One of college football's grittiest rivalries gets a do-over Saturday for the first time since 1903, and once again this week we've been treated to the reason the college game is so much more outright fun than that stuff they play on Sundays.
It's Oklahoma vs. Texas for the Big 12 title, a rematch of the October game in which the Longhorns handed the Sooners their only loss. And, boy howdy, the enmity is flowin'.
To sum up: OU's quarterback doesn't like UT's quarterback. UT's quarterback doesn't much care for OU's quarterback. None of their teammates like the other team's quarterback either.
Best quote of the week so far?
This from Texas defensive tackle Chris Nelson: ""It's gonna be a dirty game. You'll probably see hitting after the whistle. You'll probably see a lot of stuff if you keep your eyes open.\
"It's gonna be a dogfight. But I love it, man."
Who doesn't?
Friday, November 30, 2018
Thursday, November 29, 2018
Perception is all
Five million lost viewers.
Thirteen years.
This is not the sort of calculus that works, if you're a once-going concern that wants to remain a going concern. This is, in fact, as bad as it gets when the once-going concern is the most wildly successful motorsports entity in American history, a motorsports entity that once gushed money with such ease it briefly imagined itself the nation's fourth major sport.
That was then. This is now.
This is post-NASCAR NASCAR, the bust after the boom. In 2005, nearly 8.5 million people watched each Cup Series race, according to the latest figures. In 2018 fewer than 3.5 million did. This means almost twice as many people have stopped watching NASCAR across the last 13 years than watched it this year.
This was would be awful news for any professional; for a motorsport like NASCAR, which relies heavily on sponsorship dollars for its very breath, it is catastrophic.
Eyeballs attract sponsors. Lack of same sends them screaming into the night. That is not a good thing.
So why is this happening?
At least part of it, one senses, is that NASCAR is experiencing exactly what IndyCar did in the early '90s, when so many reliable draws retired almost at once. Within a three or four year span, A.J. Foyt, Mario Andretti, Rick Mears and Al Unser Sr. all hung it up. Every one of them represented a chunky fan base. At least a portion of those fan bases never caught on with the next generation of stars, none of whom shone with nearly the sustained brilliance.
NASCAR, same deal. Four of the biggest draws in the sport -- Dale Earnhardt Jr., Jeff Gordon, Tony Stewart and, to a somewhat lesser extent, Carl Edwards -- have all walked away from the sport in the last four years. A fifth, Jimmie Johnson, has become a diminished presence. The next generation of sustainable draws is still in the development stage, and a few of the established remaining veterans aren't particularly likeable.
So NASCAR is stuck in neutral, for the time being. And as has been pointed out in this space before, a lot of that is its own doing.
All that aforementioned wild success, you see, created expectations that were unrealistic and unsustainable. This was especially true among sponsors and potential sponsors, who saw that gusher of money and assumed it would gush forever. It was never going to -- anyone who understood that motorsports is and always will remain a niche entity could see that -- but booms are hothouses for delusion. If the money's rolling in, it's always going to roll in. Right?
Well ... no. And so we've come to a place where 3 million plus viewers for every Cup race is a catastrophe because of the backdrop against which it's playing out. Thirty, 40 years ago, when NASCAR was still largely a regional phenomenon, 3 million plus viewers would have had everyone in the sport turning cartwheels. And sponsors would have been lined up out the door.
Now?
Now it's sending them fleeing out the door.
What a difference perception makes.
Thirteen years.
This is not the sort of calculus that works, if you're a once-going concern that wants to remain a going concern. This is, in fact, as bad as it gets when the once-going concern is the most wildly successful motorsports entity in American history, a motorsports entity that once gushed money with such ease it briefly imagined itself the nation's fourth major sport.
That was then. This is now.
This is post-NASCAR NASCAR, the bust after the boom. In 2005, nearly 8.5 million people watched each Cup Series race, according to the latest figures. In 2018 fewer than 3.5 million did. This means almost twice as many people have stopped watching NASCAR across the last 13 years than watched it this year.
This was would be awful news for any professional; for a motorsport like NASCAR, which relies heavily on sponsorship dollars for its very breath, it is catastrophic.
Eyeballs attract sponsors. Lack of same sends them screaming into the night. That is not a good thing.
So why is this happening?
At least part of it, one senses, is that NASCAR is experiencing exactly what IndyCar did in the early '90s, when so many reliable draws retired almost at once. Within a three or four year span, A.J. Foyt, Mario Andretti, Rick Mears and Al Unser Sr. all hung it up. Every one of them represented a chunky fan base. At least a portion of those fan bases never caught on with the next generation of stars, none of whom shone with nearly the sustained brilliance.
NASCAR, same deal. Four of the biggest draws in the sport -- Dale Earnhardt Jr., Jeff Gordon, Tony Stewart and, to a somewhat lesser extent, Carl Edwards -- have all walked away from the sport in the last four years. A fifth, Jimmie Johnson, has become a diminished presence. The next generation of sustainable draws is still in the development stage, and a few of the established remaining veterans aren't particularly likeable.
So NASCAR is stuck in neutral, for the time being. And as has been pointed out in this space before, a lot of that is its own doing.
All that aforementioned wild success, you see, created expectations that were unrealistic and unsustainable. This was especially true among sponsors and potential sponsors, who saw that gusher of money and assumed it would gush forever. It was never going to -- anyone who understood that motorsports is and always will remain a niche entity could see that -- but booms are hothouses for delusion. If the money's rolling in, it's always going to roll in. Right?
Well ... no. And so we've come to a place where 3 million plus viewers for every Cup race is a catastrophe because of the backdrop against which it's playing out. Thirty, 40 years ago, when NASCAR was still largely a regional phenomenon, 3 million plus viewers would have had everyone in the sport turning cartwheels. And sponsors would have been lined up out the door.
Now?
Now it's sending them fleeing out the door.
What a difference perception makes.
Spurning home
This was a no-brainer, or so some of the wise guys thought. Who doesn't want to go home again, if offered the chance? Especially when the chance comes with so many dollar signs attached to it?
And so Jeff Brohm was going to go to Louisville. He was, wasn't he?
The circumstances were all weighted in that direction, after all. He was a high school star in Louisville. Then he was a collegiate star there, just as his brother had been. If Louisville, a basketball school in a basketball town in a basketball state, had a first family of football, it was the Brohm family.
Who better to resurrect the football program Bobby Petrino had just burned to the waterline, than the guy who sorted through the wreckage Darrell Hazell left behind to win 13 games in two seasons at Purdue?
On the other hand ... who better to stick around and see the job through?
Which you have to figure was at least partly what it came down to for Brohm, who hinted at as much in announcing he would turn down home to stay 180 miles away at Purdue. If the fit sounded as right as a fit gets, it seems, the timing wasn't. Everything at Purdue was just getting started. He'd made commitment to both the university and a passel of recruits. Louisville, if it ever happened, could wait.
And you had to wonder, when the news came down yesterday and all of West Lafayette audibly exhaled, just when Brohm's decision shifted in Purdue's favor. Does it go this way without a certain October night in Ross-Ade Stadium, when Purdue crushed the life out of then No. 2 Ohio State and Brohm got swept up in the magic of a lost program finding its mojo again? Does it go this way without athletic director Mike Bobinski's concerted push to pour money into the football program? Or Purdue solidifying its commitment to that program, and to Brohm, by reportedly topping Louisville's offer?
So many variables. What if Ohio State had beaten Purdue that night the way the Buckeyes had in three of the last four meetings? What if Bobinski's predecessor, Morgan Burke, hadn't decided to retire? Would Brohm had stuck around if Burke had stuck around?
Fair questions all. And, of course, a tidy window into just how much karma or circumstance or plain old garden variety luck plays into these things.
Far too often, plain old garden variety luck has turned its back on Purdue. This time it didn't. Score it a W.
And so Jeff Brohm was going to go to Louisville. He was, wasn't he?
The circumstances were all weighted in that direction, after all. He was a high school star in Louisville. Then he was a collegiate star there, just as his brother had been. If Louisville, a basketball school in a basketball town in a basketball state, had a first family of football, it was the Brohm family.
Who better to resurrect the football program Bobby Petrino had just burned to the waterline, than the guy who sorted through the wreckage Darrell Hazell left behind to win 13 games in two seasons at Purdue?
On the other hand ... who better to stick around and see the job through?
Which you have to figure was at least partly what it came down to for Brohm, who hinted at as much in announcing he would turn down home to stay 180 miles away at Purdue. If the fit sounded as right as a fit gets, it seems, the timing wasn't. Everything at Purdue was just getting started. He'd made commitment to both the university and a passel of recruits. Louisville, if it ever happened, could wait.
And you had to wonder, when the news came down yesterday and all of West Lafayette audibly exhaled, just when Brohm's decision shifted in Purdue's favor. Does it go this way without a certain October night in Ross-Ade Stadium, when Purdue crushed the life out of then No. 2 Ohio State and Brohm got swept up in the magic of a lost program finding its mojo again? Does it go this way without athletic director Mike Bobinski's concerted push to pour money into the football program? Or Purdue solidifying its commitment to that program, and to Brohm, by reportedly topping Louisville's offer?
So many variables. What if Ohio State had beaten Purdue that night the way the Buckeyes had in three of the last four meetings? What if Bobinski's predecessor, Morgan Burke, hadn't decided to retire? Would Brohm had stuck around if Burke had stuck around?
Fair questions all. And, of course, a tidy window into just how much karma or circumstance or plain old garden variety luck plays into these things.
Far too often, plain old garden variety luck has turned its back on Purdue. This time it didn't. Score it a W.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Still a ways to go
OK. So at least now we know.
At least now we know just how good Archie Miller's impressive collection of newbies and returning vets are -- and more to the point, just how good they aren't. They aren't as good as Mike Krzyzewski's even more impressive collection of newbies and returning talent at One-and-Done U. One-and-Done U. -- aka, NBA Team-In-Training, aka, Duke University -- is better. Like, way better.
Miller's Indiana Hoosiers and One-and-Done U. met in Durham last night, and 'tweren't pretty for the Bloomington lads. One-and-Done had them down 53-29 at halftime before Coach K lifted the throttle. The final, 90-69, was therefore something of a mirage in gauging exactly how much distance there is between K's legions and Miller's.
In any case, the obvious conclusion is that Romeo Langford, Robert Phinisee 'n' them ain't R.J. Barrett, Zion Williamson 'n' them. This is no knock on the former; right now hardly anyone is R.J. and Zion 'n' them. Which suggests, if you're a Hoosiers fan, Indiana will hold fast to that knowledge and not let last night's beatdown sour them going forward. Instead, they will apply some perspective, and realize that Romeo, Robert 'n' them are still a vast upgrade over last season, and that they'll still be good enough to beat most comers on most nights this winter.
In other words, they'll use last night as a measuring stick, not a stick with which to beat themselves over the head. Or at least Hoosier Nation can hope.
At least now we know just how good Archie Miller's impressive collection of newbies and returning vets are -- and more to the point, just how good they aren't. They aren't as good as Mike Krzyzewski's even more impressive collection of newbies and returning talent at One-and-Done U. One-and-Done U. -- aka, NBA Team-In-Training, aka, Duke University -- is better. Like, way better.
Miller's Indiana Hoosiers and One-and-Done U. met in Durham last night, and 'tweren't pretty for the Bloomington lads. One-and-Done had them down 53-29 at halftime before Coach K lifted the throttle. The final, 90-69, was therefore something of a mirage in gauging exactly how much distance there is between K's legions and Miller's.
In any case, the obvious conclusion is that Romeo Langford, Robert Phinisee 'n' them ain't R.J. Barrett, Zion Williamson 'n' them. This is no knock on the former; right now hardly anyone is R.J. and Zion 'n' them. Which suggests, if you're a Hoosiers fan, Indiana will hold fast to that knowledge and not let last night's beatdown sour them going forward. Instead, they will apply some perspective, and realize that Romeo, Robert 'n' them are still a vast upgrade over last season, and that they'll still be good enough to beat most comers on most nights this winter.
In other words, they'll use last night as a measuring stick, not a stick with which to beat themselves over the head. Or at least Hoosier Nation can hope.
Meanwhile, in chess ...
Time now for another exciting update from the world chess championships, where reigning world champion and LeBron James of chess Magnus Carlsen and mega-talented American challenger Fabiano Caruana are locked in an epic struggle of knights, pawns and castle-looking things (aka, rooks.)
So what has happened since the last time we checked in?
Same as last time: Not a damn thing!
Carlsen and Caruana have completed the 12-game match, and nothing has been settled. In fact, no one has yet won a single game of the 12. Every one has ended in a draw. This includes the last game, when it looked like Carlsen had Caruana on the ropes but refused to press his advantage, opting instead to offer the all-but-beaten Caruana another draw.
Not being a dummy, Caruana eagerly accepted.
According to people who know way more about chess than the Blob, this was extremely wuss-like behavior for a reigning champion. In fact many of the people who know way more about chess than the Blob all but called Carlsen a big fat chicken. Apparently it was like the LeBron James of chess imitating the real LeBron James and giving up the basketball with the game on the line.
(This is not exactly what LeBron James ever did, mind you. What he did was find the open man, which is what you're supposed to do when you're double- and sometimes triple-teamed. But you can't educate everyone about basketball overnight.)
Anyway ... so now it goes to a tiebreaker. The Blob has no idea what a tiebreaker in chess entails. You play only with the castle-looking things and knights? Speed checkers? Each player gets 10 moves and then you A) declare it a tie, in which Carlsen retains his title, or B) settle it with a rousing game of Stratego?
Beats me. All I know is, I'd have a huge advantage if they went the Stratego route.
Carlsen always hides his flag in the same place, you see. Always.
So what has happened since the last time we checked in?
Same as last time: Not a damn thing!
Carlsen and Caruana have completed the 12-game match, and nothing has been settled. In fact, no one has yet won a single game of the 12. Every one has ended in a draw. This includes the last game, when it looked like Carlsen had Caruana on the ropes but refused to press his advantage, opting instead to offer the all-but-beaten Caruana another draw.
Not being a dummy, Caruana eagerly accepted.
According to people who know way more about chess than the Blob, this was extremely wuss-like behavior for a reigning champion. In fact many of the people who know way more about chess than the Blob all but called Carlsen a big fat chicken. Apparently it was like the LeBron James of chess imitating the real LeBron James and giving up the basketball with the game on the line.
(This is not exactly what LeBron James ever did, mind you. What he did was find the open man, which is what you're supposed to do when you're double- and sometimes triple-teamed. But you can't educate everyone about basketball overnight.)
Anyway ... so now it goes to a tiebreaker. The Blob has no idea what a tiebreaker in chess entails. You play only with the castle-looking things and knights? Speed checkers? Each player gets 10 moves and then you A) declare it a tie, in which Carlsen retains his title, or B) settle it with a rousing game of Stratego?
Beats me. All I know is, I'd have a huge advantage if they went the Stratego route.
