As a coach, it was one of those days. The sun was stifling, competition was stiff, and my athletes were mentally defeated. How many times I was to see slumped shoulders after a missed shot, racquets tossed down in frustration, hands held high in supplication to the higher power who was guiding the opponent's shots where we weren't. Attitudes on the court stunk. The prevailing thought was that we were supposed to lose, so lose we would. Out of our eight slots, only two won their first-round matches, guaranteeing at least a fourth place finish. The others would have to win the rest of their matches to secure fifth place, and that didn't happen. Some of the best tennis players in the state of Oklahoma were there today. It was a tough tournament and it seemed nothing went right.
By three in the afternoon, most had played their first two matches, and having lost both, they sat in wait to play for seventh place. I wasn't satisfied with their results, and I am pretty sure that they weren't satisfied either, but many of them had accepted the results and laughed as they joked about getting blown away, losing leads, and the like. No conversation was had about strategy, and nobody thought to put together a game plan for their seventh-place match. Instead they just joked. I too was defeated.
I separated myself from this so that I wouldn't say something I would regret later. After all tennis is a civilized sport and cooler heads must prevail. There would be a time and place. And when the gentlemen took to the courts, they were again outmatched. Their defeat wasn't a mathematical certainty, but for their morale it might as well have been.
So I sat and pondered this as I helplessly watched the inevitable. Specifically, I ponderd how I had failed them. Each player I had personally given one-on-one attention in practice in the past few weeks, throwing little nuggets of wisdom at them as if I were writing tennis' version of The Book of Proverbs. On changeovers in the matches today, I would call them over and tell them what they could improve upon, also pointing out their opponent's weaknesses, but nothing worked. Then I saw the ant.
Truth to be told, one of the parents I was sitting by, a good friend to me, saw it first. It was a fire ant, the size of a grain of rice. It was trying with all its might to drag a chunk of granola bar the size of a marshmallow. The bar was three or four times its size, and no matter how impossible the odds might have been, the ant refused to give up. Millimeter-by-millimeter, it dragged the boulder across the sidewalk towards the grass. As if this weren't tough enough, things got even tougher.
Two other ants, instead of helping their teammate, climbed aboard and the first ant dragged the extra weight without hesitation. It took nearly ten minutes of physical exertion from the time we first noticed it to when the ant took it to the grass, and who knows how long it had been struggling before we noticed. But when it reached the edge of the sidewalk, the granola monolith became stuck between the sidewalk and the neatly edged grass. For the next fifteen minutes the ant tried and tried, never budging it. When the matches were over and I left, the ant was still hard at work. The application was obvious.
Roger Federer is the best tennis player in the world. There can only be one of him. Same can be said for a school's valedictorian, the President of the United States, and on and on. You get the picture. Does that mean we quit trying to achieve our goals? This goes far beyond tennis. Life applications abound. I'll let you put your own struggle to this test:
Victories can be counted in many ways, and the only time we lose is when we give up. I've put our poor showing in its proper perspective, ceding it to greater tragedies in the world, but I will still come back out tomorrow ready to try where I've failed, as a coach, as a teacher, as a servant. In all walks of life. My athletes will too.
As for that "poor" ant, I'm sure he will too.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
SSR (The Sound of Silence)
It's quiet.
The room is at peace. The air-conditioning unit has set the air to that perfect temperature of "cool" that my cheek is calm to the touch. It even sends my eye lids into a lull so peaceful that I have to struggle to keep them open. Natural light cascades in from the window like a silent tropical waterfall. Time nearly ceases to exist, only reminding me of its presence by the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall across the room.
Tick... tick... tick... tick
In fact, other than the four-count melodic rhythm of that metronome, the only other sound is pleasing. It's the gentle flipping of pages.
I'm not at the library. I'm in my classroom. Twenty-some ninth graders are all quiet- amazingly quiet. They are all on the same task. Having taken months to train, all I have to do is say the phrase, "Reading time has begun," and all go to work, save for the occasional nodder, a victim of the peaceful setting.
Of course it's April and school will be out in five weeks. We are far enough along in the school year that I can reap the rewards of drill-instructor-like training to whip these students into shape. All whining has ceased, all questions as to the validity of SSR (silent, sustained reading) have been sufficiently answered. We are still far enough away from summer vacation that I don't have to worry about them getting antsy. So for a peaceful thirty minutes today, and twice a week, we sit in silence and enter our own little dream worlds created by each individual author.
SSR is an oasis in a desert full of foul-mouthed teen talk in the hallways, the cafeteria, or whenever the teacher's back is turned- generally any time they can think they can get away with it. But I don't have to think about that right now. Right now there's just... silence.
And then the bell rings.
