Indie Sport

Self Knowledge

2008-04-08T04:42:00.008-10:00

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 an 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.

Deep In The Heart Of Texas

2008-04-06T05:30:00.014-10:00

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?

Outside The Box

2008-04-03T05:02:00.010-10:00

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?

Lost In Translation

2008-04-02T05:40:00.007-10:00

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?"

Masters Of The Conundrum

2008-03-30T07:28:00.015-10:00

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.

Size Matters

2008-03-28T12:54:00.009-10:00

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.

Man Up!

2008-03-26T17:45:00.018-10:00

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.

Nobody Knows Anything

2008-03-24T05:29:00.020-10:00

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.

The Good Life

2008-03-23T05:32:00.003-10:00

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.

The Morning Buzz

2008-03-21T21:55:00.018-10:00

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.

The Problem With Cats And Dogs

2008-03-21T15:34:00.017-10:00

Mascotology, the ancient art of projecting March Madness winners on the basis of mascot metaphysics, saw its success rate fall from yesterday's heady 88.2% to a cumulative 78.8% figure after going 11-5 today (see our previous Indie Sport post, Mascotology, for an in-depth briefing on the topic).

With the first round of the NCAA men's basketball tournament now complete, our channeler has accumulated a tournament-worthy record of 26-7, but one that is not yet sufficient to confirm the hypothesis we are testing: that mascotology is as good as, or better than, traditional bracketology methods in prognosticating winners.

A statistical analysis of mascotology's failures reveals that in the 10 games involving Wildcats and dogs our channeler has posted a record of 5-5, which is equivalent to chance.

"I just can't keep the energetic fields of these Wildcats distinct from one another," he moaned, his lower lip quivering as he cupped his forehead in the palms of his hands. "And those dogs. Those damned dogs. There's just too many of them. I keep having visions of these awful hybrids where I can't tell one breed from another."

A classic example of this confusing meld of juxtaposed and interlaced metaphysical fields manifested itself today in our channeler's erroneous picks in the UConn-San Diego game, as well as the Butler-South Alabama game, contests in which he was unable to correctly discern the dog from The Dawg. Indie Sport has obtained exclusive photos of the apparition upon which the failed choice was made, a mixed breed Husky-Bulldog depicted above. One glance at this image reveals the challenges faced by mascotologists when the interstitial plane is crowded with confounding stimuli.

When games involving Wildcats and dogs are factored out, mascotology's record to date is a sterling 21-2, a success rate of 91.3%. And to be honest the two non-feline, non-canine blunders today were exactly that-- blunders.

"I blew it," confessed our channeler, who picked the Commodores of Vandy over the Saints of Siena and the Hoosiers of Indiana over the Razorbacks of Arkansas. Asked where he went wrong, he stated:

"I thought I picked up the vibe that saints were dead and commodores in charge. But saints are eternal and the rank of commodore has been extinct for over half a century. It was a lack of faith on my part. I allowed my agnosticism to get in the way. It was a violation of protocol. Mea culpa."

And Indiana-Arkansas?

"I had powerful visions of Kelvin Sampson and nothing else. It just screamed Hoosiers at me. Now I realize that it signified the pigsty he created at Bloomington with all his recruiting violations. It was sophisticated Razorback imagery in disguise. I got careless and jumped to easy conclusions. I just don't know if I can go on."

With our research at a critical juncture, we have given our channeler the night off to regain his bearings and request your forbearance. We will attempt to coax him into action first thing in the morning, prior to tip off, and post his predictions then as we whittle our way down to the Sweet 16 and determine whether the data justifies continuation of this study or verification of the null hypothesis (that mascotology is mythology garbed in costume).

Round 1, Day 1: Mascotology Goes 15-2!

2008-03-20T11:18:00.023-10:00

Move over bracketology. There's a new kid in town. Maybe.

As reported here last Sunday night, Indie Sport is conducting a study to test the hypothesis that the ancient phenomenological art of mascotology is as good as, or better than, traditional analytical bracketology in picking the winners of March Madness games (see our previous Indie Sport post, Mascotology, for all our Round 1 projections).

For those of you who missed the post-- and you number in the millions-- mascotology is based on an intuitive, metaphysical understanding of which team's mascot would whup the other if they met in a battle to the death.

The first set of data is now in from today's games, as well as Tuesday's play-in game between Mount Saint Mary's and Coppin State, and it is very encouraging. Of the 17 games contested to date, mastocology identified 15 winners, a success rate of 88.2%. And though there is still time to review our projections for Friday's games and lay down or modify your bets, it would be inappropriate, if not illegal, for us to advise you to do so, so we will not.