Carlsen always hides his flag in the same place, you see. Always.
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 12
And now this week's edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the unmitigated gall-ish Blob feature of which critics have said "Why, the unmitigated gall of this feature!", and less harsh critics have said "I don't know. I think the gall here is pretty well mitigated.":
1. "Please. Help me. I'm being held hostage by a bunch of idiots. Aaron."
2. (Message found in an empty water bottle on the visitor's sideline Sunday night in U.S. Bank Stadium in Minneapolis.)
3. "Please. Help us. We're being held hostage by a football team that CAN'T EVEN COMPETE WITH THE STUPID BROWNS."
4. (Message found scrawled on a torn Bengals banner in the stands Sunday in Paul Brown Stadium. Also scrawled on the banner: "BITE ME BENGALS!")
5. "The Broncos? The freaking Broncos?! Are you freaking serious?!"
6. (Message left on a beer coaster in a sports bar in Pittsburgh Sunday by some guy wearing a Jack Lambert jersey.)
7. (OK, also by guys wearing Lynn Swann jerseys, Joe Greene jerseys, Rod Woodson jerseys, etc.)
8. "Please. Help us. We have to play Drew Brees next."
9. (Message found on the message board at the Dallas Cowboys complex Monday afternoon.)
10. (Shortly before it was taken down.)
1. "Please. Help me. I'm being held hostage by a bunch of idiots. Aaron."
2. (Message found in an empty water bottle on the visitor's sideline Sunday night in U.S. Bank Stadium in Minneapolis.)
3. "Please. Help us. We're being held hostage by a football team that CAN'T EVEN COMPETE WITH THE STUPID BROWNS."
4. (Message found scrawled on a torn Bengals banner in the stands Sunday in Paul Brown Stadium. Also scrawled on the banner: "BITE ME BENGALS!")
5. "The Broncos? The freaking Broncos?! Are you freaking serious?!"
6. (Message left on a beer coaster in a sports bar in Pittsburgh Sunday by some guy wearing a Jack Lambert jersey.)
7. (OK, also by guys wearing Lynn Swann jerseys, Joe Greene jerseys, Rod Woodson jerseys, etc.)
8. "Please. Help us. We have to play Drew Brees next."
9. (Message found on the message board at the Dallas Cowboys complex Monday afternoon.)
10. (Shortly before it was taken down.)
Your non-news item for today
Or in other words: "Hey, look! That Blob guy was wrong again!"
This, because, in defending Frank Reich's gamblin' man decision to go for it on fourth down against the Texans on Sept. 30 -- a decision that backfired when Andrew Luck threw a one-hopper to Chester Rogers and the Houston Texans took possession a hop, skip and jump from field goal range in a 37-34 Texans' victory -- the Blob opined this: Even four games into the season, it's become apparent (if it wasn't from Day One) that this isn't a playoff team. It's a team positioning itself for the future, with a glut of promising young players, particularly on defense, who are still growing into their jobs.
Well. At least I was partly right.
The Colts do have a glut of promising young players. And they are still growing into their jobs.
I just didn't figure they'd grow into them quite this fast.
Which is to say, I might have been a mite, uh, premature to say the Colts weren't a playoff team when they were on their way to a 1-5 start. Since then, of course, they've won five in a row and are now 6-5.
That puts them second in the AFC South. It also makes them the seventh seed in the AFC playoff scenario right now, just out of the playoff picture behind the Ravens, who are also 6-5. And they seem to be getting better every week.
The return of Marlon Mack, first of all, has given them an actual semblance of a running game. And Luck, secure at last behind an offensive line that isn't the Seven Blocks of Al Dente Spaghetti, is simply embarrassing everyone he faces.
Three more touchdown passes yesterday against the Dolphins give him 32 for the season. His QBR (quarterback rating) hasn't been below 123.5 since Oct. 14. He's thrown at least three touchdown passes in every game since Sept. 30, and three times in that span he's thrown four.
In other words, the Blob was wrong, wrong, wrong. With the prospect that it could get even more wrong before this is all over.
I know, I know. Stop the presses.
This, because, in defending Frank Reich's gamblin' man decision to go for it on fourth down against the Texans on Sept. 30 -- a decision that backfired when Andrew Luck threw a one-hopper to Chester Rogers and the Houston Texans took possession a hop, skip and jump from field goal range in a 37-34 Texans' victory -- the Blob opined this: Even four games into the season, it's become apparent (if it wasn't from Day One) that this isn't a playoff team. It's a team positioning itself for the future, with a glut of promising young players, particularly on defense, who are still growing into their jobs.
Well. At least I was partly right.
The Colts do have a glut of promising young players. And they are still growing into their jobs.
I just didn't figure they'd grow into them quite this fast.
Which is to say, I might have been a mite, uh, premature to say the Colts weren't a playoff team when they were on their way to a 1-5 start. Since then, of course, they've won five in a row and are now 6-5.
That puts them second in the AFC South. It also makes them the seventh seed in the AFC playoff scenario right now, just out of the playoff picture behind the Ravens, who are also 6-5. And they seem to be getting better every week.
The return of Marlon Mack, first of all, has given them an actual semblance of a running game. And Luck, secure at last behind an offensive line that isn't the Seven Blocks of Al Dente Spaghetti, is simply embarrassing everyone he faces.
Three more touchdown passes yesterday against the Dolphins give him 32 for the season. His QBR (quarterback rating) hasn't been below 123.5 since Oct. 14. He's thrown at least three touchdown passes in every game since Sept. 30, and three times in that span he's thrown four.
In other words, the Blob was wrong, wrong, wrong. With the prospect that it could get even more wrong before this is all over.
I know, I know. Stop the presses.
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Reservation for ... someone
Well. That was informative.
Or, you know, not.
America deserved what happened in college football yesterday, because the best part about college football has always been the debates, and now we'll get one. The debates, after all, were the one saving grace of the traditional system for determining a national champion, when the polls decided the issue. AP and UPI would make their call, and in barrooms and living rooms across the country everyone argued just how mythical the so-called mythical national champion was.
And so we came to Saturday.
When it looked like the time had come for Jim Harbaugh to finally beat Urban Meyer, until he looked across Ohio Stadium and said, "Wait, that's Urban Meyer. I can't beat that guy."
And so Ohio State strapped a 62-spot on Michigan and made the nation's alleged best defense look like a series of slalom gates, Buckeye receivers schussing through the UM defensive backfield like Lindsay Vonn. And now ... well, it gets interesting.
Now Michigan will leave vacant one spot in the College Football Playoff, and Georgia will occupy it until it loses to Alabama in the SEC title game. That means one spot will be open again -- and the teams most likely to fill it (presuming they both win their conference championship games) will be Oklahoma and, yes, Ohio State.
Let the debating will begin.
Yeah, you're 11-1, they'll say in Norman, Oklahoma. But it's kind of a Johnny-come-lately 11-1. Sure, you looked overwhelming against Michigan, but you let 5-7 Maryland put 51 on you and barely escaped with your lives, and you had all kinds of trouble at home with a 4-8 Nebraska team, and let's not forget what a .500 Purdue team did to you (49-20, in case you've forgotten. )And you only beat TCU by 12 while we road-killed the Horned Frogs 52-27. Clearly we're the better team.
Pshaw, will be the response in Columbus, Ohio. Or, you know, something like that.
Clearly the better team? they'll say. Your heads must be as empty as all that endless prairie down there. Need we remind you that you gave up 40 points to freaking Kansas? And 56 to West Virginia? And 47 to Oklahoma State, 46 to Texas Tech, and, of course, 48 to Texas in your one loss? You guys couldn't stop a stiff breeze. Heck, you'll probably lose to Texas again in the title game anyway the way you've been playing the last three weeks. So this debate might be kind of moot.
Yeah, but we've got Kyler Murray! they'll say in Norman.
And we've got Dwayne Haskins! they'll say in Columbus.
Yeah, well ... our mascot's cooler! they'll say in Norman.
(Brief pause while the folks in Columbus look at Brutus Buckeye, a guy with a giant nut for a head.)
OK. You got us there, they'll say.
Or, you know, not.
America deserved what happened in college football yesterday, because the best part about college football has always been the debates, and now we'll get one. The debates, after all, were the one saving grace of the traditional system for determining a national champion, when the polls decided the issue. AP and UPI would make their call, and in barrooms and living rooms across the country everyone argued just how mythical the so-called mythical national champion was.
And so we came to Saturday.
When it looked like the time had come for Jim Harbaugh to finally beat Urban Meyer, until he looked across Ohio Stadium and said, "Wait, that's Urban Meyer. I can't beat that guy."
And so Ohio State strapped a 62-spot on Michigan and made the nation's alleged best defense look like a series of slalom gates, Buckeye receivers schussing through the UM defensive backfield like Lindsay Vonn. And now ... well, it gets interesting.
Now Michigan will leave vacant one spot in the College Football Playoff, and Georgia will occupy it until it loses to Alabama in the SEC title game. That means one spot will be open again -- and the teams most likely to fill it (presuming they both win their conference championship games) will be Oklahoma and, yes, Ohio State.
Let the debating will begin.
Yeah, you're 11-1, they'll say in Norman, Oklahoma. But it's kind of a Johnny-come-lately 11-1. Sure, you looked overwhelming against Michigan, but you let 5-7 Maryland put 51 on you and barely escaped with your lives, and you had all kinds of trouble at home with a 4-8 Nebraska team, and let's not forget what a .500 Purdue team did to you (49-20, in case you've forgotten. )And you only beat TCU by 12 while we road-killed the Horned Frogs 52-27. Clearly we're the better team.
Pshaw, will be the response in Columbus, Ohio. Or, you know, something like that.
Clearly the better team? they'll say. Your heads must be as empty as all that endless prairie down there. Need we remind you that you gave up 40 points to freaking Kansas? And 56 to West Virginia? And 47 to Oklahoma State, 46 to Texas Tech, and, of course, 48 to Texas in your one loss? You guys couldn't stop a stiff breeze. Heck, you'll probably lose to Texas again in the title game anyway the way you've been playing the last three weeks. So this debate might be kind of moot.
Yeah, but we've got Kyler Murray! they'll say in Norman.
And we've got Dwayne Haskins! they'll say in Columbus.
Yeah, well ... our mascot's cooler! they'll say in Norman.
(Brief pause while the folks in Columbus look at Brutus Buckeye, a guy with a giant nut for a head.)
OK. You got us there, they'll say.
Meanwhile, in South Bend ...
This is not going to happen again, by God. I am not going to get fooled this time, not going to let all the lore and gleam off those gold helmets pull me back in, like Michael Corleone in "Godfather III."
I am not going to fall for Notre Dame again.
I am not going to say what I heard some sports poodle saying on the radio this week, which is that Notre Dame has the kind of team that can compete with Alabama and/or Clemson, even if it might not beat them.
I am not going to be sucked in by that goose egg in the Irish loss column, by all the glitter that attends a 12-0 record when it's the Fighting Irish who put it up, by the ease with which they handled Syracuse, the highest ranked team on their schedule after Michigan in week one.
I am not going to say what I've said before, which is that this Notre Dame team can Play With Anyone and Look Out For The Irish.
No, sir. I am going to say instead what I saw last night, which is a team that could barely play with a 5-7 USC team.
The final was 24-17, and, frankly, despite my vow not to get carried away again by the Notre Dame hype, I was more than mildly surprised. I figured it would be about 42-10, because (again, despite my vow) I think Notre Dame's pretty damn good. And USC is not.
But I have learned to be temperate in my advancing years. I have learned to be ... wary.
Especially when it comes to Notre Dame as coached by Brian Kelly.
I won't dispute the obvious, which is that he's the best coach Notre Dame has had since Lou Holtz. What I will say is his teams, even this 12-0 team, seem to follow a pattern, and that pattern is not always one that guarantees Domer Nation a good night's sleep.
Which is to say, Kelly's Irish have a curious tendency to struggle on occasion, even in situations where they shouldn't struggle. Last night was one of those. Pitt, Vanderbilt and Ball State were three others.
Bottom line, I just don't know exactly how 12-0 the Irish are. Seven of their 12 opponents, after all, finished .500 or worse. That's not their fault, of course, but it makes it difficult to gauge them. And so ...
And so, no Michael Corleone this time.
Maybe. Probably. Or not.
I am not going to fall for Notre Dame again.
I am not going to say what I heard some sports poodle saying on the radio this week, which is that Notre Dame has the kind of team that can compete with Alabama and/or Clemson, even if it might not beat them.
I am not going to be sucked in by that goose egg in the Irish loss column, by all the glitter that attends a 12-0 record when it's the Fighting Irish who put it up, by the ease with which they handled Syracuse, the highest ranked team on their schedule after Michigan in week one.
I am not going to say what I've said before, which is that this Notre Dame team can Play With Anyone and Look Out For The Irish.
No, sir. I am going to say instead what I saw last night, which is a team that could barely play with a 5-7 USC team.
The final was 24-17, and, frankly, despite my vow not to get carried away again by the Notre Dame hype, I was more than mildly surprised. I figured it would be about 42-10, because (again, despite my vow) I think Notre Dame's pretty damn good. And USC is not.
But I have learned to be temperate in my advancing years. I have learned to be ... wary.
Especially when it comes to Notre Dame as coached by Brian Kelly.
I won't dispute the obvious, which is that he's the best coach Notre Dame has had since Lou Holtz. What I will say is his teams, even this 12-0 team, seem to follow a pattern, and that pattern is not always one that guarantees Domer Nation a good night's sleep.
Which is to say, Kelly's Irish have a curious tendency to struggle on occasion, even in situations where they shouldn't struggle. Last night was one of those. Pitt, Vanderbilt and Ball State were three others.
Bottom line, I just don't know exactly how 12-0 the Irish are. Seven of their 12 opponents, after all, finished .500 or worse. That's not their fault, of course, but it makes it difficult to gauge them. And so ...
And so, no Michael Corleone this time.
Maybe. Probably. Or not.
Saturday, November 24, 2018
Dead Solid For Real
In the end, reality one-upped fiction. Which should have surprised no one given the state of the country these days, when fiction has become official government policy.
At any rate, Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson did their little head-to-head deal yesterday, and it ended in a scene straight out of Dan Jenkins' legendary golf novel, "Dead Solid Perfect." What they did was, they went Goat Hills on the thing.
Goat Hills, in Jenkins' novel, was a scruffy track in Fort Worth, Texas, where the novel's protagonist, Kenny Puckett, learned the nuances of the game. In one scene, he and the other Runyonesque characters who frequented Goat Hills decided on a unique wager: They'd play one mammoth hole that started on the golf course, wound through Fort Worth, and ended in the closet of one of the players. First one to hole out in a loafer lying on its side in said closet won the pot.
Enter Tiger and Lefty.
Who, after settling nothing through 18 holes and one playoff hole, decided to pay tribute to the loafer-in-the-closet scenario. They invented an extra, 20th hole -- a 93-yarder that began on the practice putting green behind the clubhouse and ended in a newly cut hole on the 18th green.
