Category Archives: Sports

The real problem with the U.S. Olympic uniforms

After noting that failing to have the U.S. Olympic team’s uniforms made in this country was a serious missed opportunity, Peggy Noonan raises the other problem, which has occurred to me whenever I’ve seen photos of these ridiculous togs:

But that isn’t the biggest problem. That would be the uniforms themselves. They don’t really look all that American. Have you seen them? Do they say “America” to you? Berets with little stripes? Double breasted tuxedo-like jackets with white pants? Funny rounded collars on the shirts? Huge Polo logos? They look like some European bureaucrat’s idea of a secret militia, like Brussels’s idea of a chic new army. They’re like the international community Steven Spielberg lined up to put on the spaceship at the end of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”

Americans wear baseball caps, trucker hats, cowboy hats, watch caps, Stetsons, golf caps, even Panama hats and fedoras. They wear jeans and suits and khakis and shorts and workout clothes. The Americans in the now-famous uniform picture look like something out of a Vogue spread where the models arrayed on the yacht look like perfect representatives of the new global elite.

Our athletes aren’t supposed to look like people who’d march under a flag with statues and harps and musical notes. Also, the women’s uniforms make them look like stewardesses from the 777 fleet on Singapore Airlines.

The failure of the uniforms is that they don’t communicate: “Here comes America.”

They communicate: “Chic global Martians coming your way.”

Amen to that, Peggy.

I saw a photo in the WSJ the other day showing the uniforms, and at first I thought sure they were on male fashion models — you know, the kind who are distinguishable from the female models only by slightly larger jaws, with neither gender looking entirely like normal, healthy humans? The effect was heightened by the fact that they were wearing clothing no normal person would wear.

I was shocked to learn they were actual American athletes. I’m still not sure the cutline was right. So maybe it was entirely the uniforms that made them look so unreal.

So is fishin’. And eatin’. And watchin’ TV…

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This morning, I saw something that made me feel good, in advance, about any tag lines or campaign themes I might come up with for ADCO this week.

“Huntin’ is good!” it insisted. Not just hunting, but huntin’, which I suppose is meant to convey a certain deep and informal intimacy with this particular activity.

What really grabbed me was the registered trademark symbol, which seemed to assume that this phrase was just so darned clever that it was inevitable that some unscrupulous varmint would be tempted to try to steal it…

But I declare, I don’t believe I’ve ever run across anything as vanilla as that in my life. There was no indication why huntin’ was good, or why anyone might think it wasn’t. It didn’t say it was particularly good in this or that locality, or at any particular time. Nor did it bother to reach for any adjective more descriptive or precise or evocative than good.

It was a marvel, and I had to look it up on my phone during the morning meeting at work. That’s where I found this website, huntinisgood.com, which offers all sorts of merchandise, such as the very decal I had seen.

The website seems dedicated to perpetuating the art or hobby or whatever of hunting at a time when the number of hunters is dwindling in our once rugged, intrepid nation of pioneers. I had known that. I had read before about how the industry was worried about how few children of hunters were taking up their forefathers’ outdoorsiness, and how marketers were trying to entice the kids, as well as women, to the pasttime with such innovations as pink rifles.

But I had never seen such a full litany of threats to hunting as what were detailed on this site:

Hunting Industry Under Attack

Tracking Down An Industry-Wide Problem. Across the United States, and for well over three decades, the population of hunters in our country has been on the decline. Since 1975 alone, the number of hunters in the field has been reduced by over one third.

Since the issue of attrition within the hunting community has only recently become a cause for serious concern, usable research is still limited. But just as writers, industry experts and retailers all speculate on the causes, we have developed our own list of suspects which have created a negative impact on the hunting culture.

Erosion Of The Family Unit. With divorce rates and single parent families on the rise, the number of Dads and Grandfathers in a position to mentor our youth, and pass on an appreciation for the hunting culture, are dwindling fast.

The Anti-Hunting Community. Highly organized, with seemingly unlimited budgets, their goal, simply put, is the elimination of the hunting industry.

The Lure Of Technology. These days, our children are “jacked-in” to video games, hunting only in Cyber Space. They’ve become masters of Wi-Fi and pixels, not the way of the woods.

Industry Fragmentation. We have evolved into a highly fragmented industry… bow hunters, turkey hunters, rifle hunters, safari hunters, duck hunters, muzzle-loaders, gator hunters, low-fence, no-fence, high-fence… it’s all become a lot of nonsense!

