It's a March afternoon at Rainbow Beach. Trees are still leafless and lifeless, the grass is worn and patchy, the sky a dreary gray. A cold wind blows from the lake and scatters leftover trash. The beach is deserted, save for a few seagulls and the languid surf that laps at the shore.
There is nothing here to suggest what the future will bring: dozens of children running for the sand, the smoky aroma of barbecue, perhaps a softball game or two.
But the gloomy picture is broken up by the bounce. The steady bounce.
The steady, rhythmic bounce of a basketball on the asphalt. The clank of the rim as a shot goes awry and every once in a while, the soft swish of the worn nets as the roundball drops through the hoop.
Amidst a forlorn urban landscape, there is beauty, some small piece of paradise.
There is beauty in this blacktop.
America's pastime
Sports is a business. We all know it. I talked about how I accepted that fact long ago in my last post. Professional sports is an economically-driven vehicle where the primary focus is making money for someone. Not the entertainment, but the money.
Even so, all these sports we watch on television are games at heart. The Olympics were born from a simple footrace. Soccer was birthed in the mountains of South America. Baseball started in open fields and became famous in the alleyways of New York.
All those sports have their own special qualities. Every sport is born from the idea of human sacrifice and exertion, the idea that something has to be given up for something to be gained. Every sport says, "you must push yourself to win, to gain victory."
But no sport is more resonant with the human condition today than basketball. Especially for Americans.
Wordless poetry
In 1891, Dr. James Naismith hung a pair of peach baskets at opposite ends of a YMCA gymnasium in Connecticut, and basketball was born. About the same time, Scott Joplin's ragtime music was moving across the country, paving the way for the earliest forms of jazz.
Unlike the more traditional forms of music, where melody was even and rigid, jazz broke the norm. Time was out of sync to the casual listener and melodies were short riffs that could be thrown from instrument to instrument. Ragtime and jazz were an affront to American traditional society that was used to classical, folk and other "sit back and relax" forms of music.
Basketball, while it started slowly, took the same route. The game was played much the same way until 1954, when the shot clock was introduced to the NBA. Soon, basketball evolved from teams sitting on the ball for an entire half to a fast-paced, wildly rhythmic game that took fans from their chairs at home to their feet in the stands.
It stands to reason that just as jazz is recognized as the only truly American musical style, basketball is the only truly American sport. While you need a lot of equipment and space to play baseball (and, in a related way, classical music), basketball needs a ball, a hoop (or a milk crate) and two people who want to play. Basketball players and jazz musicians operate with a similar style: at once frenetic and languid, moving in abrupt starts and stops, improvising through planes that make sense to them and only to us once the end result is reached.
It's not enough to say these things. Basketball is a visual sport, and must be seen to be appreciated, just as jazz must be heard to be fully realized. For there are artists in both genres that we will never have the chance to appreciate in person ever again: Elgin Baylor, John Havlicek, Bill Russell, Earl Monroe. Kareem, Pete Maravich (the greatest pre-MJ player to wear #23), George Gervin. Magic and Bird, Hakeem Olajuwon, Michael Jordan. Compare them to Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Dexter Coleman, Thelonius Monk, Max Roach, Buddy Rich, Jaco Pastorius.
All these men crafted art without brushes, prose without words, poetry in pure motion.
The beautiful struggle
Baseball has long been called "America's pastime". But basketball is the child of Americans, from Indiana to New York, from Los Angeles to Boston, from Chicago to Phoenix. The cities, the suburbs, the towns, the rural pastures—it's hard to find a place without a basketball hoop in the driveway or on the garage.
Why does basketball resonate with us? Because that simple act of trying to put an 18-inch sphere through a 36-inch hoop is a great reminder of our own personal struggles. We have a small window of opportunity to aim for, and though there maybe obstacles in our path at any given time, usually the greatest force acting against us is ourselves. Just as we may shoot baskets for hours and miss many more than we take, often we miss more opportunities than we make good on.
But just as it's inifinitely satisfying when we do finally succeed in life, it's just as sweet as when we finally drain that jump shot. Those kids at Rainbow Beach know, even as the sky dims to black, the wind blows harder and the rain starts to fall.
There is beauty in this blacktop.
JS
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Flo Riding to Daytona
Today's post comes from LaVeda Peterlin, a veteran of Chicago's WGN Radio and one of the best bowlers to come out of the South Side of Chicago. Since last year, LaVeda's been traveling the country in an RV, from Tennessee to North Carolina. This week finds her at Daytona International Speedway for NASCAR's opening weekend. Check out her blog here: http://ljpeterlin.wordpress.com/
This week I spent living in my RV on the infield at Daytona. It has been a lot of fun, and you can feel the anticipation building for the upcoming big race weekend. Being on the infield has been a great experience; the first time I stood by the railing and watched the cars go by at speeds of more than 200 mph was exhilarating. On the infield there are mostly half million dollar, bus-type RVs, decked out with all the amenities, many of them with elaborate platforms built on the rooftops. There are also converted school buses and smaller RVs, but with the high price of admission, there are few, if any, eye sores. One thing for sure: Nascar fans are passionate about their drivers and showing their support.