The room is at peace. The air-conditioning unit has set the air to that perfect temperature of "cool" that my cheek is calm to the touch. It even sends my eye lids into a lull so peaceful that I have to struggle to keep them open. Natural light cascades in from the window like a silent tropical waterfall. Time nearly ceases to exist, only reminding me of its presence by the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall across the room.
Tick... tick... tick... tick
In fact, other than the four-count melodic rhythm of that metronome, the only other sound is pleasing. It's the gentle flipping of pages.
I'm not at the library. I'm in my classroom. Twenty-some ninth graders are all quiet- amazingly quiet. They are all on the same task. Having taken months to train, all I have to do is say the phrase, "Reading time has begun," and all go to work, save for the occasional nodder, a victim of the peaceful setting.
Of course it's April and school will be out in five weeks. We are far enough along in the school year that I can reap the rewards of drill-instructor-like training to whip these students into shape. All whining has ceased, all questions as to the validity of SSR (silent, sustained reading) have been sufficiently answered. We are still far enough away from summer vacation that I don't have to worry about them getting antsy. So for a peaceful thirty minutes today, and twice a week, we sit in silence and enter our own little dream worlds created by each individual author.
SSR is an oasis in a desert full of foul-mouthed teen talk in the hallways, the cafeteria, or whenever the teacher's back is turned- generally any time they can think they can get away with it. But I don't have to think about that right now. Right now there's just... silence.
And then the bell rings.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Stand by Me
I just can't bring myself to hate Will Wheaton.
Anyone who is a fan of the hit sitcom The Big Bang Theory knows that Will Wheaton has made a few guest appearances, playing himself/the arch nemesis of fan favorite Sheldon Cooper, a brilliant, yet quirky scientist who sees fellow humans as merely bacteria through the lens of a microscope. As kryptonite to Superman, Sheldon's weakness is Will Wheaton's character, Will Wheaton, a guy who is not smarter than Sheldon, but much craftier. As a former fan of Wheaton's character on Star Trek -that is until Wheaton scorned him for an autograph years back- Sheldon is constantly seeking his revenge, but always falls short due to Wheaton's mean-spirited tricks. My wife and I both love Sheldon, hence it would be so easy to hate Wheaton (the character or the actor.) I just can't do it because I remember him for a role he played in 1986, a role that in many ways shaped who I am today.
In the best movie of all time, Stand by Me (adapted from Steven King's novella The Body,) Wheaton plays a sensitive twelve-year-old named Gordie who is trying his best to cope with life after the death of his brother and in the midst of being invisible to his grieving parents who have apparently forgotten that they still have a living son. Either as an act of rebellion or simply to cope, he hangs out with a group of tough guys who are all on the way to nowhere. Chris (played by the late River Phoenix,) is the leader of the group who has to live down his bad family reputation. Teddy (played by Corey Feldman) is the spawn and near clone of a military man who after storming the beach at Normandy, went Section Eight and stuck his son's head to the stove, melting off his ears. The last in the group, Vern (Jerry O'Connell,) is the fat one that everyone picks on.
One hot summer afternoon, the four set out on an adventure to find the missing body of a boy in a neighboring town after Vern overhears some information about his whereabouts from his brother and his brother's friend who stumbled upon the dead body by a river twenty miles away. Armed with only the shirts on their backs, canteens, a pack of smokes, and a pistol, the four follow the railroad tracks to the location and find lots of trouble along the way: a junkyard dog taught to seek specific areas of the male body, a train that nearly runs them over on a bridge, and leaches in a cess pool that they fall into to name a few. But with all the trouble, the boys find out who they really are, they locate their inner-strength, and they come out men on the other side. It's a classic story of the initiation ritual.
I always identified with Gordie. No, I never had to deal with the type of tragedy he did, and I had the best parents in the world, but like him, I hung out with the wrong crowd, cussed like I thought real men did, and underachieved in school. I always knew I was a good kid, felt I was going to turn into a good man someday, but I suppose that this was my version of sowing my wild oats- instead of dating multiple girls, I misbehaved. And my parents thought that I was a perfect angel for the most part.
The movie had a huge impact on me. I can remember in junior high, hanging out at night with my best friend, C.J., one of the few good kids I palled around with. I would stay over at his house and we would stay up till all hours of the night, watching, rewinding, and rewatching Stand by Me. I swear we had every line memorized, cuss words and all. For that matter I still do.
But Gordie really stuck to me, hit close to home. In the story Gordie and Chris find a way out of the mire and become productive. Gordie becomes a writer, something Chris persuades him to follow because he had an obvious aptitude for the written word. Somewhere along the way I did the same. I guess I could say that my first real influence in writing was Gordie. I aspired to be the boy who could achieve the American dream.
