. In four years under Painter’s guidance he’s gone from being an often-disinterested talent to one capable of completely dominating both ends of the court. By the end of his junior season Hammons had amassed 1,000 points, 600 rebounds and 250 assists, becoming just the third Big Ten player to do so since Ronald Reagan first won the White House.

And now both teams must move on. Purdue will try to regroup and focus on busting out of the funk that’s seen them drop four of their last eight. And, with a huge game in Iowa City looming, Indiana must avoid overlooking Illinois Thursday night. Indiana’s conference title hopes are alive and Purdue must work towards NCAA Tournament seeding.

“Know why Purdue’s golf course only has 14 holes?”
“’Spose I don’t.” Says Earl.
“Because a Boilermaker never gets to the Final Four.”

If anything, Saturday night served as a reminder of just how great this rivalry is. How alive and well it remains after enduring some trying times. Indiana and Purdue fans enjoying good natured ribbing at the expense of the other team is a tradition in the Hoosier state, a rite of passage. And at the end of the day, a good old fashioned rivalry can’t squelch that Hoosier Hospitality, for fans know life itself is bigger than any sport and no harm is meant. Wait a minute, I’ve got to go, Earl’s outside beating Lester like a rented mule again.

© 2016 Eric Walker Williams

Dear Peyton, it's me, Peyton

First appeared on February 10, 2016
in The Lebanon Reporter

Dear Peyton,

It's me. Well, it's you really. You know, it's Peyton, from the future. Look, I know you’re struggling with this whole retirement thing, and I totally understand because I’ve already been there; you know, since I’m from the future and all.

Anyway, I’m writing you to let you know that it would be best for all involved if you just retired right now, I mean, I would if I were you, which of course, I am. Just hurry up and get it over with. Think of it as ripping a Band-Aid off. Sure there’ll be some immediate pain and suffering, but after a long, long, long time, you won’t even miss football. And, considering you were sacked over 300 times in your career, it won’t really matter, because by that time you won’t even remember you played anyway.

Look, I get it. Football’s been really good to you and you love it more than Papa John Schnatter and life itself. And it’s going to be hard to walk away from the crowds chanting your name and the little kids running around in your jerseys and the millions upon millions of dollars in endorsements you stand to lose by retiring and the fact you are on national television sixteen weeks out of the year and the endless line of beautiful women fawning over you and the countless babies who bear your name. From where you sit right now, this retirement thing must look extremely disappointing and, I’ll be frank, it pretty much is (though, legally, I’m not supposed to tell you that).

I get that you want to keep playing, but the reality is you can't. Football is a violent sport that has taken a massive toll on your body. It's also an incredibly fast sport and, well you and fast are two words that have never shared space in the same sentence, except for last Sunday when my wife said, “Geez, did you see how fast Peyton went to kiss Papa John?” And, diminished skills aside, drinking Budweiser and eating Papa John’s pizza isn’t exactly the best training regimen if you plan on sharing a field with some of the best athletes in the world.

See, the media blasted Cam Newton for not jumping on a fumble, and he’s young, strong, athletic, and the reigning league MVP. Can you just imagine what they’ll do to you when it’s week 8 and you’re playing with two dislocated hips, have yet to complete a forward pass, and your coaches are lobbying the league to allow you to throw the ball from a litter carted around by your offensive line?

Besides, there’s plenty of cool stuff waiting for you in the future. Like right now, they’re offering a $30 million reward for anyone who can find President Sanders after he forgot who he was and wandered out of the White House two weeks ago. They also made this really awesome new Star Wars movie where the Rebels have to try and disable the Empire’s protective shield long enough to destroy this giant machine the Dark Side has created to blow up the universe; spoiler alert, the Rebels win.

You had a good, some would say maybe even better than Tom Brady, run. You won your last game, well, really, Von Miller and the rest of the Bronco defense won your last game, but you still have two rings, which means Thanksgiving and Christmas won’t be nearly as uncomfortable for you anymore. So do your knees, hips, back, arm, neck, shoulder, brain, wife and children a favor and hang the cleats up as soon as you finish reading this.

Sincerely,

Peyton from the Future

© 2016 Eric Walker Williams

Now its Manning vs. Father Time

First appeared on January 21st, 2016
in The Lebanon Reporter


We watch the NFL Playoffs for the exhilaration of an incredible play. This mixed with the world’s strongest men trying to avoid the finality of elimination. Iron faced warriors who, in the face of a crushing defeat, are often reduced to sniveling jellyfish.

After handing the NFL’s all time leading passer a clipboard just a few weeks before, Bronco Head Coach Gary Kubiak had no choice but to bring Peyton Manning out of early retirement Sunday. Despite posting a few dazzling seasons in Denver, Manning has suddenly become nothing short of average. Gone is both the zip from his fastball and killer look in his eyes.

Somehow you expect him to be there year after year having shown absolutely no signs of aging. How soon Father Time’s undefeated record is forgotten. He’s Michael Jordan in a Wizards uniform or Joe Montana as a Chief. And yet, as with Jordan and Montana before, you can’t bring yourself to root against him.

Your break up was incredibly difficult and, in many ways, Manning is that crush you just can’t shake. You’ve seen him at his best and worst and discovered multiple shortcomings, but still some part of you simply won’t let go. You no longer want your current signal caller, but you’re not a Broncos fan and you’re not a bandwagon jumper, which means you’re forced to long from afar.

Watching and wondering how perfect life would be if only he were your quarterback. You’ve tried everything short of therapy to get this crush out of your head. You ordered War and Peace off Amazon and fought your way to page 75. You signed up for a spinning class but soon decided you were getting nowhere and so you quit and joined a gardening club only to discover it’s dormant until Spring; which leaves only football.

So you wound up in front of the television Sunday as Denver met up with Pittsburgh convinced you were watching your crush playing his last game. He was the wounded wildebeest and Pittsburgh would play the swift and powerful lion. This wouldn’t take long. One quick swipe of a fore paw and Manning would be down, never to rise again.

And as one duck after another flew forth from his hands, Manning looked increasingly shell-shocked as the Broncos sputtered into the Fourth Quarter trailing. But then, just as the Steelers appeared ready to pounce and the beat writers were preparing his obit, Manning stood tall on a 3rd and 12 to deliver an absolute strike to Bennie Fowler for a 31 yard gain. To this point it marks the play that saved Denver’s season.