Since Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Jeff Gordon are now on the same team, there is less animosity among the fans than years ago, when there were two distinct camps. Now it is fine to like the both of them and root against Jimmie Johnson since he has been the big winner recently. Since Dale Jr. has joined the same team as Jeff Gordon, he has not been as successful as he’d like; in fact, he has not won a race in the past two seasons. More than 90 races have been run without Junior visiting the winner’s circle. Jeff Gordon has been in more than 60 races without a win of his own.
Today is the 10th anniversary of Dale Earnhardt Sr.’s passing, and many fans have tributes displayed on their RVs. Dale’s untimely death occurred on this very track, and no matter which driver is your favorite, the iconic stature of Dale Earnhardt cannot be ignored. NASCAR will have a tribute during the Daytona 500 on Sunday, when there will be silence during the entire third lap in memory of the man who drove the famous black No. 3 car.
The week has not been without controversy as everyone sees Dale Jr as the favored son, and wants him to win in honor of his beloved father. He pulled the pole for the Budweiser Shootout and then won the pole for the 500. There has been some speculation that Nascar is helping him as much as possible. With speeds over 206 mph, he is finding the newly paved Daytona Speedway to be to his liking. The drivers are pairing up and drafting to clock over 200 mph, which has Nascar concerned with safety once again.
Since Dale Sr.’s death, safety has been improved dramatically, and although it is exciting to see drivers top the 200 mph mark, it would be tragic if high speeds caused another needless death of a driver.
The fans are here to have a good time and it is obvious they enjoy seeing the speed of the cars, but not at the risk of losing another life. This should be a sport to watch, and not a matter of life and death.
This week I spent living in my RV on the infield at Daytona. It has been a lot of fun, and you can feel the anticipation building for the upcoming big race weekend. Being on the infield has been a great experience; the first time I stood by the railing and watched the cars go by at speeds of more than 200 mph was exhilarating. On the infield there are mostly half million dollar, bus-type RVs, decked out with all the amenities, many of them with elaborate platforms built on the rooftops. There are also converted school buses and smaller RVs, but with the high price of admission, there are few, if any, eye sores. One thing for sure: Nascar fans are passionate about their drivers and showing their support.
Since Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Jeff Gordon are now on the same team, there is less animosity among the fans than years ago, when there were two distinct camps. Now it is fine to like the both of them and root against Jimmie Johnson since he has been the big winner recently. Since Dale Jr. has joined the same team as Jeff Gordon, he has not been as successful as he’d like; in fact, he has not won a race in the past two seasons. More than 90 races have been run without Junior visiting the winner’s circle. Jeff Gordon has been in more than 60 races without a win of his own.
Today is the 10th anniversary of Dale Earnhardt Sr.’s passing, and many fans have tributes displayed on their RVs. Dale’s untimely death occurred on this very track, and no matter which driver is your favorite, the iconic stature of Dale Earnhardt cannot be ignored. NASCAR will have a tribute during the Daytona 500 on Sunday, when there will be silence during the entire third lap in memory of the man who drove the famous black No. 3 car.
The week has not been without controversy as everyone sees Dale Jr as the favored son, and wants him to win in honor of his beloved father. He pulled the pole for the Budweiser Shootout and then won the pole for the 500. There has been some speculation that Nascar is helping him as much as possible. With speeds over 206 mph, he is finding the newly paved Daytona Speedway to be to his liking. The drivers are pairing up and drafting to clock over 200 mph, which has Nascar concerned with safety once again.
Since Dale Sr.’s death, safety has been improved dramatically, and although it is exciting to see drivers top the 200 mph mark, it would be tragic if high speeds caused another needless death of a driver.
The fans are here to have a good time and it is obvious they enjoy seeing the speed of the cars, but not at the risk of losing another life. This should be a sport to watch, and not a matter of life and death.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Albert Pujols and the Moment of Clarity
They've done it before, they did it tonight and they'll do it again and when they do it, it seems only children weep. — To Kill a Mockingbird
It was one of the worst days of my life.
It was early on a Saturday morning when my mom woke me up for a news story. Usually any local news would bounce off my 15-year-old teenage bubble, but this one froze me.
The Chicago White Sox were selling the naming rights of their stadium. As of that season, there would be no more Comiskey Park.
I'd seen my mother sobbing at my grandmother's funeral and been to memorial service for a high school friend's brother. So why did this have me repeating the words, "They can't do that"?
Glory days
Being a young sports fan was like having spring training last 10 years. As soon as I could read, I was searching for White Sox books. When my fingers were deft enough to hold the newspaper without dropping pages, I was flipping to the sports section, checking scores and reading columns. I could recite statistics off the top of my head and knew exactly what happened in last night's game.