In fact I so idolized Gordie and Stand by Me that my first novel, The Unwritten Rules of Moccasin Creek, was essentially a dedication to the movie. Four junior high boys on the last day of school take an unchapperoned camping trip to a local creek and with the aide of some necessary evils, fully enjoy acting like "adults" until the rains bring rising water and a threat to survival. Sounds kind of familiar, doesn't it? If it ever sells, I hope Steven King will forgive me, or at least be honored that his brain child could be my spirit guide and inspiration.
So Will Wheaton will never be Sheldon Cooper's nemesis to me. He will never be some character on Star Trek that I don't even pretend to understand. He will never be any other character he has ever played. Will Wheaton will always be me.
Anyone who is a fan of the hit sitcom The Big Bang Theory knows that Will Wheaton has made a few guest appearances, playing himself/the arch nemesis of fan favorite Sheldon Cooper, a brilliant, yet quirky scientist who sees fellow humans as merely bacteria through the lens of a microscope. As kryptonite to Superman, Sheldon's weakness is Will Wheaton's character, Will Wheaton, a guy who is not smarter than Sheldon, but much craftier. As a former fan of Wheaton's character on Star Trek -that is until Wheaton scorned him for an autograph years back- Sheldon is constantly seeking his revenge, but always falls short due to Wheaton's mean-spirited tricks. My wife and I both love Sheldon, hence it would be so easy to hate Wheaton (the character or the actor.) I just can't do it because I remember him for a role he played in 1986, a role that in many ways shaped who I am today.
In the best movie of all time, Stand by Me (adapted from Steven King's novella The Body,) Wheaton plays a sensitive twelve-year-old named Gordie who is trying his best to cope with life after the death of his brother and in the midst of being invisible to his grieving parents who have apparently forgotten that they still have a living son. Either as an act of rebellion or simply to cope, he hangs out with a group of tough guys who are all on the way to nowhere. Chris (played by the late River Phoenix,) is the leader of the group who has to live down his bad family reputation. Teddy (played by Corey Feldman) is the spawn and near clone of a military man who after storming the beach at Normandy, went Section Eight and stuck his son's head to the stove, melting off his ears. The last in the group, Vern (Jerry O'Connell,) is the fat one that everyone picks on.
One hot summer afternoon, the four set out on an adventure to find the missing body of a boy in a neighboring town after Vern overhears some information about his whereabouts from his brother and his brother's friend who stumbled upon the dead body by a river twenty miles away. Armed with only the shirts on their backs, canteens, a pack of smokes, and a pistol, the four follow the railroad tracks to the location and find lots of trouble along the way: a junkyard dog taught to seek specific areas of the male body, a train that nearly runs them over on a bridge, and leaches in a cess pool that they fall into to name a few. But with all the trouble, the boys find out who they really are, they locate their inner-strength, and they come out men on the other side. It's a classic story of the initiation ritual.
I always identified with Gordie. No, I never had to deal with the type of tragedy he did, and I had the best parents in the world, but like him, I hung out with the wrong crowd, cussed like I thought real men did, and underachieved in school. I always knew I was a good kid, felt I was going to turn into a good man someday, but I suppose that this was my version of sowing my wild oats- instead of dating multiple girls, I misbehaved. And my parents thought that I was a perfect angel for the most part.
The movie had a huge impact on me. I can remember in junior high, hanging out at night with my best friend, C.J., one of the few good kids I palled around with. I would stay over at his house and we would stay up till all hours of the night, watching, rewinding, and rewatching Stand by Me. I swear we had every line memorized, cuss words and all. For that matter I still do.
But Gordie really stuck to me, hit close to home. In the story Gordie and Chris find a way out of the mire and become productive. Gordie becomes a writer, something Chris persuades him to follow because he had an obvious aptitude for the written word. Somewhere along the way I did the same. I guess I could say that my first real influence in writing was Gordie. I aspired to be the boy who could achieve the American dream.
In fact I so idolized Gordie and Stand by Me that my first novel, The Unwritten Rules of Moccasin Creek, was essentially a dedication to the movie. Four junior high boys on the last day of school take an unchapperoned camping trip to a local creek and with the aide of some necessary evils, fully enjoy acting like "adults" until the rains bring rising water and a threat to survival. Sounds kind of familiar, doesn't it? If it ever sells, I hope Steven King will forgive me, or at least be honored that his brain child could be my spirit guide and inspiration.
So Will Wheaton will never be Sheldon Cooper's nemesis to me. He will never be some character on Star Trek that I don't even pretend to understand. He will never be any other character he has ever played. Will Wheaton will always be me.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
The Boys of... Spring
For the first time in many years, we had good weather for our Easter egg hunt this morning. In the recent past we've had a combination of wind, cold drizzle, and even hints of snow, which forced the Easter bunny to hide his eggs inside, but this morning was warm. When wishing for spring, I tend to look to the trees and bushes. The yellows and whites come out before anything else, but it's not until the reds and pinks show up that I know we are finally free of winter. That and opening day of the Major League baseball season.