It took three tries, but Mickelson finally won it with a four-footer.
This immediately got the Blob playing its favorite game, "What If?" As in, "What if they kept playing and no one could win the made-up hole? Would they make up other stuff to settle it?"
The Blob, naturally, has a few suggestions in that area:
1. A chipping contest in the parking lot. First one to chip a ball through the driver's side window of the other guy's car and into the cupholder wins. Bonus points for denting the other guy's car.
2. A chipping contest in the pro shop. First one to chip the ball into Judge Smails' ugly hat from outside the door wins. Loser has to wear Judge Smails' ugly hat at next year's Masters.
3. The Ty Webb Blindfold Challenge. Closest to the pin wins. And no peeking.
4. Putting contest at Pirate Mike's Yo-Ho Miniature Golf. First one to bank one in off the treasure chest and the giant flagon of ale wins. Loser has to wear an eyepatch and answer all questions with "Arrrr, matey" at next year's Masters.
And last but not least ...
5. Proxy shooting contest between Larry Bird and Michael Jordan. Off the floor, off the scoreboard, off the bankboard, no rim. Go.
At any rate, Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson did their little head-to-head deal yesterday, and it ended in a scene straight out of Dan Jenkins' legendary golf novel, "Dead Solid Perfect." What they did was, they went Goat Hills on the thing.
Goat Hills, in Jenkins' novel, was a scruffy track in Fort Worth, Texas, where the novel's protagonist, Kenny Puckett, learned the nuances of the game. In one scene, he and the other Runyonesque characters who frequented Goat Hills decided on a unique wager: They'd play one mammoth hole that started on the golf course, wound through Fort Worth, and ended in the closet of one of the players. First one to hole out in a loafer lying on its side in said closet won the pot.
Enter Tiger and Lefty.
Who, after settling nothing through 18 holes and one playoff hole, decided to pay tribute to the loafer-in-the-closet scenario. They invented an extra, 20th hole -- a 93-yarder that began on the practice putting green behind the clubhouse and ended in a newly cut hole on the 18th green.
It took three tries, but Mickelson finally won it with a four-footer.
This immediately got the Blob playing its favorite game, "What If?" As in, "What if they kept playing and no one could win the made-up hole? Would they make up other stuff to settle it?"
The Blob, naturally, has a few suggestions in that area:
1. A chipping contest in the parking lot. First one to chip a ball through the driver's side window of the other guy's car and into the cupholder wins. Bonus points for denting the other guy's car.
2. A chipping contest in the pro shop. First one to chip the ball into Judge Smails' ugly hat from outside the door wins. Loser has to wear Judge Smails' ugly hat at next year's Masters.
3. The Ty Webb Blindfold Challenge. Closest to the pin wins. And no peeking.
4. Putting contest at Pirate Mike's Yo-Ho Miniature Golf. First one to bank one in off the treasure chest and the giant flagon of ale wins. Loser has to wear an eyepatch and answer all questions with "Arrrr, matey" at next year's Masters.
And last but not least ...
5. Proxy shooting contest between Larry Bird and Michael Jordan. Off the floor, off the scoreboard, off the bankboard, no rim. Go.
Friday, November 23, 2018
Your rivalry moment for today
And, yes, I know what you're thinking.
You're thinking, "Ooh, Jim Harbaugh must have gotten off a good burn on Ohio State, or maybe the whole entire state of Ohio."
You're thinking, "Some deranged Alabama fan must have poisoned another tree at Auburn."
You're thinking, "A passel of IU fans must have stolen Purdue Pete's hammer and chased him around with it" ... or, "Tommy Trojan must have suggested Knute Rockne do something anatomically impossible" ... or, "Some enterprising Georgia Tech students must have sneaked onto the Georgia campus and stolen poor Uga, the Georgia bulldog."
Well. I could see how you'd think that.
This is, after all, the traditional weekend for big rivalry games in college football, which means it's the weekend where college football most starkly displays why it's way, way better than that other game they play on Sundays and such. This is because the other game, the NASH-unal FOOT-ball League, doesn't really do rivalries. Oh, they like to pretend they do. But, you know, not really.
Not like college football.
Not like Alabama-Auburn, or Ohio State-Michigan, or USC-Notre Dame. Those games, of course, are all happening this weekend, along with Georgia-Georgia Tech, Florida State-Florida and the Old Oaken Bucket game between Purdue and Indiana -- aka, This Is Actually A Basketball Rivalry, But We Don't Like Each Other In Football, Either.
Well ... your rivalry moment for today doesn't come from any of those. It comes from the Egg Bowl.
Now, if you don't who plays in the Egg Bowl, don't feel bad. It's not one of your more well-known rivalries, truth be told. But that doesn't mean it doesn't have a healthy quotient of enmity.
And so down in Oxford, Miss., on Thanksgiving Day, Ole Miss and Mississippi State went at it again for all the, um, eggs. And in the third quarter of what turned out to be a Mississippi State rout, things got a little out of hand.
Which is to say, they had themselves a full-on brawl.
It happened right at the end of the quarter, after Ole Miss appeared to score a touchdown. Some pushing and shoving ensued, and that turned into some punches, and pretty soon both benches emptied and everyone was throwing down in the end zone.
Four players were ejected.
And that just goes to show you that, even if Ole Miss-Mississippi State isn't a marquee rivalry outside the state of Mississippi, inside the state lines it's as heated as any rivalry anywhere. They don't like each other just as much as two rivals anywhere don't like each other.
And ain't that grand?
You're thinking, "Ooh, Jim Harbaugh must have gotten off a good burn on Ohio State, or maybe the whole entire state of Ohio."
You're thinking, "Some deranged Alabama fan must have poisoned another tree at Auburn."
You're thinking, "A passel of IU fans must have stolen Purdue Pete's hammer and chased him around with it" ... or, "Tommy Trojan must have suggested Knute Rockne do something anatomically impossible" ... or, "Some enterprising Georgia Tech students must have sneaked onto the Georgia campus and stolen poor Uga, the Georgia bulldog."
Well. I could see how you'd think that.
This is, after all, the traditional weekend for big rivalry games in college football, which means it's the weekend where college football most starkly displays why it's way, way better than that other game they play on Sundays and such. This is because the other game, the NASH-unal FOOT-ball League, doesn't really do rivalries. Oh, they like to pretend they do. But, you know, not really.
Not like college football.
Not like Alabama-Auburn, or Ohio State-Michigan, or USC-Notre Dame. Those games, of course, are all happening this weekend, along with Georgia-Georgia Tech, Florida State-Florida and the Old Oaken Bucket game between Purdue and Indiana -- aka, This Is Actually A Basketball Rivalry, But We Don't Like Each Other In Football, Either.
Well ... your rivalry moment for today doesn't come from any of those. It comes from the Egg Bowl.
Now, if you don't who plays in the Egg Bowl, don't feel bad. It's not one of your more well-known rivalries, truth be told. But that doesn't mean it doesn't have a healthy quotient of enmity.
And so down in Oxford, Miss., on Thanksgiving Day, Ole Miss and Mississippi State went at it again for all the, um, eggs. And in the third quarter of what turned out to be a Mississippi State rout, things got a little out of hand.
Which is to say, they had themselves a full-on brawl.
It happened right at the end of the quarter, after Ole Miss appeared to score a touchdown. Some pushing and shoving ensued, and that turned into some punches, and pretty soon both benches emptied and everyone was throwing down in the end zone.
Four players were ejected.
And that just goes to show you that, even if Ole Miss-Mississippi State isn't a marquee rivalry outside the state of Mississippi, inside the state lines it's as heated as any rivalry anywhere. They don't like each other just as much as two rivals anywhere don't like each other.
And ain't that grand?
Thursday, November 22, 2018
Thankful in Cleveland
And so, on Thanksgiving Eve, Cleveland gave thanks. The native, and occasionally prodigal, son came home again, and this time there was no enmity, no bitterness, no venting of scorn.
This time, they drowned LeBron James in love.
The Cavalier-turned-Laker was greeted with an immense ovation upon his return, a stark contrast to his last, first homecoming with the Miami Heat. Partly this is because he came back -- who comes back to Cleveland, once they're gone? -- and, of course, delivered on his promise to bring the city its first professional championship in half a century. And partly, you have to suspect, it is because he brought the city more than that.
Athletes get dinged all the time for straying beyond the proscribed boundaries of their profession, both actual and figurative. In great measure this is because their profession is regarded as frivolous -- just a bunch of overgrown boys and girls playing children's games for a living -- and so, by extension, they are frivolous, too. And so when they venture an opinion on the inequities and ills of American society, they're told to shut up and play. Or, as one right-wing babbler told LeBron James when he called it like it is about Our Only Available President, "Shut up and dribble."
As if some radio jock were any more qualified to speak her mind, or what passed for it, on the issues of the day. As if the President himself was, having prepared for his current job by being a game show host.
Here's the thing, see: I covered the alleged children's games for 38 years as a sportswriter in Indiana. In that time, I met more than my share of nitwits. I also met more than my share of thoughtful, informed people whose interests and knowledge went far beyond those aforementioned proscribed boundaries. And who didn't just talk the talk, but walked the walk.
Which gets us back to LeBron James, and the appreciation to which he was treated last night. It sprang not just from delivering that title, but for giving back to his hometown in myriad ways -- not the least of which was the I Promise School for at-risk children he helped found in Akron last summer.
He paid a surprise visit to the school yesterday afternoon, and last night, Cleveland thanked him for that, and for walking the walk, not just talking the talk. And for never forgetting where he came from.
Last night, for instance?
In the Lakers' 109-105 victory, he wore a special pair of shoes. They weren't Lakers purple and gold. They were green and white.
The colors of his old high school, St. Vincent-St. Mary's in Akron.
This time, they drowned LeBron James in love.
The Cavalier-turned-Laker was greeted with an immense ovation upon his return, a stark contrast to his last, first homecoming with the Miami Heat. Partly this is because he came back -- who comes back to Cleveland, once they're gone? -- and, of course, delivered on his promise to bring the city its first professional championship in half a century. And partly, you have to suspect, it is because he brought the city more than that.
Athletes get dinged all the time for straying beyond the proscribed boundaries of their profession, both actual and figurative. In great measure this is because their profession is regarded as frivolous -- just a bunch of overgrown boys and girls playing children's games for a living -- and so, by extension, they are frivolous, too. And so when they venture an opinion on the inequities and ills of American society, they're told to shut up and play. Or, as one right-wing babbler told LeBron James when he called it like it is about Our Only Available President, "Shut up and dribble."
As if some radio jock were any more qualified to speak her mind, or what passed for it, on the issues of the day. As if the President himself was, having prepared for his current job by being a game show host.
Here's the thing, see: I covered the alleged children's games for 38 years as a sportswriter in Indiana. In that time, I met more than my share of nitwits. I also met more than my share of thoughtful, informed people whose interests and knowledge went far beyond those aforementioned proscribed boundaries. And who didn't just talk the talk, but walked the walk.
Which gets us back to LeBron James, and the appreciation to which he was treated last night. It sprang not just from delivering that title, but for giving back to his hometown in myriad ways -- not the least of which was the I Promise School for at-risk children he helped found in Akron last summer.
He paid a surprise visit to the school yesterday afternoon, and last night, Cleveland thanked him for that, and for walking the walk, not just talking the talk. And for never forgetting where he came from.
Last night, for instance?
In the Lakers' 109-105 victory, he wore a special pair of shoes. They weren't Lakers purple and gold. They were green and white.
The colors of his old high school, St. Vincent-St. Mary's in Akron.
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Your chess update for today
(Anticipated Blobophile response: "We don't care about stupid board games! Tell us who's going to win Michigan-Ohio State!")
Actual Blob response to the anticipated Blobophile response: Too bad. I'm going to give a chess update anyway. It won't take long.
That's because reigning world champion Magnus Carlsen and mega-talented American challenger Fabiano Caruana remain -- Yes! You guessed it! -- tied after eight games of the 12-game world championship. Apparently Caruana could have taken control with some bold moves in a couple of games, but didn't. So there you are.
I predict the whole deal goes to a tiebreaker in which the two players are allowed only a rook, a knight and a queen, and Carlsen performs some sort of magic rook/knight-y thing and wins when Caruana goes for it on fourth-and-2 and doesn't make it.
Or, you know, something like that.
Stay tuned!
(Anticipated Blobophile response: "No!")
Actual Blob response to the anticipated Blobophile response: Too bad. I'm going to give a chess update anyway. It won't take long.
That's because reigning world champion Magnus Carlsen and mega-talented American challenger Fabiano Caruana remain -- Yes! You guessed it! -- tied after eight games of the 12-game world championship. Apparently Caruana could have taken control with some bold moves in a couple of games, but didn't. So there you are.
I predict the whole deal goes to a tiebreaker in which the two players are allowed only a rook, a knight and a queen, and Carlsen performs some sort of magic rook/knight-y thing and wins when Caruana goes for it on fourth-and-2 and doesn't make it.
Or, you know, something like that.
Stay tuned!
(Anticipated Blobophile response: "No!")
Hey, what about Ohio State and Michigan?
Oops. Sorry, forgot.
Well, let's see. Michigan hasn't won in Columbus since the beginning of time, or something like that. Ohio State struggled to beat a crummy Nebraska team at home and, last week, should have lost at Maryland except the Terrapins decided to hand it to the Buckeyes down there at the end.
Meanwhile, Michigan's defense is the best in the country.
Conclusion: Harbaugh finally beats Urban Meyer this time.
But not by as much as you'd think.
Well, let's see. Michigan hasn't won in Columbus since the beginning of time, or something like that. Ohio State struggled to beat a crummy Nebraska team at home and, last week, should have lost at Maryland except the Terrapins decided to hand it to the Buckeyes down there at the end.
Meanwhile, Michigan's defense is the best in the country.
Conclusion: Harbaugh finally beats Urban Meyer this time.
But not by as much as you'd think.
Tuesday, November 20, 2018
Put a sock in that rivalry, son
Somewhere today an old Texas boy named Harold Philipp is rolling his eyes so far back in his head he can see his shoulder blades.
Ol' Harold, see, was a fullback for the Texas Longhorns back in the day, and one year before what they used to call the Red River Shootout -- Texas vs. Oklahoma, one of college football's oldest and greatest rivalries -- someone asked him what he thought of a Texas boy playing for Oklahoma.
"Why, that's just like somebody from the United States playing for Nazi Germany," ol' Harold said.
There is no record that ol' Harold was publicly reprimanded for that.
Of course, it was a different day then. Nobody thought it was a swell idea to muck up great rivalries with a lot of air kisses and phony sweet talk. Nobody walked around with sticks up their nether orifices, finger-wagging and tsk-tsking about sportsmanship and respect even if your opponent is your most bitter rival.