We didn't have cable so I listened to the radio, drinking in the sounds of the game from John Rooney and Ed Farmer. I read the Sun-Times every day, game or no game, and like any good Sox fan, I grew to hate Jay Mariotti and the Tribune for favoring the Cubs.
I treasured those few games I could get to in a summer, pleading with my mom to spend the 14 bucks on a Kids Day game or half-price tickets on Mondays. Usually, she relented with two conditions: she would never sit in the upper deck and she read a book during the game.
The Sox had a middle-of-the-road team in a stadium that everybody hated in a neighborhood no one wanted to be in after dark. But I loved them. I loved James Baldwin and Mike Caruso as much as Frank Thomas and Magglio Ordonez.
It was a charmed life.
Comiskey Park was a part of that life, as much a part of me as the White Sox. I passed the park on the Red Line in the winter months, staring at the scoreboard and counting the days until April. I watched the pinwheels spin during night games after home runs and the occasional Sox victory. I remember the old black-and-white scoreboard signs that would play after plays ("Send it flyin' to the Ryan" was my favorite) and Nancy Faust playing "Na-na-na-na" on the organ when the opposing pitcher was taken out.
That was Comiskey Park. That Saturday in 2003, those memories were swept away for $68 million dollars and a cell phone company.
End of innocence
There's a point in every fan's life when the fun of the game is replaced with reality. These days, it's when the franchise player leaves town for a better offer, your favorite player brushes aside an autograph request or when the owner makes stupid moves with no regard to the fan base (I'm looking at you, Dan Snyder).
You could see it in the faces of every Cavs fan this summer, young and old alike, as LeBron said those damning words and left Cleveland behind.
The point where the "game" becomes a "business". The moment of clarity, if you will.
It's funny to say that, because sports, especially baseball, has been a business almost since they became professionalized. But when you're young, you don't know any better. There's your team, the good guys versus everyone else. Anyone in a uniform is a little bit larger than life.
Then reality comes crashing in. All the colors become real.
And the only ones who get hurt are the kids.
Ghost of the hometown hero
Today is the deadline for Albert Pujols to sign a contract with the St. Louis Cardinals. Pujols and the Cards set this date out of respect to Stan Musial, who is receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom in Washington.
Pujols has often been compared to Musial, with fans going so far as to nickname the slugger "El Hombre" in reference to Musial's moniker of "The Man". While Pujols doesn't care for the nickname (he believes it's disrespectful to Musial), he has to realize one thing: he is the man in St. Louis now.
Musial played in a generation where players played their entire careers for one team, and those careers often last 20-plus years. Ted Williams did it. Joe DiMaggio did it. Harmon Killebrew did it. And the fans loved them.
Now, the culture seems to be "get yours and get out while you still can". No one sticks around a team longer than a few years, and they jump as soon as they get a better offer from somewhere else. The only baseball player in the last 15 years who might finish where he started is Derek Jeter, and the Yankees even tried to lowball him out of town.
Albert Pujols is more than just a franchise player. To many a young baseball fan in St. Louis, he's larger than life. There are kids who will imitate his swing, wear his number 5 as they grow up, and try to play first base like him. They'll draw pictures of Albert in the margins of notebooks and daydream about watching him swat home runs.
In an age where there are no more hometown heroes, Albert Pujols and the Cardinals must reach an agreement and have their cornerstone in St. Louis his whole career. Pujols is the Cardinals, and that's worth more than any contract.
There's plenty of 12-year-olds Cardinal fans who still have a love of the game. Let's not enlighten them to the reality of the business just yet.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
It was one of the worst days of my life.
It was early on a Saturday morning when my mom woke me up for a news story. Usually any local news would bounce off my 15-year-old teenage bubble, but this one froze me.
The Chicago White Sox were selling the naming rights of their stadium. As of that season, there would be no more Comiskey Park.
I'd seen my mother sobbing at my grandmother's funeral and been to memorial service for a high school friend's brother. So why did this have me repeating the words, "They can't do that"?
Glory days
Being a young sports fan was like having spring training last 10 years. As soon as I could read, I was searching for White Sox books. When my fingers were deft enough to hold the newspaper without dropping pages, I was flipping to the sports section, checking scores and reading columns. I could recite statistics off the top of my head and knew exactly what happened in last night's game.
We didn't have cable so I listened to the radio, drinking in the sounds of the game from John Rooney and Ed Farmer. I read the Sun-Times every day, game or no game, and like any good Sox fan, I grew to hate Jay Mariotti and the Tribune for favoring the Cubs.
I treasured those few games I could get to in a summer, pleading with my mom to spend the 14 bucks on a Kids Day game or half-price tickets on Mondays. Usually, she relented with two conditions: she would never sit in the upper deck and she read a book during the game.
The Sox had a middle-of-the-road team in a stadium that everybody hated in a neighborhood no one wanted to be in after dark. But I loved them. I loved James Baldwin and Mike Caruso as much as Frank Thomas and Magglio Ordonez.
It was a charmed life.