With the smell of freshly cut grass still in my nostrils, I raced inside this evening and took the fastest shower of my life. Still dripping wet, I plopped down into my chair and turned on the television just in time to see the Boston Red Sox take the field against the hated New York Yankees. Opening day is always special because it's a clear sign that winter is finally over. Every year thousands of kids are called in sick on opening day. Unbeknownst to mom, dad helps his kid play hooky. They sit in the outfield bleachers, buy a five-dollar bag of peanuts from the vendor coming down the isle, and enjoy waching the boys of summer. This is a ritual that takes place in thirty unique cities aross this country. With the exception of tonight's early opener, all these cities will celebrate tomorrow.
So what is so great about opening day in a 162 game season? Every team is even. We know of a few certainties when it comes to baseball every year. A few teams will spend close to $200 million, and will make the playoffs. This group includes both the Red Sox and Yankees. Other clubs who try to outspend teams like the Red Sox and Yankees will fall considerably short of making the playoffs because of forces unseen and unknown. This group includes the New York Mets and the Chicago Cubs. Finally, a few teams will be out of contention by May because their owners don't care whether they win or lose. This group includes the Kansas City Royals and the Pittsburgh Pirates. This doesn't bode well for me because I grew up as a Royals fan.
Living in Western Kansas in the early to mid eighties, we grew up idolizing the great Royals. George Brett, Frank White, Bret Saberhagen, Dan Quisenberry, Willy Wilson, even Bo Jackson later on. Kansas City was a proud franchise. Every year the Yankees would be in it until the end, but many of those years, the team that slowed them, or even showed them the door was the Royals. I yelled at the umpire through the television when he called Brett out in the classic pine-tar game. I cheered from the upper deck when Dad took our little league team to see them beat up on the Athletics (before McGuire and Canseco tainted the game with Steroids.) I danced in Grandma and Grandpa's living room with Uncle Joe when they took the I-70 Series from the St. Louis Cardinals.
Then somewhere along the way they became irrelevant. Talent started to dwindle. Instead of having a roster loaded with unselfish talent (for KC is a nice community to live in and raise kids,) the roster started showing weaknesses. Star pitchers like David Cone (who was born and raised in KC) would work their way up the farm system and give a few good years to the Royals before either finishing out their contracts and moving on to better paying teams, or worse, the club would deal them to the Yankees for cash to help New York in their stretch run to another damned championship. Before long, Kansas City became a farm team for the more serious clubs, grooming talent and just giving them away for practically no fight and nothing to show for the effort. Now KC makes one or two trades in the winter to add a former "medium-sized" name like a Mark Grudzielanek or a Matt Stairs, while fielding the rest of the positions with players that should be starting for the AAA Omaha Royals. It's sad, oh so sad.
So on opening day, every year, I buy a newspaper and go straight to the sports section. I take a look at the standings and see five teams in the American League Central Division with the number "0" beside their names in the games-back column. Kansas City is one of them. I also smile as I see KC listed fourth out of those five teams because "K" comes before the "M" in Minnesota in the alphabet. By the time the red buds lose their color, "K" will fall after the "M" and never recover.
Today, while there's still time, I celebrate a former great franchise, the Kansas City Royals, for by this time tomorrow there won't be much to celebrate. By May I will just pray that the Red Sox can keep up with the Yankees.
With the smell of freshly cut grass still in my nostrils, I raced inside this evening and took the fastest shower of my life. Still dripping wet, I plopped down into my chair and turned on the television just in time to see the Boston Red Sox take the field against the hated New York Yankees. Opening day is always special because it's a clear sign that winter is finally over. Every year thousands of kids are called in sick on opening day. Unbeknownst to mom, dad helps his kid play hooky. They sit in the outfield bleachers, buy a five-dollar bag of peanuts from the vendor coming down the isle, and enjoy waching the boys of summer. This is a ritual that takes place in thirty unique cities aross this country. With the exception of tonight's early opener, all these cities will celebrate tomorrow.
So what is so great about opening day in a 162 game season? Every team is even. We know of a few certainties when it comes to baseball every year. A few teams will spend close to $200 million, and will make the playoffs. This group includes both the Red Sox and Yankees. Other clubs who try to outspend teams like the Red Sox and Yankees will fall considerably short of making the playoffs because of forces unseen and unknown. This group includes the New York Mets and the Chicago Cubs. Finally, a few teams will be out of contention by May because their owners don't care whether they win or lose. This group includes the Kansas City Royals and the Pittsburgh Pirates. This doesn't bode well for me because I grew up as a Royals fan.