That's not the case now, as another UT player, linebacker Breckyn Hager, can attest. It seems as he was walking off the field after Texas beat Iowa State, someone mentioned that Kansas, of all people, had dinged Oklahoma for 40 points that day.
Well, gee, Hager said. That's probably because "OU sucks."
Now, in Austin, that's pretty much received wisdom. But this being 2018, when simple wholesome enmity between bitter rivals is strictly verboten, the Big 12 took offense. Commissioner Bob Bowlsby said Hager had violated the league's sportsmanship and ethical conduct policies, and so he drew a public reprimand.
Hence the eye-rolling from Harold Philipp, wherever in the cosmos he is.
And Hager?
Through UT, he issued a statement in which he said he was "truly sorry," and that he had "no ill intentions when I made my comments about Oklahoma." Moreover, "I have the utmost respect for the University of Oklahoma and their football program."
Fortunately for him, no one noticed what he was undoubtedly saying under his breath, which was likely along the lines of "Screw OU ... Screw OU ... Screw OU."
Or that, as he dictated his statement, his fingers were firmly crossed.
Ol' Harold, see, was a fullback for the Texas Longhorns back in the day, and one year before what they used to call the Red River Shootout -- Texas vs. Oklahoma, one of college football's oldest and greatest rivalries -- someone asked him what he thought of a Texas boy playing for Oklahoma.
"Why, that's just like somebody from the United States playing for Nazi Germany," ol' Harold said.
There is no record that ol' Harold was publicly reprimanded for that.
Of course, it was a different day then. Nobody thought it was a swell idea to muck up great rivalries with a lot of air kisses and phony sweet talk. Nobody walked around with sticks up their nether orifices, finger-wagging and tsk-tsking about sportsmanship and respect even if your opponent is your most bitter rival.
That's not the case now, as another UT player, linebacker Breckyn Hager, can attest. It seems as he was walking off the field after Texas beat Iowa State, someone mentioned that Kansas, of all people, had dinged Oklahoma for 40 points that day.
Well, gee, Hager said. That's probably because "OU sucks."
Now, in Austin, that's pretty much received wisdom. But this being 2018, when simple wholesome enmity between bitter rivals is strictly verboten, the Big 12 took offense. Commissioner Bob Bowlsby said Hager had violated the league's sportsmanship and ethical conduct policies, and so he drew a public reprimand.
Hence the eye-rolling from Harold Philipp, wherever in the cosmos he is.
And Hager?
Through UT, he issued a statement in which he said he was "truly sorry," and that he had "no ill intentions when I made my comments about Oklahoma." Moreover, "I have the utmost respect for the University of Oklahoma and their football program."
Fortunately for him, no one noticed what he was undoubtedly saying under his breath, which was likely along the lines of "Screw OU ... Screw OU ... Screw OU."
Or that, as he dictated his statement, his fingers were firmly crossed.
A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 11
And now a special Thanksgiving week edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the stubbornly resistant Blob feature of which critics have said "I'm thankful we only have to endure this for a few more weeks," and "Oh, good, more turkey. Just what we need this week!":
1. It's Tuesday morning and the Rams just scored again.
2. No, wait, the Chiefs!
3. The Rams!
4. The Chiefs!
5. "You thought we were dead? Ha! We're not dead! Look at us! We're ALIVE, suckers! We're dancin' like Nureyev, fools!"
6. (The Indianapolis Colts)
7. (Or some unsuspecting turkey somewhere)
8. Meanwhile, in Chicago, people are pointing and saying "Hey, is that ... is that the Bears?"
9. "Hello? Hello? Where'd everybody go? Come on, you guys, this isn't funny!"
10. (Aaron Rodgers)
1. It's Tuesday morning and the Rams just scored again.
2. No, wait, the Chiefs!
3. The Rams!
4. The Chiefs!
5. "You thought we were dead? Ha! We're not dead! Look at us! We're ALIVE, suckers! We're dancin' like Nureyev, fools!"
6. (The Indianapolis Colts)
7. (Or some unsuspecting turkey somewhere)
8. Meanwhile, in Chicago, people are pointing and saying "Hey, is that ... is that the Bears?"
9. "Hello? Hello? Where'd everybody go? Come on, you guys, this isn't funny!"
10. (Aaron Rodgers)
Saturday, November 17, 2018
Things passed along
"Swing level," the tall man says. "Don't try to kill it."
He is bent at the waist, his eternally angular frame assuming the rough approximation of a question mark. His right arm is extended. In his hand is a baseball.
Standing considerably closer to him than the requisite 60 feet, 6 inches is a speck of a boy who looks as if he were rush ordered from the Department of Runty Kids With Really Huge Glasses. The bat on his shoulder is almost as big as he is. It is high summer in Indiana; some indeterminate evening, twilight dawdling along as twilight tends to do in high summer, man and boy in the backyard of their neat brick home on the southeast side of Fort Wayne.
The man shakes the ball.
"Swing level," he says again. "Don't try to kill it."
He lobs the ball gently.
The boy swings level.
Above the ball. Below the ball. Above the ball again. On and on, the man shaking the ball and lobbing it, the boy swinging and missing.
"Swing level," the man keeps saying. "Don't try to kill it ..."
***
My father never raised no major leaguers.
His only son was comically small for his age and couldn't see a damn thing without the glasses that sat on his face like a pair of binoculars, the lenses thicker than the bottom of a Coke bottle. Baseballs ducked and ran for cover when he swung. Dribbling a basketball was like trying to dribble Jupiter. He couldn't throw a football 20 yards, and when he did hunters all over northeast Indiana went for their guns to bring down that quacking duck.
I was no athlete, in other words. I had the fine motor skills of a tree stump, and my track coach -- the only sport I ever quasi-participated in -- once damned me with this faint praise: "You've got great form. If you had any endurance, you could be pretty good."
So there were no "Field of Dreams" moments between us, father and son lobbing a baseball back and forth in the gloaming. Mostly this was because I couldn't catch a baseball with a three-state dragnet. And, partly, it was because my father was never more than a nominal sports fan.
Oh, he'd watch baseball or football or mostly basketball, because, at 6-foot-3, he played high school basketball the way most 6-3 boys in Indiana played it in the 1940s. For a time he was fascinated with tennis, mainly because he loved watching Bjorn Borg play. But we never really bonded over sports; the supreme irony of our mutual lives, and something we frequently laughed about, is that I grew up to be a sportswriter.
We will laugh about it no more, sadly. Dad left us yesterday in the skinny hours of morning, going peacefully in his sleep. At 91, he lived his full measure of years and more, and few men ever lived them better or more worthily. He was not famous or weighted with earthly honors or a great man as the world measures these things, but he was true and honest and everyone who ever knew him loved him. And surely there is greatness in that.
And, like all true and honest fathers, he will endure because of the things he passed along to his children.
If we never mastered the art of swinging level, for instance, we mastered other things, as father and son. Because of Dad, a former Civil War re-enactor, I am a Civil War nerd of the first order; his old re-enactor's uniform hangs in my hall closet, and I squeeze into it every Halloween (I am neither as tall nor as angular as the old man). Every few springs, alone, I make a pilgrimage to Gettysburg or Shiloh or some other Civil War haunt. That is my father's legacy.
So, too, is a general reverence for history, for the lessons it teaches that human beings routinely and blithely ignore, and for its relics. They are all around my house, these days; on the bookshelf in our den are Civil War minie balls and a chunk of Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain's wall and a tiny round button from a World War I German grenade, salvaged from the torn earth of the Western Front.
On another shelf is my Dad's old baseball glove. In one corner leans a cut-down hockey stick that belonged to his father, its age-dark handle wrapped in ancient black tape. And in the kitchen, on one wall in the breakfast nook, hangs a narrow knickknack shelf.
On it, carefully placed, are a clutch of wooden blocks and a glass jar of marbles. Scattered among them are several small lead soldiers, striking belligerent poses. Old campaign buttons -- two of them Roosevelt/Wallace buttons dating to 1944 -- lie at their feet, as if the soldiers were tasked with guarding them.
That shelf, and those things, have been there for so long I rarely notice them anymore. But in the pre-dawn darkness yesterday, when the phone rang and the word came that Dad was gone, I found myself looking at them again. And thanking God I'd known a man who treasured such things, and how lucky I was to be his son.
"Swing level," the tall man says. "Don't try to kill it ..."
Always, Dad. Always.
He is bent at the waist, his eternally angular frame assuming the rough approximation of a question mark. His right arm is extended. In his hand is a baseball.
Standing considerably closer to him than the requisite 60 feet, 6 inches is a speck of a boy who looks as if he were rush ordered from the Department of Runty Kids With Really Huge Glasses. The bat on his shoulder is almost as big as he is. It is high summer in Indiana; some indeterminate evening, twilight dawdling along as twilight tends to do in high summer, man and boy in the backyard of their neat brick home on the southeast side of Fort Wayne.
The man shakes the ball.
"Swing level," he says again. "Don't try to kill it."
He lobs the ball gently.
The boy swings level.
Above the ball. Below the ball. Above the ball again. On and on, the man shaking the ball and lobbing it, the boy swinging and missing.
"Swing level," the man keeps saying. "Don't try to kill it ..."
***
My father never raised no major leaguers.
His only son was comically small for his age and couldn't see a damn thing without the glasses that sat on his face like a pair of binoculars, the lenses thicker than the bottom of a Coke bottle. Baseballs ducked and ran for cover when he swung. Dribbling a basketball was like trying to dribble Jupiter. He couldn't throw a football 20 yards, and when he did hunters all over northeast Indiana went for their guns to bring down that quacking duck.
I was no athlete, in other words. I had the fine motor skills of a tree stump, and my track coach -- the only sport I ever quasi-participated in -- once damned me with this faint praise: "You've got great form. If you had any endurance, you could be pretty good."
So there were no "Field of Dreams" moments between us, father and son lobbing a baseball back and forth in the gloaming. Mostly this was because I couldn't catch a baseball with a three-state dragnet. And, partly, it was because my father was never more than a nominal sports fan.
Oh, he'd watch baseball or football or mostly basketball, because, at 6-foot-3, he played high school basketball the way most 6-3 boys in Indiana played it in the 1940s. For a time he was fascinated with tennis, mainly because he loved watching Bjorn Borg play. But we never really bonded over sports; the supreme irony of our mutual lives, and something we frequently laughed about, is that I grew up to be a sportswriter.
We will laugh about it no more, sadly. Dad left us yesterday in the skinny hours of morning, going peacefully in his sleep. At 91, he lived his full measure of years and more, and few men ever lived them better or more worthily. He was not famous or weighted with earthly honors or a great man as the world measures these things, but he was true and honest and everyone who ever knew him loved him. And surely there is greatness in that.
And, like all true and honest fathers, he will endure because of the things he passed along to his children.
If we never mastered the art of swinging level, for instance, we mastered other things, as father and son. Because of Dad, a former Civil War re-enactor, I am a Civil War nerd of the first order; his old re-enactor's uniform hangs in my hall closet, and I squeeze into it every Halloween (I am neither as tall nor as angular as the old man). Every few springs, alone, I make a pilgrimage to Gettysburg or Shiloh or some other Civil War haunt. That is my father's legacy.
So, too, is a general reverence for history, for the lessons it teaches that human beings routinely and blithely ignore, and for its relics. They are all around my house, these days; on the bookshelf in our den are Civil War minie balls and a chunk of Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain's wall and a tiny round button from a World War I German grenade, salvaged from the torn earth of the Western Front.
On another shelf is my Dad's old baseball glove. In one corner leans a cut-down hockey stick that belonged to his father, its age-dark handle wrapped in ancient black tape. And in the kitchen, on one wall in the breakfast nook, hangs a narrow knickknack shelf.
On it, carefully placed, are a clutch of wooden blocks and a glass jar of marbles. Scattered among them are several small lead soldiers, striking belligerent poses. Old campaign buttons -- two of them Roosevelt/Wallace buttons dating to 1944 -- lie at their feet, as if the soldiers were tasked with guarding them.
That shelf, and those things, have been there for so long I rarely notice them anymore. But in the pre-dawn darkness yesterday, when the phone rang and the word came that Dad was gone, I found myself looking at them again. And thanking God I'd known a man who treasured such things, and how lucky I was to be his son.
"Swing level," the tall man says. "Don't try to kill it ..."
Always, Dad. Always.
Thursday, November 15, 2018
Poll imposition
So here last night was the true flowering of the Romeo Langford Era, with Assembly Hall packed and roaring and Marquette staked out like some juicy entrée. And, lord, what a garden of delights it was.
To begin with, the visitors went down easily, 96-73.
On top of that, Langford went for 22 points on a succession of dazzling skywalks to the tin.
And on top of that, another newcomer, transfer Evan Fitzner, dropped 16 and went 4-for-4 from the 3-point arc, while another freshman, Robert Phinisee, scored a dozen points and dished eight assists.
And so now we know a few things we only suspected until now, about Langford and IU and the general landscape of things.
We know the kid is special, and probably won't be around Bloomington for long because of that.
We know the guys around him are pretty special in their own right.
And we know a college basketball poll in mid-November is about as useful as water wings in the Sahara.
Marquette, after all, was ranked 24th coming into Assembly Hall, while Indiana was as yet unranked. Yet the former played as if it were ranked 24th in Wisconsin, and the Hoosiers played as if that "24" in front of Marquette's name really, really ticked them off. Especially since they had no corresponding number in front of their name.
Well. Needless to say, they will now.
Michigan, meanwhile, will have a number more correct than 18, which is what they were ranked coming into a championship game rematch against defending national champion Villanova. The 'Novas came in as a top ten team. They left in a crate marked "Some Re-Assembly Required."
This is because No. 18 Michigan hammered the No. 8 Wildcats 73-46. Which was an echo, sort of, of what happened a couple of weeks ago, when No. 4 Duke made chicken nuggets out of No. 2 Kentucky, 118-84.
The Dukes are now ranked No. 1, which is where they should have been all along. And Michigan will likely vault several spots closer to where it should have been all along. And Indiana ...
Well. Indiana will be ranked somewhere. And justice will at last prevail across the land.
Or something like that.
To begin with, the visitors went down easily, 96-73.
On top of that, Langford went for 22 points on a succession of dazzling skywalks to the tin.
And on top of that, another newcomer, transfer Evan Fitzner, dropped 16 and went 4-for-4 from the 3-point arc, while another freshman, Robert Phinisee, scored a dozen points and dished eight assists.
And so now we know a few things we only suspected until now, about Langford and IU and the general landscape of things.
We know the kid is special, and probably won't be around Bloomington for long because of that.
We know the guys around him are pretty special in their own right.
And we know a college basketball poll in mid-November is about as useful as water wings in the Sahara.
Marquette, after all, was ranked 24th coming into Assembly Hall, while Indiana was as yet unranked. Yet the former played as if it were ranked 24th in Wisconsin, and the Hoosiers played as if that "24" in front of Marquette's name really, really ticked them off. Especially since they had no corresponding number in front of their name.
