What's in a nickname

 Comes now the news that Caleb Williams, exciting young quarterback of your Chicago Bears, is looking to trademark the nickname "Iceman," and my inner Old Man Shouting At Clouds is wondering just who these whippersnappers think they are, consarn it. And also dagnabit.

This is because, long before Caleb Williams came squalling into this world, George Gervin had already laid claim to that nickname. He was the Iceman. Is. Always will be, no matter what Williams and the trademark boys decide to do.

Now, maybe Caleb and the rest of the whippersnappin' johnny-come-latelys don't know much about George Gervin, given that he did his thing 50-plus years ago. So perhaps a brief tutorial on the Iceman is required.

Back in the 1970s and '80s (yes, long, long ago), Gervin was a 6-foot-8 splinter of a man, all sharp angles and folding-chair pliability. He came to the Virginia Squires in 1972 out of Eastern Michigan University, then was traded to the San Antonio Spurs, where he spent 10 seasons and made his rep as a virtual scoring machine.

Utilizing the silky finger roll he made famous and silkier jumper, the Iceman played 14 seasons in the ABA and NBA, averaging at least 14 points in every one. He finished his run with 26,595 points (a 25.1 average), 5,602 rebounds and 2,798 assists, and more scoring titles than any guard in NBA history until Michael Jordan came along.

Inducted into both the college and professional basketball Halls of Fame, Gervin was voted one of the top 50 players in NBA history in 1996, and one of the top 75 in 2021.

That's who the Iceman is.

And Caleb Williams?

He led the Bears to the NFC Central title last season and showed enough flashes of brilliance -- who could forget that ridiculous touchdown pass to Cole Kmet against the Rams in the playoffs? -- to suggest he could develop into an all-time great. But he aint' the Iceman.

Sorry, kid. George Gervin bought that one with a million finger rolls, a million years ago. Try again.

Throwbacks

 Take a good long look at the team wearing black-and-gold today, because they are a snapshot from a different time. Sepia tones would suit them well.

And, no, not because Braden Smith has one of those glorious old-timey beards that suggests his name should be Graber or Yoder or something suitably Amish, or that he time-traveled forward from the halcyon days of 1882.

No, sirree. It's because Braden Smith and his beard are there at all.

Four years after coming to Purdue, see, he's still at Purdue, where a few games back he became the NCAA's all-time assists leader, shoving Bobby Hurley off that particular mountaintop. (A feat for which he should be knighted, by the by). He's still at Purdue, and Fletcher Loyer's still at Purdue, and so is Trey Kaufman-Renn.

They came in together four years ago, and now they're going out together as Matt Painter's latest senior class. No one in the rich history of Purdue basketball have played more games as Boilermakers than their combined 117 it eclipses the previous former record of 116, set just last year by their former teammate, Caleb Furst.

What that tells you about Painter's program is it's a dinosaur, but a damn majestic one. It's a throwback to the days when a recruit came to a school and stuck around and grew into a fully formed adult, which is half of what four years in college is supposed to do for you. s. And the faithful who came and filled the home barn with their sound on game days got to watch that process happen right before their eyes.

In other words, Purdue basketball under Painter -- and before him, Gene Keady -- is a culture, not a bus stop. Which is both wonderfully refreshing and as quaint as milk in glass bottles, delivered to your doorstep at the crack of every dawn.

No more. Milk comes in cartons or plastic these days, and you get it at the local superstore. And NIL money and the unfettered transfer portal have transformed big-boy college sports into a vagabond hellscape in which "student-athletes" endlessly ride the rails in pursuit of a better deal.

Rosters routinely turn over completely, or nearly so, from year to year now. Group of 5 schools become de facto farm teams for the Power 4s. And that mossy old saw about not being to tell the players without a scoreboard has become bedrock truth in places like ... oh, say, Bloomington, In.

Not so two hours to the north and west, where the old ways are largely still the way.

Oh, Painter has lost a player or two to the prevailing zeitgeist -- one of them, Cam Heide, played for the Texas team Purdue slipped past the other night -- and the day may come when even Purdue will not be able to keep the tide from coming in. But for now ...

For now, the old-look Boilermakers are a college buckets heirloom, and today they play 1-seed Arizona for a spot in the Final Four for the second time in three seasons. The Wildcats, who more and more look like your impending national champs, are of course favored, led by Jayden Bradley, Brayden Burries and Koa Peat.

Bradley's a senior. But Burries and Peat are freshmen, and neither is expected to be back in Tucson next season. The NBA beckons.

Smith, Loyer and Kaufman-Renn, meanwhile, will be playing their 118th game for Purdue. They're the most decorated trio of Boilermaker seniors since Troy Lewis, Todd Mitchell and Everette Stephens, the fabled Three Amigos of four decades ago. 

Take a look today. Take a good, long look.