Living in Western Kansas in the early to mid eighties, we grew up idolizing the great Royals. George Brett, Frank White, Bret Saberhagen, Dan Quisenberry, Willy Wilson, even Bo Jackson later on. Kansas City was a proud franchise. Every year the Yankees would be in it until the end, but many of those years, the team that slowed them, or even showed them the door was the Royals. I yelled at the umpire through the television when he called Brett out in the classic pine-tar game. I cheered from the upper deck when Dad took our little league team to see them beat up on the Athletics (before McGuire and Canseco tainted the game with Steroids.) I danced in Grandma and Grandpa's living room with Uncle Joe when they took the I-70 Series from the St. Louis Cardinals.
Then somewhere along the way they became irrelevant. Talent started to dwindle. Instead of having a roster loaded with unselfish talent (for KC is a nice community to live in and raise kids,) the roster started showing weaknesses. Star pitchers like David Cone (who was born and raised in KC) would work their way up the farm system and give a few good years to the Royals before either finishing out their contracts and moving on to better paying teams, or worse, the club would deal them to the Yankees for cash to help New York in their stretch run to another damned championship. Before long, Kansas City became a farm team for the more serious clubs, grooming talent and just giving them away for practically no fight and nothing to show for the effort. Now KC makes one or two trades in the winter to add a former "medium-sized" name like a Mark Grudzielanek or a Matt Stairs, while fielding the rest of the positions with players that should be starting for the AAA Omaha Royals. It's sad, oh so sad.
So on opening day, every year, I buy a newspaper and go straight to the sports section. I take a look at the standings and see five teams in the American League Central Division with the number "0" beside their names in the games-back column. Kansas City is one of them. I also smile as I see KC listed fourth out of those five teams because "K" comes before the "M" in Minnesota in the alphabet. By the time the red buds lose their color, "K" will fall after the "M" and never recover.
Today, while there's still time, I celebrate a former great franchise, the Kansas City Royals, for by this time tomorrow there won't be much to celebrate. By May I will just pray that the Red Sox can keep up with the Yankees.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Annual March Disappointment
A few months ago, mired in a losing streak as long as this winter has been, Roy Williams, head men's basketball coach at the University of North Carolina, had the audacity to compare his team's losing streak to the Haitian earthquake disaster. It was a conversation that he never expected to get outside the walls of his office, but stuff this juicy has a way of escaping like juice from a lemon in a vise. The moment it became public, he knew how bad it sounded and he made a public apology, stating that he never once thought his little predicament compared to the devastation the people of Haiti felt and will continue to feel. His apology, as trite as it came out, was true. Nevertheless, his original words felt true to his situation. To him, a man who is destined for the College Basketball Hall of Fame, this was devastation. Oh, to be so blessed.
March Madness is a three-week tour of "devastation" for many fans. There are 347 NCAAS Division 1 college basketball teams. Sixty-five of the best teams in the nation sprint at break-neck speed towards the goal of being crowned national champions. Though the odds are much greater than, say, winning the lottery, this is still a mammoth task. That said, there are some fans who are ecstatic that their team merely makes the top 65. Then there are some fans who won't be happy until their favorite guys are hoisting the trophy. Unfortunately I fall into the last group.
I am a Kansas University Jayhawks fan and I have had my heart broken by them more times than by girls, which is saying something. In 1988 the great Danny Manning and his "Miracles" barely made the tournament, grossly underachieving all year. Playing inspired ball and streaking at the right moment, they swept six games from worthy foes, two of which they lost to miserably during the regular season. I was an impressionable eighth grader the year they cut down the nets and my expectations were permanently set in stone. I am not alone on this one.
Hence, for the next twenty years I was to be regularly disappointed in March. Many of those years if they weren't the clear-cut favorite to win it all, then they were certainly considered one of a handful of teams that could do it. In 1991, under the direction of now UNC coach Roy Williams, there was their surprise run to the championship game before being knocked off by a Duke team who beat arguably the best team in the history of the game in the semi finals, the UNLV Running Rebels. Despite the loss, this only heightened expectations. The very next year they were ranked #2 overall going into the tournament before a shocking defeat in the second round. 1993 resulted in another run to the final four before being dismissed by eventual champion North Carolina.
Two years later KU was upset in the Sweet 16 by an underrated Virginia squad after being tabbed as one of the favorites once again, but this only led to greater expectations the next year. In the 1996 season, after winning the Big 8 Tournament, KU again came up short, losing to Syracuse in the Elite 8. But their All American point guard, Jaque Vaughan, and a great supporting cast including All Americans Raef LaFrentz and future NBA Hall of Famer Paul Pierce, all decided to come back to school to finish the quest. Fielding what many considered to be the finest collection of mature athletes at the school ever, KU choked in the tournament to an Arizona team that caught fire at the right time and went on to win the tournament as a four-seed, practically unthinkable. KU was the consensus #1 almost all season. The next season, with Raef and Paul still in uniform, the #1 seeded Jayhawks were knocked off by little-known 8 seed Rhode Island, a total fluke, but consistent with the March madness moniker.