I still remember where I was when Kirk Gibson hobbled up to the plate and homered in the World Series against Oakland. Father time having stolen his luster and both knees. It was an ordinary moment sharing pizza with a brother who’d just returned from Germany until Gibson’s improbable home run burned it forever into my brain.

The smell of that pizza and grease on my fingers remain fresh thirty years later. That’s where we are with Manning. He’s Kirk Gibson struggling to the plate, a shell of what he was. No longer the imposing slugger, Manning still remains as good once as he ever was (thanks Toby) and he’s more than capable of offering up a forever moment.

And that’s why we watch. We hang on for those moments, be they good, bad or indifferent. Sunday has all the markings of a game that will undoubtedly provide such a moment. What remains to be seen is can Manning stave off Father Time for one more chance, or is this the end of the line for your old flame?

© 2016 Eric Walker Williams

The race for a Big Ten Title is on!

First appeared on January 8, 2016
in The Lebanon Reporter

The Big Ten men’s basketball season is upon us. Let us rejoice together. Let us sing for joy and shout it from the mountaintops. Let us speak with the voice of a Trump so that all may hear, no matter where they are and no matter if they really don't want to hear it at all.

The gates are down and the horses are off. There’s Bucky Badger, usually a heavy favorite, limping his way into turn one. Bruised and beaten, Bucky has lost his jockey, a normally fiery taskmaster who chose to jump ship in midrace. Bucky came so close to the winner’s circle last year, so close the taskmaster went all Brett Favre on the college basketball world. I’m done, I’m back, I’m done again.

Meanwhile, after many years reigning king over the middle of the pack, Purdue Pete was an early favorite until he stubbed his toe at home Saturday against Iowa. And this was no run of the mill, dark house, middle of the night toe stubbing. No, this one came after amassing a seventeen point halftime lead on the day the school honored the most iconic Boilermaker of all time. Nice timing Pete.

Compounding matters for the Black and Gold, Purdue’s sworn nemesis, the Hurryin’ Hoosiers of Indiana, are in a full gait, galloping out to a 3-0 start in conference play. Largely a product of the scheduling gods, Indiana’s fast start has them sitting atop the standings with four other unbeatens.

Unfortunately the Hoosiers fortunes turned bleak when news of talented scorer James Blackmon Jr.’s season ending surgery broke. This, coupled with Indiana’s reluctance to enter into a committed relationship with the defensive end of the floor, will make it hard to win consistently. In fact, Tom Crean’s Hoosiers competing for a Conference Title this year would be a lot like a Presidential candidate openly bad mouthing women, slandering an entire religion and masterfully deflecting attention away from every question he’s ever been asked. I mean, no chance, right?

So the Hoosiers knock off the Badgers in one of the ugliest games since the birth of the shot clock and you decide that was so bad you're swearing off basketball; if only you could turn the channel. Lying on the couch, your arm extends for a remote that lingers just out of reach and a small part of you fully believes that, if you concentrate long and hard enough, the force will allow you to raise it up and bring it into your hands. The talking heads in their sharp cut suits and ridiculous ties bloviate unabashedly about Michigan State. “They’re 14-1 for a reason”, “They’re the best team in the conference and the country!” No matter where you turn, it would seem you simply can’t escape Sparty.

Throngs appear on the television, screaming for more. They wear his tee-shirts and stand in long lines waiting for him, all the while refusing to acknowledge there are other teams in the conference. Other teams that may be just as good and just as qualified, perhaps some more so, but Sparty drowns them out every time.

Let the late night guys drag him through the mud like a tractor pull sled, Sparty will march on undaunted as the crowds swell, clamoring for more. Poor Minnesota and Rutgers can barely get people through the door as Sparty is busy playing to a packed house every night.
And with Sparty jet-setting his way through the college basketball world, you’re left stuck in the muck and mire of post game analysis, wondering if Sparty isn’t just a product of media hype as the remote remains in the middle of the coffee table, thumbs in its ears and tongue sticking out. Disgusted with the world, you’re left to roll over, turning your back on that elusive remote and all this incessant Sparty talk.

© 2016 Eric Walker Williams

Building Mackey's Great Wall

First appeared on December 17th, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

All told, China’s Great Wall is estimated to be around 13,000 miles long, or roughly the driving distance from Indianapolis to Evansville before the completion of the I-69 extension. After 2,000 years, the Wall still snakes across China like a wild river, the only manmade object visible from outer space. Built on the backs of prisoners and slaves, hopeless souls allotted only rice and water, it was the brainchild of a maniac and life preserver that kept Chinese society afloat until the advent of gunpowder.

It took the Chinese over 2,000 years and far too many empires to name here to finish their wall, it took Purdue Head Coach Matt Painter around 48 months to build his. But what he’s created is impenetrable. It is imposing. It is historic. It is the Great Wall of Mackey.

What the Boilers have in A.J. Hammons, Isaac Haas and Caleb Swanigan is the best kept secret in college basketball. For, despite an undefeated start, few are talking about Purdue, and Painter would seemingly have it no other way. When you’re blue collar to the core you don’t have time for praise, yours is a life dedicated to productivity and industriousness.

The Chinese were certainly an industrious bunch. They gave the world gunpowder, fireworks, whiskey and toilet paper and is there really anything else one needs come Friday night? But now your brother in law, staring across at you from the booth you're sharing at the Golden Wok Buffet, has you convinced the Chinese really do serve dog meat. And suddenly, next to your glazed beans and precious sweet bun, those pieces of chicken do seem oddly misshapen and far too large.

“Think of all the dogs you’ve seen in China, ever seen one wearing a collar?” He asks as you nervously push your General Tso around thinking this is the same guy who once told you cell phones cause testicular cancer and has numerous times offered to smash them with a hammer (and yes, we’re talking about cell phones).

The waitress is friendly, smiling ear to ear in the Chinese fashion, as she hustles your plates off to the back room. And, despite some incredible Lo Mein and silky-smooth Won-Ton, in the end you come to the realization you will most likely die having discovered there is nothing on Earth more fantastic than Chi-Chi’s cornbread.