One thing we can all agree on 100% is that:
Huntin’ Is Good!®

The day is fast approaching when we all must decide a course of action, or face the reality that our industry, and the way of life it represents, may become extinct.

It’s time we draw the line! The Hunting Tradition, and its’ Way of Life, needs your help! Please wear your HIG gear soon and often. This will let other’s know, what you already know, Huntin’ Is Good!

Whoa. Huntin’ may or may not be good — I’m neutral on that point — but it certainly seems endangered. Either that, or paranoid. (Of course, if some outfit as ominously named as the Anti-Hunting Community got after you, you’d be paranoid, too!)

I’ve never gotten into it myself. I like to go out shooting now and then with my uncle in Bennettsville, who does hunt, but I prefer to shoot at tin cans and pine cones to living things. On account of the fact that pine cones don’t have to be skinned and dressed and butchered and put up in some freezer bigger than the one I have at home. They’re just a lot less trouble.

Something else women would never think of

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This week, we’re going to be celebrating the particular genius of the human male — why he is special and essential, as wonderful as women may be. I mean, as wonderful as they are.

I’ll explain why later.

Here’s something else (in addition to the subject of this earlier post) a woman would never think of.

Seriously. First of all, it’s hard to get most of them even to care about video games. You may have noticed this. But to think of inserting Bo Jackson into Super Mario Brothers to run the board? That is something that only the male of the species, with his uncanny willingness to sit and think about stuff like this for hours on end, could possible conceive. And to actually spend the time turning the idea into reality? Well, you have to have that extra bone in your head that the male is blessed with to achieve it.

Watch the video, and bask in the brilliance of the concept, even if the execution is a bit lacking (obviously, Bo should have been bigger, so you could see him better — but that leaves room for the next generation of guys to improve the concept, so it’s all good).

Boogity, Boogity, Boogity, Amen (the cover)

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This post is a ripoff of a post by Burl Burlingame over at his Honolulu Agonizer blog, headlined “Great Songs Are Inevitably Covered.”

I owe him a debt of gratitude because, while I had heard of the “Greatest NASCAR prayer ever,” I had never bothered to listen to it. It’s… remarkable. That is to say, it’s remarkable to me as a Catholic. Maybe you protestants pray like this all the time. But I doubt it. I went to my cousin Jason’s church for Easter Vigil this year, and there was nothing like this.

The original prayer was actually like this. The version above has been “songified” by The Gregory Brothers. I don’t know who they are, but they definitely rendered the pastor’s effort more awesome.

Here is some bare-bones explanation of the prayer, posted on HuffPost last July:

Prior to Saturday night’s Nascar Nationwide Series race in Nashville, Tenn., Pastor Joe Nelms was tasked with delivering the invocation. What happened next plays like a scene straight out of Will Ferrell’s “Talladega Nights.”

And here is a followup at The Christian Post:

A Tennessee pastor claims he was emulating the apostle Paul when he was called on to deliver the opening prayer at a NASCAR event in which he thanked God for his “smokin’ hot wife,” among other things. Some fans have called it the “best prayer ever” while critics are calling it disrespectful and possibly blasphemous.

Joe Nelms, pastor of Family Baptist Church in Lebanon, Tenn., insists that he was just trying to be like the first-century apostle, but some wonder how far Paul would go in his effort to become “all things to all men.”…

Although the prayer might have offended some people, Nelms said the prayer was not really for Christian audiences. He was more trying to reach out to the unsaved or those turned off by church.

“Our whole goal was to open doors that would not otherwise be open. There are a lot of folks who think churches are all [full of] serious people who never enjoy life and [who have] just a list of rules.”

His invocation was all about showing the world what Christian joy looks like, he said, sharing a bit of his testimony. “We who have been saved by Christ, we know that living has just begun. When I accepted Christ, that’s when I really learned what joy was.”

Despite criticism, Nelms’ evangelism effort has apparently paid off; several people have contacted him expressing a desire to give church a try.

The cover is by some kid named Roomie, who posts a lot of music videos on YouTube.

And that’s all I know.

Santorum could beat Obama — at bowling. Can Romney say the same?

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Mitt Romney has, from the start, based his candidacy for the nomination on the claim that he’s the guy who could beat Obama, if anyone can.

But now we have proof that Santorum could easily beat the president at one thing — bowling.

The ex-senator has been putting in time in some bowling alleys lately. The only actual score I’ve f0und was a 152, which Bloomberg calls “respectable.” Which it is. That’s all it is, but it is that. A guy who can’t go out and roll a 150 basically shouldn’t bowl in front of cameras. That’s about what my average was when I was in a league in high school in Tampa.

