Arthur and Jesse go to Madison Square Garden

New York Knicks vs. LA Clippers “Live Blog” from Madison Square Garden

Tip Off: 8 p.m.

Stats:

Jesse Hardman

Position: Professional hack (journalist and basketball aficionado)

Age-35  Weight-160(Currently on no-carb diet)  Hairline-solid

Words Per Minute: 60

Arthur Jones

Position: Illustrator, Designer, Knicks-hater…

Sign: Sagittarius

Starting Lineups

	Clippers		Knicks
PG	Davis	$12,100,000	Duhon	$6,031,800
SG	Gordon	$2,819,880	Chandler	$1,255,440
SF	Thornton	$1,900,200	Jeffries	$6,466,600
PF	Camby	$9,150,000	Harrington	$10,026,875
C	Kaman	$10,400,000	Lee	$7,000,000

1st QUARTER

Arthur: Okay here we go. I gotta say a game between the Knicks and the Clippers feels a little like attending a birthday party in the terminal ward.

Jesse:   A bunch of tall people are walking onto the court, and they seem to be focused on a round piece of leather. I wonder what this could all be about?

2-0 Clippers…Baron Davis(aka Boom Diddy) with the scoop…and by the looks of his gut, he went for two scoops at Baskin Robbins last night.

Arthur: It was nice to see the crowd give a little “ahhhh” to Marcus Camby…a nostalgic sigh. The Knicks fans are a loyal lot. There is a kid who looks about 12 sitting about in front of us still sporting a Stephon Marbury jersey. He looks like he just threw it on over his catholic school boy uniform. Someone needs to pelt him with a hard pretzel.

Jesse:  Chris Duhon for three, and it could go all the MISS…Apparently the offense the Knicks are running tonight strictly prohibits them from getting within twenty feet from the basket.

Arthur: David Lee on Chris Kamen… white on rice…know what I’m saying, white on rice

Jesse: Hey Arthur, did Kaman leave his club and sabbertooth tiger skin jersey in the cave tonight? He makes 10 million a year…what do you think you can spend that kind of money on in central Michigan where he’s from? Windmill replicas?

Arthur: He could buy central Michigan… all of it. I just heard his fingertips scrape the ball on the last shot. I’ve never been this close to a game before. Was your windmill reference a nod to Don Quixote?

Jesse:  Jared Jefferies looses the ball off his leg. I think Bobby Knight just threw a chair at him from the sideline. Just as a side note, I wish I was tall.

Arthur: Well Nate Robinson wishes he was tall too. He once asked me for directions when I was walking down the street in the East Village.  He wanted to know where West 4th was. He was like an inch or two shorter than me. I’m sure he could dunk on me on a regulation hoop but I have a feeling I could dunk on him on a 3 ft. Nerf goal.

Jesse: Arthur, can I ask a quick question, if America is so angry at Wall Street for wasting money and then letting us bail them out, why don’t they save a little coal for the Knicks’ stockings? Their payroll is more than a hundred million, and they seem to have made some pretty questionable loans to some of their players. I think one could compare Eddie Curry, making more than 10 million, to a foreclosed house in Utica.

Arthur: Baron Davis’s beard looks suspiciously like my Hasidic landlord’s beard. It’s looking sloppy out there, the beard and the play.

Jesse: It’s 22-8 Arthur…I think The Knicks should shoot some more 3 pointers. UH OH…the boo birds just flew into the arena.

Arthur: The loudest cheers of the night are for a 7 year old girl who just won a shopping spree during the time out.

Jesse: “Hardman! Don’t shoot, that’s not why you are in the game!!!”  Sorry, just had a flashback to high school. I’m back now.  Danilo Gallinari and David Lee miss back to back three pointers. I tell you Arthur…the Knicks are a well coached team, they stick to the game plan.

Arthur: JOOOOOONNNNATHAN BEEENNNDER is in straight out of cryogenic freeze for a tre.  He’s scored the last 5 points. OMG…Jesse…OMG

Jesse: Maybe some of the other Knicks should retire like Bender and take a year off and then come back.  Bender looks sharp out there.  5 points and a flagrant foul in a few minutes of work.  He’s hungry.  Speaking of which Arthur…can we afford some 20 dollar nachos?

Arthur: Only the players on the court can afford the food. Chris Duhon for three???? He must have sweated all the beer out of system.

Jesse: I think I saw him last weekend at homecoming at Duke.  Hey…is that Darko Milicic over there selling cracker jacks? He’s doing what he can to stay involved.

Arthur: Does Darko have dippin dots too?

In a game related post: Sebastian Telfair is in for the Clips.  I love his name, he sounds like a Pink Panther villain.

End of First Quarter– Clippers 31 Knicks 16

Jesse: It’s 31-16. The Knicks are on pace for one of the lowest NBA game totals in the history of the league. They need a little spark. Speaking of little, Nate Robinson is sitting on some phone books at the end of the bench. He’s really embraced the Stephan Marbury roll on this team. The Knicks really rely on having at least one undersized, overpaid player to keep that bench warm with an active ego.

Second Quarter Begins–

Where’s BERNARD KING when you need him? Anyone? Anyone? I wish Bernard were here. I’m more of an old school guy Arthur. How bout you?

Arthur: Well I saw Al Houston outside the press lounge. He seemed a little bored. Maybe they can find a uniform for him. I’d love to see him wander onto the hardwood wearing the tight shorts and some knee high socks… 8:47 left in the 2nd. 22-35… Knicks are making a run. Harrington is heating up. Why is he wearing Nike’s? He’s gonna loose his Kmart sponsorship.

Jesse: This capacity crowd is really taking advantage of these comfortable cushioned seats Arthur. I don’t blame them…no reason to stand up and cheer when you can yell De-Fense while slouching.

General Manager Donnie Walsh is nearby…with the slick hair, and smokers complexion, he looks either like a professional bowler from the 70’s, or a city councilman in Chicago Mayor Daley’s administration, the FIRST Mayor Daley.

Arthur: He and Stan Van Gundy are like two character actors from the 70′s. They both look like they shop at the Men’s Warehouse.  They make too much money to still buy from off the rack.

Jesse: You mean Hardcastle and McCormick? Or maybe a little Hill Street Blues. 6 minutes to go in the first half. The Knicks are down 46-29 after a three pointer from Toney Douglas. The Knicks younger players are making this a game, they’ve got some good energy. I’m being serious(finally). If the Knicks could get a few good shooters, some better defenders, and a few decent passers, they might be on to something(did I leave anything out?)

Time-OUT. Nate Robinson is up handing out some towels. Man he’s quick.

Arthur: Toney Douglas is out after just scoring come on Mikey D. Give the kid some touches. A half-hearted chant just started in the upper deck of  ”We want Nate…”  There is a mandate for Nate… wait a minute… no there isn’t. It died down after about 20 seconds.

Jesse: The PA system is playing the D’Antoni favorite, Todd Rundgren… “I don’t want to work…I just want to shoot the three all day.” The Knicks shot an astounding 47 three pointers in their loss to the Chicago Bulls the other day. At one point they missed 14 straight three-pointers.

Kaman hits another off the barn door. It was really nice of his pa to put up that hoop. He’s really found his calling I think.

Duhon hits a three. For every tre he donates some special time to the Duke cheerleader alumni organization.

Arthur: It wasn’t a hoop on the barn door. Kamen’s just getting used to playing with the bottom cut out of the peach basket.