If you’re going to beat Purdue there appears no obvious game plan. Their size is so glaring they look like forty year old men playing Biddy Basketball. They have athleticism and shooting and, yes, they’re going to play defense because their head coach is still named Matt Painter. And size, athleticism and shooting just happen to be at the top of any checklist for any coach trying to assemble any basketball team anywhere at any level.

So as the rest of basketball is busy going small, pushing the ball and relying on perimeter shooting, spacing and athleticism, Painter has remained true to his smash mouth style; he’s just upped the ante by adding a historic front line. Still, how such an unconventional approach can be hugely effective remains a mystery. Perhaps some things are just impossible to explain, like how Americans still maintain faith their government will address the real issues facing us, or why my four year old chose to draw a portrait of me with flowers for hands.

Purdue is good. Scary good. And, despite their high ranking, they’re still not completely on the national radar. They’re not sexy enough and they’re not exciting, but by mid-January most will recognize they’re going to be one incredibly tough out come tournament time.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Crean's Hoosiers in the Giving Mood

First appeared on December 9th, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

Tis the season for generosity and compassion and, as Americans, ours is a rich history indeed. From disaster relief in third world countries to the Peace Corps, we’ve proven time and again we’re far above recent headlines; no matter how ugly.

American’s give. From school groups organizing canned food drives to keeping the less fortunate warm by donating used coats, we care and we give. Even the blustery Donald Trump has embraced the holidays as, for months now, he’s been giving Republicans nightmares that he will eventually become their nominee.

Tom Crean’s Indiana Hoosiers have been in the holiday spirit as well, proving early on they’re absolutely committed to giving back to others. Whether it be giving up lay-ups or wide open three pointers, an uncontested jump shot or straight line drive to the basket, the Hoosiers have been one of the most generous teams in Division One men’s basketball so far.

Didn’t get the shot you wanted last time? Here, just let us try to pull a spin move while splitting three defenders and we’ll give you another chance. Generosity is a noble attribute in almost every setting outside of competitive sports. And Indiana’s generosity has resulted in a disappointing 6-3 start. It’s been a start Hoosier fans equate with finding a chunk of coal in their stocking or hearing Purdue is better than they were last year; like, a lot better.

So Tom Crean took his team to Hawaii and you were left at home shoveling out. In the flickering television light, you saw an endless horizon outlined by a rolling sea. Angry waves crashing ashore, raking away at sparkling sands dotted with tanned bodies. You saw it and you longed to be there. To feel the heat of a volcano, taste the Kalua pork, learn to cut a pineapple and succumb to the spell of a swaying grass skirt. You wanted Hawaii worse than the Republican National Committee wants anyone other than Trump.

And then you watched the first ten minutes of Indiana’s game with Wake Forest and decided your $5,000 was better spent somewhere else; anywhere else. As if caring were the last thing they were prepared to do, Crean’s Hoosiers appeared wholeheartedly apathetic, especially on the defensive end.

Unfortunately for the Hoosiers, Christmas is supposed to be the season of caring. For one month out of the year Americans do their best to pump the brakes on their busy lives in order to consider others. We want the holidays to be magical. We want to hear our favorite songs, pick out symmetrically flawless trees, give our children moments that will never fade and finally wrap a present that doesn’t wind up looking like it was done by someone wearing boxing gloves.

So you sit watching your neighbor jerking angrily at a tangled bundle of Christmas lights the size of a hay bale, and you find yourself thinking basketball isn’t supposed to be hard. You hear the extension ladder bang sharply off his house as the wife asks him to move the wreath three inches back to the right, and you’re left thinking how truly simple the sport is.

You pass the ball to your team, you know, the guys running around in the same uniforms. You work it around for the best shot and you keep your man from scoring. It’s really far less difficult than it sounds.

But the willingness to care is at the root of everything. Unfortunately, through 9 games, Indiana simply hasn’t cared enough for defense and, until they do, they’ll continue to give games away; tis the season after all.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Right or Wrong: Let us give thanks

First appeared on November 25, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

Let us give thanks. Thanks to the Pilgrims with their drab frock coats and blunderbusses. Thanks to the natives who showed this desperate band of immigrants the tricks they would need to survive a brutal winter. Things like how to grow corn and track deer and the best places to find cheap gas and cigarettes.

And let us not forget the turkeys. A bird so good we eat him only once a year. Poor souls, who will, by the millions, give themselves up for us to celebrate the legendary triumphs of our ancestors. So how can it be that all this pomp and circumstance could be based on one big lie?
How could it be everything you were taught as kid is wrong? Historical truths that seemed the cornerstones of a nation suddenly dismissed. George Washington cutting down his cherry tree and Teddy Roosevelt inventing the Teddy Bear or the fact Donald Trump’s hair is real.

And so historians, who apparently have nothing better to do than sit around trying to prove other historians wrong, tell us the Pilgrims, forever the stalwarts of purity and righteousness, were not all devout Christians. They weren’t all nice to the natives and, at least when it came to their wardrobe, they didn’t all favor fifty different shades of gray.

They spoke of a government of, for and by the people and yet early on theirs was dominated by a religious elite. There were no cranberries, sweet potatoes or pumpkin pie at the first Thanksgiving, which leads most 7 year olds to wonder why you just can’t order a pizza.

For you this means it’s all been for nothing. Thirty plus years of bad football and choking down dry turkey as your Uncle Randy recounts the free throws he made to win that sectional game, all this over the bass beat of your father complaining about gas prices. And for what? For what historians would have us believe is a fake holiday?

So we’re left to decide for ourselves what we accept as truth and what we question. And at 5-6, can we really believe in the Indiana Hoosiers? A team that could easily boast wins over ranked opponents in Michigan, Iowa and Ohio State and yet had dropped 6 straight before downing Maryland last week.

A team one win away from strapping on their bowling shoes. And there, at the bottom of the schedule, a familiar foe awaits. Instead of finding two teams limping into an Oaken Bucket game hoping only to finish their seasons on a high note, a victory Saturday sends Indiana to their first bowl since George W. Bush was the Commander in Chief of Strategery. Meanwhile, Purdue arrives at 2-9 trying to jab a needle the size of a javelin into Kevin Wilson’s balloon.

