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