Duck Fuke, seriously…

Jesse: Arthur, I really need a beer, can you get Darko’s attention?

Over near the player tunnel there’s a scuffle, it appears Alan Houston is trying to fight his way past security onto the court. He’s wearing an Alan Houston replica jersey. Maybe he could help turn this game around. Maybe not, I think he just got tasered by security.

Arthur: If all it takes is a replica jersey to get into the game then I’m going to tear off my cardigan and wander onto the court wearing my old school John Starks Jersey. I hope no one breaks my glasses when I’m out there. Gallinari on the line for two shots… 42-57… it’s getting heated out there. J Bender with his third foul.

Jesse: The Knicks have started to take some 2 pointers. They must be tired. Although this new strategy seems to be working.

With a minute to go the Knicks are down 57-40. They can close the gap however if they can just make the elusive 17 pointer.  This once in a lifetime shot must be taken from the Staten Island Ferry, and can only bounce once before going in. I’ve only seen it happen once… ONCE.

Arthur: I think I saw that shot on youtube.  GZA bounced it off the Denino’s Pizzeria sign and banked it in.  Marcus Camby and Chris Kamen are impressing me with their play together. They have an old school “Twin Towers” vibe… back when big men didn’t move too much in the paint. Their names also sound great together… Camby and Kamen, Kamen and Camby.  They are phonetic superstars.

End of First Half– Clippers 58 Knicks 42

Halftime Show

Arthur: Uh OH…here comes a Michael Jackson medley sung by a 9 year old.  This is definitely a recession era half time show.

Jesse: Yeah, I heard they are also thinking of saving money by outsourcing south of the border. Next year the Knicks are going to be a team in the Mexican Soccer League.

The 9 year old half time star is wearing a Chris Duhon jersey.  Donnie Walsh now has him on the sideline signing a contract. I believe this young man will be playing point the rest of the game. In all fairness, he does have a Knicks jersey on, so technically he should be able to play.

Arthur: Whoa…A 9 year old blonde girl named MacKayla was singing Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” and just stopped in the middle of it… just like in the last episode of the Soprano’s. She’s the official winner of the “Sports Jams Kids Talent Search.” I was at MSG two years ago and the actor that played Junior Soprano pulled a Roseanne Barr and sang the most off key version of the Star Spangled Banner I’ve ever heard.

Jesse: I can’t wait to have kids Arthur. Just think, in a few years they too could be exploited in front of tens of thousands. There’s so much to exploit, I mean support. Support. That’s what I meant.

Arthur: Jesse, you are creeping me out. I never knew you were destined to be a stage mom.

Jesse: Arthur…is that Stephon Marbury over on the bench? Nate Robinson has just climbed up on his shoulders. Together they make a ten footer, or a couple of members of the Jesse White Tumblers. This could be a game changer. I wonder if D’Antoni will let it fly. He needs something.

Now Marbury is huddling with Allan Houston, Jerome James, Anfernee Hardaway, and Steve Francis. They are walking onto the court and talking to the refs. Marbury has indicated to the Knicks and the Clippers that “we got next.” Apparently the game is now to five, each basket counts as one. Winners stand.

Arthur: You are going over almost everyone’s heads with this Jesse White Tumbler reference. Here is a video to help out those who have never lived in Chicago

Third Quarter

Jesse: The Clippers appear to have gotten wise to the Knicks’ Bender plan, and have lured their own AARP player out of retirement. Michael Olowakandi has just checked in. If anyone can do it, Arthur, “the Kandi Man can…” (sung to the tune of the Candyman can)

Arthur: You have an alternate reality game going on in your head. It’s like the Bizarro universe where black is white, down is up and Penny Hardaway didn’t get injured and Tim Hardaway doesn’t hate homosexuals.

Jesse: With 9 minutes to go in the third quarter, the Knicks have cut the deficit to a mere 9 points.  60-51. If they can keep it below the current unemployment rate, I think they just might get out of here with some dignity.

Arthur: Gallinari with the rebound. I feel like the Knicks recruiters must have found him on the Jersey Shore boardwalk. Most players get shoe deals, he might be the first to get a hair gel sponsorship.

Jesse: David Lee is making some nice noise out there. He’s actually one of those players that seems to earn his keep.

Boom Diddie just stopped at half court to borrow Clyde Frazier’s old leather jacket with the huge collar. He hits the three and looks GOOD doing it.

Timeout, there’s a huddle. Ricky Davis appears to have stolen Baron Davis’s jersey so he can get in the game. Ricky, you so crazy.

Arthur: Ricky Ricky Ricky Davis. Has there ever been a more perfect Clipper signing. They should retire his jersey as an admonishment to the franchise.

Jesse: Jared Jeffries picks up his fourth foul with 5 minutes to go in the third quarter. Bobby Knight is up out of his seat again.  Jeffries might think about transferring schools…wait, is this a college game Arthur? I lost track.

Al Harrington hits from the Kmart blue light special line. It’s good for three and a slice of Little Ceaser’s redeemable at the checkout counter.

Arthur: “Pizza, Pizza” might be Gallinari’s new nickname. It’s pretty tight.

Jesse: How many pairs of socks does Baron Davis have on?

Arthur: Those look like support hose.  They are good for circulation.  My Dad wears an identical pair, they help with his varicose veins.

Jesse: Ohhh, Lee with the reverse. He is really representing the Knicks blue collar fans Arthur. A lot of working class folks are enjoying this game tonight…from their neighborhood VFWs.

Lets start calling the game. The Knicks are only down by three! 71-68. This is the closest it’s been since warm-ups.

ARGGHHH they have badly missed consecutive three pointers. It’s desperation time. If they don’t tie the game now they only have one whole quarter left to pull it even.

Chris Duhon heads the other way during the timeout. He’s now getting a lapdance by the Knicks performance dance team.  D’Antoni is looking at him with a deep glare.

Arthur: 72-72 on a Duhon, Lee pick and roll. Quick and Easy. Time for a New York Lottery Break. Lottery!?? They should put Jordan Hill’s face on the losing scratch ticket. Why isn’t Brandon Jennings in New York? Oh the Lottery, the Lottery.

End of Third Quarter–Clippers 72 Knicks 72

Jesse: This is it Arthur, the moment of truth. If the Knicks can just win this quarter, they win the game. If they put it together Nate Robinson will make a cool $50,000, despite not playing. And if they loose, he’ll still make that money. So a lot is on the line. I don’t know how these players deal with the pressure.

The Clippers’ Telfair for two. Must be nice to be back in New York, although he’s been relatively quiet tonight. That could be because he’s got another game after this. He’s taking the train over to his old high school for a late night match-up. I think he’s still got some eligibility left. Coach says if he keeps playing hard, he might get a letter for his letterman jacket this year.

Arthur: Knicks up 80-76…the Garden is on their feet. The tee shirt cannons are firing. There aren’t many empty seats here. It’s pretty amazing. Is this what you would call a playoff atmosphere Jesse?

Jesse: The Knicks are up by four. Reading this blog you probably thought they were getting killed. Somehow they’ve found a way. The Clippers are one tough opponent. They’ve made the playoffs every other leap year since 1992, or something like that.

Arthur: Are leap years every four years or every eight?

Jesse: Gallinari looks set to take the rest of the shots from here on out. That’s good news for Clippers fans.

Kaman abuses Lee like a Triceratops.

Arthur: True. A slow moving plant eater in the paint. 82-78. Some where Ron Artest is drinking a beer and I wish I were too.