You may never see the like of it again.

Baseball!

 Got up this morning and the ground was white with frost, which is not the way Mom Nature is supposed to behave on the fourth full day of spring. Some folks just aren't raised right, I guess.

However.

However, the other day the mercury breached 75 degrees, and I went for a walk in shorts and a T-shirt, and reawakening was everywhere. People's lawns were greening up. Here and there were splashes of yellow -- sprays of daffodils; the first blooms of yawning forsythia. And the lilac bush outside our bedroom window was alive with fat green buds, thisclose to busting out.

So, yes, spring has sprung, despite this morning's uncouth misdirection play. And I know this because, as with every year in the life of an old sportswiter, it's not just the rhythms of  nature but the rhythm of our games that tell me so.

Which is an overwritten and purplish way of saying baseball's Opening Day is tomorrow.

The capitalization is intentional, especially for those of us who remember when it was an Event and not just an event, not just baseball's first act in a months-long slog. Back then the Reds had the honor of kicking things off in Cincinnati, where Opening Day was a great big coming-out-of-winter party that lured thousands of giddy Cincinnatians outdoors no matter what kind of weather early spring chose to serve up.

Sometimes it was warm. Sometimes it was not. And one time at least, if memory serves, Cincinnati woke up on Opening Day to a couple inches of snow, and there was a photo on the wires of pitcher Randy Jones of the San Diego Padres building a snowman in the visitors dugout.

I don't know if that will happen tomorrow in San Francisco, where the Giants and New York Yankees begin the MLB season with a stand-alone game. And I for sure don't know if it will happen Thursday in Cincinnati or the eleven other cities that will host Game 1 of 162.

What I do know is the seamheads have come out with their predictions for this season, and at least one of them -- baseball writer Bradford Doolittle of ESPN -- has my Pittsburgh Cruds ranked 22nd out of 30 MLB teams. He's predicting a .500 season (81-81) for the Cruds, which would be their first non-losing season in eight years. He's also predicting they have a 32 percent chance to make the playoffs and a one-percent chance to play in the World Series -- which ain't great but is a better than the zero-percent chance they've generally had since their last appearance 47 years ago.

Apparently this meager uptick in fortunes is due a pitching rotation led by Cy Young winner Paul Skenes, Bubba Chandler and Braxton Ashcraft. It's also due a 19-year-old wunderkind named Konnor Griffin, whom the seamheads swear is the greatest five-tool player they've seen come down the chute since, I don't know, the last greatest five-tool player to come down the chute.

And, yes, I can already hear all of you tuning up.

"Oh, great," you're saying now. "I suppose this means you're going to be posting even MORE Pittsburgh Pirates crap this year. Especially if the Pirates' braintrust doesn't turn Konnor Griffin into Peter Griffin, and Oneal Cruz stops kicking baseballs around like Lionel Messi, and everyone on the pitching staff manages to avoid elbow twinges and the like.

"Sooo much to look forward to."

Darn skippy there is. I mean, my Cruds and every other team in MLB -- even my wife Julie's beloved Boston Red Sox -- are undefeated so far. Which means 162-0 is STILL POSSIBLE.

Hope springs eternal, as they say. Even when spring itself is white with frost.

Children of the corn

 Repeat after me this morning, boys and girls, and remember the words well: 

Alvaro Folgueiras.

That's "A" as in "Alvaro," and "F" as in "Folgueiras". Also "H" as in "Holy crap are you KIDDING me?"

No. No, we are not, boys and girls.

That really was the correct score you saw pop up Sunday evening, and that really was a bunch of black-clad children of the corn hopping around like they'd just sacrificed another yokel to He Who Walks Behind The Rows (gratuitous Stephen King reference). That really was Iowa 73, Florida 72, and down goes one of the NCAA Tournament's 1-seeds -- and the defending national champions -- in the round of 32.

And all because of A-for-Alvaro, F-for-Folgueiras.

Who bottomed the go-ahead three out of the corner with 3.9 seconds to play last night, thus becoming -- for now, anyway -- the unlikely face of March Madness. A 6-10 reserve forward from Malaga, Spain, Folgueiras averaged 8.5 points, 3.8 rebounds and 2.3 assists this season for the 9-seed Hawkeyes, last seen finishing ninth in the Big Ten with an overall record of 23-12. They went 10-10 in conference play.

No matter. Last night they won thanks to Folgueiras, a 32.7 percent three-point shooter who played 18 minutes for the Hawkeyes, scoring 14 points. None, of course, were more seismic than that corner three, which bedded down neatly to leave the Gators, and presumably most of America, with their jaws agape.

It was climax of a day when three 4-seeds-or-better went down and several children of the corn had themselves a day. Iowa's cross-state rival Iowa State, a 2-seed,  smoked 7-seed Kentucky by 19, 82-63, the Wildcats' worst NCAA Tournament loss in 54 years. And then there were your Purdue Boilermakers, alma mater of popcorn mogul Orville Redenbacher and conqueror of 7-seed Miami (Fla.) by 10, 79-69.