After a few off years (only winning 23, 24, and 26 games respectively) KU had another great team in 2003. Again one of the favorites, KU lost in the Final Four to eventual champion and senior-laden Maryland. So in 2004, with so many saying that this was KU's year with all their upper-classmen, they stormed into the championship game, only to lose to a Syracuse team that sported one-and-done Carmello Anthony and some dorky little point guard who couldn't miss from the three-point arc. I know his name, but I refuse to write or speak it. Anyway, it didn't help that KU choked away over 50% of its free throws that game. Coach Williams promptly bolted to UNC right after the game. Really, who could blame him?
Under the new direction of basketball genius Bill Self, KU regrouped and went after the championship with new vigor, but many hardships were to befall them. After an overtime loss in the Elite 8 that first year, KU came into the 2005 tournament as Big XII champions again, and as again one of an elite few who could win it all. They promptly lost to mighty Patriot League automatic qualifier Bucknell in the first round. That made Bucknell's century. The next year was a carbon copy, submitting Bradley for Bucknell, again in the first round. Jayhawks fans around the world were hiding their KU gear in shame. The very next year they won their conference yet again, but faltered in the Elite 8. At that point it didn't really matter who the opponent was. Quite frankly I don't remember, or care to.
In twenty years, KU had ten teams that many would consider had at least a sporting chance of winning the whole damn thing. All ten of those teams fell short of expectations, and 2008 shaped up to offer the same lamentable tune. In the championship game against Memphis, KU fell behind eight points with only a few minutes to play. Then something amazing happened; a different team choked. Memphis missed their free throws and Mario Chalmers hit a miracle three pointer at the buzzer to take the game into overtime. Breaking twenty cursed years, the boys in blue outdistanced their opponent for the National Championship! I felt like I was thirteen again! The boys went 37 wins versus 3 losses that year.
So two weeks ago, composed of some of those same ball players who contributed that fateful season, KU strolled into the NCAA tournament, Big XII Champions again and #1 overall seed with 32 wins. This had been dubbed as KU's year for the past twelve months, ever since their two great stars, Sherron Collins and Cole Aldrich announced they would return for a championship run. It ended five games short. KU lost to dinky University of Northern Iowa in the round of 32, leaving many disbelieving KU fans and millions of pissed off bracket participants who picked them to win it all (40% of all ESPN.com users!)
Disappointment describes it perfectly. When I look at this year's Final Four participants, 5 seed Michigan State, 5 seed Butler, 2 seed West Virginia, and 1 seed Duke, I shake my head in disbelief. This motley group of cagers supposedly represent the top four teams in the nation, foresaking great teams like Kentucky, Syracuse, and of course KU. The people who write about this topic for a living make statements like, "That's what makes this sport so special." That's a load of horse hockey. If they want to do it right, they should come up with some sort of double-elimination format. That way, when some of the teams that shouldn't lose end up hiccuping, they can play their way back into it. It would take an extra week or two to complete, but really, what sports fan says at the end of the tournament, "Man, that was a long tournament. I am glad it is over! I am sick of basketball!" Wouldn't happen.
9 times out of 10 KU easily handles Northern Iowa, Bucknell, Bradley, Rhode Island, Arizona, and Virginia. In those other years against the better competition, I'd give them a 50/50 chance, but honestly, this whole monologue is just a load of sour grapes. I waited a week after KU's "disappointing" loss to write this, hoping for some insights into the meaning of life without having to climb a mountain and soliciting an old, wise man with a beard down to the ground. I did find it tonight. What about poor old "devastated" Roy Williams' UNC team? They are still playing... in the NIT. That's cheap. They can have it.
I won't ever think of my poor misfortunes (sarcasm) as anything even remotely close to what the unfortunate people in Haiti are going through. If this is the frustration God has in store for me, I consider myself very blessed. Besides, two titles in my lifetime ain't bad.
March Madness is a three-week tour of "devastation" for many fans. There are 347 NCAAS Division 1 college basketball teams. Sixty-five of the best teams in the nation sprint at break-neck speed towards the goal of being crowned national champions. Though the odds are much greater than, say, winning the lottery, this is still a mammoth task. That said, there are some fans who are ecstatic that their team merely makes the top 65. Then there are some fans who won't be happy until their favorite guys are hoisting the trophy. Unfortunately I fall into the last group.