Jesse: Billy Jean is on the PA system. It’s getting hot in here, according to the two people who got up and started to dance. It feels like an awkward middle school dance. Two of the ticket takers are rocking back and forth, arms on each others shoulders.

Arthur: Gallinari’s shot rims out and the entire crowd deflates like an old bike tire. Two possesions later he puts up a spicy meatball and everyone loses their proverbial shit.

Jesse: Baron Davis ties it up…and Duhon answers with an uncontested layup. And then Al Thornton scores a jumper. And then Gallinari scores. Everybody is scoring! This party is awesome!!!! Thornton again. Can’t stop till you get enough…

Arthur: Oops. Duhon walks the ball up the court in slow motion and commits an eight second violation. The crowd is still bananas though. The kid in the Marbury shirt a few rows in front of me just shot milk out of his nose he’s so excited.

Jesse: It’s a close one…I think it’s going to come down to the wire. Thank God these teams have some white, slightly hunched, middle managers to lead them on. Whatever D’Antoni and Dunleavy have up their sleaves, it better be good…because I heard corporate was looking to cut some dead weight before Christmas. They can’t afford to look unproductive. More pacing the sidelines might be necessary.

Arthur: Aaahhhh snap. D’Antoni is going nuts on the sideline and crowd rises too their feet in solidarity. Eric Gordon screws up and passes straight to Al Harrington. An easy mistake. He must have confused him with Kamen. They are the only two bald guys out there.

Jesse: a controversial offensive foul is called on David Lee. It looks like a flash mob just descended on the Garden as the fans finally came to life for the first time this entire game. If there’s one thing New Yorkers won’t stand for, it’s injustice.

Arthur: Jesse. Shame on you. There is 36 seconds on the clock and you make an Abner Louima joke? Knicks have the ball.

Jesse: Nate Robinson and the ball boys are clenching their teeth. The next 30 seconds could determine whether or not they all go to Chucky Cheese after the game, or if coach makes them go to bed early.

Arthur: David Lee blows everyone’s brains by tipping a rebound in. Awkward but effective. Nate Robinson is the first off the bench to congratulate him. I guess they are both working as hard as they can for next years’ contracts.

Jesse: Arthur, I bet you the 100,000 dollars Eddie Curry will make tonight that Baron Davis dribbles down the court and takes a three at the buzzer.

It’s the Final Countdown. Doodooodooo, dooodooodooodooodooo.

Arthur: Well they just put in Novak. I hope he’s warmed up his shooting arm. You and Eddie Curry might just be losers on this one. Steve Novak just commited a weird foul. His presence has been felt.

Jesse: Novak is subbed, and then put back in., and then…he gets the rock and tosses up a three. The ball is rotating beautifully through the stodgy Garden air, it’s soaring like an eagle. If this goes in, and it feels like a lifetime is going by, the Clippers will only lose by one. I think Dunleavy called the right play. And…it…rims out. That miss is going to stay with Novak a while.  He could have made it a one point loss, but instead he’s the goat tonight. 10 seconds of blood sweat and tears and he has nothing to show for it.

Arthur: If pandamonium can be expressed through a collective yawn than that is what happened. Call it a game. The PA is blasting Billy Joel’s snoozy ballad New York state of mind. Several teenage girls hit an unsuspecting guy with their thunder sticks. Somewhere a man zips up his jacket. The place smells like old ketchup. A Norwegian tourist tentatively steps onto the court as his girlfriend takes a quick photo. They evade security. Jesse and I are the last two dudes in the press box. Almost everyone is gone except for several women in very tight pants. They venture towards the bench. I assume they are the players wives. In New York there are a million stories….

Uruguay: The most hated country in Africa

WBEZ World Cup Coverage:

 

by The Archives | July 5, 2010

Most people never think about Uruguay…why would you? The tiny piece of land is home to only 3.5 million inhabitants and resembles a sliver stuck between the toes of the much larger Argentina or Brazil. The country is known for three things: Green tea, cattle, and soccer. But as a British football fan I was chatting with the other day said, if it weren’t for the World Cup, he wouldn’t even know that the place existed. Truthfully, I haven’t really thought about Uruguay since this Simpsons clip made me laugh years ago.

After Friday’s World Cup quarterfinal with Ghana, Uruguay will be etched into the memory of millions of Africans. The small South American nation has punched Africa in the stomach twice in a matter of weeks. First, the Uruguayans effectively ended the home team, South Africa’s, chances of glory. Then, the team destroyed the last hope for an African winner by beating Ghana on penalty kicks.

Johannesburg was the de-facto capital of Ghana on Friday in advance of the big game at the Soccer City stadium. Around town locals and Ghanaians came together to celebrate the possibility of an African team making it to the Semifinals of the World Cup for the first time.

Black Star flags flew from businesses, cars, and balconies across the city. Ghana fever was even starting to inspire a new vocabulary. People were referring to the Black Stars as “BaGhana BaGhana” a play on the nickname of the South African team, “Bafana Bafana.” Newspaper’s published pithy headlines like, “Their Ghana win,” and even Nelson Mandela was quoted as saying a Black Star victory could unify the continent.

Alas, somebody forgot to leave a copy of this Hollywood screenplay in the Uruguayan locker-room. In the 120th minute, Luiz Suarez, the Uruguayan forward, denied Ghana’s last second heroics by blocking a sure header goal with his hands. He’s since referred to his defense as “The new hand of God,” likening his actions to that of Maradona’s famous “Hand of God” goal.

Local newspapers here in Johannesburg have a different take on his feat, referring to Mr. Suarez’s appendage as the “Hand of Lucifer” or the “Devil Hand of Uruguay.” All players at the World Cup level should be able to compose themselves and convert a penalty kick, regardless of the pressure of the situation. Black Stars’ forward Asamoah Gyan failed to do this and as a result returned the World Cup to its never-ending debate on soccer etiquette and gamesmanship. Something Zidane managed with a headbutt the last go-round.

I had one foot out the bar door when the penalty was given to Gyan. I was ready to race out into the street and rejoice with hundreds of other fans on Johannesburg’s 7th Ave, in the Mellville neighborhood. I wanted to soak up the moment of African’s coming together to celebrate something unequivocally positive and historically unprecedented.

Uruguay will be carrying the torch for Latin America now, as its more celebrated neighbors from Brazil and Argentina have been sent home. If you are in America or Europe, that’s probably the headline in your newspaper this weekend.

But in Africa, Ghana’s defeat has been a tough pill to swallow, where millions of people had hoped, literally prayed, to see the World Cup trophy stay on the continent. Yes, this week will be quieter in South Africa. People will watch the remaining games, but with little of the fanfare that would have resulted from having an African dog in the fight. The Black Star flags will become memorabilia.

At Green Point stadium in Cape Town–the site of Uruguay’s semifinal match against the Netherlands–a handful of South Americans in blue jerseys tucked under winter jackets and sipping their mate’ tea will celebrate their team on Tuesday. But elsewhere on the continent, just maybe‚ a team has already started practicing, preparing for a moment four years from now when Africa will get its World Cup revenge on South American soil.

World Cup 2010: Africa unite…

WBEZ World Cup Coverage:

by The Archives | June 30, 2010

In the final moments of last Saturday’s US, Ghana game, red, white and blue teardrops were frozen by the icy, winter night.  It was clear the US was going home. Actually, that seemed pretty clear from the outset when the team gave up a goal in the first ten minutes, something they got quite good at this World Cup. Americans have an underdog complex when it comes to soccer, but these guys took it a little too far.

The remote Rustenberg stadium is set in the middle of Bafokeng Kingdom and its small size gave the match a similar feeling to that of Friday Night Lights high school football game. In fact, of the most enjoyable aspects of this World Cup is that going to the stadiums is still a local affair.  Stands are full of people who walked to the game from their houses with blankets, hot tea, and food. For locals, tickets are reasonably priced–around ten dollars–so they can afford to be part of this momentous event in South Africa.

I stood at the top of the stands, right in the middle, and secretly hoped that like the white dress wearing Glenn Close in The Natural, my hero Clint Dempsey would see me and get out of his slump to win the game.  Two rows in front of me were a couple of rabid, screaming fans, although they had a third team in mind. They shook their Israeli flag and sang the chorus of Hava Nagila the entire night, interspersed with about ten Budweisers. THAT, my friends, is way more annoying than vuvuzelas.

The news that Americans had bought the most World Cup tickets of any country seemed a little far-fetched as chants of USA were hard to decipher. (I did hear a faint Southern accent singing the national anthem from a luxury box–Bill, was that you?!). There were lots of Stars and Stripes and even a few “don’t tread on me” flags, but the mood among the Americans was subdued, even morose. And yet, the stadium was boisterous, warm, and fun.

Why? WE’RE IN AFRICA, that’s why.

The Ghanaian fans danced to every song over the loudspeaker, Bob Marley, Beyonce, even the national anthems. They were out in force eagerly supporting the Black Stars, the only team from the continent to make it out of the first round.  Many Ghanaians in the stadium wore graduation gowns made from the red, yellow, and green colors of the Ghana flag. Tonight, they told me, was their “graduation” because they were moving onto the next grade once they won.

But not all the Black Star fans were Ghanaian. Every South African in attendance, probably half the crowd, wore a Ghana scarf and wove a Ghana flag. The host country had picked up the cause of their African neighbor‚ and were determined to cheer them to victory. Ghana responded.

The Black Stars finished enough chances and fell down at the right moments, clutching their arms, legs and, in one case what looked like an appendix, draining precious minutes from the game. Something special was certainly brewing in an old South African mining town that night.

With twenty minutes left in the game I looked down from my perch and saw a curious figure. A man in a short sleeve shirt with a Ghanaian flag for a cape and a neon green wig, had moved into the stairway and was dancing furiously and rhythmically. Right with a fist pump, left with a fist pump, back and forth, over and over and over.

I descended to get a closer look, and saw that his eyes were completely focused, staring at the field but conjuring something. Something big.

As his dancing continued into the last minutes of the game, two Good Ol’ Boys with star spangled face paint decided to try and wake the Ghanaian from his dream.‚  “USA, USA, USA…” they chanted in his ears, louder and louder.

The man calmly rotated his dance to face them, and raised his index finger to his lips. The “USA” chants stopped, abruptly, like somebody had yanked the stereo cord from the electrical socket.‚  The man returned to staring at the field as though in a trance. Right fist pump, left fist pump.

I knew there would be no last second comeback for the US team this time. Much more powerful elements were at play in the Bafokeng Kingdom. A crowd of African nations had unified behind their team, and a focused man, clothed in a Ghanaian flag and a neon green wig, was dancing his Black Stars to victory.

Come together: A World Cup photo reminds of what 2010 could bring

WBEZ World Cup Coverage:

by The Archives | June 9, 2010

Most of the patrons of Juanito’s, a nearly century-old hole in the wall bar in Lima, Peru’s bohemian Barranco district, look down into their tall pints of Cristal beer.  Indeed there have been a lot of reasons to look down in Peru over the last few decades, economic crashes, earthquakes, the Shining Path, Fujimori, you name it, Peruvians have drank through it.  But when locals finish their foamy chela and look up, they are reminded there is also hope in their deservedly proud country, hope in the form of the 1970 World Cup team, that made it all the way to the quarterfinals in Mexico City.

Even though the black and white photo is dusty, and it’s protective glass is split down the middle, the group of bright eyed, hopeful Peruvians comes to life.  Every single person sitting on a stool in Juanito’s has that photo burned into their memory, they can all tell you the scores of the games, the names of every player.  That was a time before people started to stare down at their beers…a time when glasses were raised high.

As Euan mentioned, World Cup’s have a way of marking time in one’s life.‚  Peruvians over 50 all remember where they were in the summer of 1970.  Just like Argentinians and Brits can tell you where they were when Maradona’s “Hand of God” appeared in 1986, or South Koreans remember where they were in 2002 when what felt like their entire country sat down in the center of Seoul to celebrate their teams unlikely run.

Since the last World Cup I’ve been around the world, literally, mostly in soccer’s backwaters, places that haven’t even dreamed of the sport’s biggest prize.  I’ve kicked the ball with army guards at dry dusty military checkpoints, waiting to cross over from Sri Lanka’s war zone.  I’ve been adopted by a group of car wash boys in Peru, playing midfield on their Saturday afternoon team named for a Varga Llosa short story.  I’ve descended on China, India, Thailand, Venezuela, Guatemala, places with little to no World Cup history to speak of, yet people in these places will all be watching on Friday when Mexico and South Africa kick off.‚  Getting a tour of Islamabad (where I’m currently working) the other day, I was shown the one movie theatre still up and running, the others, I was told, were burned by extremists.  Starting Friday the only remaining movie theatre will be showing the World Cup games, live.

And with so many fragments of memories, stories, and experiences from the last four years, the World Cup feels like a unifying force for me and my scattered existence.  I know that all these people I have been fortunate enough to cross paths with will be communing, at the same time, hours apart, the screen lighting up their eyes as they watch, and for a brief month my life will feel like it has some order, that all the roads I’ve been on in the last four years converge into one.

Worth Reading

In Rural Indiana Town, Even Basketball Is Suffering

Jonathan Palmer for The New York Times

Medora, a shrinking town of only 500 people in Southern Indiana, has 16 seniors in what is the fifth-smallest public high school in the state. The basketball team was 0-22 last season.

By JOHN BRANCH

Published: November 27, 2009

MEDORA, Ind. — Players for Medora High School have taken the court wearing work boots because their families cannot afford basketball shoes. Most smoke cigarettes. Some talk openly of drug use. All but a few come from broken homes.

Medora Hornets Coach Marty Young, left, went 0-22 in his first year. The 23-year-old coach is not expecting many more, if any, victories this season.

The New York Times

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Jonathan Palmer for The New York Times

Medora Hornets player Robby Armstrong iced his ankle after a recent practice and Shade Fisher, who suffers from Asthma, tried to catch his breath.

Of the roughly 400 schools in a state that reveres boys’ high school basketball, none lost more last seasons than the 0-22 Medora Hornets, under the first-year coach Marty Young, the youngest head coach in the state.

Now 23, Young is not expecting many, if any, on-court victories during the season that starts on Saturday, either. But he counts wins and losses differently than most.

“If they’re in the gym these two hours, then I know they’re not in trouble,” Young said.

Poverty rates are high here, college graduates are few. Drug use is rampant, several said, and many residents live in ramshackle trailer homes strewn about the hills that surround the checkerboard streets of town. In these depressed times, there is little to cheer but the high-school basketball team.

Except it does not win.

The lone basketball championship banner hanging in the gym dates to 1949. There has not been a winning season in decades. Counter to those sepia-toned images that outsiders have of small-town Indiana, the boys here rarely dream anymore of starring for the local team.

That is the unexpected predicament confronting Young, the kind of Indiana boy who grew up sleeping with a basketball. Indiana, after all, is the home of “Hoosiers,” the 1986 movie loosely based on the small-town 1954 Milan High team that beat all the bigger schools to win the state championship.

Medora, about 65 miles west of Milan, could be this generation’s anti-Hoosiers.

“It used to be such a big deal,” said Maria Powell, born and raised in Medora and now the mother of one of the basketball players. She recalled post-game parties with classmates at a pizza place called The Covered Bridge — long since closed — when she was in high school. “Basketball was just what you lived for.”

Medora, with 16 members in the senior class, is the fifth-smallest public high school in Indiana. It is slowly shrinking, like the town of about 500 itself. Two of three large feed mills are gone. An automotive-plastics factory employed several hundred until it closed in 1988. A brick plant on the edge of town died in 1992.

“That’s when, basically, Medora started falling apart,” said Penny England, a lifelong resident and mother of one of the boys on the team.

Now, Powell said, she is leery to be alone downtown where boys loiter. (“There ain’t much to do in this small town,” Wes Ray, a senior basketball player, said.) She lives “out in the boonies,” she said, where a neighbor was a “meth head.” The home’s three children (born to three fathers) sometimes ran over the hill to her house to escape his abuse. They are now in foster care. One is on the basketball team.

Of the 19 boys on this season’s roster, five live with both their mother and father. The rest live with single mothers, grandparents, older siblings or foster parents. Several see Young as a dependable father figure, even if he is only a few years older than they are.

“I think they’d really rather have somebody yelling at them than have no one wondering about them at all,” Powell said.

Young grew up comfortably on a farm a few miles away. He attended the much-larger Brownstown High and was one of the best basketball players in the county. He became a two-time all-conference player at Division-III Franklin College, north toward Indianapolis.

A teammate there told Young how his high-school coach insulted the team after a bad loss.

“We couldn’t have even beaten Medora tonight,” the coach would say.

Wanting to teach, Young interviewed for the sixth-grade job at Medora. It was a package deal; officials wanted him to be the head coach of the varsity basketball team, too.

He was instantly surprised at the things he saw and heard.

“I’ve been to college,” Young said. “I’ve seen a lot of stuff. But these kids that I’m teaching in sixth grade know more about what goes on in the street than I ever thought of. This small, rural town.”

With help from others, including his own parents and grandparents, Young often buys some boys shoes, clothes and meals. He has kicked in the $40 it costs the uninsured to get the required physical exams.

He enlisted an uncle, Dennis Pace, to serve as his assistant for a varsity squad that lost by an average of 31 points. Young’s high-school teammate, Matt Rotert, coaches the junior varsity. Last year, it lost games 51-0 and 93-2.

The biggest hurdle, Rotert said, is the home life of many boys. “I don’t think they’re used to people expecting something out of them,” Rotert said.

Pace spent much of a recent day driving around town and through the neighboring hills, showing where various players live.

“You’ve got kids who struggle with clothes or coats or shoes,” Pace said. “Yet their parents always have cigarettes or beer or satellite TVs.”

Principal Brad McCammon said that nearly two-thirds of the students receive subsidized lunches. He estimated that up to 10 percent of the students have drug problems, and said he knew of about five houses in his neighborhood that “are selling the stuff.”

The wall behind his desk holds a framed photograph of basketball great Larry Bird, who grew up in another small southern Indiana town.

“He didn’t have much in French Lick,” McCammon said. “But it shows a kid can do anything if you have that desire.”

Young is figuring out how to milk such desire. Young thought his best player last year, a senior who scored nearly half the team’s points, was good enough to play in college. He used connections to get him tryouts. The boy did not show up for them, and now works at a nearby logging mill.

“It’s a struggle when they’re given a chance and don’t take it,” Young said.

Such frustrations somehow cemented Young’s determination. His coach at Franklin, Kerry Prather, asked Young last spring if he would return for a second year.

“He said, ‘I think I’m going to stay here for a little bit,’” Prather said. “He recognized that there is more to it than how many games he wins.”

Young wants the boys to wear matching clothes to school on game days. A vendor sold him shirts for $2, and Young paid extra to get them embroidered. He and his family scoured yard sales and thrift stores to find khaki pants and belts that many did not have.

The town still supports the team, largely out of tradition, filling up most of one side of the gym to cheer moral victories. A “backer board” on the wall lists businesses and individuals who donate money, and a couple of dozen names are on it. If and when the Hornets win this season, there just might be a parade.

“I have friends who say, ‘Why do this? They keep losing,” said sophomore Glen England, excused from one practice last season to feed his chickens. “I say I grew up playing basketball, all the way from kindergarten to high school. I’m going to finish it out.”

Fourteen boys attended a recent practice. A few had natural ball-handling ability and smooth shooting touches. Most looked like extras from gym class.

Young worked up a sweat demonstrating what he was trying to teach. The boys listened intently and seemed eager to please. But one grew too aggressive and shouted at the coach. Young kicked him out of practice. The boy threw his jersey down and left. Calm ensued.

Several boys stayed after practice, honing their skills. They asked Young if he had any food in his classroom desk. He tossed them his keys, and they scurried down a hallway.

Young drives some home in the dark each night. Once the car door closes, all he can do is hope that they are back at practice the next afternoon.

Rock Stars, Redemptions, and Hope Eternal

It’s been a while since I wrote something on the blog, so I wanted to recap some of the bigger (and smaller) sports stories out there, but in my own special Hardman way.  I realize it sounds a bit of a stretch to tell you that I’m about to connect Brett Favre, the Minnesota Vikings, a recreational adult soccer league in Chicago, and the recent soccer tragedy involving Ireland and France, and back to Favre again.  But I wanted to throw down the gauntlet at the top, just to put a little extra pressure on myself.  

In order to pull of this masterful feat I will need to enlist the venerable Eddie Rock, a good friend who recently got married.

Since I have yet to give Eddie a nuptials gift (the his and hers Fav-re jerseys are on back order), I thought I’d fill that void temporarily by making him the star of this blog post.

So…here we go.  

Eddie and I met when he was a young lad enrolled at Beloit College in Wisconsin, the former home of one Brett Favre.  

   Eddie  + Favre

I was a year out of college, a little lost after twelve months in the real world that included an internship in DC, learning how to live on a 30 dollar a week grocery budget at Safeway (god bless you day old bread day discount), a stint in the wilds of Chiapas with the Zapatistas, and eventually the starting midfielder, and more importantly beat writer for a semi pro soccer team in Oregon (I sucked on the field, but that helped me keep the writing job, as not scoring meant I never had to go first person).

Eddie and I first met  on the soccer field in our homeland of Minnesota, a forgettable summer team that had attendance problems(an average of 9 people showed up to games).  After too many beers to count, and a summer long pizza delivery scam that netted a group of us twenty or so free pizzas, it was clear we were meant to be friends.
We reconnected that cold Minnesota winter after Eddie had purposely tried to flunk himself out of college, “to see what it would feel like.” (I have to say, as a lifelong goody two shoes, I will regret the fact I never explored controlled failure.  I will always wonder).  

Eddie, who is part Irish(remember this), spent his self imposed collegiate exile working at his cousin’s bar in Dublin. Returning with a wee accent,  and a new focus, he forged ahead to get his diploma.  