These are not uncharted waters for the Hoosiers. This is not a New World. Still, can up really be up and down truly down? Was the Revolutionary War really fought against the British? Or could it have been three-foot tall aliens who just happened to fight using conventional European military tactics? These are the questions we’re forced to ask ourselves when historians tell us its entirely possible Lincoln never eclipsed 5’11, using blocks of wood in his boots instead to compensate for rabid insecurities.

So on this Thanksgiving, get out there and be the master of your own destiny. Believe in the unlikely, embrace the magic of your childhood or accept the so called conventional wisdom. Either way, it’s still a free country and nobody can dispute that. In the meantime just be careful believing in the Indiana Hoosiers because, revisionist history or not, they’ve let us down one too many times before.


© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Time to let it linger, on Veteran's Day

First appeared on November 10th, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

Francis Scott Key penned the Star Spangled Banner after watching the British shelling Fort McHenry during the War of 1812. Fortunately for us Mr. Key didn’t have a Smart Phone or he’d probably have missed most of the rocket’s red glare. For you and I this means our national anthem would most likely be “YMCA” or something by Dylan we’d all be forced to mumble in unison.

The first time I realized the flag was special was watching my older brother playing varsity basketball. The way a gym packed to the gills would rise together in silence, the energy of the impending contest and eager conversations of the blustery hayseeds suddenly tamed by a sober reverence for the flag.

And when the people sat down and the ball went up, I watched my brother throwing himself around on the floor, playing his guts out and he became a hero. November is reserved for heroes of a different lot. Those who personified honor, sacrifice and duty. The words often fall short for those of us on the outside looking in.

However, the flag bridges those two worlds. An omnipresent reminder that the duty of those who never served is to honor those who have. The flag is a one dimensional time machine capable of dropping you onto a battlefield in Gettysburg where you’re asked to charge across a vast open plain with nothing more than a blade of grass to hide behind, all the while a hailstorm of hot metal rains down upon you. And above the din of cannon fire and muskets, the piercing cries of men surround you, haunting and final.

It can take you to Normandy, where you’re shoulder to shoulder with a kid a country mile from the prime of life. And, when the panel of that landing craft drops, he glimpses for the first time the insurmountable odds awaiting him. The flag stands for the courage he showed to vault himself into the waist-deep tide. Water stained pink from the blood of friends, Nazi flak buzzing and ricocheting around him.

So you catch your eleven year old fooling with his phone during the Star Spangled Banner and, oh say, you can definitely see you’ve failed as a parent. This was it, your Final Exam and you just posted the old one legged A.

Mortified, you tell little Johnny he won’t see his phone until he’s 25 before throwing him in the car. You tear out of town, barreling east across the Ohio, pointing your wheels towards D.C. And somewhere around Harrisburg you find yourself hopelessly lost and have to ask Johnny to Google a new route.

By dawn’s early light you find yourself at the intersection of history, architecture, tradition and new ideas, the seat of change and heartbeat of freedoms continued evolution. But Washington is also a living celebration of those Americans who dared to defend our ideals. Stone figures with strong jowls, faces racked with determination, men who gave themselves up for a nation, a nation of people they would never come to know.

Old dead men who today find themselves surrounded by hot dog vendors and tee-shirt hockers, googly eyed tourists lost in a jungle of copper, bronze and limestone. And the limestone, my god the limestone, walls and halls and corridors, benches and arches, cornices, balustrades, everything we so proudly hailed carved from limestone.

Streets choked with slow moving tour buses carting anxious, pimply faced pre-teens. Kites of bright red and yellow, tails dragging in the wind, waving high above the rangers in broad-brimmed hats. Brave men and women charged with corralling the interest of these precocious pre-teens.
Bleary eyed, over medicated and restless children who don’t know George Bush from George Washington. And all this exploration and congestion and protestation rages before the watchful eyes of Honest Abe from his perch at the end of the Mall, his brow bent with uncertainty over the scene before him.

So stately upon his throne, high overlooking the reflecting pool, Lincoln has become the poster child for standing up for ones ideals. And as great as he was, how easily we forget Honest Abe’s line in the sand was defended by the hearts and souls of thousands.

We have to find a way to stop our lives, forgo the order and rigid scheduling and prioritized lists that shape our time. We owe this to all who’ve protected the freedoms we as Americans cherish.

So there you stand, in the shadow of Lincoln. You and little Johnny and little Johnny’s Smart Phone. And you linger as the pimply faced pre-teens race up and down the steps before an incredulous Ranger. You linger as the kites race higher and higher. You linger with little Johnny’s hand in yours. You linger so that these dead shall not have died in vain.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Time for Manning to kick the Colts

First appeared on November 6th, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

So your Colts are 3-5 and one person lighter on the payroll. They are a listing ship that has strayed far, far from course. A storm is brewing on the horizon, skies of dark blue and orange threaten as a power struggle has erupted at the helm.

Suddenly Jim Irsay, Chuck Pagano and Ryan Grigson are busy trying to elbow each other out of the way. Of course the bad news for Colts fans is, at this point it really doesn’t matter who grabs the wheel because nobody seems to know where they’re going anyway.

Pep Hamilton was forced off the plank, but don’t worry he didn’t see it coming. His face was buried in his poster-sized play chart hunting up another long pass play and he simply sunk like a stone. And now Rob Chudzinski has been handed the Scotch Tape and Superglue, so as to piece together what’s left of Andrew Luck’s ego. Meanwhile Luck, the once promising and unquestioned Captain, has been relegated to the hold, where he huddles in a dark corner, shell-shocked and shivering, mumbling to himself like a half-wit.

And the storm closes in as the ship rolls uncontrollably. An undefeated team, a tremendously talented defense and the future Hall of Famer the Colts gave up on four years ago are about to swamp what’s left of Indy’s half-submerged deck.

But he was done, his arm a noodle, no feeling in his hands. He can’t throw the deep ball anymore, look at his numbers. Manning isn’t what he used to be, Bob from Quality Control says, which is true, but he has a world class defense behind him you counter, one that has led him to an undefeated start. This is a point Bob is quick to shrug off as if he was the one who invented the Jet Sweep or Nickel Defense, which of course means conceding anything football to you is therefore forever beneath him.