Well. Needless to say, they will now.
Michigan, meanwhile, will have a number more correct than 18, which is what they were ranked coming into a championship game rematch against defending national champion Villanova. The 'Novas came in as a top ten team. They left in a crate marked "Some Re-Assembly Required."
This is because No. 18 Michigan hammered the No. 8 Wildcats 73-46. Which was an echo, sort of, of what happened a couple of weeks ago, when No. 4 Duke made chicken nuggets out of No. 2 Kentucky, 118-84.
The Dukes are now ranked No. 1, which is where they should have been all along. And Michigan will likely vault several spots closer to where it should have been all along. And Indiana ...
Well. Indiana will be ranked somewhere. And justice will at last prevail across the land.
Or something like that.
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
Today in chess
Because the Blob knows what is uppermost in its faithful reader(s)' mind, and that is this: "What is happening in the world chess championship between reigning world champ Magnus Carlsen and mega-talented American challenger Fabiano Caruana?"
("Wait ... what? No one here cares about that! No one in America has thought about chess since Boris Spassky lost to Bobby Fischer 46 years ago, and probably not even then!" you're saying.)
(Also: "And chess isn't even a sport! It's a board game! What's next, updates from the world Hungry Hungry Hippos championships?")
Well, the Blob, as a full-service Blob, is not one to disappoint. And so here is what is happening in the world chess championship between reigning world champ Magnus Carlsen and mega-talented American challenger Fabiano Caruana:
Not a damn thing.
Four games into the 12-game match, neither Carlsen nor Caruana has won a game. All four games have ended in draws. The last game, in fact, lasted only 34 moves before the combatants decided "Ah, screw this."
Of course, those 34 moves only took 2 1/2 hours, so at least there was lots of action. Highlights included Carlsen raising an eyebrow before the 24th move, and Caruana tugging on his shirt collar before executing a dazzling Reverse Bucharest Queen's Rook Gambit With A Twist Of Lime.
More riveting updates to come.
("Wait ... what? No one here cares about that! No one in America has thought about chess since Boris Spassky lost to Bobby Fischer 46 years ago, and probably not even then!" you're saying.)
(Also: "And chess isn't even a sport! It's a board game! What's next, updates from the world Hungry Hungry Hippos championships?")
Well, the Blob, as a full-service Blob, is not one to disappoint. And so here is what is happening in the world chess championship between reigning world champ Magnus Carlsen and mega-talented American challenger Fabiano Caruana:
Not a damn thing.
Four games into the 12-game match, neither Carlsen nor Caruana has won a game. All four games have ended in draws. The last game, in fact, lasted only 34 moves before the combatants decided "Ah, screw this."
Of course, those 34 moves only took 2 1/2 hours, so at least there was lots of action. Highlights included Carlsen raising an eyebrow before the 24th move, and Caruana tugging on his shirt collar before executing a dazzling Reverse Bucharest Queen's Rook Gambit With A Twist Of Lime.
More riveting updates to come.
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 10
And now this week's edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the revolutionary, compassionate Blob feature that cares about YOUR needs, that puts YOU first, that isn't like all those other Blob features with their hidden fees and long lines at the checkout:
1. It's Tuesday morning and the Bills have released Nathan Peterman into the wild.
2. "Why would you do something so environmentally irresponsible?" (The Wild)
3. Sooo ... maybe Eli Manning isn't finished after all?
4. "Meh. It was only us." (The 49ers)
5. The Browns are going to the Super Bowl!
6. "Meh. It was only us." (The Falcons)
7. The Patriots! Beaten! Humiliated! Ground to tiny microscopic particles of dust beneath Marcus Mariota's mighty heel!
8. "Wait ... did somebody just call me a heel?" (Marcus Mariota)
9. It's Tuesday morning and the Saints just scored again.
10. "Dammit!" (The Bengals).
1. It's Tuesday morning and the Bills have released Nathan Peterman into the wild.
2. "Why would you do something so environmentally irresponsible?" (The Wild)
3. Sooo ... maybe Eli Manning isn't finished after all?
4. "Meh. It was only us." (The 49ers)
5. The Browns are going to the Super Bowl!
6. "Meh. It was only us." (The Falcons)
7. The Patriots! Beaten! Humiliated! Ground to tiny microscopic particles of dust beneath Marcus Mariota's mighty heel!
8. "Wait ... did somebody just call me a heel?" (Marcus Mariota)
9. It's Tuesday morning and the Saints just scored again.
10. "Dammit!" (The Bengals).
Monday, November 12, 2018
Meanwhile, in West Lafayette ...
Aaaand your word for this week around Ross-Ade Stadium is ... "overreact."
As in, "Let's not. At least yet."
And so, no, it is not yet time to roll out the Official Theme Song of Foreboding. Jaws has not yet sunk the Orca and bitten Robert Shaw into two fun-sized pieces. Nor has he done the same thing to Purdue's brightening football future.
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, Jeff Brohm did bring gridiron glory to Louisville as a Cardinals quarterback.
And Louisville did just fire head coach Bobby Petrino for driving the program into a bridge abutment.
And now everyone -- everyone -- is saying Brohm, the proud Louisville alum, is No. 1 with a bullet on UL's wish list.
Understandably, this has some people on edge in West Lafayette.
Because after the failed Danny Hope experiment and the really failed Darrell Hazell experiment, Purdue finally found their guy. In his first season, Brohm took a crash site of a program, went 7-6 and win a bowl game. So far this year they're 5-5 (after starting 0-3) and have beaten three ranked teams (Boston College, Iowa and, of course, Ohio State). Ohio State was ranked second when the Boilers drill-pressed the Buckeyes 49-20, the first time Purdue had beaten a team ranked that high in 34 years.
The downside to all that, of course, is that when a guy does that at a place that hasn't known real success in a decade or so, people tend to notice. People like, oh, someone's alma mater.
Of course, Brohm eased everyone's mind by immediately and categorically denying any interest in the Louisville job. He did that, right?
Um ... well ...
Here's what he actually said: "It’s important for me to not comment on any speculation. Right now, I have a job to do. … I’m going to stay focused on that. I’m very appreciative of the job I have right now."
Right now? He's very appreciative of the job he has RIGHT NOW??
Uh-oh, Boiler Nation. You can hear Hooper and Quint in your head already, can't you?
"That's a 20-footer," Hooper's saying.
"Twenty-five," Quint corrects.
Gulp.
As in, "Let's not. At least yet."
And so, no, it is not yet time to roll out the Official Theme Song of Foreboding. Jaws has not yet sunk the Orca and bitten Robert Shaw into two fun-sized pieces. Nor has he done the same thing to Purdue's brightening football future.
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, Jeff Brohm did bring gridiron glory to Louisville as a Cardinals quarterback.
And Louisville did just fire head coach Bobby Petrino for driving the program into a bridge abutment.
And now everyone -- everyone -- is saying Brohm, the proud Louisville alum, is No. 1 with a bullet on UL's wish list.
Understandably, this has some people on edge in West Lafayette.
Because after the failed Danny Hope experiment and the really failed Darrell Hazell experiment, Purdue finally found their guy. In his first season, Brohm took a crash site of a program, went 7-6 and win a bowl game. So far this year they're 5-5 (after starting 0-3) and have beaten three ranked teams (Boston College, Iowa and, of course, Ohio State). Ohio State was ranked second when the Boilers drill-pressed the Buckeyes 49-20, the first time Purdue had beaten a team ranked that high in 34 years.
The downside to all that, of course, is that when a guy does that at a place that hasn't known real success in a decade or so, people tend to notice. People like, oh, someone's alma mater.
Of course, Brohm eased everyone's mind by immediately and categorically denying any interest in the Louisville job. He did that, right?
Um ... well ...
Here's what he actually said: "It’s important for me to not comment on any speculation. Right now, I have a job to do. … I’m going to stay focused on that. I’m very appreciative of the job I have right now."
Right now? He's very appreciative of the job he has RIGHT NOW??
Uh-oh, Boiler Nation. You can hear Hooper and Quint in your head already, can't you?
"That's a 20-footer," Hooper's saying.
"Twenty-five," Quint corrects.
Gulp.
Finally four
And now it's time to check in with NASCAR, if only to answer the eternal question people ask about NASCAR when the calendar closes in on mid-November.
That question, of course, is this: "You mean they're still racing?"
Well, yes they are, as a matter of fact. It's been crickets around their place since, oh, about the time the NFL and college football revved up (and then the NBA for good measure), but yes, they're still racing. Rumor has it some people are still showing up to the races and watching on TV, but that sounds like an urban legend, like the one about Elvis working the grill in a Burger King in Kalamazoo, or Bigfoot hanging out in the woods behind old man Fenstermacher's place.
Anyway ... there's one race left in the season now, after Kyle Busch won in Phoenix yesterday. The championship race is next Sunday in Homestead, Fla., and the final four is set: Busch, Kevin Harvick, Martin Truex Jr. and Joey Logano.
If that sounds familiar, it should, because Busch, Harvick and Truex were in the championship round last year. Truex won the title for Furniture Row Racing, a rare victory for the little guy in the top-heavy hierarchy of major league motorsports. The three of them have dominated the circuit this year, too; Harvick and Busch have each won eight times, and Truex has won four.
This would seem to indicate a showdown between Busch and Harvick, which is not nearly as appealing a storyline as Truex in 2017. Harvick, after all, defied poetic justice by slipping into the final spot yesterday, one week after cheating his ass off to win in Texas.
Turns out his winning car had an illegal spoiler, and to its credit, NASCAR swiftly dispensed the appropriate justice. He was stripped of his automatic berth and a healthy chunk of points, and his crew chief and car chief were suspended for the rest of the season.
So it's more than a little annoying that Harvick weaseled into the championship anyway. And it's even more annoying that he's probably the odds-on favorite, given that, in addition to his eight wins this year, he's posted a staggering 18 stage wins -- eight more than any other driver.
Which suggests it's been his year all along. And likely will be his week next week.
The Blob, however, still adheres to that mossy old standard: Cheaters never prosper. So it's picking Busch, because if everything comes down to one race, I'm almost always going to pick Busch.
The sportswriter in me, however, would love to see Truex win again. The storyline, after all, would be priceless: Underdog wins again for a team that announced earlier this season it was closing its doors at the end of 2018. Nothing ever writes itself, but that one would come awfully close.
Of course, the sportswriter in me also recognizes that the hopes and dreams of sportswriters frequently are laughed at by the storyline gods. So Busch it is.
Or not. Probably not.
That question, of course, is this: "You mean they're still racing?"
Well, yes they are, as a matter of fact. It's been crickets around their place since, oh, about the time the NFL and college football revved up (and then the NBA for good measure), but yes, they're still racing. Rumor has it some people are still showing up to the races and watching on TV, but that sounds like an urban legend, like the one about Elvis working the grill in a Burger King in Kalamazoo, or Bigfoot hanging out in the woods behind old man Fenstermacher's place.
Anyway ... there's one race left in the season now, after Kyle Busch won in Phoenix yesterday. The championship race is next Sunday in Homestead, Fla., and the final four is set: Busch, Kevin Harvick, Martin Truex Jr. and Joey Logano.
If that sounds familiar, it should, because Busch, Harvick and Truex were in the championship round last year. Truex won the title for Furniture Row Racing, a rare victory for the little guy in the top-heavy hierarchy of major league motorsports. The three of them have dominated the circuit this year, too; Harvick and Busch have each won eight times, and Truex has won four.
This would seem to indicate a showdown between Busch and Harvick, which is not nearly as appealing a storyline as Truex in 2017. Harvick, after all, defied poetic justice by slipping into the final spot yesterday, one week after cheating his ass off to win in Texas.
Turns out his winning car had an illegal spoiler, and to its credit, NASCAR swiftly dispensed the appropriate justice. He was stripped of his automatic berth and a healthy chunk of points, and his crew chief and car chief were suspended for the rest of the season.
So it's more than a little annoying that Harvick weaseled into the championship anyway. And it's even more annoying that he's probably the odds-on favorite, given that, in addition to his eight wins this year, he's posted a staggering 18 stage wins -- eight more than any other driver.
Which suggests it's been his year all along. And likely will be his week next week.
The Blob, however, still adheres to that mossy old standard: Cheaters never prosper. So it's picking Busch, because if everything comes down to one race, I'm almost always going to pick Busch.
The sportswriter in me, however, would love to see Truex win again. The storyline, after all, would be priceless: Underdog wins again for a team that announced earlier this season it was closing its doors at the end of 2018. Nothing ever writes itself, but that one would come awfully close.
Of course, the sportswriter in me also recognizes that the hopes and dreams of sportswriters frequently are laughed at by the storyline gods. So Busch it is.
Or not. Probably not.
Sunday, November 11, 2018
A century of ghosts
VERDUN, France -- The small red signs are everywhere, in this haunted woodland. They scream from signposts. They are screwed into the crumbling archways of shattered dugouts, the masonry green with a century of moss and ground cover in some places, their mounded outlines softened now by a carpet of grass.
I am the grass. Let me work: Carl Sandburg's line comes unbidden to me as a I look around this somber place, this murdering landscape in eastern France that remains a graveyard a century on, that remains a killing field from which demolition crews still pull thousands of pounds of unexploded Great War ordinance every year.
Hence the small red signs, which all carry the same warning in French: Defense d'entrer.
In English, "Do not enter."
And so we do not. And we do not pas quitter le sentier balise, or "leave the marked trail." We do as little as possible to disturb the dead still lying beneath our feet, the dead who are as much a part of this scarred landscape as the crumbling dugouts and rusted tangles of barbed wire and deep gouges in the earth -- shellholes and trenchworks still winding through the forests that have grown up all along the old Western Front, as if trying to conceal the monstrous crime that was the Great War itself.
Defense d'entrer.
And yet the world did d'entrer. And if the guns fell silent a century ago today on what we now call Veterans Day but which I still think of as Armistice Day, the greater tragedy of the Great War is that the guns did not remain silent. The Great War, in fact, only paved the way for even more horrific bloodshed. In destroying one world, it opened the entrance to another, bloodier one. It opened the entrance to a second, more ruinous Great War, and to the Cold War, and to wars in southeast Asia and the Middle East -- and to a certain blue September morning in 2001, when America paid the price for what was in a very real sense set in motion a century ago today.
Historians tell us World War I was the first industrial war, in which human beings perfected to an unimagined degree the means for exterminating one another. Verdun was very much an epicenter for that perfecting, a slaughter pen in which 300,000 Germans and French died in 10 months of relentless and pointless combat.
Their bones now rest in eternal sleep beneath orderly rows of white crosses in the cemetery at Douamont, whose fort, pockmarked with shell holes and rusting barbed wire, was a key objective that changed hands several times in the fighting. More bones lie jumbled in an immense pile in the adjoining ossuary; you can lean over and inspect them through narrow windows near ground level. The windows, and the bones, go on and on and on.