“Respectable” is not a term anyone would use to describe the president’s skills at this game. So Santorum should have really played this up from the start.

Here’s video of him rolling a turkey. And if you don’t know what a turkey is, you shouldn’t bowl for money against Santorum. Or me, even though I haven’t bowled seriously in more than 40 years.

According to The New York Times, Santorum even managed to work in a communitarian theme while at the alley:

In an interview about his bowling background, Mr. Santorum referred to the famous book about bowling as a thread in the fabric of small-town America, “Bowling Alone,” by Robert D. Putnam, a professor of history at Harvard.

“ ‘Bowling Alone’ is about the breakdown of social capital in this country,” he said. “People used to come together in leagues and groups. Bowling is a social sport. You talk and eat and drink and are together. It’s a commitment to go every week. My dad bowled in a league, and I went with him. He was a lefty. We went on league night, it was part of my childhood.”

I had to laugh at this site, though, which breathlessly stated that “He even has his own bowling ball.” Oh, yeah? So do I. Doesn’t everybody? And in my younger days I had my own two-piece pool cue. Didn’t make me Minnesota Fats.

He can’t spell the name, but we’ll claim him

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First, I was impressed when I saw this video of a third-grader making a half-court shot at the buzzer.

Then I heard his name. Austin Worthen may not spell it right, but he’s obviously one of us…

As first reported by the KOBI and KOTI NBC affiliates in Medford and Klamath Falls, Okla., Austin Worthen nailed a trey from just beyond midcourt during his team’s victory in an elementary school basketball tournament on Saturday.

While Worthen’s shot came from a fairly typical buzzer-beater distance, it wasn’t delivered in a traditional way at all, thanks to Worthen’s diminutive size. Rather, the third-grader put his entire body into his baseball-style heave, which then banked in through the net to close out the third quarter of his team’s 25-4 victory.

As is the case with many buzzer-beaters, the hysteria set off by Worthen’s bucket was at least as entertaining as the shot itself. The shooter himself went racing around the court in near delirium while his coach exploded on the sideline as if he had just won the lottery himself.

Something weird in the world of sports…

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Apparently, someone out there has decreed that all football-related news this week involve someone named “Peyton,” whether spelled that way or with a slight variation, such as “Payton.”

I don’t know why. I don’t even know why we are subjected to any football-related news when this is so clearly not the season for it. The only sports we should be hearing about should be NCAA basketball, and the impending baseball season.

Maybe we could get a meme going about Jay Payton, left-fielder for the Rockies. It’s worth a try…

Even more LINsane in Chinese

Not only South Carolinians subordinate the law to games

Somebody explain this bowl thing to me…

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Normally, I don’t think much about this sort of thing, which is probably why I’m puzzled. Perhaps y’all can explain it to me.

This morning, it was reported that Gamecocks are going to the Capital One Bowl. OK, sounds par for the course. In recent years, they have gone to one bowl or another named after some corporation.

But the Clemson Tigers are going to the Orange Bowl.

Now here’s what puzzles me. “Orange Bowl” is something I’ve heard of. It seems to imply a certain prestige. I mean, there’s the Rose Bowl, and the Sugar Bowl, and the Orange Bowl, and that pretty much sums up all the bowl games that I’ve been hearing about (admittedly, without actually trying) since my youth. Which in my mind confers a certain legitimacy, rightly or wrongly.

Meanwhile, these bowls named for sponsors — well, I have to wonder about the value of such naming rights. It seems that if you’re the sponsor of the Rose Bowl, that confers something on your brand. But if you rename it for your company — say, the ABC Corporation Bowl — do you thereby lose some of the cachet that you were trying to buy? (Vizio seems to agree.)

I don’t know. Not my particular marketing specialty. But it does seem to me that invitations to bowls named for commodities, rather than companies, carry greater prestige. Just inferring.

In any case, Wikipedia confirms my rough impression. The Rose Bowl dates back to 1902, and is the biggie. The Sugar Bowl and Orange Bowl both date to 1935. Something called the Tangerine Bowl was played from 1947-1982, after which it was called the Florida Citrus Bowl from 1983 to 2002, after which it became the Capital One Citrus Bowl before dropping the “citrus.”

Anyway, fully acknowledging my gross ignorance on this subject, I nevertheless have the impression that being invited to the Orange Bowl is a bigger deal.

Given that, I have trouble squaring that with something else that I just sort of barely, halfway know — that the Gamecocks have had a better year.