I am a Kansas University Jayhawks fan and I have had my heart broken by them more times than by girls, which is saying something. In 1988 the great Danny Manning and his "Miracles" barely made the tournament, grossly underachieving all year. Playing inspired ball and streaking at the right moment, they swept six games from worthy foes, two of which they lost to miserably during the regular season. I was an impressionable eighth grader the year they cut down the nets and my expectations were permanently set in stone. I am not alone on this one.
Hence, for the next twenty years I was to be regularly disappointed in March. Many of those years if they weren't the clear-cut favorite to win it all, then they were certainly considered one of a handful of teams that could do it. In 1991, under the direction of now UNC coach Roy Williams, there was their surprise run to the championship game before being knocked off by a Duke team who beat arguably the best team in the history of the game in the semi finals, the UNLV Running Rebels. Despite the loss, this only heightened expectations. The very next year they were ranked #2 overall going into the tournament before a shocking defeat in the second round. 1993 resulted in another run to the final four before being dismissed by eventual champion North Carolina.
Two years later KU was upset in the Sweet 16 by an underrated Virginia squad after being tabbed as one of the favorites once again, but this only led to greater expectations the next year. In the 1996 season, after winning the Big 8 Tournament, KU again came up short, losing to Syracuse in the Elite 8. But their All American point guard, Jaque Vaughan, and a great supporting cast including All Americans Raef LaFrentz and future NBA Hall of Famer Paul Pierce, all decided to come back to school to finish the quest. Fielding what many considered to be the finest collection of mature athletes at the school ever, KU choked in the tournament to an Arizona team that caught fire at the right time and went on to win the tournament as a four-seed, practically unthinkable. KU was the consensus #1 almost all season. The next season, with Raef and Paul still in uniform, the #1 seeded Jayhawks were knocked off by little-known 8 seed Rhode Island, a total fluke, but consistent with the March madness moniker.
After a few off years (only winning 23, 24, and 26 games respectively) KU had another great team in 2003. Again one of the favorites, KU lost in the Final Four to eventual champion and senior-laden Maryland. So in 2004, with so many saying that this was KU's year with all their upper-classmen, they stormed into the championship game, only to lose to a Syracuse team that sported one-and-done Carmello Anthony and some dorky little point guard who couldn't miss from the three-point arc. I know his name, but I refuse to write or speak it. Anyway, it didn't help that KU choked away over 50% of its free throws that game. Coach Williams promptly bolted to UNC right after the game. Really, who could blame him?
Under the new direction of basketball genius Bill Self, KU regrouped and went after the championship with new vigor, but many hardships were to befall them. After an overtime loss in the Elite 8 that first year, KU came into the 2005 tournament as Big XII champions again, and as again one of an elite few who could win it all. They promptly lost to mighty Patriot League automatic qualifier Bucknell in the first round. That made Bucknell's century. The next year was a carbon copy, submitting Bradley for Bucknell, again in the first round. Jayhawks fans around the world were hiding their KU gear in shame. The very next year they won their conference yet again, but faltered in the Elite 8. At that point it didn't really matter who the opponent was. Quite frankly I don't remember, or care to.
In twenty years, KU had ten teams that many would consider had at least a sporting chance of winning the whole damn thing. All ten of those teams fell short of expectations, and 2008 shaped up to offer the same lamentable tune. In the championship game against Memphis, KU fell behind eight points with only a few minutes to play. Then something amazing happened; a different team choked. Memphis missed their free throws and Mario Chalmers hit a miracle three pointer at the buzzer to take the game into overtime. Breaking twenty cursed years, the boys in blue outdistanced their opponent for the National Championship! I felt like I was thirteen again! The boys went 37 wins versus 3 losses that year.
So two weeks ago, composed of some of those same ball players who contributed that fateful season, KU strolled into the NCAA tournament, Big XII Champions again and #1 overall seed with 32 wins. This had been dubbed as KU's year for the past twelve months, ever since their two great stars, Sherron Collins and Cole Aldrich announced they would return for a championship run. It ended five games short. KU lost to dinky University of Northern Iowa in the round of 32, leaving many disbelieving KU fans and millions of pissed off bracket participants who picked them to win it all (40% of all ESPN.com users!)
Disappointment describes it perfectly. When I look at this year's Final Four participants, 5 seed Michigan State, 5 seed Butler, 2 seed West Virginia, and 1 seed Duke, I shake my head in disbelief. This motley group of cagers supposedly represent the top four teams in the nation, foresaking great teams like Kentucky, Syracuse, and of course KU. The people who write about this topic for a living make statements like, "That's what makes this sport so special." That's a load of horse hockey. If they want to do it right, they should come up with some sort of double-elimination format. That way, when some of the teams that shouldn't lose end up hiccuping, they can play their way back into it. It would take an extra week or two to complete, but really, what sports fan says at the end of the tournament, "Man, that was a long tournament. I am glad it is over! I am sick of basketball!" Wouldn't happen.