The 2-seed Boilers won despite an uncharacteristically sloppy game from point guard Braden Smith, who scored 12 points and dished eight assists but also kicked it away eight times and missed nine of the 12 shots he put up. That left it up to the other two members of Purdue's grand senior trio, Trey Kaufman-Renn and Fletcher Loyer, to ride to the rescue.

Loyer, a sometimes streaky shooter, un-streaked for this one, scoring a career tournament high 24 points on 6-of-7 shooting including a perfect 4-for-4 from Threeville. Kaufman-Renn, meanwhile, added 19 points and nine rebounds on a day when Miami outboarded Purdue 33-25, including 14-4 on the offensive end.

Again, no matter. The Boilers are off once more to the Sweet Sixteen, their seventh trip there in the last nine seasons. This time around, there was an added, um, sweetener: Sunday's round-of-32 win, Purdue's seventh straight, was also head coach Matt Painter's 500th career win at his alma mater.

The Boilers next get 11-seed Texas, who knocked out 3-seed Gonzaga on Saturday. The Longhorns are significantly better than their seed, with savvy guards and a gifted big in Matas Vokietaitis, a 7-footer from Lithuania who went for 17 points, nine boards and two assists against the Zags. He'll give TKR and Oscar Cluff all they want down low.

As they say in the movies (or not): Onward.

Alma matters

 Two seconds on the clock and Eugene Parker at the stripe.

Let's begin there this morning, shall we?

Let's begin 53 years ago -- 53 years! Ye gods! -- on a March evening in Allen County War Memorial Coliseum, New Haven High School leading Concordia Lutheran High School by a skinny point. The wondrous Mr. Parker is getting ready to shoot a one-and-one for the Cadets. We're all wearing those goofy paper bowlers over in the New Haven section, because that's what you did during sectional week, and we're hissing "Miss it! Miss it!" at the wondrous Mr. Parker.

Well, OK. So not me.

Me, I'm shaking my head and saying (mostly to myself), "He's not gonna miss these."

And of course he didn't, being Eugene Parker and all.

And of course New Haven lost again, by a skinny point, 'cause it was sectional week, and losing's just what we did during sectional week.

Lost with my great senior class, Joe Vidra and Rick Rutledge and Tom Muth and them. Lost the year before -- again by a point -- in the sectional championship game, with all of the above plus 6-foot-5 Ken Ehinger, who kept getting fouled by Andy Replogle of Snider and THE OFFICIALS REFUSED TO CALL IT (Not that I'm bitter or anything). Lost with little Dave McHenry, and big Mike Sickafoose, and a whole pile of others across the years.

Wait, did I say years?

Decades. I meant decades.

Because, see, my alma mater never so much as won a sectional for the first seven decades of its existence. And it never won a regional. 

Wait, did I say "never won a regional"?

Had never won a regional. I meant "had never won a regional."

Because, see, I woke up last Sunday, and saw that my alma mater, the proud purple-and-gold, won a regional for the first time in New Haven's 103-year history. And then I woke up this morning, and saw that a kid named Tarvar Baskerville -- Tarvar Baskerville! Is that a great name, or what? -- made a driving layup with 2.9 seconds showing last night, and New Haven went on to win the Logansport 3A semistate, 59-55 over conference rival Columbia City.

Which means, of course, that New Haven is going to the state finals next week.

Give me a minute. I need to process what I just said.

New Haven ... is going ... to the state finals.

Whoa.

They're going with Baskerville, and also Daylen Jackson and DaMarcus Wright and Jadrian Ezell, and also Lavell Ledbetter. None of them are taller than 6-5, which figures. Six-five was about New Haven's limit, at least in our day.

Along with head coach Brandon Appleton, these Bulldogs will head down to Gainbridge Fieldhouse in Indy next weekend, and of course they'll be decided underdogs. Waiting will be third-ranked Indianapolis Cathedral, which knocked off No. 1 Silver Creek last night to win the southern semistate. 

Not that any of that matters, at this particular moment.

What matters is New Haven High School, the old alma mater, is going to the state finals. 

And so hand me a paper bowler. Dress me in gold and purple. Make me sing our school song, which IU stole from us, and round up Vic the Bulldog, and repeat the magic words, slowly:

New Haven ... is going ... to. the state finals.

Whoa.

Down goes David

 Begrudgingly, today, we begin with a basketball score: Tennessee 78, Miami (O.) 56.

And, yeah, yeah, yeah, yada-yada-yada, I can hear the slide-rule boys now. The RPI jockeys ... the Quad Squad ... the SOS (Strength of Schedule) Brigade ... they're all sneering, "See?"