Still, tired as he may appear, Manning’s Broncos are not the defenseless gazelle that has strayed from the herd, the one the Colts so desperately need to pounce on right now. Instead, they are a rabid she-wolf with superhuman strength and play every down as if you just kicked one of their pups in the teeth.

And so the greatest mind ever to play the sport sails in to town at the same time one of the games brightest young minds appears to have lost his. In the world of the NFL, the quarterback discussion will begin and end with Peyton until we are all dust in the wind, or Brett Favre attempts yet another comeback, whichever happens first.

So come on in Denver, everything else has gone wrong. Colts nation should embrace their impending beat down. They should open their arms and welcome the absolute skull-rattling thrashing their team will take Sunday. Here’s hoping the skies open up and it rains touchdowns. After all, the storybook years Peyton gave us deserve a Hollywood ending. One that includes his vanquishing the team that quit on him. And we all know a good vanquishing is not a true vanquishing without complete and utter domination.

Somehow it seems fitting that, for once, we should realize the fate so many suffered at the hands of Manning’s Colts for lo those many years. Don’t let the firing of Pep Hamilton fool you, this season is lost. With that in mind, let’s go out and set a new NFL record for points allowed. Let’s send Peyton out with more than a bang. Let’s send him out with an eruption of Krakatoan proportions.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Note to Cubs Fans: Beware, Curse Ahead

First appeared on October 14th, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

It’s not every day you find a goat blocking rush hour traffic. Still there he was. Standing right in front of your car, trying his best to train a wary eye on you while maintaining focus on the grass in his mouth. He chews on, wobbly-headed and busy reading you like a book.

A Cubs fan your whole life, you’ve suffered through forty plus years of futility. Forty plus years of aimlessly wandering a postseason desert. Forty years of this hairy little guy owning you. From those undersized horns and empty eyes down to his distinguished tassel, you know full well he’s just another bitter soul. Bitter for playing second fiddle all these years to his superstar cousin the sheep. And for what? When’s the last time anyone wore wool after all?

Your Cubs have National League Rookie of the Year, Manager of the Year and Cy Young in the bag, but somehow it’s not enough. After 40 years, you want more. And here they stand, four wins away from their first World Series appearance since 1945.

The expectations of failure have haunted you since the All Star Break. They’re quick with a bar of soap first thing in the shower and from the passenger seat on the way to work, they grumble that maybe this new talk radio phase of yours has gone on a bit too long. They trudge beside you up the stairs, through a maze of cubicles all the way to the tiny one you share with Ed from Accounting, the one prized for being closest to the Men’s room, the same one littered with pictures of Ed’s nine year old son, the future Noble Laureate.

In 2007 you drove all the way to New Orleans and paid a Voodoo Lady $500 to lift the curse. And, after verifying your personal check numbers with her roommate, a part-time soothsayer who moonlighted as a bank teller, Madam Zydeco took the picture of the Bartman Catch you brought along, set it on fire, spread the ashes in a bowl of milk and told you to drink it. Three months later the Cubs were swept by the Diamondbacks in the NLDS.

Now, as you sit behind the wheel with a barrage of blaring horns reigning down on you, you’re seriously thinking about running this goat over. The Russian’s elbowed us out of Syria, why shouldn't you be able to nudge a brazen Bovidae out of the road?

Your belief ran hot and cold all season. Between Rizzo’s 30 home runs and 100 RBI’s, Bryant’s Franchise Rookie Record for homers and Jake Arietta’s inhuman second half stretch, it was all coming together and yet you resisted the urge to become fully invested. After all, you’ve seen the end of this one far too many times.

The experts say this was never supposed to be the year anyway. Its Maddon’s first season and the Cubs, despite being loaded with talent, are just too young. “Don’t put yourself through the pain of the NLCS,” Ed advises, shoulder to shoulder in your cubicle, “Why don’t you come watch Ed Jr. instead? He’s doing a public performance at the community theater, a solo piece on the Abacus he wrote himself.”

Seventy years ago a ticket taker outside Wrigley did what any right thinking human would do and refused to let a goat into a baseball game. Since that time it’s been total darkness on the Northside. And now, the chance of a lifetime presents itself. The chance to erase 70 years of futility with a pair of squealing of tires. After all, they’ve come this far, just a nudge is all they need.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

An open letter to the Indianapolis Colts

First appeared on September 30th, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

Dear Indianapolis Colts,

I just wanted to drop you a line to say thanks. Thank you Jim Irsay for not coming out of the stands at halftime Sunday in Nashville to fire Chuck Pagano, despite the fact every single Colt Fan, and probably a few who’ve spent time at a Pagano family reunion, fully expected you to do so.

Thank you Andrew Luck for deciding at some point in the Fourth Quarter that "spreading the ball around" doesn't mean sharing it with the other team. And while I’ve got your ear, rumor has it you were one pick away from Fans starting a movement to sign Out of Control Beard Andrew Luck to the roster. This means I’ll need you to keep hitting your targets, because Out of Control Beard Andrew Luck is so creepy a cheesy commercial is the only place I ever want to see him.

Thank you coaches for drafting Phillip Dorsett to electrify the return game only to make the decision to play Griff Whalen in front of him. I understand it’s common practice for rookies to learn from vets, but I’m fairly certain taking a knee and fair catching a football are both things Phillip learned at a very young age.

Thank you front office, coaches and players for not squelching the talk of dysfunction within the brass of the franchise. For, if you were in fact planning to go 0-16 before Sunday, at least those lonely, tortured and completely inadequate souls in the part-time-pretend sports media would have something interesting to write about.

Thank you offensive line for mixing up your strategies of drawing a holding penalty on any play that garners more than five yards with blocking absolutely no one. We understand this is a delicate balance and hats off to you for maintaining it for a full 60 minutes.

Thank you Pat McAfee for both being Pat McAfee as well as taking a chance on Sunday when everything was going completely wrong. And while your converted fake punt was almost immediately rendered irrelevant by another Luck interception, we still applaud anyone willing to stick their neck out while everyone around is busy shoving their heads in the sand.