9 times out of 10 KU easily handles Northern Iowa, Bucknell, Bradley, Rhode Island, Arizona, and Virginia. In those other years against the better competition, I'd give them a 50/50 chance, but honestly, this whole monologue is just a load of sour grapes. I waited a week after KU's "disappointing" loss to write this, hoping for some insights into the meaning of life without having to climb a mountain and soliciting an old, wise man with a beard down to the ground. I did find it tonight. What about poor old "devastated" Roy Williams' UNC team? They are still playing... in the NIT. That's cheap. They can have it.
I won't ever think of my poor misfortunes (sarcasm) as anything even remotely close to what the unfortunate people in Haiti are going through. If this is the frustration God has in store for me, I consider myself very blessed. Besides, two titles in my lifetime ain't bad.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Super Bowl
When I was a kid the Super Bowl was just as important as my birthday and nearly upon level with Christmas. During the week leading up the big game, the anticipation was too much to bear. I was worthless in school. The teacher would call on me in class and I would be daydreaming about Terry Bradshaw throwing a touchdown strike to John Stallworth, and the subsequent Steelers' big win. It was so huge for me that I couldn't sit still to hold another thought.
On the day of the game, I would wake up really early to turn on the television and watch the marathon of former Super Bowl games, really focusing on the four that Pittsburgh won. I had every highlight memorized, the accompanying music, and the deep-voiceded vernacular of John Facenda, the overvoice specialist for NFL Films. There would be a break for mass, another for lunch, and by three in the afternoon, my father couldn't stand to hear me or my brother ask one more time, "How long until it's on?"
Buttoned up from head-to-toe, we would be sent outside to re-enact the Immaculate Reception (yes, I know that was not in a Super Bowl game,) Lynn Swan's tiptoe dance along the sideline, or even the folly of the play that the tight end from Dallas created when he dropped a sure touchdown to put them ahead of the Steelers. What was that guy's name again? I should send him a thank you card.
Anyway, the stress of the day would get to me. By the time the Super Bowl came on, I had another tradition. My migraine headache would be so bad that I would have to lay down in a dark room until it abated or the game was over, which was usually one in the same. What a big letdown after all the anticipation.
I watched every Super Bowl with my father until 2003 when it just wasn't feasible to have one of us drive so far. Nevertheless, every year I call Dad on Super Bowl Sunday to get his prediction. Every year he pretty much nails it. About five years ago my brother Chris and I started a tradition. Each year, he calls me or I call him minutes before the game and we place a wager on it. The loser pays the other's out-of-state fishing fees for our annual Colorado fly-fishing trip in July.
Whether it's for the love of the game, for tradition, or for the commercials, the Super Bowl is more than just a contest between the two best football teams in the world. It's a social event that's big enough to cause Wal Mart to move snack items to the center aisle. Whatever your tradition, and whether your team made it or not, I hope your Super Bowl Sunday is a good one.
On the day of the game, I would wake up really early to turn on the television and watch the marathon of former Super Bowl games, really focusing on the four that Pittsburgh won. I had every highlight memorized, the accompanying music, and the deep-voiceded vernacular of John Facenda, the overvoice specialist for NFL Films. There would be a break for mass, another for lunch, and by three in the afternoon, my father couldn't stand to hear me or my brother ask one more time, "How long until it's on?"
Buttoned up from head-to-toe, we would be sent outside to re-enact the Immaculate Reception (yes, I know that was not in a Super Bowl game,) Lynn Swan's tiptoe dance along the sideline, or even the folly of the play that the tight end from Dallas created when he dropped a sure touchdown to put them ahead of the Steelers. What was that guy's name again? I should send him a thank you card.
Anyway, the stress of the day would get to me. By the time the Super Bowl came on, I had another tradition. My migraine headache would be so bad that I would have to lay down in a dark room until it abated or the game was over, which was usually one in the same. What a big letdown after all the anticipation.
I watched every Super Bowl with my father until 2003 when it just wasn't feasible to have one of us drive so far. Nevertheless, every year I call Dad on Super Bowl Sunday to get his prediction. Every year he pretty much nails it. About five years ago my brother Chris and I started a tradition. Each year, he calls me or I call him minutes before the game and we place a wager on it. The loser pays the other's out-of-state fishing fees for our annual Colorado fly-fishing trip in July.
Whether it's for the love of the game, for tradition, or for the commercials, the Super Bowl is more than just a contest between the two best football teams in the world. It's a social event that's big enough to cause Wal Mart to move snack items to the center aisle. Whatever your tradition, and whether your team made it or not, I hope your Super Bowl Sunday is a good one.
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