Comiskey Park was a part of that life, as much a part of me as the White Sox. I passed the park on the Red Line in the winter months, staring at the scoreboard and counting the days until April. I watched the pinwheels spin during night games after home runs and the occasional Sox victory. I remember the old black-and-white scoreboard signs that would play after plays ("Send it flyin' to the Ryan" was my favorite) and Nancy Faust playing "Na-na-na-na" on the organ when the opposing pitcher was taken out.
That was Comiskey Park. That Saturday in 2003, those memories were swept away for $68 million dollars and a cell phone company.
End of innocence
There's a point in every fan's life when the fun of the game is replaced with reality. These days, it's when the franchise player leaves town for a better offer, your favorite player brushes aside an autograph request or when the owner makes stupid moves with no regard to the fan base (I'm looking at you, Dan Snyder).
You could see it in the faces of every Cavs fan this summer, young and old alike, as LeBron said those damning words and left Cleveland behind.
The point where the "game" becomes a "business". The moment of clarity, if you will.
It's funny to say that, because sports, especially baseball, has been a business almost since they became professionalized. But when you're young, you don't know any better. There's your team, the good guys versus everyone else. Anyone in a uniform is a little bit larger than life.
Then reality comes crashing in. All the colors become real.
And the only ones who get hurt are the kids.
Ghost of the hometown hero
Today is the deadline for Albert Pujols to sign a contract with the St. Louis Cardinals. Pujols and the Cards set this date out of respect to Stan Musial, who is receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom in Washington.
Pujols has often been compared to Musial, with fans going so far as to nickname the slugger "El Hombre" in reference to Musial's moniker of "The Man". While Pujols doesn't care for the nickname (he believes it's disrespectful to Musial), he has to realize one thing: he is the man in St. Louis now.
Musial played in a generation where players played their entire careers for one team, and those careers often last 20-plus years. Ted Williams did it. Joe DiMaggio did it. Harmon Killebrew did it. And the fans loved them.
Now, the culture seems to be "get yours and get out while you still can". No one sticks around a team longer than a few years, and they jump as soon as they get a better offer from somewhere else. The only baseball player in the last 15 years who might finish where he started is Derek Jeter, and the Yankees even tried to lowball him out of town.
Albert Pujols is more than just a franchise player. To many a young baseball fan in St. Louis, he's larger than life. There are kids who will imitate his swing, wear his number 5 as they grow up, and try to play first base like him. They'll draw pictures of Albert in the margins of notebooks and daydream about watching him swat home runs.
In an age where there are no more hometown heroes, Albert Pujols and the Cardinals must reach an agreement and have their cornerstone in St. Louis his whole career. Pujols is the Cardinals, and that's worth more than any contract.
There's plenty of 12-year-olds Cardinal fans who still have a love of the game. Let's not enlighten them to the reality of the business just yet.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Dangers of Booze(r)
Ten years from now, if I said to you, "Remember when that NBA star left Cleveland without telling the front office and the affronted owner wrote a letter to the fans about him?", you'd say I was talking about LeBron James, without question. No problem with that; the "summer of 'The Decision'" was one of the craziest months pro basketball has ever seen.
But if you said I was talking about King James, you'd be wrong.
Turns about six years earlier, another established Cavs star took a fast powder out the back door of Cleveland and failed to mention to the owner or GM that he was leaving.
Ladies, gentlemen, let me tell you a little story about Carlos Boozer.
The first letter
After cementing his status as the best basketball player to come out of Alaska since Sarah Palin, young Carlos Boozer chose to head south and play for Coach K and Duke University. Whether this choice set the stage for future controversial events, we can only speculate. We can say with certainty, however, that Duke players are notoriously soft and have a "punk" quality about them. (Not really, although Duke would produce Jay Williams, Luol Deng and J.J. Redick.)
After two years at Duke and a national championship, Boozer set his sights on the NBA. The Cleveland Cavaliers ended up taking him and he immediately produced in his first two seasons, the second alongside rookie LeBron James. With his rookie contract up, the Cavs offered a contract to young Booz: $39 mil over six years.
The Utah Jazz offered a six-year contract as well, but for $70 mil.
The Cavs could not match those numbers with their salary cap, and Boozer signed with Utah. Here's where things get sketchy.
The Cavaliers came out and said they had a "handshake agreement" with Carlos about his contract status, which he then broke by signing with Utah. Boozer, in turn, said there was no such agreement, that "he's not a guy who gives his word then takes it away."
That's where the letter comes in. In an eerie parallel to the LeBron situation six years later, then-owner Gordon Gund posted a letter on the Cavs' website, explaining the situation to the fans. Which side was right was never fully uncovered. But Boozer's credibiltiy was never fully unsullied.
The second stop
It'd be easy to say C-Booz went to Utah and became their best power forward since Karl Malone. To some point, that was true. But as Deron Williams didn't come along until 2005, Booz and the Jazz wallowed in it for awhile, to the point that three months into the '05 season, Jazz fans were waiting for the return of Andrei Kirilenko to right the ship.