Thank you Robert Mathis for enduring 10 surgeries and a grueling rehab schedule just to get back on the field. For even when all I had hoped for was crumbling down around me in a fury of turnovers, missed tackles and holding penalties, just seeing 98 getting after the quarterback again was enough to give me a spark of hope.

Thank you Dwight Lowery for being the only defensive player to actually get off the bus before the Fourth Quarter on Sunday. Your Pick six fooled me into believing my old team was back and then, upon returning to the belief my old team was in fact still enjoying quiet time in a lounge chair on a private Mexican beach, you intercepted another pass and saved me.

Finally, thank you to all the Colts. Despite waiting until the fourth quarter to do so, thank you for finally showing the fight, toughness, grit, execution and emotion I’d been expecting to see from you in the first two games. And while it remains unclear how people will remember me, one thing’s for sure, because of your efforts Sunday nobody has given up on me yet.

Thanks Again

Your Season


© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Colts Season off to Inharmonious Start

First appeared on September 17, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

Abraham Lincoln once said “a house divided against itself cannot stand”. And while that crusty old history teacher, the weird one whose short in the leg slacks were funnier than his jokes, told you Honest Abe was speaking about the unraveling of the United States, for all we know he could have been talking about the Republican Party in 2016 or Caitlyn Jenner’s closet.

Those in the non-part-time pretend media would argue Lincoln was editorializing about the Indianapolis Colts Front Office. And as rumors swirl over West 56th, the little people get wind that Grigson hates Pagano and Pagano loathes Grigson while, at some point, Jim Irsay sets his pail down long enough to tweet “all is well” from his flooding deck.

Yet, here in the cheap seats, we’re left struggling to understand why it really matters if Pagano and Grigson hate each other, neither one of them catch, throw or run with the ball after all. It would seem we’re beating the bushes for someone to blame, some underlying issue or the dreaded “circumstances beyond our control”. Something to explain why those things we want most from life continue to elude us, for an American life is not complete without a handful of convenient excuses.

Unfortunately for fans of the Horseshoe, harmony isn’t available online, even for Amazon Prime members. Harmony is a warm summer evening, standing bare footed in cool grass, spraying the petunias and coneflowers as the soft sounds of Wheel of Fortune drift through an open window. And beyond fluttering lace curtains, the wife ponders a tricky crossword as the children share space, shoulder to shoulder on the couch, each completely absorbed by some non-electronic form of entertainment; perhaps Jenga, a deck of cards or maybe even a book, if those even exist anymore.

And for every flower sprinkler out there, there are a half dozen or more tossing cups out their window in a parking lot, mean faced monsters screaming profanities across an interstate lane or mocking a strict teacher in front of their children. Harmony isn’t free and it isn’t cheap and it isn’t easy to find, which is why most Americans are of the belief it doesn’t exist.

Harmony doesn’t win Championships and it doesn’t help nail that interview. The power of harmony should never find itself in question however. Harmony is greater than the rush of a new speedboat and more welcoming than a vacation home, and yet for most of us it lingers in the shadows, just beyond our reach.

Rex the big Royal Blue Dinosaur doesn’t exactly exude harmony but he does win football games. Sunday was an unfortunate witch’s brew of Luck’s inability to perform in season openers, the energy of Rex Ryan’s first game as Buffalo Head Coach and a dash of Pagano’s teams always laying an egg once or twice a season.

As for front office chasms, if a rift between the Colts Head Coach and General Manager is only a myth, the good news is Jim Irsay will likely tweet about it just to let everyone know and, if a rift does in fact exist, the good news is Jim Irsay will likely tweet about it just to let everyone know.

Yet they say where there’s smoke, there’s likely fire. And anytime your performance is best compared to that of a team that has never played the sport before, there will always be questions. Questions like “Who taught the Colts’ secondary to tackle?” and “If Lincoln was so important, why did we put him on the least valuable coin?” And even Honest Abe, who boasts being the tallest president, would have been unable see what the end of this season will bring; though he probably could have done a better job tackling and fielding punts.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Harbaugh for President

First appeared on September 3rd, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

If Jim Harbaugh had been your First Grade teacher he would have told you to stop crying and get back to work. At recess he would have told everyone Billy can cross the Monkey Bars faster than you and at lunch he’d have made it perfectly clear trading your corn for another No Bake Cookie will only make you fat. His is a world devoid of Band-Aids and hugs.

And far away from the bright lights of Ann Arbor, a line forms before a weary coach, plastic smile pasted on. He shakes every hand of his little team, congratulating them on their 13-0 loss. Later, somewhere beyond left field, a Mini-Van Mom passes out juice boxes and treats she put together with love. Individual Ziplock baggies, each labeled in Sharpie because Tommee doesn’t like pretzels and Earin likes extra trail mix and don’t forget Mikel has a wheat allergy so he’ll most likely need a block of cheese or maybe a coloring book.

And as the little warriors inhale their snack, the coach mumbles something about growth and how proud he is of the effort they gave despite losing every game. All this before doling out the exact same trophy to everyone, including Rico who was the only kid to reach base or record an out or show any tangible signs of improvement all season.

If Jim Harbaugh were that Pee-Wee coach he would have told everyone to take a long hard look at Rico. “If you want to win games you need to work as hard as Rico. If you want to win games you’ll put down the game controller and play catch with your dad. And if you don’t have a dad, you’ll throw a ball off the roof of your house and catch it. And if you don’t have a house then you’ll ask one of the people living under the bridge with you to play catch.”

Jim Harbaugh would blast his team for losing. Blast them for not being better, not working hard enough. And he would do this because he knows every second grader in India and China wants to bury the U.S. and the more we hand out trophies and pat people on the back for losing, the faster it will happen. That’s why I’m asking Harbaugh to resign his position at Michigan and run for President.

What this country needs is more honesty. We need to be able to look others in the eye and tell them exactly how we feel and, when necessary, tell them maybe they can find a little room for improvement after all. And this includes everyone from your seven year old to the guy pretending to be a sports columnist in the local paper.

I’m no expert on motivation, just ask my wife, my boss, my parents or my kids. Still, it doesn’t take a professor boasting hours of research, countless articles published and dozens of agonizingly dry speeches given to recognize if you constantly tell someone how great they are, they tend to see no reason for improvement.