A retrospective analysis of our two failures to correctly project the winners of 1) the Wildcat-Golden Eagle clash between Kentucky and Marquette; and 2) the Wildcat-Trojan matchup between Kansas State and USC reveals that our channeler erroneously attributed to Kentucky the energetic field associated with the K-State variant of wildcat, defined as "a quick-tempered and savage person," rather than the smallish feline who showed up as bird food today for Marquette. Given these corrections, it is now abundantly clear why Kansas State was able to extend the Trojans this afternoon until they burst down the stretch.

Anomalies such as the metaphysical dyslexia that created the Wildcat reversal in our channeler's mind are measurement errors considered to be within the limits of statistical tolerance. As such, they are expected effects, particularly when generated under atmospheric disturbances such as the El Nino-Southern Oscillation.

Because this is a scientific study being conducted with the strict rigor demanded of serious research, the results to date must be considered nothing more than a modest sampling of data and should be treated with prudence and caution. There is a long way to go and the hypothesis is far from having been confirmed.

Indie Sport remains committed to a dispassionate assessment of the veracity of mascotology. We encourage you to post the results of your first round projections so that we may compare our outcomes with those of more traditional methodologies. Your contributions are both appreciated and essential to the advancement of science.

The next set of data, as well as our mascotological projections for this weekend's games, will be published tomorrow night, Friday March 21. Tune in and may the vibe be with you.

Waddell In . . . Trott Out

2008-03-19T04:50:00.011-10:00

When a driver qualifies a race car for the Indy 500 it's the vehicle that's made the grade, not the driver. An owner is free to replace the driver with better or different talent, should he choose.

When it comes to the Olympics, the sport of rowing operates on the same premise.

Last year oarsmen Nathan Cohen and Matthew Trott qualified New Zealand's double sculls for Beijing when they finished 6th at the World Championships in Munich. It was a dream come true for Trott, who had put in years of hard work to achieve this position, including the last three seasons as a member of New Zealand's national team.

But in the Darwinian world of elite rowing, no seat is safe, as Trott knew and had affirmed this week when he was unceremoniously unseated from his berth in the double by Rob Waddell, the 2000 Olympic gold medalist in the single sculls.

Waddell is a spectacular athlete, whose epic battle with countryman and three-time world champion Mahe Drysdale for New Zealand's lone berth in the single at Beijing ended tragically, as chronicled in a series of posts by Indie Sport (see previous Indie Sport posts Broken Hearted, Kiwi Magic, Heart Of A Champion, Knockout, and Singled Out.)

Waddell's bid for the single came to a sudden halt in the final winner-take-all Olympic qualifying race against Drysdale when he suffered an attack of atrial fibrillation 300 meters into the event. His heart condition was nothing new, for he'd won his gold medal in Sydney while taking high doses of medication to correct the ailment. Nevertheless, it was a surprise when the problem resurfaced after having been under control for years.

"I hadn't been on medication for three years and was thinking the problem was dormant, but unfortunately it came out in a very public way," said Waddell, who came out of retirement only seven months ago. Now he has has resumed taking medication and insists his heart is no longer a problem. Apparently Rowing New Zealand's Olympic selectors agree.

"The nomination process was robust, transparent, and fair," said New Zealand Olympic Committee secretary general Barry Maister. Others disagree, claiming Waddell was given preferential treatment, tried to dictate who would coach the double, and insisted his wife and three children accompany him to the Games in Beijing.

Waddell's media adviser, Glenda Hughes, refuted the charges, stating, "He has not demanded any terms and conditions."

Nevertheless, a coaching change has been made for the double sculls in the wake of Waddell's selection, as Chris Nilsson, the former mentor of the the world champion four, has been brought in to handle the Waddell-Cohen tandem.

Waddell maintains that all he has wanted is "a program put into place to ensure we [have] the very best chance in Beijing . . . It has been ongoing with Rowing New Zealand and it has been part of the process and we have come out with a package we are comfortable with," he said.

The "we" Waddell spoke of does not include Trott, who was spoken to at great length by Rowing New Zealand high performance director Andrew Matheson.

"Obviously for anyone missing out on his dream of competing at the Olympics, it is pretty devastating," said Matheson. "But he is still a very, very important member of our team-- he's going to act as our spare throughout the Olympics program covering all our top boats."

The hard edges of sport cut two ways, as both Rob Waddell and Matthew Trott have discovered the past year. It is hard not to cheer for Waddell and his heroic comeback, which will afford the world an opportunity to see one of its brilliant athletes in action against the very best. But it is equally hard not to empathize with Trott, a man standing in the shadow of greatness who must continue to sacrifice for what may never come.

Mount Saint Who?

2008-03-17T05:31:00.010-10:00

March Madness is about to get underway with the "Play-In" game tomorrow between the two lowest seeds in the tournament, Mount Saint Mary's and Coppin State, who will vie for the right to be eviscerated by #1 ranked North Carolina on March 21. The Mountaineers, champions of the Northeast Conference, bring a soporific 18-14 record into the tourney, while the Eagles, winners of the Mid-East Conference tournament, are the first team to qualify for The Big Show with 20 losses. What do you mean you're not sure which one is the Mountaineers and which one is the Eagles? Sheesh, I thought you were fans.

Now, before you jump to conclusions, keep in mind that Walter Johnson, The Big Train, lost 20 games-- twice no less-- and still made it into the baseball Hall of Fame. On second thought, jump.

Is there any better example of the inanity of these post-season, pre-Madness conference tournaments than Coppin State's appearance? No disrespect intended to the hard working guys on the team, but it's a little like Mitt Romney showing up all of a sudden for the Pennsylvania primary and getting placed on the general election ballot in November for having a good showing.

If you're not an alumnus, a relative or friend of one of the players, or a scout and you tune in for this game, you're either a certified bracket junkie, a member of Gamblers Anonymous, or someone with a little too much beer on board at the bar. Perhaps you're all three. Regardless of your designation, it's likely you know next to nil about these two schools. Here then are the factoids you'll need to impress your peers, win a few bets at the pub, or give you some reason to care about this affair.

No, please, you don't have to thank me. Really.

Both schools are from Maryland.
Both are small-- 1,600 undergrads at Mount Saint Mary's, 4,000 at Coppin State.
The abridged version of the white man's founding of Maryland goes like this: George Calvert, First Lord of Baltimore (pictured above) messed up in Newfoundland, so he applied for and got a royal charter to create a colony in the New World that would be a haven for Catholics. And what a haven it was, until the Puritans took over and banned both Catholicism and Anglicanism. The Puritans then got stomped in the Battle of the Severn and Catholicism was back in. Then it was out again, following the "Glorious Revolution" of 1688, and only returned as a legal faith after the Revolutionary War.
Mount Saint Mary's is the oldest independent Catholic college in the U.S. It is celebrating its bicentennial this year. Having dispatched the Puritans, they won't be intimidated by the Tar Heels, should they advance.
Coppin State was founded in 1900. At the time, it was called Colored High School. Yes, you read that right. It has subsequently been known as Fanny Jackson Coppin Normal School, Coppin Teacher's College, and Coppin State College.
Coppin State has sent one of its hoopsters to the NBA. Can you name him? Larry Stewart, who played for the Washington Bullets-- before the mascot fell out of favor-- and the Seattle SuperSonics.
Stephanie Ready, the first female to coach a men's professional basketball team, is also a Coppin State alum. What do you mean, which team? Why, the Greenville Groove of the National Basketball Development League (2001-03).
Not to be outdone, Mount Saint Mary's sent Fred Carter to the NBA, where he played for three teams, including the 1973 Philadelphia 76ers, who finished 9-73. Carter subsequently became famous as "the best player on the worst team in history."
Long time Mount Saint Mary's basketball coach Jim Phelan retired in 2003 with 830 victories, the fourth most in history. He is the winningest coach not to be inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame. I have it on good authority that the Hall is run by Puritans.

So there you have it. Amaze your inebriated friends with arcane knowledge as the game unfolds. Induce them to part with their money by suckering them into trivia contests they cannot possibly win. But most of all remember that those guys on the court gave their all to get where they'll be tomorrow, and for that they deserve our utmost respect.

Mascotology

2008-03-16T06:13:00.022-10:00

Long before there was bracketology, before there was a Road to the Final Four, before school children burning effigies of Dick Vitale was recognized as a legitimate medium of performance art, there was mascotology, a jealously guarded secret of the phenomenologists.

Mascotology, unlike the left-brained, analytical, cognitively oriented methods employed by bracketologists, relies upon a wholistic, right-brained, apperception of the energetic vibrations emitted into the universe by team mascots to determine the winners of March Madness games. Indie Sport was recently privileged to have been granted access to the Ainokea sect of mascotology, where, in a ceremonial rite of passage, we were indoctrinated in the rudiments of the art.