I would never ask you to go by me, but I see that the AP sportwriters, or whoever does that weekly poll, have USC ranked 10th, and Clemson ranked 14th. (I glanced through other polls, and USC was always 9th or 10th, and Clemson was always 14th or 15th, so it seems we have something like consensus.) And I’m also aware that the Gamecocks pretty much cleaned Clemson’s clock just over a week ago.

So what gives? How does stuff like this happen? Is it random? Is it who you know?

What ad whiz came up with this nightmare?

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Have I mentioned that I’m participating in the Riley Institute’s Diversity Leaders Initiative down in Charleston? No, I haven’t… Well, there’s a lot I can tell you about that — the banner ad at the top of this page is involved — but I’ll do that later.

Right now, I want to show you something we discussed as a sort of mini-case study Monday in the class.

See the above, short-lived, Intel print ad.

See if you can find, without Googling the controversy, how many ways the ad is racially offensive.

No, there’s no right answer, but I came up with three. With more time, I’d have come with more. I just thought I’d get y’all to talking about what I spent part of my day talking about.

The amazing thing was that it ever actually found its way into print. I don’t think any newspaper I’ve ever worked at would have fouled up to this extent, been this clueless — although I’ve been party to a number of mistakes. It astounds me that something that was not produced on a daily deadline was this ill-considered. But it was, and appeared in a Dell catalog in 2007 before being withdrawn. Intel apologized.

‘… No! He is RISING!…’ Remembering Smokin’ Joe Frazier

At least the fries were French

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This isn’t Proust. In fact, I’ve never read Proust. And the descriptions I’ve read of Remembrance of Things Past never seem to recommend it, because they always note how amazingly long it is. In any event, I don’t read French, and it seems a waste to spend that much time on something and not know at the end whether it bore any resemblance to what the author intended.

But today, under the most mundane circumstances, I experienced something like the episode of the madeleine. Really. It was way literary.

Lanier and I were having lunch at the Mousetrap, and I had ordered the hamburger steak with fries. We had told the waitress Lanier had a pressing appointment, and our orders came out quickly, and hot. Something about the look of the fries put my mind on the verge of something. They were perfectly ordinary crinkle-cuts, but there was something about the color, the apparent consistency. When I tasted one, everything — flavor, moisture, temperature, mixture of crispness and tenderness, the grease, the feeling against my teeth — brought back a very specific memory from 43 years ago. That was when I had tasted fries that were exactly like these.

Initially, the memory that came to me was visual. In my mind’s eye, I could see that I was in a diner. From the center of the field of vision running off to the right was a counter, with high stools, behind it one of those windows to the kitchen. Starting at the center and running toward the left was a window with blinds — it was dark outside — and then a doorway out to a sidewalk. I couldn’t see where I was sitting — a booth, a table? — only what I could see, looking up, from that vantage point. There were people moving about, but they were indistinct, ghostly. I couldn’t fix on them. Then came the sounds of the place, the clanking dishes, the hiss of the grill, the rowdy sounds of boys’ voices.

I knew where I was. The junior varsity basketball team of Bennettsville High School — 1967-68 school year — was on the road. We were having dinner after a game in a small town in the Pee Dee, before getting back on the bus to head back to B’ville. I was 14 and this was an adventure, one of many like it.

I was part of the team and not on the team — sort of like Ollie, the team manager, at the start of “Hoosiers.” After the grueling tryouts (one gets a taste of eternity in windsprints up and down the court), the coach looked down at me and told me I had almost made it. He was sure I’d be ready next year. If I’d be the manager, I could work out with the team and play against Robin Frye in practices. Robin was the only guy as short as I was who had made the team. I was in the 9th grade, and wouldn’t get my height for a couple of years.

Most of my duties were pretty simple — gathering up the balls after practice and such. But I had one that I regarded as core, one that made me feel important beyond my years. I was the official scorekeeper for the team. I sat at the folding table along the sidelines with the other team’s scorekeeper on my left, and the guy with the scoreboard controls and buzzer on my right. My supreme moment of the season was in a late home game. One of our guys was fouled, and he took his free throw and made it. The referee was giving to the ball to the other team to take out when I told the guy next to me to hit the buzzer. The ref came over and I told him our player was entitled to a second shot because it was a one-and-one situation. The ref said he didn’t think it was. I told him I was sure, and showed him the fouls on my sheet — I remembered each one. The other scorekeeper said no; there hadn’t been that many fouls.