As President, Harbaugh would make loyalty, hard work and discipline the foundation of every child’s education. Anyone caught whining about political correctness or asking why their daughter only got one smiley face on her paper when Johnny got four would be given a pair of Dockers and a one way ticket to Siberia.

A history of demanding perfection and grinding on those around him will follow Harbaugh to Ann Arbor. And often, despite success, that history has a history of leading to his demise (see 49ers, San Francisco). So while Harbaugh appears ready for Ann Arbor, the million dollar question remains, is Ann Arbor ready for Harbaugh?

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

As the Cubs tempt fate, fans brace for the inevitable

First appeared on August 18, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

With Donald Trump still leading in the polls, Hillary forwarding Top Secret emails and the Cubs winners in ten of their last eleven; its official, the end of the world is upon us.

Turns out that uncle, the one with the ‘Licensed Sasquatch Hunter’ bumper sticker, was right all along. The world will end before Washington starts making sense. For years he took you out to the woods and showed you how to hunt and fish, claiming when the end comes, only the strong, those who can build fires, find fresh meat and tie a barrel hitch, will survive.

By firelight he told you how the moon landing was filmed in a California basement. A two-bedroom ranch owned by the Night Manager of a Denny’s in the San Fernando Valley. “Surprisingly huge basement for a Ranch.”

He swore the Soviets killed Elvis because there was a hidden capitalistic agenda in his lyrics and that cheeseburgers in American schools are green because the FDA was injecting them with human growth hormones. “Reagan was tired of losing to East Germany in the Olympics.”

But that was thirty years ago and not only are you older now, you are also wiser. You know the world most likely isn’t going to end anytime soon. You are also smart enough to realize the Cubs can’t win the World Series this year because this is the year of the sheep, which is basically a goat, and we all know how that’s worked out so far.

Still, the Northsiders are stirring the hearts and minds of this great nation and that’s the part the rest of baseball loves most. The rest of baseball, lounging in their monogramed Turkish bathrobes, sipping Arnold Palmer’s while leafing through dog-eared copies of an ‘Idiots Guide to Dealing with Post-season Success.’

And there they linger, in only the way they can, pretending to read but all the while waiting. Waiting with baited breath for that priceless moment the Cubs fall apart, crushing the hearts of millions, the eternally downtrodden, yet again. A train wreck indeed.

Meaningful baseball has become an oxymoron for Cubs fans, a mythical figure most have spent the better part of a lifetime searching for. There have been glimpses. Grainy images of a foul ball being prematurely snatched up from the stands and a black cat scurrying across an infield. For generations it has loomed on the horizon, just close enough to tease, yet somehow always gone by September.

It’s been over 100 years since a championship last came to the Northside. That magical run was witnessed by then U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt. You know Teddy, the Rough Rider who charged up San Juan Hill, a feat so lasting he remains the answer to the most popular question posed to every Ranger stationed at Mount Rushmore. Exhausted families, sunblock pasted faces, herded together in khaki shorts and loud print shirts, cajoling their restless young ones to take in the powerful artistry that is Rushmore, all the while wondering aloud, “Who’s the one next to Jefferson again?”

But despite the Cubs’ newfound fortunes, don’t expect to find the four horsemen galloping down your street anytime soon, it is after all only the third week of August. There is still plenty of time for a full-blown collapse. One so monumental it triggers widespread earthquakes. Cataclysmic tremors that move mountains and cause rocks to fall down upon those hiding amongst them.

And while you’re thinking we’re in trouble either way, just remember the Cardinals are so far ahead of the rest of the National League they could take a couple weeks off and still wake up in first place. This means, Armageddon or not, the Cubs are once again destined to leave fans feeling undeniably inadequate.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

America's Pastime and her grand search for emotion

First appeared on August 4, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

When Wilmer Flores took the field before 50,000 screaming fans, he wept. He wasn’t a World Champion and he hadn’t just thrown a No Hitter and his wife hadn’t yelled “It’s a boy!” from the stands. The uncomfortable scene was begat by Social Media.

Twitter, Facebook, push notifications, text messages flying furiously through the air, invisible yet infinitely powerful. Word on the street was Flores had been traded, jettisoned like space trash from the only Major League team he’d ever played for.

A passing glance across a crowded room, a friendly wave, two people sharing a look that says far more than just hello. Emotion is glaring. It is unmistakable and powerful and can make you seem qualified for a job you have absolutely no business getting. It’s also noticeably missing from Baseball.

Like an image of a great mastodon stomping across the frozen tundra, his burly frame and impressive tusks the definition of raw power, we see a video of Pete Rose running over Ray Fosse at home plate and think “who would do such a thing?”

Today’s stars play hard, they play to win but despite some exciting young talent and the sudden rise of the greatest franchise in professional sports (we’re talking about the Cubs here in case your Google search returns something different), real emotion remains Baseball’s Ivory Billed Woodpecker.

Of course George Washington bears the brunt of the blame. With the size of today’s contracts, it doesn’t take a baseball insider to explain to we little people why playing with pure emotion and worrying over a career ending injury are by nature mutually exclusive.

Your scoutmaster said you wouldn’t get anywhere without a little emotion but you didn’t believe him because he smelled of stale beer and wore a really bad hair-hat your best friend said looked like the tail of a Pomeranian and he couldn’t even get the fire started for crissakes!

So you drifted after crossing that stage in High School and waited for the hand of fate to reach out and give you something to validate your existence, meanwhile that cousin, the one your mother always dotes on at Christmas, got that promotion in Milwaukee and there’s a lion loose in Milwaukee and a not so small part of you is rooting for that big cat to hunt your cousin down and gnaw his face off. That’s what emotion is. Sometimes it takes a successful cousin to give you a little kick in the pants.

In the end Flores wasn’t traded. Turns out 50,000 Woodward and Bernsteins could be wrong. But it's too late for Flores, thanks to our instant gratification-"hey look at this" world, Flores could hit a Grand Slam to win the World Series and pull a pregnant lady from a burning car on his way to home plate, and he will still always be the guy who cried at shortstop.

And while the real, not part-time-pretend media, is busy blasting the Mets for leaking a trade that hadn’t been fully consummated, we are once again missing the trees for the forest. Flores cares.

