FanNation

Self Knowledge

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.

Deep In The Heart Of Texas

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. 

Outside The Box

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."

Lost In Translation

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:

Masters Of The Conundrum

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.