We visited the ossuary, and Verdun, more than a decade ago, when the guns had been silent for almost 90 years. It is an inexpressibly gloomy place, made more so the day we visited by broody gray clouds and a persistent dripping rain. The very air seemed heavy with death and loss, because death and loss are everywhere.
Here lie the remains of one of the nine villages caught between the lines and pounded to dust; literally the only evidence of their existence are tiny shards of masonry and signposts that have been put up to mark where the streets used to run. Here, in the ruins of Douamont, is a walled-up alcove; behind it some 300 Germans killed by a direct hit sleep on forever. And here, enclosed now to preserve it, is a long mound of beige earth.
This is the Trench of Bayonets, in which another direct hit entombed a host of French soldiers, leaving only their bayoneted rifle barrels poking out of the earth. The bodies, we are told, have long since been removed, and the story may be apocryphal in any event. Yet a row of white crosses still marks the spot.
And it's not like we aren't surrounded by other, lesser marked graves.
Those charged with tracking such things estimate there are still 80,000 to 100,000 unrecovered remains lying beneath the trees and the hillocked grass of the old battlefield. The knowledge of that presses down on you, in this dreary place. We drive around, we get out of the car, we walk carefully among the shellholes and the shattered ruins of old gun turrets. Here and there under the trees are more gun turrets and crumbled pillboxes rearing up out of the forest; here are more red signs, more defense d'entrer.
And after awhile, something dawns on you.
Though there are trees all around you, there is no birdsong. There is only the dripping of the rain, the heaviness of the air, an implacable silence. And the unmistakable sense that you are surrounded by ghosts -- a century of ghosts -- warning us to heed the signs.
Defense d'entrer, they say.
Too late.
I am the grass. Let me work: Carl Sandburg's line comes unbidden to me as a I look around this somber place, this murdering landscape in eastern France that remains a graveyard a century on, that remains a killing field from which demolition crews still pull thousands of pounds of unexploded Great War ordinance every year.
Hence the small red signs, which all carry the same warning in French: Defense d'entrer.
In English, "Do not enter."
And so we do not. And we do not pas quitter le sentier balise, or "leave the marked trail." We do as little as possible to disturb the dead still lying beneath our feet, the dead who are as much a part of this scarred landscape as the crumbling dugouts and rusted tangles of barbed wire and deep gouges in the earth -- shellholes and trenchworks still winding through the forests that have grown up all along the old Western Front, as if trying to conceal the monstrous crime that was the Great War itself.
Defense d'entrer.
And yet the world did d'entrer. And if the guns fell silent a century ago today on what we now call Veterans Day but which I still think of as Armistice Day, the greater tragedy of the Great War is that the guns did not remain silent. The Great War, in fact, only paved the way for even more horrific bloodshed. In destroying one world, it opened the entrance to another, bloodier one. It opened the entrance to a second, more ruinous Great War, and to the Cold War, and to wars in southeast Asia and the Middle East -- and to a certain blue September morning in 2001, when America paid the price for what was in a very real sense set in motion a century ago today.
Historians tell us World War I was the first industrial war, in which human beings perfected to an unimagined degree the means for exterminating one another. Verdun was very much an epicenter for that perfecting, a slaughter pen in which 300,000 Germans and French died in 10 months of relentless and pointless combat.
Their bones now rest in eternal sleep beneath orderly rows of white crosses in the cemetery at Douamont, whose fort, pockmarked with shell holes and rusting barbed wire, was a key objective that changed hands several times in the fighting. More bones lie jumbled in an immense pile in the adjoining ossuary; you can lean over and inspect them through narrow windows near ground level. The windows, and the bones, go on and on and on.
We visited the ossuary, and Verdun, more than a decade ago, when the guns had been silent for almost 90 years. It is an inexpressibly gloomy place, made more so the day we visited by broody gray clouds and a persistent dripping rain. The very air seemed heavy with death and loss, because death and loss are everywhere.
Here lie the remains of one of the nine villages caught between the lines and pounded to dust; literally the only evidence of their existence are tiny shards of masonry and signposts that have been put up to mark where the streets used to run. Here, in the ruins of Douamont, is a walled-up alcove; behind it some 300 Germans killed by a direct hit sleep on forever. And here, enclosed now to preserve it, is a long mound of beige earth.
This is the Trench of Bayonets, in which another direct hit entombed a host of French soldiers, leaving only their bayoneted rifle barrels poking out of the earth. The bodies, we are told, have long since been removed, and the story may be apocryphal in any event. Yet a row of white crosses still marks the spot.
And it's not like we aren't surrounded by other, lesser marked graves.
Those charged with tracking such things estimate there are still 80,000 to 100,000 unrecovered remains lying beneath the trees and the hillocked grass of the old battlefield. The knowledge of that presses down on you, in this dreary place. We drive around, we get out of the car, we walk carefully among the shellholes and the shattered ruins of old gun turrets. Here and there under the trees are more gun turrets and crumbled pillboxes rearing up out of the forest; here are more red signs, more defense d'entrer.
And after awhile, something dawns on you.
Though there are trees all around you, there is no birdsong. There is only the dripping of the rain, the heaviness of the air, an implacable silence. And the unmistakable sense that you are surrounded by ghosts -- a century of ghosts -- warning us to heed the signs.
Defense d'entrer, they say.
Too late.
Saturday, November 10, 2018
Save of the year! Well, sort of.
And now your Soccer Moment for Today, which you will never see replicated in the Premier League, because the last I looked dads were not allowed to stand next to the goal, not even if you're Man U or Man City or Chelsea, or even Arsenal or West Ham.
Which is to say, remember that old line, "Jesus saves, and Esposito gets the rebound!"?
Well, check this out. Dad saves (kinda), and little wanna-be Messi gets the rebound.
Now, no one should advise dads to go around pushing their sons to the ground, even if it winds up in a glorious save. You could argue, if you were of a certain bent of mind, that it constitutes child abuse.
But ... come on.
Watch it again. Tell me you didn't laugh. And tell me, if your child played shorty soccer or tee ball, that the spectacle of a little guy standing by the goalpost staring off into space didn't light up your memory board.
Did for me, although the memory doesn't involve one of my own kids. It involves my niece, Hannah, who's all grown up now (she's an RN in the heart unit at Lutheran Hospital), but who, years ago, played tee ball as a tyke.
One day, she was manning second base. Well, sort of. Actually she was standing with her back to the plate, staring off into the vast green void of the outfield, communing with nature.
About that time, some little guy took a mighty swat at the ball. It trickled through the infield. Rolled to a stop against Hannah's heel.
She turned around. Stared down at the ball. Stared and stared at it, as if it was the most wondrous thing she'd ever seen. Meanwhile, her dad -- much like Goalpost Dad -- was standing next to her, imploring her to, you know, do something baseball-y.
"Hannah!" he kept pleading. "Pick up the ball! Hannah! Pick it up!"
Kudos to him for not doing what Goalpost Dad did, and just picking the damn thing up himself and stepping on second.
Then again, hard telling where the kid who hit the ball had wandered off to.
It was tee ball, after all.
Which is to say, remember that old line, "Jesus saves, and Esposito gets the rebound!"?
Well, check this out. Dad saves (kinda), and little wanna-be Messi gets the rebound.
Now, no one should advise dads to go around pushing their sons to the ground, even if it winds up in a glorious save. You could argue, if you were of a certain bent of mind, that it constitutes child abuse.
But ... come on.
Watch it again. Tell me you didn't laugh. And tell me, if your child played shorty soccer or tee ball, that the spectacle of a little guy standing by the goalpost staring off into space didn't light up your memory board.
Did for me, although the memory doesn't involve one of my own kids. It involves my niece, Hannah, who's all grown up now (she's an RN in the heart unit at Lutheran Hospital), but who, years ago, played tee ball as a tyke.
One day, she was manning second base. Well, sort of. Actually she was standing with her back to the plate, staring off into the vast green void of the outfield, communing with nature.
About that time, some little guy took a mighty swat at the ball. It trickled through the infield. Rolled to a stop against Hannah's heel.
She turned around. Stared down at the ball. Stared and stared at it, as if it was the most wondrous thing she'd ever seen. Meanwhile, her dad -- much like Goalpost Dad -- was standing next to her, imploring her to, you know, do something baseball-y.
"Hannah!" he kept pleading. "Pick up the ball! Hannah! Pick it up!"
Kudos to him for not doing what Goalpost Dad did, and just picking the damn thing up himself and stepping on second.
Then again, hard telling where the kid who hit the ball had wandered off to.
It was tee ball, after all.
Thursday, November 8, 2018
Luck of ... well, you know
Because the Blob is not going to use That Phrase again, in relation to the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame.
You know what That Phrase is. It's the oldest Phrase in the book, and it's been used countless times in relation to N.D. It's a cliché now. More than that, it's a cliché that's so old you have to knock the rust off it every time you haul it out.
And blow the dust off it. And scrape layer upon layer of moss off it.
So ... all I'll say, in relation to the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame, is that sometimes everything just kind of falls into place. It happens. You line up a schedule that looks semi-daunting, and then nearly everyone on it suddenly has a down year at the same time.
You catch Michigan early, before they get good. You have your off games against teams that aren't good enough to take advantage. You find your quarterback hiding in plain sight, and then he gets hurt and you have to play the backup -- who's pretty good, too, but not, you know, The Guy anymore.
And when does this happen?
Well, not right before the big showdown in Yankee Stadium against No. 13 Syracuse. No, sir.
Right before Florida State But Not Really comes to town.
This Florida State, see, is 4-5 and has lost three of its last four. It's lost its last two games by an aggregate score of 106-38. It lost to a similarly un-Miami-ish Miami Hurricanes team, and struggled to beat a Louisville team (28-24) that's even more of a crash site than the Seminoles are.
In other words, if there can ever be a fortuitous time for such things, this is the most fortuitous time possible for the Irish to have to put their Ian on the Book shelf for a game. Brandon Wimbush -- who was 3-0 this year as a starter before Book supplanted him -- will be more than enough to get the Irish to 10-0. Heck, George W. Bush would probably be enough to get the Irish to 10-0, given the downward trajectory of the Seminoles this last month.
And Ian Book?
Word out of the Irish camp is he'll be fit as a fiddle for Syracuse, the last real quasi-obstacle between the Irish and 12-0.
Sometimes things just fall into place. And if you want to use That Phrase to account for that, be my guest.
After all, it's not like I'm using it.
You know what That Phrase is. It's the oldest Phrase in the book, and it's been used countless times in relation to N.D. It's a cliché now. More than that, it's a cliché that's so old you have to knock the rust off it every time you haul it out.
And blow the dust off it. And scrape layer upon layer of moss off it.
So ... all I'll say, in relation to the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame, is that sometimes everything just kind of falls into place. It happens. You line up a schedule that looks semi-daunting, and then nearly everyone on it suddenly has a down year at the same time.
You catch Michigan early, before they get good. You have your off games against teams that aren't good enough to take advantage. You find your quarterback hiding in plain sight, and then he gets hurt and you have to play the backup -- who's pretty good, too, but not, you know, The Guy anymore.
And when does this happen?
Well, not right before the big showdown in Yankee Stadium against No. 13 Syracuse. No, sir.
Right before Florida State But Not Really comes to town.
This Florida State, see, is 4-5 and has lost three of its last four. It's lost its last two games by an aggregate score of 106-38. It lost to a similarly un-Miami-ish Miami Hurricanes team, and struggled to beat a Louisville team (28-24) that's even more of a crash site than the Seminoles are.
In other words, if there can ever be a fortuitous time for such things, this is the most fortuitous time possible for the Irish to have to put their Ian on the Book shelf for a game. Brandon Wimbush -- who was 3-0 this year as a starter before Book supplanted him -- will be more than enough to get the Irish to 10-0. Heck, George W. Bush would probably be enough to get the Irish to 10-0, given the downward trajectory of the Seminoles this last month.
And Ian Book?
Word out of the Irish camp is he'll be fit as a fiddle for Syracuse, the last real quasi-obstacle between the Irish and 12-0.
Sometimes things just fall into place. And if you want to use That Phrase to account for that, be my guest.
After all, it's not like I'm using it.
Wednesday, November 7, 2018
One-and-Done U.
Things could still happen, one supposes. Things sometimes do.
The earth could open and swallow Durham, N.C., whole.
Aliens could abduct Mike Krzyzewski and demand a cut of his apparel deal.
Coach K's four professionals-in-transit -- "freshmen" RJ Barrett, Zion Williamson, Cam Reddish and Tre Jones -- could demand a cut of his apparel deal.
Or their own apparel deal.
Commerce, after all, is what drives college basketball on the corporate level, and we are going to get a faceful of it this winter from Duke University. You never want to jump to conclusions, even if jumping to conclusions is what everyone tends to do in sports. But if what Duke rolled out last night was an accurate read of what's to come this "college" basketball season, that season is over before it begins.
What happened last night was One-and-Done U. ran into One-and-Done U. 2.0. And got done to a crisp.
John Calipari, who introduced the concept of renting professionals-in-transit at Kentucky, ran into the next generation of the genre, and t'weren't pretty. The final was No. 4 Duke 118, No. 2 Kentucky 84, and it probably wasn't that close. Barrett, Williamson and Reddish combined for 83 points. Jones dished seven assists. Krzyzewski started all four of them, and then, absurdly, made it sound in the postgame like this was some sort brave step into the unknown.
It wasn't. Were it not for the NBA's ridiculous 19-year-old rule, after all, the four Duke freshman would be playing in the NBA right now. Barrett, Williamson and Reddish would have been top-ten picks in this year's draft. By next June's draft, they may be the top three picks.
In other words, they are not college students, at least in any sense except parody. They are unpaid mercenaries, brought in to feed the imperatives of Duke Inc., just as high-end freshmen are brought in every year to feed the imperatives of Kentucky Inc. or North Carolina Inc. or Kansas Inc.
That college buckets is an Inc. business is old news at this point, but all those FBI wiretaps gave America a good look at how the sausage is made, and that never makes for pretty viewing. If we always knew that deals got cut and money changed hands, there's a difference between knowing it and knowing it. And we know it now.
The irony, of course, is that it's Duke that's now the bellwether for all this -- Duke, whom the powers-that-be have always held up as a shining example of College Athletics Done Right. At Duke, basketball players were not just glorified stevedores, the narrative went. They were students. They went to class. And they were there to get an education.
Not like, you know, those guys at Kentucky.
And now?
Now Duke has out-Kentucky-ed Kentucky.
Now Duke is not a university but a brand, and everything that doesn't advance the brand is subsumed. Those four celebrated "freshmen," after all, got Duke Inc. its own documentary series before the season even began. How invaluable a recruiting tool is that? And why does the NCAA not deem it an impermissible benefit, except for the untidy fact that advancing the Duke brand also advances College Basketball Inc.'s brand?
Commerce, remember, drives all. And more exposure means more commerce for everyone.