The ref said that since I was the home scorekeeper, my record was official. He went back out and gave our guy another shot.

I’m surprised I didn’t fall off my folding chair, I was so drunk with power. I couldn’t believe it — I had given a signal, and that whole packed gym had stopped everything to hear what I had to say. And then, my word being law, I had pronounced my ruling, and the ref and all those other adults had obeyed.

It’s good to be the scorekeeper.

But I kept my face impassive, and acted like this was the way things were supposed to be.

In the late 80s, I attended my cousin’s graduation. His was the final class to graduate as Green Gremlins. The graduation was held in the football stadium of the new, consolidated Marlboro High School, which everyone would attend the next year. But then a storm came up. Those in charge decided everyone would repair across town to the old school, and we’d complete the ceremonies in the auditorium there. So we did.

The place was packed, and steaming hot. There wasn’t enough room for everyone to sit in the auditorium, so people were distributed anywhere they could get a vantage point of the stage. I found myself in the wings of the stage itself, watching the kids come up for their diplomas. I remembered that one of the backstage doors opened onto the gym, and slipped away to go check it out.

Speaking of “Hoosiers” — remember the end, with the camera panning slowly through an almost-empty gym, obviously years after the miraculous championship? There’s a small boy dribbling and taking shots, alone, at one end of the court, and every time the ball hits the court surface, the echoes resound, as the camera gradually swings up and zooms in on the portrait of The Team. It was like that. It felt like that; my every step sounded like that.

I went over and stood in the spot from which I had issued The Ruling. Odd, it strikes me now, that a movie hasn’t been made about that great moment in sports history. Hollywood doesn’t know what’s good, I guess.

Those are the things I thought of when I bit into that one fry. No, it’s not great literature, but the same principle of involuntary memory applied…

Why I’m cheering for the Cardinals tonight

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Back on tonight’s Virtual Front Page, Herb said he couldn’t join me in cheering for St. Louis tonight, as he is from Texas.

Well, I have no choice in the matter. The Rangers mean nothing to me. I have this rule: I can’t get interested in a baseball team that didn’t exist when I was a kid.

And while I tend more toward the Braves these days (a matter of proximity, I suppose), I was a Cardinals fan before the Texas Rangers existed.

I was cheering the Cardinals in 1968, when they lost to the Tigers. Lou Brock, Curt Flood, Bob Gibson, Orlando Cepeda, Tim McCarver.

And I couldn’t stand that Denny McLain.

The next spring, I attended a Cards-Tigers matchup at the training ballpark in St. Pete. Spent the whole game trying to get autographs from Cardinals.

The autograph I never got.

Near the start, Tim McCarver was coming out of the locker room, through a chain-link corridor with fans on both sides. He stopped to give some autographs to kids on the other side, while my nose was about six inches from the letters across his back. Then he moved on without having turned around.

Later that day, after the game, my little brother and I were trying to catch players coming out of the locker room. There was a lanky young guy in street clothes standing around, and we were sure he was a player. My brother went up and asked him for his signature. He said, “Aw you don’t want mine. I’m not anybody you want.” But we insisted, and he signed.

We walked away, looked at the program and said to each other, “He was right. Never heard of him.” He had written, “Steve Carlton.”

Years later, I was dating the girl who would be my wife. She had taken it upon herself to organize family photos in an album. I was rooting around in the box and she was telling me about the people I saw there, when I came across something that didn’t seem to belong. It was a small publicity photo of Tim McCarver. I pointed out that something extraneous had gotten into the box.

No, she said. That was her cousin Tim. First cousin. I was blown away… I mean, I was put off that he was wearing an Expos cap in the picture, which didn’t seem natural (he had just played with them one year, and was at this point back with the Cards), but still. Turns out his mother, Alice, was my future father-in-law’s sister.

See? I told ya he was once with the Red Sox. Dig that mid-70s look.

Two years later, my bride and I were visiting my family in Orlando, and we drove over to Winterhaven to catch a Red Sox game. Sure, Carlton Fisk was the star catcher, but we thought there was a chance Tim would get in. (Often, when I tell this story, people insist that Tim was never with the Sox — they think of him as first a Cardinal, then a Phillie — but he was). As it happened, Pudge hurt his wrist in the first inning, and Tim went in for him. He didn’t have a great game, but at least I got to see him play again.

At one point, after getting out at first, he was turning back toward the dugout when we caught his eye, and surprised to see J (he didn’t know me from Adam), he came over to chat. Either then, or after the game, he asked us to give him a ride back to the house he and his family were renting during spring training. Sure. No problem.