When AK-47 is your best player, you dream about a point guard. Every night.
Even after the Deron-to-Boozer pick-and-roll took off, there where questions. Late Jazz owner Larry Miller questioned his effort after he was injured in his first season with Utah, and he ended up missing 135 games in six years.
As if that weren't enough, Booz suffered from the athlete's most feared affliction, worse than an ACL tear or a high-ankle sprain: foot-in-mouth disease.
During the 2008-09 season, he publicly said he was going to opt out of his contract and dip out of Utah (which didn't happen), which Miller called "one of the top 10 stupidest things he'd heard an NBA player say in 24 years." Then in the offseason, he went on Chicago and Miami radio stations and basically said he wouldn't be in Utah after 2009.
And he was right. The rest is history, or present if you want to think of it as such: the Bulls cleared cap space, missed out on Bosh and LeBron, but landed C-Booz.
The third man
Since coming back from a broken right pinky finger, Booz has done a great job in Chicago, at least according to the numbers. He's averaging a double-double and finally has given the Bulls the low-post scorer they've never had. He's given Derrick Rose some protection as well, and provides veteran leadership.
Yet, the potential problems bubble just under the surface. I watched a Bulls-Bucks game a few weeks ago where Ersan Ilyasova—I'll say again: Ersan Ilyasova—made Carlos look absolutely silly on defense. Jumping at shot fakes, getting lost in the lane, that sort of thing.
That has been an ongoing problem of the season, and something the Bulls knew about, but on a Tom Thibodeau team, defense is going to be a priority.
The hand injury did nothing to assuage Bulls fans about Boozer's durability. In fact, it's almost a parallel to how his Utah career began.
Finally, when Derrick Rose was asked if Joakim Noah or Boozer talked more on the court, Rose answered "Boozer" without hesitation. Hopefully, that doesn't extend to the media. We already ready know it extends to the hip-hop world.
(Editor's note: If Booz is going to drop a verse on a Twista track during the season, can it at least be good?)
On a team with the budding superstar (Rose) and the soul of the squad (Noah), Boozer is, in reality, the third guy. We've seen how well the Bulls are going now, and everyone's got their sights set on a championship run.
But just like with the booze, things that start so well can go south very quickly. Just ask Dan Gilbert.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
But if you said I was talking about King James, you'd be wrong.
Turns about six years earlier, another established Cavs star took a fast powder out the back door of Cleveland and failed to mention to the owner or GM that he was leaving.
Ladies, gentlemen, let me tell you a little story about Carlos Boozer.
The first letter
After cementing his status as the best basketball player to come out of Alaska since Sarah Palin, young Carlos Boozer chose to head south and play for Coach K and Duke University. Whether this choice set the stage for future controversial events, we can only speculate. We can say with certainty, however, that Duke players are notoriously soft and have a "punk" quality about them. (Not really, although Duke would produce Jay Williams, Luol Deng and J.J. Redick.)
After two years at Duke and a national championship, Boozer set his sights on the NBA. The Cleveland Cavaliers ended up taking him and he immediately produced in his first two seasons, the second alongside rookie LeBron James. With his rookie contract up, the Cavs offered a contract to young Booz: $39 mil over six years.
The Utah Jazz offered a six-year contract as well, but for $70 mil.
The Cavs could not match those numbers with their salary cap, and Boozer signed with Utah. Here's where things get sketchy.
The Cavaliers came out and said they had a "handshake agreement" with Carlos about his contract status, which he then broke by signing with Utah. Boozer, in turn, said there was no such agreement, that "he's not a guy who gives his word then takes it away."
That's where the letter comes in. In an eerie parallel to the LeBron situation six years later, then-owner Gordon Gund posted a letter on the Cavs' website, explaining the situation to the fans. Which side was right was never fully uncovered. But Boozer's credibiltiy was never fully unsullied.
The second stop
It'd be easy to say C-Booz went to Utah and became their best power forward since Karl Malone. To some point, that was true. But as Deron Williams didn't come along until 2005, Booz and the Jazz wallowed in it for awhile, to the point that three months into the '05 season, Jazz fans were waiting for the return of Andrei Kirilenko to right the ship.
When AK-47 is your best player, you dream about a point guard. Every night.
Even after the Deron-to-Boozer pick-and-roll took off, there where questions. Late Jazz owner Larry Miller questioned his effort after he was injured in his first season with Utah, and he ended up missing 135 games in six years.
As if that weren't enough, Booz suffered from the athlete's most feared affliction, worse than an ACL tear or a high-ankle sprain: foot-in-mouth disease.
During the 2008-09 season, he publicly said he was going to opt out of his contract and dip out of Utah (which didn't happen), which Miller called "one of the top 10 stupidest things he'd heard an NBA player say in 24 years." Then in the offseason, he went on Chicago and Miami radio stations and basically said he wouldn't be in Utah after 2009.