And so don't read any of this as any particular criticism of Duke Inc., or of its CEO. Like Calipari, Krzyzewski is simply following the contours of the college basketball landscape in 2018. It's a business. And so Coach K is doing everything he can to make his particular piece of that business profitable.
Sis-boom-bah be hanged.
The earth could open and swallow Durham, N.C., whole.
Aliens could abduct Mike Krzyzewski and demand a cut of his apparel deal.
Coach K's four professionals-in-transit -- "freshmen" RJ Barrett, Zion Williamson, Cam Reddish and Tre Jones -- could demand a cut of his apparel deal.
Or their own apparel deal.
Commerce, after all, is what drives college basketball on the corporate level, and we are going to get a faceful of it this winter from Duke University. You never want to jump to conclusions, even if jumping to conclusions is what everyone tends to do in sports. But if what Duke rolled out last night was an accurate read of what's to come this "college" basketball season, that season is over before it begins.
What happened last night was One-and-Done U. ran into One-and-Done U. 2.0. And got done to a crisp.
John Calipari, who introduced the concept of renting professionals-in-transit at Kentucky, ran into the next generation of the genre, and t'weren't pretty. The final was No. 4 Duke 118, No. 2 Kentucky 84, and it probably wasn't that close. Barrett, Williamson and Reddish combined for 83 points. Jones dished seven assists. Krzyzewski started all four of them, and then, absurdly, made it sound in the postgame like this was some sort brave step into the unknown.
It wasn't. Were it not for the NBA's ridiculous 19-year-old rule, after all, the four Duke freshman would be playing in the NBA right now. Barrett, Williamson and Reddish would have been top-ten picks in this year's draft. By next June's draft, they may be the top three picks.
In other words, they are not college students, at least in any sense except parody. They are unpaid mercenaries, brought in to feed the imperatives of Duke Inc., just as high-end freshmen are brought in every year to feed the imperatives of Kentucky Inc. or North Carolina Inc. or Kansas Inc.
That college buckets is an Inc. business is old news at this point, but all those FBI wiretaps gave America a good look at how the sausage is made, and that never makes for pretty viewing. If we always knew that deals got cut and money changed hands, there's a difference between knowing it and knowing it. And we know it now.
The irony, of course, is that it's Duke that's now the bellwether for all this -- Duke, whom the powers-that-be have always held up as a shining example of College Athletics Done Right. At Duke, basketball players were not just glorified stevedores, the narrative went. They were students. They went to class. And they were there to get an education.
Not like, you know, those guys at Kentucky.
And now?
Now Duke has out-Kentucky-ed Kentucky.
Now Duke is not a university but a brand, and everything that doesn't advance the brand is subsumed. Those four celebrated "freshmen," after all, got Duke Inc. its own documentary series before the season even began. How invaluable a recruiting tool is that? And why does the NCAA not deem it an impermissible benefit, except for the untidy fact that advancing the Duke brand also advances College Basketball Inc.'s brand?
Commerce, remember, drives all. And more exposure means more commerce for everyone.
And so don't read any of this as any particular criticism of Duke Inc., or of its CEO. Like Calipari, Krzyzewski is simply following the contours of the college basketball landscape in 2018. It's a business. And so Coach K is doing everything he can to make his particular piece of that business profitable.
Sis-boom-bah be hanged.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 9
And now this week's edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the unelectable Blob feature the Quinnipiac poll projects now has a 48 percent chance of correctly spelling "Quinnipiac," and the Gallup poll projects has a 45.6 percent chance of flipping the House, but "only with some major renovations":
1. It's Tuesday morning and the Cowboys are GOING TO THE SUPE--
2. Oh. Wait.
3. "I'm sorry, Coach Garrett. Mr. Jones is STILL in that doggone meeting. Call back later."
4. Nathan Peterman!
5. Is the answer if the question is "Who would Herb in accounts receivable be if you made him an NFL quarterback?"
6. "Yes, Coach McDermott, I realize Buffalo is wonderful this time of year. But Mr. Manziel is quite happy up here in Canada. Call back later."
7. Meanwhile, Patrick Mahomes!
8. Is still pretty good.
9. Ditto that Drew Brees guy.
10. "I'm sorry, Mr. Guy From Canton. Mr. Brees is still playing. Call back later."
1. It's Tuesday morning and the Cowboys are GOING TO THE SUPE--
2. Oh. Wait.
3. "I'm sorry, Coach Garrett. Mr. Jones is STILL in that doggone meeting. Call back later."
4. Nathan Peterman!
5. Is the answer if the question is "Who would Herb in accounts receivable be if you made him an NFL quarterback?"
6. "Yes, Coach McDermott, I realize Buffalo is wonderful this time of year. But Mr. Manziel is quite happy up here in Canada. Call back later."
7. Meanwhile, Patrick Mahomes!
8. Is still pretty good.
9. Ditto that Drew Brees guy.
10. "I'm sorry, Mr. Guy From Canton. Mr. Brees is still playing. Call back later."
Monday, November 5, 2018
Grumpy old men
I am 63 years old, which I freely admit makes me prone to occasional fits of Shaking My Liver-Spotted Fist and Shouting At Clouds. So I suppose I'm the last one who should be poking the crotchety old geezers (Joe Buck ... Troy Aikman ... various other relics in the studio) who got all wrathy about end zone celebrations yesterday.
To be specific, they got all wrathy about Saints wide receiver Michael Thomas, who pulled a legacy celebration at the end of a 72-yard touchdown catch from Drew Brees.
What Thomas did was, he pulled a planted flip phone from the padding around the goalpost and pretended to make a call. Which incurred a 15-yard penalty that (it turned out) didn't actually matter, because there were less than four minutes to play and Thomas' touchdown put the Saints up by 10.
What was cool about that is it was a spot-on tribute to former Saints wideout Joe Horn doing the same thing 15 years ago. What was uncool, although hugely amusing, was the way all the grumpy old men spluttered and shook their liver-spotted fists and said it was a crying damn shame Thomas had to make it about himself.
Just as Thomas' little joke was a not-so-instant replay of Horn's, that was a not-so-instant replay of the reaction Horn got from Metamucil-gumming codgers like Tony Kornheiser, who fumed that Horn "should be fined a million dollars."
And what does this occasionally grumpy old man say about all that?
Only this: Chill out, Alice. Here's a cold cloth. Go lie down in the parlor until the vapors pass.
Look, the NFL is gray and corporate and frankly boring enough without resurrecting the ghost of the old No Fun League. And so I say, good on ya, Michael Thomas, for giving us a bit of whimsy. Plus, it was a clever little nod to history, which meant those who remembered Joe Horn got to share a knowing little chuckle at the expense of those who didn't.
And you know the best thing?
It wasn't the only time an NFL team got caught having fun yesterday.
The Bears, in the midst of their 41-9 party in Buffalo, posed for a faux team photo after one score. And the Seahawks broke out this inspired bit of choreography after one of their touchdowns.
I suppose somewhere in America the old school brigade watched that, shook their chicken wings at the screen and mourned for the days when players used to act like they'd been there before when they scored a touchdown. Like when Larry Csonka ran over 15 guys, flipped the ball to the official and never once changed his expression.
Now that was football, people. You know, deadly serious, the way God intended.
You, there. Wipe that smile off your face.
To be specific, they got all wrathy about Saints wide receiver Michael Thomas, who pulled a legacy celebration at the end of a 72-yard touchdown catch from Drew Brees.
What Thomas did was, he pulled a planted flip phone from the padding around the goalpost and pretended to make a call. Which incurred a 15-yard penalty that (it turned out) didn't actually matter, because there were less than four minutes to play and Thomas' touchdown put the Saints up by 10.
What was cool about that is it was a spot-on tribute to former Saints wideout Joe Horn doing the same thing 15 years ago. What was uncool, although hugely amusing, was the way all the grumpy old men spluttered and shook their liver-spotted fists and said it was a crying damn shame Thomas had to make it about himself.
Just as Thomas' little joke was a not-so-instant replay of Horn's, that was a not-so-instant replay of the reaction Horn got from Metamucil-gumming codgers like Tony Kornheiser, who fumed that Horn "should be fined a million dollars."
And what does this occasionally grumpy old man say about all that?
Only this: Chill out, Alice. Here's a cold cloth. Go lie down in the parlor until the vapors pass.
Look, the NFL is gray and corporate and frankly boring enough without resurrecting the ghost of the old No Fun League. And so I say, good on ya, Michael Thomas, for giving us a bit of whimsy. Plus, it was a clever little nod to history, which meant those who remembered Joe Horn got to share a knowing little chuckle at the expense of those who didn't.
And you know the best thing?
It wasn't the only time an NFL team got caught having fun yesterday.
The Bears, in the midst of their 41-9 party in Buffalo, posed for a faux team photo after one score. And the Seahawks broke out this inspired bit of choreography after one of their touchdowns.
I suppose somewhere in America the old school brigade watched that, shook their chicken wings at the screen and mourned for the days when players used to act like they'd been there before when they scored a touchdown. Like when Larry Csonka ran over 15 guys, flipped the ball to the official and never once changed his expression.
Now that was football, people. You know, deadly serious, the way God intended.
You, there. Wipe that smile off your face.
The Bear essentials
I'm trying to bring it back now, the first time I met the man. But it's too far away, and too many other memories have intervened between then and now, and so all that come are flashes: A cold blue sky, a spare pressbox, orange helmets and white jerseys and a huddled figure on the sideline who was all of 27 or so, but who somehow even then seemed much older.
Which is to say, 40 years is a long damn time.
But I'm compelled to cast back, now that Kevin Donley is a white-haired grandfather who has long grown beyond the huddled figure watching his Anderson College Ravens whirl the football up and down the field against Defiance or Bluffton or Findlay, that rugged old nemesis. Anderson is where all this started for him, and I was lucky enough to be at the christening. He was a young coach just starting out and I was a young sportswriter just starting out, and if the latter suspected the former might be going places, it was beyond my poor powers as a seer to envision just how exalted those places would become.
I mean, we're using "Kevin Donley" and "Bear Bryant" in the same sentence now. And "Kevin Donley" comes first.
On a cool blue autumn day down in Upland, In., the program Donley built literally from the mud up beat Taylor 40-20, and the man everyone calls Coach D crossed another Rubicon. This time it was, yes, Bear Bryant; with his 324th career victory, Kevin Donley passed the Bear into seventh place on the all-time list in all divisions of college football. Fifteen more victories -- less than two seasons as things usually go for Donley's Saint Francis Cougars -- and he'll be fifth all-time. Only John Gagliardi, Joe Paterno, Eddie Robinson and Bobby Bowden will be ahead of him.
So it is some fast company he is keeping, and thus I strain to remember more than I do. It is impossible, of course, as impossible as it likely was to envision what Gagliardi or Paterno or Robinson or Bowden would become when they were 27-years-old and just starting out. All I remember is the man had a genius even then for designing ways to find the end zone, and the Ravens won because of it.
And so on Donley moved on, eventually. And 20 years later, with a national championship on his resume now, he showed up in Fort Wayne to do what he'd always wanted to do: Start a football program from scratch that would not just win, but win the right way.
That process, I remember very well. I remember what the ground floor looked like, and how it was frequently mud lasagna on Saturday afternoons, and how the Cougars consequently brought a lot of their home field into the locker room with them after another disheartening loss. Their practice field that first year was a vacant lot that was as scruffy and un-manicured as a vacant lot tends to be. They park cars there now on game days.
And Donley?
I never saw him lose his cool once, that entire dreary season. They went 2-8 and got their heads beat in week after week, and week after week Donley would come into the postgame, plop himself down and remind us, in that maddeningly soft voice, that this first season was a learning process. And, boy, his young Cougars were learnin' lots.
One year later, still young, they went 8-3 and won the conference title, on the road, at Walsh. They never won fewer than nine games for the next decade, won 10 or more in nine of those years, and the Ws started to pile up. And pretty soon we were using Kevin Donley's name in the same sentence as Pop Warner's, the same sentence as the Bear's himself.
And yet I could walk into his office tomorrow, and sit down, and he would be the same Kevin Donley I've always known. He would be the same Kevin Donley who stood down there on those cold blue afternoons watching his Ravens trade haymakers with Defiance or Bluffton or the bleeping Findlay Oilers.
You know how I know that?
Because Saturday afternoon, after win No. 324, the Cougars team captain, Piercen Harnish, presented Donley with the game ball.
Donley thanked him. Then he told him to put it back in the bag, because, hey, those footballs ain't cheap.
Maybe some daring soul will fish it back out, paint the number 324 on it, and sneak it onto the shelf in his office when he's not looking. It would only be right.
Which is to say, 40 years is a long damn time.
But I'm compelled to cast back, now that Kevin Donley is a white-haired grandfather who has long grown beyond the huddled figure watching his Anderson College Ravens whirl the football up and down the field against Defiance or Bluffton or Findlay, that rugged old nemesis. Anderson is where all this started for him, and I was lucky enough to be at the christening. He was a young coach just starting out and I was a young sportswriter just starting out, and if the latter suspected the former might be going places, it was beyond my poor powers as a seer to envision just how exalted those places would become.
I mean, we're using "Kevin Donley" and "Bear Bryant" in the same sentence now. And "Kevin Donley" comes first.
On a cool blue autumn day down in Upland, In., the program Donley built literally from the mud up beat Taylor 40-20, and the man everyone calls Coach D crossed another Rubicon. This time it was, yes, Bear Bryant; with his 324th career victory, Kevin Donley passed the Bear into seventh place on the all-time list in all divisions of college football. Fifteen more victories -- less than two seasons as things usually go for Donley's Saint Francis Cougars -- and he'll be fifth all-time. Only John Gagliardi, Joe Paterno, Eddie Robinson and Bobby Bowden will be ahead of him.
So it is some fast company he is keeping, and thus I strain to remember more than I do. It is impossible, of course, as impossible as it likely was to envision what Gagliardi or Paterno or Robinson or Bowden would become when they were 27-years-old and just starting out. All I remember is the man had a genius even then for designing ways to find the end zone, and the Ravens won because of it.
And so on Donley moved on, eventually. And 20 years later, with a national championship on his resume now, he showed up in Fort Wayne to do what he'd always wanted to do: Start a football program from scratch that would not just win, but win the right way.
That process, I remember very well. I remember what the ground floor looked like, and how it was frequently mud lasagna on Saturday afternoons, and how the Cougars consequently brought a lot of their home field into the locker room with them after another disheartening loss. Their practice field that first year was a vacant lot that was as scruffy and un-manicured as a vacant lot tends to be. They park cars there now on game days.
And Donley?
I never saw him lose his cool once, that entire dreary season. They went 2-8 and got their heads beat in week after week, and week after week Donley would come into the postgame, plop himself down and remind us, in that maddeningly soft voice, that this first season was a learning process. And, boy, his young Cougars were learnin' lots.