As we were pulling away, he asked me to pull over and rolled down the window to chat with another player. Tim asked, “Think you’re gonna make it?” The guy wasn’t sure. He looked familiar. As we pulled away, Tim explained: “Tony Conigliaro.” (He was trying to come back as a DH, but his damaged eyesight forced him to retire not long after.) For those who don’t remember, Conigliaro is the reason ballplayers today wear helmets with protective flaps on their exposed side.

I thought this was AWESOME! I was hanging out with legendary Major Leaguers!

At the house, he sat back, stiff, and took a muscle relaxer. Coming off the bench like that had been hard on his knees. He explained to me that taking such a pill was very unusual for him. He offered me a beer. I turned it down, since I had to drive back to Orlando. Yes, I did. I turned it down. Like my wife couldn’t drive. What a dork I was! For 36 years now, I have NOT been able to say, Yeah, one time I was kicking back having a brewski with Tim McCarver at spring training. He was moanin’ about his knees, and I was sayin’ quitcher bellyachin’! You know me, Al…

Now that we were buds — kin, even — I decided I could fling accusations. I told him that when I had been 15, he had not turned around to give me an autograph, even though I had kept calling his name, inches away: “Mr. McCarver!” You know, for my kid brother. Stuff like that matters to little kids.

“Aw,” he said, “I wasn’t playing ball when you were 15…” He couldn’t have said anything better. He was including me among the old guys who had been around, and couldn’t possibly have been a kid so recently.

But I had been. The Cards had signed Tim McCarver right out of Christian Brothers High School in 1959, and brought him up to The Show when he was just 17. And I wasn’t quite yet 6.

And tonight, he’s calling the World Series, as he’s now done many times. And I’m listening, while writing this.

Let’s talk downtown Walmart

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Meant to blog about this yesterday. Let’s do it now instead.

I don’t want all our fine downtown merchants to think less of me, or think that I think less of them, but my first thought when I heard we might have a Walmart (although a little one) on Assembly Street was to be very pleased.

Actually, it was my second thought. My first was to lament the loss of the ballpark, and to once again feel great regret that when USC was building its superlative venue down by the river, then didn’t do a deal to share it with the AAA team out of Jackson, TN, that really wanted to come here. And then to rend my garments at the thought that there will be NO professional or semipro ball in our capital city for the foreseeable future.

But my second thought was that it would be awesome to be able to get the items that I always save up to buy at Walmart during the working day when I need them. I’m talking little things, like if my allergies act up, I can get some of those little, generic antihistamine/decongestant pills that are so much cheaper there. Now, I have to plan trips to Walmart for weekends or at the end of a long, hard day, on my way home. I therefore loved the idea of the convenience.

But now downtown merchants are up in arms:

Neighbors, environmentalists and owners of small businesses aired their worries Tuesday about the possibility that Capital City Stadium could be converted into downtown Columbia’s first Wal-Mart.

A cadre of detractors complained to a City Council committee Tuesday that allowing the international retail giant into the city would destroy mom-and-pop shops, threaten to increase water pollution in tributaries that feed the already polluted Congaree River and that the project was done in a hush-hush manner by City Council.

“Small business owners are in a panic,” said Leslie Minerd, owner of Five Points retail shop Hip Wa Zee. “A big-box store will help destroy the diversity we have in Columbia. And we don’t have a lot of diversity.”…

And that gets me thinking about the cost of my convenience to friends and neighbors. I haven’t reached any conclusions.

What are y’all’s thoughts?

Here’s a place for you to talk about Spurrier, Morris, Garcia, etc.

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A reader Tweeted, as I was headed to a late lunch (1:46 p.m. EST), “Eager to read your thoughts on Spurrier v. Morris.” I had not the slightest idea what he was talking about, but now I do. I’ve seen the video and everything. (Interestingly, I could not find anything about it on the mobile version of thestate.com, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t on the browser version at the time.)

Of course, by that time, the news that the coach, or Eric Hyman, or somebody, had thrown Stephen Garcia off the team — apparently for real, this time. Hyman explained, “For Stephen to return to and remain with the football squad this fall, we agreed on several established guidelines. Unfortunately, he has not been able to abide by those guidelines and has therefore forfeited his position on the roster.”

I don’t know what the guidelines were, as I don’t follow this stuff. But I did see the Auburn game, and a reasonable guess would be that one of his guidelines involved throwing the football straight. Yes, I’m joking. Sort of.