He’s not a machine powered by million dollar paychecks. He’s not a mindless robot detached from those dedicated to him most. He is a human being who loves his job and efforts to give something special to the fans every night. Something to the Construction Workers and Policemen, the Sailors and Cowboys and Indian Chiefs who pay their hard earned money to watch him. That’s why Flores cried.

And for that we should stand and applaud, for he is a great American, though your mother would probably argue not as great as your cousin from Milwaukee.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Surviving the British Open

First appeared on July 22, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

As a young boy I remember watching the British Open with my father. The driving rain sweeping down over a lifeless moonscape, hurricane force winds ripping at the flagsticks and forty degree temperatures in July, all foretold of a bleak existence and instilled in me early on a fierce determination never to visit.

England, where the beer flows warm and shirty people tell you to buck up when its monkey’s outside. A Fantasy Island for the downtrodden where, instead of Mai-tai’s and leis, the women greeting you hand out cricket bats and ponchos.

From the comfort of his chair, my father slipped peanuts into his Coke while miserable men in flapping rain gear braced themselves against a treacherous wind, a howling fury battering every shot. All this as I caught myself taking in the warmth and comfort surrounding me, wondering why I would ever even leave the room.

This is of course what we Americans are. For ending the Big One and giving the world a cheap automobile and airplanes, we deserve a little pampering. We make cars with heated steering wheels and we want extra fries with that and faster Internet service and somebody to put our shopping cart away at Wal-Mart once the car is loaded.

We see St. Andrews on the telly and cringe, thinking Scotland as a vacation destination could only appeal to a grizzled Polar Explorer or the English. An angry sea throwing itself against the rocky shore sending giant curtains of mist exploding into the air. A sky the color of concrete under which jaded locals with ashen faces huddle, the collars of their Pea coats turned up, speaking fondly of that magical Thursday when they were school children and a strange round object filled the sky and warmed their world, if but for a short time.

Every year at this time the golf world descends upon this barren rock in the North Atlantic, a place so forbidding that more than 300 years ago our forefathers packed up all they had and ran for the hills. Embarking on a trip where, compared to the near constant dreariness of England, they were willing to brave small pox, scurvy, a dangerous sea voyage into the unknown and a mob of angry natives armed with bows and arrows and hatchets carved from stone fixed to sticks using the hide of the deer, an instrument of death so skilled with were they that it could be thrown from great distances and still split the hairs upon your head.

So from near and far they journeyed to the Old Course in St. Andrews Scotland, which is not England you say. And this is true, if you are also willing to argue that Illinois is not Nebraska. Even ESPN, whose power is so great a SportsCenter commercial with Putin and the San Diego Chicken sharing an elevator would surprise no one, couldn’t dress Scotland up for, despite filming in HD, she still came through your television appearing black and white.

The American spirit, albeit portly and somewhat self-serving, is no stranger to the Open having won half of them since 1990. In the end two Americans found themselves in contention late as their countrymen could only watch from the comfort of their living rooms while St. Andrews gnashed her terrible teeth and rolled her terrible eyes and showed her terrible claws.

Ultimately, the award for hanging on the longest in the 144th Open Championship went to Zach Johnson, who seems bright, talented and well spoken, though we’ve no way of knowing if he corrals his own shopping cart at Wal-Mart.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

"Progress" comes to Clark and Addison

First appeared on July 11, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

A day spent at Wrigley is a day well spent. Forget Florida and its meandering rivers of traffic, or the great outdoors and its fabled tranquility, mosquitoes and near constant threat of bear attacks. Wrigley Field is another world, one you long to visit more and wish others knew less knew about.

So you stand shoulder to shoulder, sharing a prolonged silence with this mass of humanity fate has thrown together in a steel Velveeta box on rails. You avoid eye contact, conversation and interaction of any kind, best not to invite the one you suspect is seriously considering jabbing you in the stomach for your wallet.

Meanwhile the El goes on, listing from side to side while clacking down its tracks. As if you’ve traded an Abraham Lincoln for a ticket back in time, the alleyways and fire escapes of the Brownstones roll past. The homes huddling together and muscle of the trestle that splits them are ripped from a Sinclair novel. Your mind is busy tucking all these images away for later, as your nose has serious questions about the availability of warm water and soap in the Windy City.

For you, this is more than a train ride. It’s therapy. For nothing takes the sting out of a rant from your boss like reminiscing about Wrigley. Forget the overpriced vendors, long lines at the John and warm beer, the only souvenirs you’ll take home are the nostalgic sights and sounds. Lasting images such as the silhouette of downtown cast against an ocean blue sky, or a young father teaching his daughter how to jump a turnstile.

And when your stop arrives and the doors shoosh open, you turn to embrace a scene you didn’t want to leave in the first place. However, instead of an old friends smile or slice of Grannie’s Apple Pie, you’re greeted with something from a Third World Country racked by devastation.

Dump trucks lumber back and forth, navigating a minefield of port-a-potties. With all the synchronicity of a Broadway show, construction workers move seamlessly around each other. It’s the scourge of renovation. A cancer that threatens all you hold dear.

No matter the form, we as humans struggle with change. It’s in our DNA, just ask the boys over at Coca-Cola. Our lives become so choreographed and photocopied that change has a way of reaching out and slapping us every time. A flag goes up, a flag comes down. A presidential candidate who doesn’t tell us what we expect to hear. Renovating Wrigley is like putting lipstick on the Mona Lisa grumbles the old timer behind you.

For whatever reason, your mind is drawn to Millard Fillmore. A stuffed shirt who did little of consequence aside from sleep in the White House for four years, old Mill’s on record as saying one shouldn’t accept change as progress. And as you bask in the glow of the jumbo-tron that now towers over left-center, you know that no truer words have ever been spoken.

Your eyes used to marvel at the hand-operated scoreboard or wander along the bricks until they got lost in the Ivy. Now they’re blinded by 3900 square feet of LED. If this is progress, they can have it. You have satellite TV, microwaveable meals and a one-car detached waiting for you at home.

Not unlike a bad sunburn, we’re often reminded that progress for some is a kick in the shin for others. And yet, it remains our destiny. In the end you’re left to realize that perhaps, not unlike beauty, progress too lies in the eye of the beholder.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams