Indie Sport

Self Knowledge

CSP — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 05:01:53 GMT

The world, as seen through the eyes of a child, novice, or innocent is an untarnished perspective that can be wondrous and surprisingly insightful. And so it was last night, when I sat down to watch The Road Ends Here with my son, a football fan and self-professed indifferent to the game of basketball.

"Let's watch the first few minutes," I suggested.

He concurred, knowing his commitment to a little bonding time was limited by the quantity of ice cream in his bowl and the homework clamoring for his attention upstairs. Two hours and a couple of dozen Oh-My-Gods later, he was a riveted convert, his bowl licked clean by the cat and his homework still undone. I couldn't have cared less, for the lessons on display in the NCAA men's basketball championship game between Memphis and Kansas were more valuable than anything that awaited him in his texts and worksheets.

He was keenly interested in Kansas coach Bill Self, who, for the second game in a row, permitted CBS to broadcast his pre-game speech to his team. "Did you like what he said, Dad?" he asked with a tone that indicated he'd already made up his mind and his opinion of Self was positive.

I held the same view and we discussed the sports psychology behind the coach's choice of words, which emphasized the team's historic accomplishments that could never be taken away from them, his unwavering belief that they simply had to be themselves and nothing else to win the game, and that the event they were about to engage in would remain with them for the rest of their lives-- all confidence/comfort builders with a dash of understated challenge that he permitted the world to see in a masterful stroke of coaching genius that communicated a subliminal message to his team: we've got nothing to hide or fear because in the end, this is what we do and we're going to do it well.

The game tipped off and vaulted into the up tempo, never-say-die team sprint we knew was coming. My son was astonished, having been turned off to basketball by previous exposures to wide bodies backing it down into the paint in set piece half court offenses, boring parades to the free throw line, and one-on-one egofests. A minute and a half into the contest he declared, "This is the greatest basketball game I've ever seen."

It was the tip of the iceberg.

When Cole Aldrich entered the game for the Jayhawks the kid declared, "That's Jojo Johanssen," the fictional college hoopster from Tom Wolfe's novel, I Am Charlotte Simmons. And darned if he wasn't. Needless to say, it couldn't end there. Between compelling exhibitions of pick-pocketing defenses, high-flying acrobatics, tie scores, surges, dry spells, and lead changes, my son worked to peg the players on the screen to their "counterparts" on Wolfe's imaginary DuPont University club. Darrell Arthur was Treyshawn Diggs, Joey Dorsey was Vernon Congers, and so on and so forth.

With no emotional investment in either team, we both declared that we didn't want to see anyone lose. But with two minutes to go and Memphis up by 9 I noted it was time to face reality, that Kansas was toast. "Don't be so negative, Dad, " he chided with the wisdom of Bill Self.

And as the parade of Memphis players to the free throw line reverted to a cortege of pre-tournament brick layers, he gave me that look perfected by adolescents worldwide-- the look that says, "You're an idiot, Dad."

It was all in good fun. The only thing missing was a miracle and when Mario Chalmers swished that unbelievable trey at the buzzer to send the game into overtime, we let out a whoop that traumatized our still-missing cat. Alaskans, we agreed, really do have ice water in their veins after all.

With Vernon Congers, er, Joey Dorsey having fouled out of the game and the opportunity of a lifetime having been blown by an inability to control nerves or sink unmolested free throws, the body language of the Memphis squad suggested that overtime was going to be a formality. And it was, bringing the evening full circle-- back to Coach Self's message about winning being largely a matter of staying true to yourself.

It was a message to keep forever on a night that will be remembered forever by the Jayhawks, a father, and a son.

Indie Sport

Deep In The Heart Of Texas

CSP — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 08:29:26 GMT

The ingredients were all in place for an epic, juicy drama: Love, a Rose, a foursome with two divorcees, and, of course, one Self. In the end, as is so often the case in these affairs, the outcome was not quite what was imagined, which is not to say there wasn't a whole lot of satisfaction.

The two semifinal games at the Final Four brought together four number one seeds for the first time in NCAA history-- UCLA, North Carolina, and Kansas, all deeply pedigreed basketball programs, and Memphis, no stranger to the dance but a comparative up and comer, albeit one who arrived with the best record in the field.

I'd recorded the games on my DVR and settled in to watch Kansas take on North Carolina and their fine coach Roy Williams, who jilted the Jayhawks four years ago for the apparently bluer pastures of Chapel Hill, leaving behind more than few ruffled feathers in the heartland.

But hell hath no fury like that of a Jayhawk scorned, as Kansas laid waste to North Carolina in the first 13 minutes of the game with a blitzkrieg attack so quick and clean that the Heels looked as though they were stuck in . . . well, tar. Again and again the men from Lawrence picked Carolina's pockets with a ball-hawking defense that showed you don't necessarily need the pill to be on the attack. Never has defense looked so cool and sexy.

With a little over seven and a half minutes remaining in the first half and Kansas up by a preposterous 38-12 score, CBS commentator Billy Packer declared, "This one is over." And though he was correct in the letter of his declaration, he couldn't have been more wrong in spirit.

Displaying the valor of a champion, Carolina refused to roll over and die, whittling the lead down to 17 at the half, and coming within five points of the disbelieving Jayhawks before Kansas snapped out their fugue state, reasserted their dominance, and took it home with a decisive 18 point victory, making a prophet of their coach, Bill Self.

CBS had miked Self for his pre-game message to his underdog club, the kind of media contrivance that usually makes one cringe. But Self delivered a calm, unifying set of principles devoid of cliches, reminding his team that the game would be long, that adversity was expected, that the best players love games such as these, and that he fully expected they would all reunite in celebration a couple of hours hence. His marvelously balanced team delivered the goods as scripted in a manner that was-- dare I say it-- both Self-ish and un.

It was only when CBS put up a graphic advertising Monday's championship game between Kansas and Memphis that I realized I'd watched the second of the two semi-final games, reminding me that I need reminders to take my ginko biloba.

I hate watching recorded games when I know the outcome in advance and pride myself on being able to avoid spoilers-- even for days when necessary-- by constructing an elaborate set of preemptive tactics that would make Monk proud. But duty called, so I persevered and waded into Memphis versus UCLA.

There are times when the game transcends the score. This was one of those times. To say that what I witnessed was artistry would be to damn Derrick Rose and his Memphis running mate, Chris Douglas-Roberts, with faint praise. The show they put on was Cirque du Soleil in sneakers.

In what was otherwise a systematic and workmanlike victory over the Bruins, Rose and Douglas-Roberts swooped, soared, juked, streaked, and, above all, finished with exclamation points. They were not alone, supported by the sturdy infrastructure of Joey Dorsey, who scored no points but cleaned the glass with 15 rebounds.

It is hard to believe that Rose is a freshman. He runs the floor and his club with ambidextrous flair and aplomb. And for good measure he's placed the maturation of his game on the fast track, draining 11 of 12 free throws-- perhaps inspiring his notorious, brick laying teammates who hit 20 of 23 from the line when it counted most.

When all was said and done the Bruins, who kept it close for a half, simply couldn't keep up with Memphis' high octane attack, leaving the building with a 15 point deficit that ended their magnificent season, while Elvis remained behind to bask in the glory of his hometown's latest rock stars.

So now the foursome is a couple. Yes, Love is gone, but Self remains. This could be very interesting.

Did anyone see where did I put my ginko?

Indie Sport

Outside The Box

CSP — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 05:24:34 GMT

Hold onto your blood pressure cuffs, sports fans. Larry Bowa has a valid point. It's just not the one he's trying to make.

In case you missed it, baseball's enfant terrible got tossed, fined, and suspended the other night for the vein-popping hissy fit he engaged in with umpire Ed Montague. The brouhaha started when Montague observed Bowa, the L.A. Dodgers third base coach, standing outside the chalk lines, in violation of the new rule that forbids base coaches from crossing the lines of their designated boxes toward home plate or the field until batted balls pass by them.

It's a simple rule to understand and follow, but Bowa believes the statute somehow doesn't apply to him because it is "ludicrous" and was written by "people in New York that wear the coats and ties and don't get on the field." Bowa, who has always had difficulty connecting the dots between his behavior and expected comportment, somehow missed the basic grade school lesson: you don't get to flout the authorities without consequences just because you think they're dumb.

In Bowa's defense, however, the behavior of Ed Montague was equally, if not more, egregious-- as revealed in a video we reviewed on YouTube before it was apparently taken down. All Montague had to do was inform Bowa of the violation and direct him to make the correction. Had Bowa refused to comply after a simple warning, Montague could have tossed him.

Instead, Montague got right up in Bowa's grill, violated his personal space, and jawed with him in a manner that was clearly provocative. Bowa naturally exploded and Montague, instead of walking away, kept circling like a peacock in heat, maintaining close range, and trading on his perceived immunity as an umpire to engage in behavior that players are forbidden from exhibiting. Even when Dodgers manager Joe Torre inserted himself between Bowa and Montague, the ump kept pressing in, pouring gasoline on the inferno.

Without a doubt, Bowa committed the cardinal sin by making physical contact with Montague, making his suspension inevitable. But seriously, I get jostled more firmly than Montague did just getting on a bus.

In the aftermath of this particular variant of schoolyard inanity that seems unique to baseball, both Bowa and Montague waxed idiotic.

Said Bowa regarding his suspension, "...that's a joke. It's totally uncalled for. You got guys that tested positive for steroids and they admitted they took them. No suspensions."

Can't you just hear the conversation at MLB headquarters? "Yeah, we really screwed up this steroids thing, so we gotta let the chippy stuff slide this year. That outta restore our credibility, don't you think, Bud?"

Montague, the provocateur, called Bowa's ejection "stupid," referring to Larry's behavior when he should have been referring to Moe's. "I think he got off," said Montague, feeling that Bowa's sentence was light, given the owie he must have gotten from the physical contact between them.

And then there was Torre, assessing Bowa's behavior in this vein: "That's how we should all play this game, with a sense of urgency." Uh . . . yeah.

Two days removed from the incident, Bowa remains symptomatic, spewing paranoid accusations against Bob Watson, baseball's vice-president of field operations, challenging his manhood, and asserting that since nobody from Watson's office personally told him about the new rule, he shouldn't be held accountable for not reading the literature describing it, which was handed out to every major league club prior to the start of the season.

Watson, who finds himself in the middle of the sandbox, has an easy solution at his disposal. All he needs to do is to ask Ed Montague how long he really should have suspended Bowa and then impose that sentence on Montague.

Can't we all just get along?

Indie Sport

Lost In Translation

CSP — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 00:01:15 GMT

Beleaguered Oakland Raiders Coach Lane Kiffin finally went public about his recent contretemps with team owner Al Davis during a Q&A in Palm Beach, Florida yesterday. In attendance were members of the Mexican press corps, who are covering off-season events as part of an ongoing civic effort to support Mexico City's desire to land an NFL franchise.

Our Indie Sport correspondent in Guadalajara has obtained a copy of this morning's issue of the Mexican daily, La Verdad, whose translation of Kiffin's remarks makes it clear how much our great neighbors to the south still need to learn before they are NFL-ready:

Q. Coach, what's it like working for Al Davis?

A. "I need a sip of water."

La Verdad: "I have a drinking problem. Okay?"

Q. What about Davis' involvement with the team?

A. "It's very unique. He's an owner who's very hands-on, prides himself on his knowledge of football."

La Verdad: "He's an insufferable, interfering megalomaniac with grandiose delusions."

Q. The last several Raiders coaches have not lasted long. Do you feel threatened?

A."It's not the easiest job. I know people have left because of that. Al is very demanding. At the same time, he is someone who has done a lot of things in this league -- coach, (AFL) commissioner, owner -- and has a lot of knowledge."

La Verdad: "I hate this job. I'm just biding my time for a better gig. Al is a narcissist who sucks up my time with his constant need to be the center of attention. He's a relic who the game has passed by. He hasn't had an original idea since Daryle Lamonica was here."

Q. What about Davis' decision to retain defensive coordinator Rob Ryan?

A. "At the end of the season, Rob and I had a meeting and Rob felt it was in his best interest to go somewhere else. I met with the owner and expressed that with Al, we talked about a lot of things and a lot of different scenarios that could come up, and Al decided to stay with Rob. Rob has one year left on his contract. I've always had a strong and very good relationship with Rob."

La Verdad: "Rob can't stand Davis either. I threatened to trim Al's pompadour if he dumped Rob and he caved in. We're both out of here next year."

Q. What did you take away from last year?

A. "Nobody was happy with 4-12, but it was a very valuable year for me and our staff to learn more about the team and see what we had. All that information helps for the future."

La Verdad: "We sucked, we will continue to suck, and Al Davis sucks. All that information helps for the future."

Q. "Thanks, Coach."

A. "No problem."

La Verdad: "Did I mention that I have a drinking problem?"

Indie Sport

Masters Of The Conundrum

CSP — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 05:40:59 GMT

The island of Lanai, nestled in a blue crescent of the Pacific formed by the arc of Molokai, Maui, and Kahoolawe, is a paradise for golfers and honeymooners. Thus, it was with great anticipation that my wife and I boarded a twin-prop flight in Honolulu yesterday morning on a journey to celebrate our wedding anniversary . . . and to pay homage to the 119th anniversary of a seminal event in U.S. golfing history-- the opening of the first American golf course in 1889, by John T. Reid in Yonkers, New York.

Our 20 minute puddle jump was uneventful, save for the jarring landing that reminded us of the old pilot's axiom: a good landing is simply one you can walk away from. We alighted from the aircraft and were immersed in the cool, morning air, chilled by the altitude that surprises so many visitors who forget that Hawaii is both tropical and mountainous. With each step the stress of our hectic lives evaporated in the breeze, slowing our rhythm into harmony with the environment.

Lanai (pronounced Lah-nigh-ee) has no traffic lights. It's all of 18 by 13 miles in size, has more pine trees than palms, and boasts a population of only 3,000. Ancient Hawaiian legend held that Lanai was once an evil place, overrun with demons. By the middle of the 20th century, however, it was overrun with pineapples, generating 75% of the world's crop at the high point of production. But the industry soured in the late 1980's, leaving the local economy with little choice but to reinvent itself.

Out went the fruit and in came the dough, in the form of luxurious sister resorts-- the prototypically tropical Manele Bay Hotel and the upcountry Lodge at Koele, replete with expansive gardens, manicured croquet lawns, a great room with fireplace, horses, pool room, and a polished wood library boasting a million dollar view that you gaze onto from overstuffed chairs so soft that you're cradled as if in a cocoon.

The island's golf courses are no less sublime.

The Challenge at Manele Bay is a Jack Nicklaus designed links course that uses the Pacific Ocean as a water hazard on three of its holes. Be prepared to lose your balls here, but should that be your fate you'll be more than compensated with views of spinner dolphins leaping and twirling for your entertainment in Hulopo'e Bay, far below the sea cliffs from which you launched your errant shots.

In exquisite contrast, The Experience at Koele is a Greg Norman designed course that begins at an elevation of 2,000 feet. Here you enter a realm of lush mountain foliage, wooded slopes, and sweeping ocean views of Maui and Molokai. It's heaven on earth, as is The Challenge, and I'd played them both before this visit.

But a golfing pilgrimage of the magnitude my wife and I were undertaking calls for something truly special. So we eschewed the merely extraordinary and opted for the ultimate, supreme, and unique test of skill and nerve-- the Executive Putting Course at Koele.

Laid out over a monstrous par-51, 18-hole course measuring 1,671 feet in length, The Conundrum, as we dubbed it, undulates like a belly dancer, taunting all comers with wicked dog legs, impossible par-2's, water hazards, sand traps, and roaming wild turkeys, none of whom were visible the day we played, perhaps victims of Mike Tyson's latest visit.

My wife is not a golfer, but is, as she likes to say, "of golf," having been raised in a home on Golf House Road, right across the street from the fabled Merion Golf Club in Haverford, PA. I, on the other hand, am a hack-with-the-yips who hadn't picked up a club in six years. We were both sorely in need of guidance before taking on The Conundrum.

There was only one solution: call the Gator.

The Gator, shorthand for his more formal handle, RU Gator, is a caddy to the stars in western New Jersey and a prolific, heavily read blogger on the CNN/SI website, FanNation (http://www.fannation.com/). The Gator never publicizes his fees because if you've got to ask, you can't afford him. We were fortunate enough to have placed him on retainer, so when we called for putting advice, he turned on the meter and held forth.

"Rule #1," he belted out in his delightful Joisey accent. "Speed is more important than line."

"Rule #2. If the ball doesn't make it to the hole, it doesn't go in."

"Rule #3. Never miss short. No decent pro putter ever misses short."

"Aren't those essentially all the same tips, Gator?" I asked timidly.

"Hey, you're in Hawaii and I just finished picking up dog s**t here in 37 degree weather. How's that for juxtaposition?" he replied, employing the Socratic method that has made him legendary up and down the eastern seaboard.

"I understand, sensei," I said. "But we're both left-handed. Any special instructions for southpaws?"

"Oh, God. Yeah, left-handers are like people who eat organic food all the time and live in Denver. There are no answers. It's all bulls**t. Have a good time."

As always with the Gator, the lessons were deep and hard-earned.

"And what about drinking? What's the winning etiquette?" I queried, mindful that the meter was running and our tee time was rapidly approaching.

"No moderation whatsoever," he roared, relieving our guilt for the bottle of wine we'd consumed the night before at dinner.

Imbued with the Gator's juju we took on The Conundrum, a few sheets to the wind, free of any need to seek answers, mindful of only our pace. And lo if this magic wasn't heaven sent, as I watched my wife drain a trecherous, curling putt for a birdie on the ignominious 141 foot par-4 7th hole, her stroke as smooth as silk. And as the round progressed, the Gator's mantra whispered in the breeze, quelling my yips and setting my stroke free. I turned Mulligan Corner, bent an ear to the east, and parred six of the nine holes on the back side.

We walked off the 18th green arm in arm, one with each other and the rhythm of the course we'd both taken and played, luxuriating in the knowledge that when you play to win you never come up short.

Indie Sport

Size Matters

CSP — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 04:16:00 GMT

As we careen toward the Final Four and wrap up the first quarter of the year, we turn our attention to a brief retrospective of some of the mis-fits that came across the sports transom the past three months:

-- Danica Patrick is too light. The Indy Racing League may require minimum weights for drivers, on the premise that lightweights such as Danica have an unfair advantage. Patrick's never won an IRL race. Go figure.

-- Troy Polamalu's hair is too long. The NFL may restrict hair length so that it doesn't obscure a player's name or number. Yeah, I know. You thought it was Tiny Tim racing down the field with that interception.

-- Barry Bonds' head is too big. He should have listened to Yogi. When asked by the Yankees' equipment manger what hat size to issue him one spring training, Berra responded, "I don't know. I'm not in shape yet."

-- Patrick Roy's brain is too small. But it's all good. His son has the other hemisphere.

-- Kelvin Sampson's phone plan is a thousand times bigger than his current lifestyle warrants. Don't worry, he can afford it. He got a $750,000 buyout for cheating. Sign up for the Sampson plan at indiana.edu.

-- Bob Knight is too rich. The man who once described journalists as one step removed from prostitution is now one himself. Do the math. Sorry, we're not trying to pick on you, IU. We love the Hoosiers.

-- Rick Majerus is too big for his britches. Just ask the archbishop at St. Louis University. Rumors that Danica has offered to loan him some of hers cannot yet be confirmed or denied.

-- The font on the West Virginia contract of Coach Rich "Call Me Richer" Rodriguez is too small. He couldn't have read the terms or discerned that the ink on his signature had barely dried, even if he'd borrowed Joe Pa's glasses. Shame on you, WVU!

-- The 30-day jail sentence handed down to Roland Flores is too light. The man who hit Mike Piazza in the head with the filled water bottle he threw at Anaheim Stadium should have gotten 30 minutes in the pokey with Piazza as his cellmate With the security cameras turned off.

-- The syringe Bryan McNamee used to inject Roger Clemens with lidocaine was too large. McNamee injected so much of the analgesic into Clemens' bum that it leeched directly into his central nervous system, numbing his hippocampus, thereby causing him to misremember.

Okay, that's a wrap, folks. Have a great weekend, God bless, and remember, if the hat don't fit, you can't acquit.

Indie Sport

Man Up!

CSP — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 03:23:55 GMT

Pop quiz: name the five sports most commonly associated with the word "goon." Okay, there's hockey and . . . and . . . there's hockey . . . and . . . hmm. Let me get back to you on that.

Don't worry; you're not stumped. You're done. It's a variation of a trick question from the sports edition of You Don't Know Jack.

Hockey's latest black eye came in a junior game the other night, when former NHL standout-turned-coach Patrick Roy directed his son, a mediocre goalie on the short end of a 7-1 shellacking, to beat the bejesus out of the opposing team's goalie, which the young lad obediently did, despite the fact that his counterpart never fought back.

Now, before all you hockey aficionados throw down the gloves and call me out, allow me to go on record as saying ice hockey is one of the best sports I've ever seen live. The non-stop speed, power, finesse, and hard hitting action of the game combine to create an exhilarating flow that satisfies both the primitive, reptilian portion of the brain as well as the cortex. It's a full contact ballet between armored companies swirling in ever-changing patterns, as they seek to control a puck as quick and erratic as a pinball careening from bumper to bumper.

Why would anyone spoil a sport so fine with something so WWE as goons and the tawdry theatrics of thuggery they bring?

We've heard all the rationalizations before.

There's this one: The sticks are either literal or metaphorical weapons (choose your rationalization) that naturally and irresistibly bring out the warrior in the athlete, making fighting an inevitable psycho-biological imperative.

And there's this: It's an inherent component of the game's culture of fear and intimidation, as immutable as the spots on a Dalmatian.

And, finally, there's this: It's a necessary outlet to relieve pent-up hostilities unique to the sport.

All of this, of course, is nonsense. Hockey is not the only sport played with sticks. Lacrosse players, who wear a lot less padding, tear up and down the pitch whacking each other with sticks, yet manage to avoid fisticuffs. And it's not because they're effete school boys.

Establishing fear and intimidation in an opponent is endemic in many other sports, but it is established by imposing superior, demoralizing skill within the rules of the game. Often this is highly physical. The Oklahoma Sooners football team, during the heyday of their smash mouth wishbone offense, routinely intimidated opponents with one meat grinding drive after another that screamed, "You can't stop us."

When hockey, or any other sport, invokes the word "culture" to justify something unsavory, it tries to hide, ironically, behind the notion that anything identified as "cultural" is sacrosanct, time honored, and traditional-- a precious sociological heirloom handed down in an unbroken chain to preserve priceless, irreproachable heritage. It's semantic voodoo, akin to showcasing lynching as an esteemed cultural landmark of the South.

We don't see lynching in the South anymore, just as we rarely see goons and fighting in European and college hockey, because cultures change for the better when they are motivated to do so.

Goons and fighting exist because they are tolerated by hockey authorities who either consider their entertainment value to be essential to the marketing appeal of the sport or who view their value as being catalytic to the development of chest thumping machismo in boys and men. Both of these perspectives are specious.

The most entertaining hockey I've ever seen was the 1980 Miracle on Ice and six years of Western Collegiate Hockey Association play as a season ticket holder at Michigan State. The drama, competition, skill, and passion in these contests was simply superb and thuggery played no role, either because it didn't occur or wasn't tolerated.

The WCHA employed a system of progressive penalties for goons. A fight resulted in a match penalty plus a one game suspension. If the player fought again any time in the season he got a two game suspension. Then a three, and so forth. Goons were over matched by savvy players who prided themselves on suckering an opponent into a fight with a little trash talking that would cost their adversaries the services of players in key games. Athletes who lacked discipline did not fare well in this environment.

Fighting in hockey is most frequently triggered by two types of goons: those who cheap-shot and those who possess the frustration tolerance of a child. Often they are one and the same. The former reveals his inadequacy by resorting to illegitimate methods when he lacks the resources or initiative to gain a playing advantage legitimately. The latter pretends to hold to the creed, "When the going gets tough, the tough get going," when in actuality his actions betray his proclivity to tantrum when things don't go his way.

Spectators who need their blood lust satisfied have ample opportunity elsewhere, such as boxing, cage fighting, and the Democratic presidential primary. That's where I go when my brain stem cries out for a little love.

The game of hockey, if not some of its stewards and inhabitants, belongs in the pantheon of esteemed sports. But it will remain on the doorstep of semi-respectability, knocking to be let in until it realizes that the cumulative manhood of a thousand goons is but a fraction of that possessed and displayed by Jackie Robinson. Only then will it rid itself of the ugliness that defaces an otherwise beautiful game.

Indie Sport

Nobody Knows Anything

CSP — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 01:45:28 GMT

There's an old saying among the cognoscenti in Hollywood: when it comes to picking a winner, nobody knows anything.

Louis B. Mayer yanked the song "Over the Rainbow" from the Wizard of Oz because he was certain that it slowed down the movie and wouldn't work with the film's star, Judy Garland, singing it in a barnyard. Miraculously, he was persuaded otherwise by executive producer Arthur Freed and the rest is history.

United Artists was so certain of Oscar-winning director Michael Cimino's cinematic ability that they permitted him to triple his allotted budget in the making of Heaven's Gate, a movie so lengthy and bad that it was described as the equivalent of a "four-hour walking tour of one's own living room." The film lasted one week in a New York theater, then led to the demise of UA.

Nobody knows anything.

It's an axiom that is every bit as applicable in the world of sport. Of the more than 3 million forecasts submitted to ESPN by bracketologists nationwide, only two correctly picked the winner in each of the first 48 games that have now whittled down the field to the Sweet 16 in this year's NCAA basketball tournament. The millions who failed to make the grade can rest assured, however, that the dynamic duo who nailed this perfecto simply employed a little sports proctology and pulled their predictions out of their posteriors.

With little sense of irony we deride the carnival fortune teller, while investing hours of time in sports pundits who expertly and pseudo-expertly parse the nuances of a given match-up down to the sub-atomic level, only to find that the contest turns on a slippery center-court decal, or a once-in-a-lifetime perfect storm created by an underdog, or a bad piece of chicken consumed by a key player, or some other ineffable set of variables that can never be known.

But that's why we watch, isn't it?

What comes to mind when you think of the greatest moments you've witnessed in sports? It's the element of surprise. It's the sense of wonder and astonishment when performances materialize that are so unexpectedly magnificent they take your breath away. It's the deep satisfaction you feel when the precarious chasm between ambition and achievement has been bridged into the realization of a seemingly impossible goal.

Uncertainty about the outcome in sport is both the hook that pulls us in and the risk athletes take in their pursuit of victory. It's what separates sport so splendidly from the mundane drone of our largely predictable lives.

For the past week Indie Sport has spoofed our insatiable urge to forecast events in a series of posts, in which fictional "mascotologist" Slim Pickins predicted the Round 1 winners in this year's March Madness tournament based solely upon the characteristics of competing mascots (see previous Indie Sport posts, The Morning Buzz, et. al for a complete background on the ancient art of mascotology).

We hypothesized that Pickins' method would prove to be about as good-- or bad-- as any other in getting it right, and that actually seems to have been the case. Of the 49 games contested in Round 1, including the Mount Saint Mary's-Coppin State play-in game, Mr. Pickins divined the winner 39 times, an 80% success rate.

But readers who followed this thread also know that our in-house pundit demonstrated a strangely consistent ineptitude forecasting games involving Wildcats and dogs. In fact, his Achilles heel was so pronounced that when games involving these two mascots were factored out, Mr. Pickins' record ballooned to 34-3, a 92% success rate. All of this, of course, is nothing more than statistical hocus-pocus, for our guesses here at Indie Sport were nothing more than that-- guesses.

Nobody knows anything.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Indie Sport

The Good Life

CSP — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 04:16:09 GMT

The New York Yankees have announced the top price for tickets to games at the new Yankee Stadium that opens in 2009: $2,500 for each of the 122 front-row seats and other so-called "premium areas."

That's the size of a mortgage payment and it doesn't get you season tickets. It gets you one game from a vantage point breathlessly described as "an exclusive experience for those with discerning taste who seek the very best that life has to offer."

It's as though you were renting an ocean view butler suite at the Grand Wailea Resort on Maui. All that's missing is a pane of glass to ensure the inhabitants of these seats don't have their sensibilities sullied by exposure to the earthy atmosphere of what used to be known as a baseball game.

I don't know about you, but when I go to a ball game the last thing I'm seeking is an exclusive experience. I'm seeking an inclusive experience, a chance to be a part of something, to talk smack or cheer with people I've never met before but who hold common bonds with me because of our love of the game.

One of the great joys of my teenage years in Los Angeles was having the freedom and opportunity to fill up my parents' car with gas that cost 25 cents a gallon, drive with my brother or a good friend down to Dodger Stadium, pay a buck for parking, and then watch Sandy play Willie from the outfield bleachers or the high seats directly behind home plate for $1.50. On days we wanted to splurge, we'd grab a "reserved" seat closer in for $2.50 or the ultimate-- a box or loge seat for $3.50. In today's dollars that would be about $51 for two box seats, parking, and the gas to get there.

To paraphrase the Yankees' marketing hype, it was the very best that life has to offer: a shared community experience between and among unspoiled athletes and their supporters, who were afforded access to the front of the cathedral regardless of their station in life. How far we've come from that truly discerning era when the best of life meant a connection of lives, not a separation between them.

Indie Sport

The Morning Buzz

CSP — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 16:44:36 GMT

After a night of heavy, therapeutic drinking that came on the heels of a disappointing 11-5 record in his effort to predict yesterday's March Madness winners, our resident mascotologist and lead channeler, Slim Pickins (no relation to the late Hollywood actor Slim Pickens), has returned to make his Sweet 16 prognostication before he turns himself in to the authorities and is deported back to his native land for allegedly violating the terms of his work visa.

The charge was brought forth when Pickins engaged in the ground breaking research we've been documenting the past week, which is testing the hypothesis that mascotology, the phenomenological art of divining winners based upon the energetic vibrations emitted by competing team mascots, is as good as, or better than, traditional, analytical bracketology (see previous Indie Sport posts, Mascotology, Round 1, Day 1: Mascotology Goes 15-2! and The Problem With Cats And Dogs).

The terms of Mr. Pickins' visa stipulate that he is to be remunerated for work performed during his stay in the U.S., a condition not disclosed to Indie Sport prior to the initiation of this research. Nevertheless, Indie Sport regrets any role it may have played in unwittingly undermining national security and/or immigration law by permitting Mr. Pickins to donate his expertise to this study without the requisite recompense mandated by Homeland Security.

Pickins, who brings a 2008 March Madness record of 26-7 into today's forecast (21-2 in games not involving Wildcats or dogs), remains philosophical about his fate, taking comfort in the role he has played in bringing mascotology into the mainstream of American sport. Thus, it is in the spirit of international collaboration that we bring this project to its regrettable and premature denouement with our final mascotological forecast of the season, which Mr. Pickens assures us you can take to the bank now that he's cleared yesterday's static from his aura and replaced it with the harmonic vibration of a Class 3 hangover.

***

East

The Tar Heels (#1 North Carolina) and the Razorbacks (#9 Arkansas). Pigs like it sticky, but this is way too sticky. Carolina makes bacon.

The Fighting Irish (#5 Notre Dame) go hand to hand with the Cougars (#4 Washington State). I actually saw this once in an alley outside a bar on St. Patrick's Day. The cougar ended up at the taxidermist. Take the Irish.

The Sooners (#6 Oklahoma) circle the wagons against the Cardinals (#3 Louisville) and try to invoke squatter's rights. The birds cede them the land, fly high, and pepper them impudently with bombs and guano. Louisville stinks up the joint but prevails.

The Bulldogs (#7 Butler) go up against the Volunteers (#2 Tennessee). I can see clearly now . . . the Volunteers make target practice of these dogs and gun them down with buckshot.

Midwest

The Jayhawks (#1 Kansas) soar over the Runnin' Rebels (#8 UNLV). You can run, but you can't hide from these birds. Kansas in a romp (see Louisville-Oklahoma, above).

The Wildcats (#12 Villanova) against the Saints (#13 Siena). We don't make the same mistake twice. Forgive us, Father, for we have sinned. Siena converts the Cats.

More Wildcats (#11 Kansas State) tangle with Badgers (#3 Wisconsin). Stop worrying, we've got this Wildcat snafu sorted out. The nasty little Badgers eat them alive.

Okay, I confess, we're a little nervous here. The Wildcats (#10 Davidson) meet the Hoyas/Bulldogs (#2 Georgetown). What? Yeah, that's what Hoya means-- it means "what." Georgetown devours them in our carnivore special.

West

The Bruins (#1 UCLA) clash with the Aggies (#9 Texas A&M). The guys from the Lone Star State buy the farm on this one, as UCLA chews, buries, and then fertilizes them.

The Hilltoppers (#12 Western Kentucky) enter the arena against the Toreros (#13 San Diego). Guns versus swords. Take the Hilltoppers.

The Boilermakers (#6 Purdue) meet the Musketeers (#3 Xavier). Mr. Pickins had 14 boilermakers last night and is intimately familiar with their effect. The first step is acknowledging you have a problem and Purdue's got a big one here. The Musketeers send them packing back to West Lafayette.

The Mountaineers (#7 West Virginia) in a shoot-em-up with the Blue Devils (#2 Duke). We've told you previously that the Blue Devil is the emblem of the elite mountaineering division of the army of France. So who do you take in a war? Country hill folk or the French army? West Virginia in our upset special.

South

The Tigers (#1 Memphis) and, ugh, the Bulldogs (#8 Mississippi State). This shouldn't be legal. The Tigers swallow the dogs whole.

The Spartans (#5 Michigan State) tangle with the Panthers (#4 Pitt). You've seen The 300. Need I say more?

The Golden Eagles (#6 Marquette) swoop down on the Cardinal (#3 Stanford). Unfortunately, all they see is the color of blood-- their blood. Stanford grounds the Eagles in a nasty fight.

The Hurricanes (#7 Miami) meet up on the range with the Longhorns (#2 Texas). You ever met Bevo? He blows way more wind than a hurricane. Texas hooks 'em and moves on.

So that's it. Thank you Mr. Pickins and godspeed. May the vibe be with each and every one of you.

Indie Sport