But Micah apparently wanted to know what I thought about the Ron Morris thing. Gee, I don’t know.

I’m not Ron’s editor; never was. If I were, right now I’d be saying, “What the hell, Ron?” Or perhaps I’d use some other, saltier, newsroom expression. And Ron would tell me what was going on as well as he could, from his perspective. Although, based on the performance I saw on the video, it might not be altogether clear to him what it’s all about (apart from the usual animus that, from what I’ve seen, Ron is accustomed to engendering). Anyway, assuming he had the information available, I would have Ron lay out for me his version of the story. Then, I would check it out as well as I could.

If Coach Spurrier had an ounce of professionalism in him, of course, he would already have communicated to me (as Ron’s theoretical editor) what his beef was. Let’s assume he does, and he did. In that case, I would already have had it out with Ron about it and, given the way Spurrier acted today, probably would have told him I’d decided to back Ron. Hence the public tantrum.

Of course, if the coach did NOT try the normal, civil route first, then his performance today was inexcusable. Perhaps understandable on some level given that his QB was just canned after letting him down, but still not excusable in a man paid $2.8 million a year by a public institution to represent that institution.

Speaking of which, if I were Eric Hyman or Harris Pastides, I’d right now be having a serious talk with the coach about his performance — a sort of mirror of the one I’d be having with Ron as his editor. We’d start by watching his game film. Some of the things I’d be asking him:

What’s this really about, Steve? And don’t give me that nonsense about some column last spring. That was last spring; you blew up today. What’s really going on? (Oh, wait: Maybe THIS is the column Spurrier is referring to, in which Morris wrote, “Spurrier poached Horn’s program.”)
What exactly do you mean when you say it’s “my right as a head coach” not to talk to Ron Morris? Is that some special right we don’t know about? Do assistant coaches, or ordinary mortals walking the streets, not have that right? Because one would think that they do; that any human being walking the planet would have the right not to talk to Ron Morris if they chose not to. (Unless, of course, they were working for us, and we were paying them $2.8 million a year, and we told them to talk to him…) So what’s this imperious “as a head coach” stuff? Have we really made you feel that important?

And so on. That would just be for starters. And I’d be doing that in between fielding phone calls from people over at the newspaper asking me, “What the heck?” Because they use language like that in talking to the public.

So, as I say, if I were charged with taking a position on this, I’d be in fact-finding mode now before making a decision. But if you held the proverbial gun to my head (and I’d much prefer that to a literal one), I’d have to choose Ron on this one. And I might get embarrassed doing so — I might later have to run a full retraction on the challenged column last spring or something if it turned out Ron was wrong. But if you forced me, I’d go with him on this, because I know him. Or at least, I know him better than I do Spurrier, whom I’ve never met.

That means I used to run into Ron in the hallway sometimes, and stop to chat. I never actually worked with him. I don’t think he was in the newsroom when I was (pre-1994), and even if he had been, we’d have had little occasion to deal with each other. But he has always struck me as a pretty thoughtful, careful guy.

I knew people hated him — people of the “Cocky is God” persuasion. And I used to wonder about that, but I’ve often had occasion to wonder about really serious football fans. Sometimes, when one of Ron’s columns caused a splash of some sort, I’d actually turn to the sports pages and read it. And it usually read OK to me — of course, I was judging it outside the context of having any particular knowledge of the subject matter.

So Micah, that’s what I think.

Fan suggests Spurrier take pay cut for Saturday

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I mentioned breakfast at the Cap City Club back on my last post, which reminds me… Some of the guys at the regular round table this morning were talking about the Gamecocks-Auburn thing on Saturday, and one of them said, “I didn’t see any football over the weekend.”

What he meant was, he was there at Williams-Brice. He just didn’t see any football.

He’s not bitter or anything. He blames Coach Steve Spurrier for it, but he’s willing to forgive — if the Old Ball Coach will take a 1/12th cut in his pay for that one.

Intriguing. Since his salary is $2.8 million, that would mean a reduction of … $233,333.33.

Someone else at the table suggested that he could donate the amount to academics.

I am neither endorsing nor rejecting the idea. It’s one thing to deal in political controversy here on the blog without making suggestions about other people’s religion.

As for the rest of you… discuss.

Sorry, ladies: ‘Moneyball’ makes the Top 5 list

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After I did my “All-Time, Desert-Island Top 5 Baseball Movies” list recently, I got congratulations from several readers — readers of the female persuasion — for my good judgment in putting “A League of Their Own” on the list. And it was, I believe, a good choice.