 Eddie + Vikings

The following winter, Eddie and a crew of other local friends watched with excitement as our hometown Minnesota Vikings marched towards what appeared to be certain world domination.  15-1 entering the playoffs, they were averaging close to 100 points a game(note the exaggeration, I could care less about football so I have to find ways to keep myself engaged, like lying).  

A superstitious lot, we watched every game from the same tv at the same apartment. Until the fateful day…the conference finals, when I had the audacity to be on a trip to Colombia, stranded in a mountain village instead of the warm comfort of a carpeted St. Paul living room.  The indomitable Vikings inexplicably choked against a much weaker opponent.  Turning on the nightly news in Bogota, hoping for a glimpse of the outcome, I saw three seconds of the game; a kick, and a celebration by the opponent.  I knew then that I would face a harsh return.  Indeed I was blamed for jinxing the season, and have lived in exile ever since.  

The next summer Eddie and I descended on Chicago, me via an airplane, escaping from Mexico, Eddie in a used fake wood paneled Mitsubishi Gallant.  Eddie had a plan, he always has a plan, I kind of had a plan, I always kind of have a plan(although to those who know me well, note I am getting better).  He quickly wrestled control of a local adult soccer league called Sports Monster, and enlisted me to help him out.  A few days a week he was in charge of setting up a few fields and providing local young professionals an opportunity to shake off cubicle dust and engage in “friendly” competition.  

 Eddie + Sports Monster 

Eddie hired me to help referee the games, a gig I shared with a part time cop who showed up slightly hung over to every game and who had a penchant for lecturing players on everything from personal hygiene to uniform styles.  

In the beginning Eddie and I figured running a soccer league would be a wonderful way to make some money while being around the sport we loved so much.  The prototypical Chicago co-ed adult league soccer player was mid-twenties, usually from either a Big Ten school(likely a fraternity or sorority member), or an expensive liberal arts college from the Midwest.  A lot of the teams were formed from downtown advertising or financial management firms, like Leo Burnet and Anderson Consulting.  These were people who worked 80 hours a week, played ping pong in the break room, drank and ate for free, and took cabs home.  They lived at their desks.  And for exercise, why not spend more time bonding with your co-workers? Why not go seek and destroy other rival firms? And thus, Sports Monster soccer was born, emphasis on the Monster.  

Games were filled with red faced tirades and corporate speeches nuanced with sports metaphors.  Fluid passing and dribbling were foreign languages to these people, drown out by malicious slide tackling, angry aimless running, and frequent stoppages to help injured people off the field.  Our strategy became to simply survive the melee, hope that nobody went to the hospital, and make sure that one team clearly won the game, so as to avoid staying late to administer what would almost certainly be a contested and unnecessarily long shoot out(I once presided over, and I kid you not, a shoot out that took more than 30 attempts to crown a winner).  

Indeed the year of Sports Monster was an angst riddled one, we were simply trying to get out with enough money to pay for our one room apartment, and a little extra for the Pepto Bismal to cover our soon to be ulcers.  

My career defining performance as a referee came on a November weeknight, I remember it clearly, Deloitte and Touche vs. Arthur Anderson(a dodo bird of a company now), or something of that nature.  Tensions were high, no doubt in part because the world of consulting was beginning to feel the rumblings of the Enron collapse.  These two pheaux financial giants were also a couple of fakers on the soccer field, after a few minutes it was clear both groups wanted to win, but neither had any interest in the sport of soccer.  

It was more like a Roman gladiator event, a collection of wild animals and muscle-heads searching for something to destroy.  The intensity of the game had a venue to match, a rough patch of dirt and grass in the heart of Chicago’s Cabrini Green neighborhood, one of the grittiest and at times most dangerous places in the city.  One side of the field was lined with abandoned grocery carts, shattered forties, and paper bags.  Locals would walk across the field, game in progress, because on most nights it was simply a short cut home.  For a local the logic was justifiably, “why bother to treat the field any different just because a bunch of white kids amped on gatorade are running around with their heads cut off?”

I also remember it was cold that night, and in addition to a pink referee shirt with white collar(thanks Eddie for making my refereeing stylish), sweat pants, and gloves, I had on a red winter cap.  The game was going smoothly at first, I had started my stopwatch a few minutes before kickoff in hopes of getting home a little early.  There were a few fouls here and there, and then a few elbows, and then what looked like an intentional handball.  I blew my whistle, produced my yellow card, and awarded a free kick.  My attempt to do my job was met with a hurricane of insults, and disbelief.  That was just the beginning.  

After the initial yellow card, I gave a few more out to award-winning tacklers, many of whom admittedly were offenders of being uncoordinated not intentional bullies.  The more yellow cards I produced, the more it began to loom over me that I had forgotten my red card at home.  I was praying to god that none of the primary villains would become repeat offenders, warranting a card that I did not have in my deck of one. 

And then, ten minutes from time, it happened.  The original perp, the hand ball genius, went to the well again and blatently tripped an opponent who was heading towards the goal.  I blew my whistle, we made eye contact, and right away he knew what I was thinking.  Before I could even get a word out, he ran at me daring me to kick him out of the game, and told me that I would be the stupidest ref ever if I actually did.  In that moment, not wanting to loose face in front of the gladiators, I realized I couldn’t even follow through on what I had already made my mind up to do.  I had accomplished the referee version of rolling out naked without a piece(red card).  But, being the problem solver I am, I improvised and took my red hat off of my head and waved it in the air.  ”Red Card!” “Leave the field!”

The last ten minutes of the game were a blur.  I think it ended in a 1-1 tie.  All I remember is that the angry accountant who had waited all week to share his pent up aggression with me had gone beserk.  He literally wanted to kill me, and made that point quite clear by saying, “I’m going to kill you,” and by staying through the first half of the following game, running up and down the sideline screaming at me.  He confronted me again at halftime, telling me I was the worst referee he had ever encountered, and that he’d make sure I lost my job.  Thankfully, Eddie was my boss, and somehow we survived the Sports Monster experience with no class action lawsuits, red hat related or otherwise.

Which brings me to the debacle that was Ireland vs. France in World Cup Qualifying last week.  First enjoy these global headlines: 

“Armed Robery” (Irish Independent)

“Hand of God” (L’Equipe)

“Daylight Robbery” (Irish Examiner)

“Heartbreak of Henry’s hand of God, part II,” (Irish Times)

“Le Cheat” (Daily Express)

“Le Hand of God” (The Sun)

“Ireland robbed by cruel hand of Henry” (Guardian).

French nickers (Mirror)

“Hand of Henry shatters Ireland” (Times)

“Hand of God II” (Daily Mail)

“Hand Gaul!” (Independent)

“Hand of Henry cheats Irish” (Telegraph)

So, it’s clear now, even the French handballer Henry agrees, that Ireland got hosed.  As somebody who is scarred forever by his experiences as a referee, I have to say, I both feel a little for the referee, who definitely made a memorable blunder, and understand the anger and pain of the Irish players and essentially the entire country and diaspora who just had their worldview, that they are damned to tragedy, confirmed beyond a reasonable doubt. (m.r.o) Eddie and his da’ Rocky Rock, are no doubt among the masses who are feeling quite down about the whole matter.  

    Eddie + Ireland

But, Eddie can take solace in the fact that his other favorite team, the Vikings, are streaking towards the Super Bowl, on the back of none other than Brett Favre.  That’s why it’s good to be Irish and from Minnesota.  Despite no World Championships, there is always hope waiting around the corner.  