Great. Here's a cookie. Now go away.

Don't want to hear anymore about the RedHawks getting washed by 22 in the NCAA Tournament yesterday, and not looking good doing it. A team that lived by the three died by the three, missing 22 of their 29 attempts from beyond the arc as Tennessee slammed the door on that locale. A MAC school with a MAC school inside game was Windexed by 17 rebounds, 42-25.

 A 6-seed SEC school that was bigger, faster and more athletic won laughing against an 11-seed. So what else is new?

The aforementioned sneer-ers who take that as vindication for their absurd contention that a 31-1 Mid-American Conference school did not belong in the Big Show can go fly a kite. Because Tennessee did what Tennessee was supposed to do. And if it proved Miami didn't belong what about, oh, say, Prairie View A&M?

Who lost to defending national champion Florida yesterday, 114-55.

Lost by four more points than it scored, in other words. Trailed 60-21 at halftime. Shot 27 percent (17-of-63), including 6-of-22 from beyond the arc.

In other words: Miami wasn't the only David who got ball-peened by Goliath yesterday.

It was not, shall we say, a day for busting brackets, which was a shame but also an excuse to check out every so often from wall-to-wall hoops. Tennessee and Florida rolled. 1-seed Arizona paved Long Island by 34 (92-58). Two seeds Purdue and Iowa State cremated Queens University and Tennessee State by 33 (104-71) and 34 (108-74), respectively.

(The Boilermakers, by the way, brushed aside the Royals with regal disdain, shooting 63 percent including 58 percent from the arc. Braden Smith scored 26 with eight assists and Trey Kaufman-Renn 25 to lead the Boilers; Smith and backcourt mate Fletcher Loyer combined for 38 points and were 8-of-14 from Threeville. The highlight of the night was Smith becoming the NCAA's all-time leader in assists, knocking that annoying little dweeb Bobby Hurley off the top of the ladder.)

What else?

Well, it was such a chalky sort of day we didn't even get a 12-over-5 scare.

Five-seed Texas Tech breezed past Akron, 91-71, and five-seed St. John's erased Northern Iowa, 79-53. Even the 7-vs.-10s went according to form, although 7-seed Kentucky needed Otega Oweh's buzzer-beating Hail Mary bank to force overtime and knock out Santa Clara, which had just taken the lead on Allen Graves's three with two-odd seconds to play.

That was your excitement for the day.

And the next two days?

Hey. That's why we watch, right?

Welcome to the Madness

 This is what you call in sick for, what you eat wings and drink beer at straight-up noon for, what you fill out a bracket for and then say, "Aw, hell, I knew the Tar Heels were a buncha mids this year. Why'd I pick 'em?"

Welcome to the Madness, boys and girls. Welcome to -- maybe, possibly -- the two best days of the year.

That would be the Thursday and Friday that kick off the NCAA Tournament, also known as the Burn Your Bracket Zone. This is because sometime on one of those days, and frequently on both, some trust-fund baby seed goes down to some wannabe from the sticks.

Usually, it's a 12-seed taking out a 5-seed. Because 12-over-5 has become one of those immutable March Madness laws of nature, like the Big Ten, SEC and ACC always getting eleventy-hundred teams in the show, even if occasionally some of them are Northwestern or Mississippi State.

At any rate, 12-over-5 is a tournament talisman, and, hey, guess what? We didn't go two hours until it happened yesterday.

Come on down, you High Point (N.C.) Panthers!

Who sent big-deal Wisconsin to the sidelines in the first slate of games, 83-82, a more-than-usual shocker mainly because Wisconsin came to March on something of a roll. Won five of their last six games, the Badgers did, finally losing to top-seeded (and NCAA Tournament 1-seed) Michigan by a measly three points.

But High Point, the proud champions of the Big South Conference, sent Wisky back to Madison on a late layup. Boom!

No other 12-over-5s happened on Thursday, but a couple of 11s-over-6s did, and that's almost as good. Texas took down BYU, and -- perhaps more notably -- plucky Virginia Commonwealth upset the aforementioned North Carolina Tar Heels. Came from 19 points down to win in overtime, 82-78, and hooray for the, um, Commonwealthers.

(No, that's not VCU's nickname. Its nickname is the Rams. Clip and save for your next round of sports bar trivia.)

Other than that ...

Wait, what?

Oh, man, I almost forgot!

How 'bout those mighty 16th-seeded Siena Saints, everyone?

Who, OK, wound up losing to overall top seed Duke, but only by six, 71-65. Before that, the fightin' Saints scared the pedigree out of the Blue Devils, leading by 11 at halftime and by 13 early in the second half. They continued to lead until just 4:25 remained, when Isaiah Evans drove hard to the iron and laid it in to finally put Duke in front.

Ah, well. On to today.

See ya at noon. Wings and beer on me.