One year later, still young, they went 8-3 and won the conference title, on the road, at Walsh. They never won fewer than nine games for the next decade, won 10 or more in nine of those years, and the Ws started to pile up. And pretty soon we were using Kevin Donley's name in the same sentence as Pop Warner's, the same sentence as the Bear's himself.
And yet I could walk into his office tomorrow, and sit down, and he would be the same Kevin Donley I've always known. He would be the same Kevin Donley who stood down there on those cold blue afternoons watching his Ravens trade haymakers with Defiance or Bluffton or the bleeping Findlay Oilers.
You know how I know that?
Because Saturday afternoon, after win No. 324, the Cougars team captain, Piercen Harnish, presented Donley with the game ball.
Donley thanked him. Then he told him to put it back in the bag, because, hey, those footballs ain't cheap.
Maybe some daring soul will fish it back out, paint the number 324 on it, and sneak it onto the shelf in his office when he's not looking. It would only be right.
Sunday, November 4, 2018
Conspiracy this
Look, I don't know. Maybe Nick Saban really is the Evil Puppet Master, and everyone in college football dances to whatever tune he chooses.
What I do know is it wouldn't be college football if people didn't occasionally wind up sitting in a corner babbling to themselves, like crazy old Alex Jones only wearing face paint in the alma mater's colors. And so here came political analyst and notorious LSU fan James Carville to ESPN's Gameday yesterday, saying there was a conspiracy afoot to keep Alabama's well-oiled machine humming along.
Asked about LSU linebacker Devin White's suspension for half the big showdown against 'Bama, Carville raved that the SEC was behind this, that the conference consistently seemed to suspend opponents' best defensive players just about the time they were to play Alabama.
Craven, compromised souls that they are, ESPN issued an on-air apology to SEC commissioner Greg Sankey for Carville's Geaux Tigers-induced paranoia, rather than just rolling with it like the time-honored fun it was. But then, ESPN and the SEC are business partners. And so no fun needed apply.
On the other hand, Alabama proceeded to march into Death Valley and poleax the No. 3 Tigers 29-0. So much for that conspiracy theory.
Truthfully, it's hard to see at this point who's going to give 'Bama a game, unless the Giants or Raiders are relegated to college football. Prior to last night, you could take comfort in the deceptive narrative that Alabama was a paper Tide beating up on a succession of 98-pound weaklings, given that the SEC this year is a pale imitation of its usual self. But snuffing out LSU with such ruthless efficiency, in one of college football's most intimidating environments, consigned that narrative to the flames.
Truth is, 'Bama is indeed a machine, and over there in South Carolina, Clemson is a machine, and so it seems pretty obvious we're going to wind up with the same old storyline. Which is to say, 'Bama and Clemson trading haymakers for the national title, with Notre Dame and perhaps Michigan appearing as Those Guys Who Got Drill-Pressed In The Semis.
The Irish, having gotten by pesky Northwestern last night in Chicago, are 9-0 and seem destined now to finish unbeaten. Michigan, meanwhile, has only that opening loss to Notre Dame on its resume, and gets stronger every week. Yesterday the Wolverines trampled a decent Penn State team 42-7, and, like Notre Dame, it's looking less and less likely they're going to lose again.
Of course, it's still college football, so one supposes anything could happen. Notre Dame could stumble against, I don't know, Syracuse, who's 7-2. Urban Meyer could beat Jim Harbaugh again, per the usual. Alabama quarterback Tua Tagovailoa's iffy knee could finally give out, and Georgia could rise up and knock out the Crimson Tide in the SEC title game.
Also, pigs could fly.
No, really. They could.
What I do know is it wouldn't be college football if people didn't occasionally wind up sitting in a corner babbling to themselves, like crazy old Alex Jones only wearing face paint in the alma mater's colors. And so here came political analyst and notorious LSU fan James Carville to ESPN's Gameday yesterday, saying there was a conspiracy afoot to keep Alabama's well-oiled machine humming along.
Asked about LSU linebacker Devin White's suspension for half the big showdown against 'Bama, Carville raved that the SEC was behind this, that the conference consistently seemed to suspend opponents' best defensive players just about the time they were to play Alabama.
Craven, compromised souls that they are, ESPN issued an on-air apology to SEC commissioner Greg Sankey for Carville's Geaux Tigers-induced paranoia, rather than just rolling with it like the time-honored fun it was. But then, ESPN and the SEC are business partners. And so no fun needed apply.
On the other hand, Alabama proceeded to march into Death Valley and poleax the No. 3 Tigers 29-0. So much for that conspiracy theory.
Truthfully, it's hard to see at this point who's going to give 'Bama a game, unless the Giants or Raiders are relegated to college football. Prior to last night, you could take comfort in the deceptive narrative that Alabama was a paper Tide beating up on a succession of 98-pound weaklings, given that the SEC this year is a pale imitation of its usual self. But snuffing out LSU with such ruthless efficiency, in one of college football's most intimidating environments, consigned that narrative to the flames.
Truth is, 'Bama is indeed a machine, and over there in South Carolina, Clemson is a machine, and so it seems pretty obvious we're going to wind up with the same old storyline. Which is to say, 'Bama and Clemson trading haymakers for the national title, with Notre Dame and perhaps Michigan appearing as Those Guys Who Got Drill-Pressed In The Semis.
The Irish, having gotten by pesky Northwestern last night in Chicago, are 9-0 and seem destined now to finish unbeaten. Michigan, meanwhile, has only that opening loss to Notre Dame on its resume, and gets stronger every week. Yesterday the Wolverines trampled a decent Penn State team 42-7, and, like Notre Dame, it's looking less and less likely they're going to lose again.
Of course, it's still college football, so one supposes anything could happen. Notre Dame could stumble against, I don't know, Syracuse, who's 7-2. Urban Meyer could beat Jim Harbaugh again, per the usual. Alabama quarterback Tua Tagovailoa's iffy knee could finally give out, and Georgia could rise up and knock out the Crimson Tide in the SEC title game.
Also, pigs could fly.
No, really. They could.
Friday, November 2, 2018
Irish lies
OK. So not lies, exactly.
Not lies the way, say, Our Only Available President lies, or the way so many of his enablers lie, or the way so many of his like-minded brethren lie: Openly and with breathtaking gall. But just for funsies, let's look at the official reaction of Brian Kelly and his Notre Dame Fighting Irish to the news the Irish were ranked No.4 in the first official playoff poll, which means if the playoff began today they'd be in the thing:
KELLY (in so many words): Well, it's only the first poll, so it doesn't really matter.
HIS PLAYERS (in so many words): What Coach said.
And, yes, well, that's what you'd expect, right? The first rule of college football is to be openly disdainful of polls. That's because We're All About Focus Here. And because We're All About Focus, we can't be concerned with What People Outside The Program Say About Us. We're only focused on (name of next opponent here.)
That sound pretty accurate?
Except, see, people are human, even football people. And so let's break another cardinal football rule (Thou shalt not look ahead), and look ahead.
Ahead lies Northwestern, which is 5-3 and just beat Wisconsin, and it's at Northwestern, so that could maybe be pretty tough. And in a couple weeks the Irish get No. 19 Syracuse in Yankee Stadium, which is 6-2 and the only ranked team left on their schedule, so that might be a test.
Other than that?
Other than that all that's left is Florida State, which is 4-4, lost by 21 at home to a Wake Forest team Notre Dame crushed, and who even its head coach accused of quitting in a 59-10 loss to Clemson. And last but not least there is USC, which is 4-4 and not at all USC-ish, given that the Trojans have lost their last two, including to Arizona State at home last week.
So the likelihood of the Irish running the table at this point is far greater than not. And so you have to be wondering what the inner Brian Kelly and the inner Irish players were really thinking as they officially reacted so stoically:
KELLY (in so many words): Well, it's only the first poll, so it doesn't really matter.
HIS PLAYERS (in so many words): What Coach said.
INNER KELLY: Omigod, omigod, omigod! We're No. 4! If we win out we're in this thing!
INNER PLAYERS: What Coach said!
And then Inner Brian Kelly and his Inner Players caper happily around the locker room.
Or, you know, something like that.
Not lies the way, say, Our Only Available President lies, or the way so many of his enablers lie, or the way so many of his like-minded brethren lie: Openly and with breathtaking gall. But just for funsies, let's look at the official reaction of Brian Kelly and his Notre Dame Fighting Irish to the news the Irish were ranked No.4 in the first official playoff poll, which means if the playoff began today they'd be in the thing:
KELLY (in so many words): Well, it's only the first poll, so it doesn't really matter.
HIS PLAYERS (in so many words): What Coach said.
And, yes, well, that's what you'd expect, right? The first rule of college football is to be openly disdainful of polls. That's because We're All About Focus Here. And because We're All About Focus, we can't be concerned with What People Outside The Program Say About Us. We're only focused on (name of next opponent here.)
That sound pretty accurate?
Except, see, people are human, even football people. And so let's break another cardinal football rule (Thou shalt not look ahead), and look ahead.
Ahead lies Northwestern, which is 5-3 and just beat Wisconsin, and it's at Northwestern, so that could maybe be pretty tough. And in a couple weeks the Irish get No. 19 Syracuse in Yankee Stadium, which is 6-2 and the only ranked team left on their schedule, so that might be a test.
Other than that?
Other than that all that's left is Florida State, which is 4-4, lost by 21 at home to a Wake Forest team Notre Dame crushed, and who even its head coach accused of quitting in a 59-10 loss to Clemson. And last but not least there is USC, which is 4-4 and not at all USC-ish, given that the Trojans have lost their last two, including to Arizona State at home last week.
So the likelihood of the Irish running the table at this point is far greater than not. And so you have to be wondering what the inner Brian Kelly and the inner Irish players were really thinking as they officially reacted so stoically:
KELLY (in so many words): Well, it's only the first poll, so it doesn't really matter.
HIS PLAYERS (in so many words): What Coach said.
INNER KELLY: Omigod, omigod, omigod! We're No. 4! If we win out we're in this thing!
INNER PLAYERS: What Coach said!
And then Inner Brian Kelly and his Inner Players caper happily around the locker room.
Or, you know, something like that.
Thursday, November 1, 2018
The kids are all right
Well, goodness gracious. I guess Pinocchio's a real boy now.
Pinocchio being Wallace D. Loh, presumed president of the University of Maryland, who yesterday finally grew a spine, or a pair, or perhaps both. Twenty-four hours after Maryland's regents decided no one should be held responsible because its underachieving, deficit-operating football program sent a son back to his parents in a body bag, Loh finally did his job. He finally acted in the best interests of his university.
He fired football coach DJ Durkin, on whose watch Jordan McNair died of heatstroke, on whose watch the university's own investigation found the football program had been a toxic place rife with abuses.
Yet they unaccountably decided not to hold the head coach accountable for any of that. Or anyone else at the university accountable.
And Wallace Loh?
As university president he could have, and should have, fired Durkin on the spot. But he didn't, because the regents apparently threatened to fire him if he did. It was as stark an example of just where priorities lie in corporate college athletics today: The needs, and the business, of big-time college football and basketball supersede everything else.
And so: Sure, we'll keep our football coach, even though he's 10-15 in two seasons and hasn't appreciably put our sinkhole of a program in the black. We'll declare the university responsible for Jordan McNair's death without holding anyone actually responsible. But you, on the other hand, Mr. President ...
YOU are expendable.
What a sad commentary that is on the values of the University of Maryland. Or lack of same.
Know what isn't a sad commentary?
That some of Jordan McNair's teammates, and the leaders of the student body, stood up and said, "Oh, HELL, no."
Talk about the young teaching the old something about priorities.
And so, faced with an imminent player revolt -- and with the dubious prospect of Durkin going into parents' living rooms and selling their children on playing football for him -- the presumed president of the university finally stood up on his hind legs. He gets no points for doing this, because, like the regents' initial addle-pated decision, this was about money, too. You can't have your cash cow football program without players, after all. And what parent in their right mind would send their football-playing child to Maryland, after what happened Tuesday?
No, if what the regents did was about money and expediency, so, too, is what Loh did yesterday. His university was getting killed in the media from every angle -- Sally Jenkins of the Washington Post was especially brutal here -- but, ultimately, it was the players and the students who showed Loh the true path. It was the players and the students who taught the university president what the university over which he presided was supposed to be.
How much better for Maryland, how much less damaging, if they hadn't had to do that? How much better for his school if Loh had met the regents' reported threat by saying, "Fine, fire me, but this guy's gone. I was hired to do what's best for the university. So I'm going to do what's best for the university, and I really don't care about anything else. So have at it, boys."
In so many words, the players and student leaders said just that.
They're the heroes here. No one else.
Pinocchio being Wallace D. Loh, presumed president of the University of Maryland, who yesterday finally grew a spine, or a pair, or perhaps both. Twenty-four hours after Maryland's regents decided no one should be held responsible because its underachieving, deficit-operating football program sent a son back to his parents in a body bag, Loh finally did his job. He finally acted in the best interests of his university.
He fired football coach DJ Durkin, on whose watch Jordan McNair died of heatstroke, on whose watch the university's own investigation found the football program had been a toxic place rife with abuses.
Yet they unaccountably decided not to hold the head coach accountable for any of that. Or anyone else at the university accountable.
And Wallace Loh?
As university president he could have, and should have, fired Durkin on the spot. But he didn't, because the regents apparently threatened to fire him if he did. It was as stark an example of just where priorities lie in corporate college athletics today: The needs, and the business, of big-time college football and basketball supersede everything else.
And so: Sure, we'll keep our football coach, even though he's 10-15 in two seasons and hasn't appreciably put our sinkhole of a program in the black. We'll declare the university responsible for Jordan McNair's death without holding anyone actually responsible. But you, on the other hand, Mr. President ...
YOU are expendable.
What a sad commentary that is on the values of the University of Maryland. Or lack of same.
Know what isn't a sad commentary?
That some of Jordan McNair's teammates, and the leaders of the student body, stood up and said, "Oh, HELL, no."
Talk about the young teaching the old something about priorities.
And so, faced with an imminent player revolt -- and with the dubious prospect of Durkin going into parents' living rooms and selling their children on playing football for him -- the presumed president of the university finally stood up on his hind legs. He gets no points for doing this, because, like the regents' initial addle-pated decision, this was about money, too. You can't have your cash cow football program without players, after all. And what parent in their right mind would send their football-playing child to Maryland, after what happened Tuesday?
No, if what the regents did was about money and expediency, so, too, is what Loh did yesterday. His university was getting killed in the media from every angle -- Sally Jenkins of the Washington Post was especially brutal here -- but, ultimately, it was the players and the students who showed Loh the true path. It was the players and the students who taught the university president what the university over which he presided was supposed to be.
How much better for Maryland, how much less damaging, if they hadn't had to do that? How much better for his school if Loh had met the regents' reported threat by saying, "Fine, fire me, but this guy's gone. I was hired to do what's best for the university. So I'm going to do what's best for the university, and I really don't care about anything else. So have at it, boys."
In so many words, the players and student leaders said just that.
They're the heroes here. No one else.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)