Unfortunately, it just got sent down.

I saw “Moneyball” yesterday. Definitely Top Five material. I saw it with my Dad. He said it was the best film he’d seen in awhile, and the best thing Brad Pitt has ever done. I don’t know if I’d agree with that last part, being a fan of both “Fight Club” and “Snatch,” but the film overall is definitely one of the best baseball movies ever. (And the best acting in it, as usual, is done by Phillip Seymour Hoffman — although I thought Billy Beane’s front office staff was impressive, too.)

In fact, I’m going to put it at number four. Actually, technically — as an example of filmmaking — it should probably be at No. 2 and giving “The Natural” a run for its money. But while it is unquestionably all about baseball, it’s about other things, too. Communicating the essence of baseball is not quite its mission the way it is with the top three. It is also about change, and modernity, and the never-ending struggle between statistics and intuition. The top three are more about answering the question, “Why do I love baseball?” “Moneyball” is about that, too — but not entirely.

Hence my new Top Five:

The Natural – American myth-making on the grand scale. If you wanted to put a movie on a spacecraft to explain to aliens what the game means, you’d choose this one. It’s perfect.
Major League — Silly, yes, but a good complement to the reverential seriousness of “The Natural.” Hits all the buttons in explaining why the game is fun.
The Sandlot — Maybe because it’s set in the days when I was a kid, and also spending hours on a sandlot — without uniforms, without adult supervision, just being kids — this really resonates as a depiction of the ball-playing experience of those of us who will never play in the majors.
Moneyball — Just an incredibly well-made film, independently of being about baseball — perhaps the best on the list in that regard. While it’s about the triumph of Bill James‘ statistical method, there’s plenty here for us intuitive types to cheer for.
Eight Men Out — A masterly, credible evocation of how the game’s blackest scandal came about, told in a way that you can understand motives. Say it ain’t so, Joe.

Now that I look at it without the Tom Hanks one, I’m starting to wonder about “Eight Men Out.” I’m not sure this list is final. I think maybe I’ll refer this to the blog’s Ad Hoc Committee on Baseball Movies. The committee will be assigned to watch both of those again to decide conclusively which should be in fifth place.

Until then, “A League of Their Own” is sixth on the list.

The intelligent hype around “MoneyBall”

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I had never heard about “MoneyBall” until I heard a story about it on NPR yesterday morning.

Then last night, I heard Terry Gross interview Brad Pitt about it. OK, they talked a lot about “Fight Club,” with Ms. Gross asking the star how many people come up to him and say, “The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club.” Not that many, actually. But the bottom line message of his being there was, “See ‘MoneyBall.”

Then this morning, I hear a review, also on NPR, from Kenneth Turan. Again, the message is to see the movie.

Also this morning, the teaser across the top of The Wall Street Journal (you know, the space devoted to football, year-round, in The State), was all about “MoneyBall.” It referred you to a big story headlined, “Baseball After Moneyball,” and a review by Joe Morgenstern, which says this film “…renews your belief in the power of movies.”

Then, in my email this morning, I get a link to the Roger Ebert review:

In the 2002 season, the nation’s lowest-salaried Major League Baseball team put together a 20-game winning streak, setting a new American League record. The team began that same season with 11 losses in row. What happened between is the stuff of “Moneyball,” a smart, intense and moving film that isn’t so much about sports as about the war between intuition and statistics.

OK, I get the message: I want to see this movie. Not only because I like good baseball movies, but because I’m very interested, as readers here will know, in “the war between intuition and statistics.”

But I have to say, I’m also quite impressed by the hype. Not just the volume of it, but the quality.

Note this isn’t your usual slam-bam action movie kind of promotion, that washes over you like a tidal wave and either pulls you into the theater or makes you run, screaming, for higher ground. The kind with lots of stuff blowing up. The kind that would never concern itself with “the war between intuition and statistics.”

This is targeted. This is more subtle. And it grabs people who are into baseball as a Thinking Man’s Game. Grabs them every which way.

Nice job by whoever was handling the media relations on this. I mean, everything they did was rather obvious, but I don’t remember the last time I saw these particular venues flooded this way for one movie. The buildup, from my perspective, was last-minute, but compete, and effective.

I may even shell out money to go see it in the theater. Which for me would be remarkable.

bradwarthen.com

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Fan suggests Spurrier take pay cut for Saturday

Sorry, ladies: ‘Moneyball’ makes the Top 5 list

The intelligent hype around “MoneyBall”