And he was right. The rest is history, or present if you want to think of it as such: the Bulls cleared cap space, missed out on Bosh and LeBron, but landed C-Booz.
The third man
Since coming back from a broken right pinky finger, Booz has done a great job in Chicago, at least according to the numbers. He's averaging a double-double and finally has given the Bulls the low-post scorer they've never had. He's given Derrick Rose some protection as well, and provides veteran leadership.
Yet, the potential problems bubble just under the surface. I watched a Bulls-Bucks game a few weeks ago where Ersan Ilyasova—I'll say again: Ersan Ilyasova—made Carlos look absolutely silly on defense. Jumping at shot fakes, getting lost in the lane, that sort of thing.
That has been an ongoing problem of the season, and something the Bulls knew about, but on a Tom Thibodeau team, defense is going to be a priority.
The hand injury did nothing to assuage Bulls fans about Boozer's durability. In fact, it's almost a parallel to how his Utah career began.
Finally, when Derrick Rose was asked if Joakim Noah or Boozer talked more on the court, Rose answered "Boozer" without hesitation. Hopefully, that doesn't extend to the media. We already ready know it extends to the hip-hop world.
(Editor's note: If Booz is going to drop a verse on a Twista track during the season, can it at least be good?)
On a team with the budding superstar (Rose) and the soul of the squad (Noah), Boozer is, in reality, the third guy. We've seen how well the Bulls are going now, and everyone's got their sights set on a championship run.
But just like with the booze, things that start so well can go south very quickly. Just ask Dan Gilbert.
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Not So Super This Time Around
Sacrilegious. Heretical. Unfathomable.
Those are a few of the big SAT words that would pop up on dictionary.com if you looked up "not watching the Super Bowl in this day and age".
That's fair to say, right? It's the most-watched and most-hyped sporting event in professional athletics. The Summer Olympics might get the same amount of viewers as the Super Bowl, but it'll take two weeks to do it. Millions of people watch a game that takes about two hours to play, not counting the halftime show (and we'll get to that later, trust me), the pre-game show, the post-game show, the post-post-game show, and the game show.
Wait, I'm thinking of Around the Horn, and that's not really a game show. Nevertheless, the Super Bowl has become an almost obscene spectacle of television: the hours of coverage and special segments leading up to the game, not too mention all the ones during the week before. It would probably been wall-to-wall SB news on ESPN if two things hadn't happened (as my roommate Clark pointed out):
1. LeBron scored 51 on the Magic, and;
2. Andy Pettitte retired.
Without those two events, we would have seen James Harrison getting poked with acupuncture needles an estimated six thousand times in the last ten days. Who really wants to see that?
With all this, it would be so easy to say I'm doing this for righteous reasons. The controversial situation in Egypt, the upcoming mayoral race in Chicago, preparing for a trombone quartet piece we have to play in seven days—all these are more important than the game. I truly wish I could say that's why I'm skipping the Super Bowl.
But it's none of those. As a matter of fact, I'm going over to Clark's parents' house tomorrow with a bunch of people from school, and I'm going to eat chili and drink soda, right in front of a 50-inch flat-screen TV showing the biggest game of the year.
Not watching a minute of it. Here's why.
1. *&%(*%)*(&^)*(^ the Packers.
People accuse me all the time of taking rivalries a bit too seriously. Usually, I scoff at them and call them nancies, punks or some other carefully thought-up snide nickname, but now I'm thinking they might be right. After all, I did watch or listen to every single playoff game the Cubs played in 2003, hoping they would lose. (The Bartman Game was one of the happiest moments of my life. No joke. I jumped around the room, watching Wrigley collapse.)
Still, it wouldn't be a rivalry without some craziness, right? Without dedicated fans and hard-nosed play, there's no real significance to it. So yes, even though I do enjoy watching Aaron Rodgers and Greg Jennings play (not Donald Driver. He's too connected to Brett Favre for me), I do not want to watch Green Bay play in the Super Bowl. Especially when they have a good chance of winning.
2. The complete lack of Bart Scott-related anything.
If you haven't already seen Sal Paolantonio's post-game interview with Bart Scott after the Jets beat the Patriots, do it now. Go right now and watch it.
Now tell me honestly: did you have that face where you're laughing, but you're a little scared at the same time? You're cracking up but your eyes are wide open, so you don't miss anything and you hope nothing bad happens? (Imagine the people in the club when Michael Richards started yelling at the dude in the balcony, right before he said the n-word.)
That's how I felt during this interview. Just to be safe, I watched a couple more Bart Scott interviews and clips, like this one. Pretty tame, but there is something just under the surface, something that you can only have with NFL players, Sarah Palin and Ron Artest.
Bart Scott is crazy. Controlled crazy, but crazy.
How can you not like a guy like that? You might not want to ever see him on the street at night, but man, he's fun to watch. Imagine all the Bart Scott interviews, SI pieces, radio discussions and exposes that we weren't treated to this past week.
All we've got is that 60 seconds of Sal Paolantonio with a bemused look on his face, hoping he'll make it back home. That's just not enough Bart Scott for me.
3. The Black Eyed Peas halftime show.
I missed Janet Jackson's left breast. Completely missed it. I got up to get a soda and check on the score pool we had going when I heard a shriek from behind me, and that was that. Biggest Super Bowl moment ever, slightly ahead of David Tyree's catch and Scott Norwood going wide right. And I missed it.
Ironically, I haven't missed all the performances since then, and they have been much worse than Janet's titty (say "Janet's titty" out loud and don't laugh, I dare you). Good artists, but come on: Tom Petty, Paul McCartney? Not for the Super Bowl.
So now, the NFL guys have decided the statute of limitations on popular musicians is up, so they give us the Black Eyed Peas.
Wait a second. The Black Eyed Peas haven't had a good song out since 2004. It's almost like Roger Goodell doesn't even listen to the radio! (Speaking of which, can you imagine Roger Goodell in a black SUV, rolling through Chicago listening to WGCI? I can.) My roommate Ice Berg has a minor stroke every time the commercial previewing the halftime show comes on, and I can finally say I agree with him.
Honestly, I'd rather watch the kids from Glee do their thing.
And finally, the top reason I'm not watching the Super Bowl (shut up, I know it's #4 and not #1)....
4. Ben Roethlisberger's a rapist! He raped people! Multiple people!
There's a great moment from the WWF back in 2001. The Rock has just done a hilarious bit for about five minutes about how he's going to beat Chris Jericho at the Royal Rumble and all these guys want to face him at Wrestlemania, when Jericho comes out onto the entrance ramp.
So naturally, the Rock hates on him and then goes into his "if you smellllllll..." routine when Jericho just screams, "No! This is not a joke! I am not a joke! I am serious! And you will not look past me!"
Stops Dwayne cold. Stops the whole crowd, as a matter of fact. The announcers, everyone. And even though you knew it was all make-believe, it was a really tense moment. (Here's the clip if you actually want to see it. It's at 3:20.)
What's this have to do with Ben Roethlisberger?
Well, Big Ben is like the Rock: he's looking forward to the Super Bowl, a possible third chip and a cementing of his legacy as one of the great quarterbacks of the modern era.
Chris Jericho, on the other hand, are those rape charges: extremely important, but seemingly forgotten in the heat of the moment.
Listen, I supported Michael Vick all the way through his ordeal, when kids at Bradley left and right were basically saying he should be drawn, quartered and hung in the village square. I stuck with him. But that was dogfighting. This was rape. And as Dane Cook has taught us, rape is not a word you can just throw around.
Suspending Big Ben for four games at the beginning of the season is not enough, not guilty verdict aside. All previous jokes aside, I do find a problem watching an unconvicted rapist throw passes to one of my least favorite NFL receivers, Heath Miller.
(What, you thought it would be Hines Ward? Come on, too easy. And besides, how cool is it to have Hines Ward play at Heinz Field? They should just change the name as soon as he retires.)
So that's why I'm "skipping" the Super Bowl this year. Aside from being super salty that the Bears didn't make it, there's probably a Bulls game on that night that will be way more fun.
If there isn't one, I'll just watch an old one online. Anything to avoid "Fergie Does Dallas."
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
Those are a few of the big SAT words that would pop up on dictionary.com if you looked up "not watching the Super Bowl in this day and age".
That's fair to say, right? It's the most-watched and most-hyped sporting event in professional athletics. The Summer Olympics might get the same amount of viewers as the Super Bowl, but it'll take two weeks to do it. Millions of people watch a game that takes about two hours to play, not counting the halftime show (and we'll get to that later, trust me), the pre-game show, the post-game show, the post-post-game show, and the game show.
Wait, I'm thinking of Around the Horn, and that's not really a game show. Nevertheless, the Super Bowl has become an almost obscene spectacle of television: the hours of coverage and special segments leading up to the game, not too mention all the ones during the week before. It would probably been wall-to-wall SB news on ESPN if two things hadn't happened (as my roommate Clark pointed out):
1. LeBron scored 51 on the Magic, and;
2. Andy Pettitte retired.
Without those two events, we would have seen James Harrison getting poked with acupuncture needles an estimated six thousand times in the last ten days. Who really wants to see that?
With all this, it would be so easy to say I'm doing this for righteous reasons. The controversial situation in Egypt, the upcoming mayoral race in Chicago, preparing for a trombone quartet piece we have to play in seven days—all these are more important than the game. I truly wish I could say that's why I'm skipping the Super Bowl.
But it's none of those. As a matter of fact, I'm going over to Clark's parents' house tomorrow with a bunch of people from school, and I'm going to eat chili and drink soda, right in front of a 50-inch flat-screen TV showing the biggest game of the year.
Not watching a minute of it. Here's why.
1. *&%(*%)*(&^)*(^ the Packers.
People accuse me all the time of taking rivalries a bit too seriously. Usually, I scoff at them and call them nancies, punks or some other carefully thought-up snide nickname, but now I'm thinking they might be right. After all, I did watch or listen to every single playoff game the Cubs played in 2003, hoping they would lose. (The Bartman Game was one of the happiest moments of my life. No joke. I jumped around the room, watching Wrigley collapse.)
Still, it wouldn't be a rivalry without some craziness, right? Without dedicated fans and hard-nosed play, there's no real significance to it. So yes, even though I do enjoy watching Aaron Rodgers and Greg Jennings play (not Donald Driver. He's too connected to Brett Favre for me), I do not want to watch Green Bay play in the Super Bowl. Especially when they have a good chance of winning.
2. The complete lack of Bart Scott-related anything.
If you haven't already seen Sal Paolantonio's post-game interview with Bart Scott after the Jets beat the Patriots, do it now. Go right now and watch it.
Now tell me honestly: did you have that face where you're laughing, but you're a little scared at the same time? You're cracking up but your eyes are wide open, so you don't miss anything and you hope nothing bad happens? (Imagine the people in the club when Michael Richards started yelling at the dude in the balcony, right before he said the n-word.)
That's how I felt during this interview. Just to be safe, I watched a couple more Bart Scott interviews and clips, like this one. Pretty tame, but there is something just under the surface, something that you can only have with NFL players, Sarah Palin and Ron Artest.
Bart Scott is crazy. Controlled crazy, but crazy.
How can you not like a guy like that? You might not want to ever see him on the street at night, but man, he's fun to watch. Imagine all the Bart Scott interviews, SI pieces, radio discussions and exposes that we weren't treated to this past week.
All we've got is that 60 seconds of Sal Paolantonio with a bemused look on his face, hoping he'll make it back home. That's just not enough Bart Scott for me.
3. The Black Eyed Peas halftime show.
I missed Janet Jackson's left breast. Completely missed it. I got up to get a soda and check on the score pool we had going when I heard a shriek from behind me, and that was that. Biggest Super Bowl moment ever, slightly ahead of David Tyree's catch and Scott Norwood going wide right. And I missed it.
Ironically, I haven't missed all the performances since then, and they have been much worse than Janet's titty (say "Janet's titty" out loud and don't laugh, I dare you). Good artists, but come on: Tom Petty, Paul McCartney? Not for the Super Bowl.
So now, the NFL guys have decided the statute of limitations on popular musicians is up, so they give us the Black Eyed Peas.
Wait a second. The Black Eyed Peas haven't had a good song out since 2004. It's almost like Roger Goodell doesn't even listen to the radio! (Speaking of which, can you imagine Roger Goodell in a black SUV, rolling through Chicago listening to WGCI? I can.) My roommate Ice Berg has a minor stroke every time the commercial previewing the halftime show comes on, and I can finally say I agree with him.
Honestly, I'd rather watch the kids from Glee do their thing.
And finally, the top reason I'm not watching the Super Bowl (shut up, I know it's #4 and not #1)....
4. Ben Roethlisberger's a rapist! He raped people! Multiple people!
There's a great moment from the WWF back in 2001. The Rock has just done a hilarious bit for about five minutes about how he's going to beat Chris Jericho at the Royal Rumble and all these guys want to face him at Wrestlemania, when Jericho comes out onto the entrance ramp.
So naturally, the Rock hates on him and then goes into his "if you smellllllll..." routine when Jericho just screams, "No! This is not a joke! I am not a joke! I am serious! And you will not look past me!"
Stops Dwayne cold. Stops the whole crowd, as a matter of fact. The announcers, everyone. And even though you knew it was all make-believe, it was a really tense moment. (Here's the clip if you actually want to see it. It's at 3:20.)
What's this have to do with Ben Roethlisberger?
Well, Big Ben is like the Rock: he's looking forward to the Super Bowl, a possible third chip and a cementing of his legacy as one of the great quarterbacks of the modern era.
Chris Jericho, on the other hand, are those rape charges: extremely important, but seemingly forgotten in the heat of the moment.
Listen, I supported Michael Vick all the way through his ordeal, when kids at Bradley left and right were basically saying he should be drawn, quartered and hung in the village square. I stuck with him. But that was dogfighting. This was rape. And as Dane Cook has taught us, rape is not a word you can just throw around.
Suspending Big Ben for four games at the beginning of the season is not enough, not guilty verdict aside. All previous jokes aside, I do find a problem watching an unconvicted rapist throw passes to one of my least favorite NFL receivers, Heath Miller.
(What, you thought it would be Hines Ward? Come on, too easy. And besides, how cool is it to have Hines Ward play at Heinz Field? They should just change the name as soon as he retires.)
So that's why I'm "skipping" the Super Bowl this year. Aside from being super salty that the Bears didn't make it, there's probably a Bulls game on that night that will be way more fun.
If there isn't one, I'll just watch an old one online. Anything to avoid "Fergie Does Dallas."
See you in the cheap seats.
JS
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