 Eddie + Super Viking Favre

Good luck Eddie! Vikings! Favre! and Ireland!  I rest my case…  

(PS Dear Mr. Favre(and or Santa), if you can please lead the Vikings to a World Championship, you will erase the memory of my unintended jinx on the team, and allow me to return to the motherland.)

Tomfoolery

Thanks to M.R. O’Connor for passing this Guardian commentary along from the France vs. Ireland World Cup qualifying match.  I think it gets at the real heart of what’s going on.  Brilliant details…

“Simon Franks thinks France’s is a good kit? It looks like they’ve
either got bra’s on or there’s been tomfoolery in the dressing room
with black duct tape,” says Michael Ollier.

 

“The black cross on the back of the France kit makes the French
players look like they’re wearing a BabyBjörn,” observes Damien Neva.

“I don’t buy your stylish nation reasoning – last time I was in France
(this summer) all I saw was a load of dorks walking around with hands
slotted into their too-tight ironed jeans, lame v-necks and the like,”
replies Simon Franks, furthering European relations. I have never been
to France, so I couldn’t possibly tell you.

Anyway, enough chat, the teams are back on the pitch. Bit of Thin
Lizzy being piped through Croke Park while we wait for the restart.

Season Openers…

The NBA tipped off its new season on Thursday.  Exciting subplots include Shaquille O’Neal and Lebron James joining forces to try and bring Cleveland it’s first excitement since the Cayahoga River caught on fire in 1969, and Kobe Bryant trying to play the rest of the league by himself.  I wonder if he could hold his own against five other players for at least a quarter.  I’m fairly certain he stays awake at night wondering the same thing.  And I’m sad that Yao Ming will be out for the season with a fracture in his foot, which means we will be deprived of one of the few pro athletes who can speak in proverbs and confound the media with high brow humor.

Based on my opening stanza you would be surprised to know that I’m working on being less sarcastic these days, it’s just that the NBA makes it awfully tough.  I tried really hard last spring to follow the entire playoffs, but I petered out in the conference finals.  If you watch enough NBA action you begin to realize the cost benefit analysis of only watching the last five minutes.  If its a blowout, that means by the end nobody is playing defense and you will see more unbridled action, dunks, three pointers, and behind the back passes from the scrubs.  If its close, you just saved yourself an hour and a half and still get to see the climax.  Its not the players fault really, they are so talented that they make the spectacular look mundane.  It is hard to be surprised by anything they do, no matter how in defiance of basic physics it is.

So how do we stay interested in sports like basketball, where an exhausting long professional season  (which can last 8 months including the playoffs) often produces very little drama until the bitter end?

We turn the TV off and we play, that’s how.

This is not a team photo of the Chicago Bulls, although I’m sure it took you a minute to figure that out.  It is Chicago’s other basketball squad of distinction, Eckhart Park.  Formed in the 90s on Chicago’s near West side, Eckhart Park produced a staggering number of professionals over the years…writers, journalists, filmmakers, and designers that is.  That’s right, the basketball part was for fun.

Every Saturday morning around 11 a.m. a co-ed group of slightly hungover, slightly asleep, slightly athletic, but definitely motivated friends would gather at a Chicago city parks and recreation center, and dust off the wood panel floor.  Half-hearted stretching was accompanied by coffee, Gatorade and attempts at memory recovery from late Friday nights.  Only a few people laced up real basketball shoes, the rest wore a collection of colorful running sneakers, indoor soccer shoes, the occasional pair of dress shoes, and there was one size 16 pair of the canvas Chuck Taylor Converse All Stars.

For uniforms people wore an assortment of cut-off jean shorts, sweatpants, corduroys, t-shirts with logos of bands nobody had ever heard of before, and mismatched socks.  If this cadre walked off a bus and into a gym they would not strike fear into the hearts of their opponent, they would probably be handed some juice and cookies and be told to wait until it was time to get back on the bus again.  These were athletes who were expressing their inner creative souls through sport, not their ability to hit free throws.

Then the ball would arrive, and the shoot around began, and people started to shake off the dust of sitting in front of their computers all week, writing, editing, and designing.  If you were to simply hear the gym scene it would sound a bit like a construction site, with the repetitive clanking of metal as the ball struggled to find the smooth net.  Teams were diplomatically chosen, evened out based on experience.  Talents ranged from high school benchwarmers like me to people who had never touched a basketball before.  Indeed one of the more unique qualities of the Eckhart Park experience was that many of the participants had never played organized basketball, or sports for that matter.  It was a place where an adult could join and actually learn a new game without feeling self conscious.  At a very basic level it was simply a game amongst friends, where people were actually equally trying to win, and make sure that everyone on the team got a shot at succeeding.

And so the play would commence with a pass, and a few dribbles, and a first miss, and maybe a rebound and layup.  Eventually the unique energies of so many people who made a living by expressing their creative tendencies would take over.  The surly radio producer Starlee would start launching three pointers from her tiny, compact frame, a routine that would reward her with the nickname “shark.”  Joe, the graying alt rocker with tight cutoff shorts and a headband would turn an uncontested layup into a twirling behind the back, reverse layup, as if he had just evaded a 7 footer trying to block him.  Dave, a gentle giant PhD, would dribble, making it to half court in four enormous steps, and pass the ball to Gary, one of the best low post players, despite being under 5 feet tall.  And so it went.

The game was often not pretty, yet brilliant and intricate in its way.  Long, meandering sequences could roam from one end of the court to the other featuring fumbled passes, unintentional steals, high arching shots off the top of the backboard, tumbling rebounds, layups that completely missed the hoop, and finally a basket and an exhale.  It could easily take a half hour to finish a game to 5.  But in the bubble of our game, details like time, who scored, who won and who lost, were quickly lost in the simple joy of running around with a group of friends.

Eckhart park was not an exclusive affair, players could bring the occasional friend, but the longer the game progressed, the more protective they became of it.  My entry into the game was a little awkward as I had played quite a bit throughout my life.  My high school highlights were spectacular, but not in the way one might want.  They included being yelled at by the coach one game, “don’t shoot, that’s not why I put you in!,” or being caught at the end of the bench with a deck of playing cards, or my favorite, almost fainting during warmups for a playoff game because I had given blood a few hours before.  Convinced I wasn’t going to get in a game of magnitude, I decided to join in the school blood drive, and then hours later, after a chocolate and kool-aid binge attempt to get my blood sugar up, I almost fainted when I was put in at the end of a blowout.  So despite my pedigree, I was acceptable in the Eckhart Park philosophy  because I was a bit of a misfit.

The real fear was that one dark Saturday morning the Eckhart anti-christ would come and destroy the sensitive equilibrium of playing a sport hard enough to sweat, but not so hard as to stand out.  There were players from time to time who would join and not quite get or embrace the concept.  Victor, a bodybuilder with sharp elbows, wandered into the game one Saturday.  A literal bull in a china shop, he would essentially ignore the other physically inferior mortals on this team and take on the opponent himself, often knocking people around like bowling pins.   His reign lasted longer than anyone would have liked because none of us wanted confrontation.   Victor was an adult incarnation of our most tormenting grade school bully.  Finally a few of us cornered him one Saturday and explained he wasn’t welcome anymore. He circled the court a few times, looking menacingly at us, and then disappeared.

There were many sideplots to the co-ed affair, indeed a whole dating scene evolved out of the game.  People met at basketball, started dating, quietly at first, and eventually the group might notice the pair making eyes, or trying to be on the same team, or making an effort to get the object of their desire the ball, and cheer them on when they scored.

The most notable success story was that of Ed, the incredibly private medical worker who nobody had any real details on, and Elizabeth, a single mom and lawyer.  The pair started quietly dating after meeting at Eckhart Park.  It took a year before any of us realized that Elizabeth was always giving the carless Ed a lift home.  Shortly after we figured it out, they got married.

There were also couples who arrived at the game intact and over the course of their playing years broke up, creating an awkward dynamic.  Both my friend Jason and I endured heartbreak with basketball regulars.  He was forced to alternate Saturday’s with his ex so they wouldn’t cross paths.  After a post break-up run in with a former girlfriend at basketball, which included a memorably tearful gym exit and sprint to the city bus, she merely disappeared from the game until I moved away, rejoining shortly after she confirmed I was no longer in Chicago.

Other types of collaborations also came out of the game.  While stretching, waiting to substitute in, and sharing water bottles, people got to talking, and the results were impressive.  Found magazine was born in part through Eckhart Park, as were many This American Life Stories, magazine articles, investigative reports, books and even film documentaries.  A literary agent who now represents a few of the Eckhart Park stars likens that basketball game to a famous Sex Pistols gig in Manchester, England that the bands Joy Division, the Smiths and the Buzzcocks were all at before they made it big.

As an adult, I owe many of my closest work and personal connections to Saturday morning basketball.  Now living in New York, many of my friends and associates here are people I threw a bounce pass too, or stole the ball from.  Between 2003-and today almost half of the basketball crowd migrated to New York, setting up a sort of Chicago diaspora.  Recently we decided to reconvene and start a new incarnation of the game at a Brooklyn church gym.  It will never be the same as the original, but the spirit is there.

When I catch a few minutes of an NBA game now, I smile, and am glad I don’t really feel the urge to stay and watch, that it doesn’t mean all that much to me.  Just think if long ago, on a rainy Chicago afternoon, a group of creative people had decided to sit inside and watch basketball on the television instead of get out and play the sport themselves, despite their athletic shortcomings.  The world would have been deprived of some wonderful talents and creations.

PS- We’re  Playing Basketball…

From the Vault

Haaavard November 10, 2007

In honor of college football season, I thought I’d dust this off.  It was originally run on Sports Illustrated’s website

 Between the Red Sox‘s season-saving victory over Cleveland, the annual Head of Charles Regatta and the Bikram Yoga regional championships (no, this is not a joke), Saturday was heaven on earth for any Boston sports fan. But the most historic event took place with very little fanfare. That’s right, Harvard and Princeton battled for the 100th time on the gridiron.

I was on hand for the big event and asked everyone I could find — from coeds to old timers — about the significance of the game and most returned my question with a chuckle. Others gave me an empty look and returned to smoking cigars and fixing their VERITAS lapel pins. Needless to say, this wasn’t exactly Ohio State-Michigan.

One exception was Harvard junior Blake Brown, who was flipping burgers and drinking beers with 30 other members of the H-Club, a school sponsored tailgate organization. Brown apologizes for the low turnout. “It’s 12:30 on Saturday, and most students are sleeping or doing homework. We’re trying to not be those kids.”

On the bright side, Brown says the beer was paid for by the University. ” Harvard paid for this whole tailgate. Our tuition is finally doing something for us.”

All told there are just over 100 people gearing up for the game in the tailgate area. I move over to the Princeton side to see if the Tigers are any more ferocious. Pete Allen and Collin Anderson greet me and recount their hijinks from last night.

“We went up to Cambridge and walked through their territory last night. All I can say is go big or go home.”

Pete and Collin are decked in bright orange shirts, orange foam No. 1 fingers and bright orange hunting hats. They look like construction cones. These two friends try to muster a few taunts, calling Harvard fans “lackluster,” and telling them to “Warm up the bus, it’s a long way back to Cambridge.”

But they say the reason they came to the game is to convene with the notable Princeton community. “You’ll get people here who graduated eighty years ago,” Allen says.

Harvard alum Bill Temby is not quite that old, but he did graduate from Harvard just after World War II. “I’ve been to every Yale game since 1946 except for two.”

Temby is loyal to Harvard football in part because it has maintained the spirit of collegiate sports. “These are people who will graduate, take their place in life, not a whole lot different than if they hadn’t played football.”

As I make my way into the 30,000 seat coliseum that is Harvard Stadium, I am struck by two things. First, how can a school with an endowment of around $30 billion have a football stadium with no actual seats, just concrete slabs? Second, how did I buy a ticket to a football game and wind up at a Brooks Brothers fashion shoot?

At just about any other college football stadium, the crowd would be a sea of beer stained sweatshirts and windbreakers. At Harvard, gameday apparel consists of bow ties, tweed blazers and khakis. I sit down in front of a guy named Sumner and a few rows down from a Kennedy (I wasn’t sure which one, but the woman in the row behind me wouldn’t shut up about it). The three gentlemen in front of me are decked out in cardigans and nibble on Ben and Jerry’s ice cream bars. One of them yells at friend who passes in a suit and tie, “You look dapper. You know this isn’t a political fundraiser.”

Laughter ensues, but if I did not know better, I would say that is exactly what is going on here. Much of the crowd is wearing nametags with their graduation year and the years of any legacies they may have produced. Firm handshakes and million dollar smiles abound.

As I watch Harvard‘s lone baton twirler spin and drop her baton for the fifth time, I have to smile. Yes, she’s had more drops than the Crimson receivers, but she’s out there because she wants to be. Nobody gave her or anyone on the field a scholarship to be here. Student athletes do not go to Harvard or Princeton for football, and maybe that is partly why the game is fun. Everybody is an amateur, including the fans. It is competitive, but it’s just a game.

In this century old rivalry the prevailing attitude is that life will go on, which is a good thing when you consider who is in the crowd. If these powerful Ivies got too worked up about a little football game, stock markets might crash, politicians fall, and who knows what other catastrophes would hit. Yes, the world can rest easy tonight knowing that a good natured football game happened this weekend, and few will remember.

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/web/COM1060144/2/index.htm

The Hardman effect

The Center of the Universe

Walking home last night around 1 a.m., a siren started blaring, followed by euphoric screaming and a loud rhythmic thumping coming from the thousands of bars from Wall Street to the Bronx.  The beat was fists pounding on tables, the reason, the Yankees had just pulled out another extra inning win, scoring in the 13th inning to beat the LA Angels.  

I smiled at the excitement, but I was not surprised, for two reasons.

The Yankees always seem to find a way to win.

And, more importantly, I’m in town.

Statistics make the baseball world go round, in fact some dedicate their entire careers to pouring over batting averages and E.R.A’s.  And then there are some more obscure winning indicators, like where is Hardman when the World Series starts.

Fact: in 2004 the Boston Red Sox won their first World Series in almost a century.  I was in Boston at the time.

Also Fact: in 2005 the Chicago White Sox won their first World Series in almost a century.  I was there, in Chicago, for the month of October.  

In 2006, exhausted from my World Series success, I took a break and lived in Peru, thankfully avoiding a boring St. Louis Cardinals win.

But I was back again in 2007, a second Red Sox World Series triumph was presided upon by none other than…ME!    I was in Boston for the month of October.

I spent 2008 in Sri Lanka, which, certainly no coincidence, was one of the more successful years for the national Cricket team (close enough).  

And now I’m back again, it’s October, World Series time, and if you are a betting person, you are wise to note that I am squarely in New York.