Thus equipped, we are now prepared to scientifically test the hypothesis that mascotology will be as good as, if not better than, traditional forms of bracketology in predicting the winners of NCAA basketball tournament games this season. For each game throughout the tourney, we will predict the winner based upon which team's mascot would kick the other's derriere in a death match, all other factors being equal. And there will be no hiding here. Results will be posted.

Some choices will be obvious. For example, a Gator swallows a Buckeye every time. You can look it up. Other choices will be true tests. What happens when the Trojans meet the Big Red? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, you scallywags, but we're talking basketball here. The answer can only be revealed to the mascotologist when he or she becomes one with the vibe, which has a unique wavelength for any given matchup.

So, here goes, region by region. We'll keep you updated as the madness unfolds.

* * *

East

Duking it out for the #16 seed in the East are the Mountaineers (Mt. St. Mary's) and the Eagles (Coppin State). One has a gun: Mt. St. Mary's.

The winner gets the Tar Heels (#1 North Carolina). You ever been under the heel of an entire state? Carolina crushes them.

The Volunteers (#2 Tennessee) shoot down the Eagles (#15 American). See above.

The Hoosiers (#8 Indiana) go up against the Razorbacks (#9 Arkansas). Hmmm, man versus pig. Go with Indiana.

We've got Bulldogs (#7 Butler) and Jaguars (#10 South Alabama). Seems like a no-brainer upset. We'll go with the Jags.

The Cardinals (#3 Louisville) fly circles around the Broncos (#14 Boise State) before running the poor beast into exhaustion.

The Fighting Irish (#5 Notre Dame) confront the Patriots (#12 George Mason). The Patriots get one shot, then have to reload. Never bet against an Irishman in a street fight, especially close to St. Patrick's Day. Notre Dame prevails.

The Sooners (#6 Oklahoma) tangle with the Hawks (#11 St. Joseph's). We keep getting men with guns taking on birds. Same result. The Sooners shoot down St. Joe's.

The Cougars (#4 Washington State) lie patiently in wait for the Eagles (#13 Winthrop) before devouring them. It's what cats do.

* * *

Midwest

The Jayhawks (#1 Kansas) take on the Vikings (#16 Portland State). The Vikings haven't been around since the 10th century. They won't be around at the end of this one either.

The Hoyas (#2 Georgetown) get a sniff of the Retrievers (Maryland-Baltimore County). Hoya means "what," and Georgetown is represented by a bulldog. Go figure. The bulldog thrashes the retriever, but it's legal here.

Next up are the Runnin' Rebels (#8 UNLV) versus the Golden Flashes (#9 Kent State). Man harnesses energy. Take the Rebels.

More Bulldogs (#7 Gonzaga) and a bunch of Wildcats (#10 Davidson). Rock, paper, scissors-- big cat eats little dog. Take Davidson.

Tigers (#5 Clemson) and more Wildcats (#12 Villanova). Ooh, this one's going to be ugly. Take the bigger cat.

The Badgers (#3 Wisconsin) and the Titans (#14 Cal State Fullerton). Have you ever seen an angry badger? The little ankle biter chews through the hapless giant and the Titans fall fast and hard.

The Commodores (#4 Vanderbilt) meet up with the Saints (#13 Siena). Aren't saints dead and commodores in charge? I'll go with the living. Take Vandy.

Finally, the Trojans (#6 USC) versus the Wildcats (#11 Kansas State). Let's see, an army of men and a bunch of cats. O.J. and his friends prevail.

* * *

West

The Bruins (#1 UCLA) take on the Delta Devils (#16 Mississippi Valley State). Bears feed on creatures lurking in shallow waters. The Bruins feast.

The Blue Devils (#2 Duke) lock up with another set of Bruins (#15 Belmont). Don't be fooled. The Blue Devils are the elite mountain infantry of the French Army. Even the French Army can shoot a bear. Duke guns down Belmont.

The Cougars (#8 BYU) and the Aggies (#9 Texas A&M). Who do you take, an angry farmer or an angry cat? I'll take the farmer. Aggies gig 'em.

The Mountaineers (#7 West Virginia) face the Wildcats (#10 Arizona). Didn't we just do this one? The 'Cats are dead meat.

More Bulldogs (#5 Drake) meet the Hilltoppers (#12 Western Kentucky). Upset special. Man shoots beast and Western Kentucky moves on.

Ah, the Musketeers (#3 Xavier) take on . . . what, not again, the Bulldogs (#14 Georgia). Hide the children. The Musketeers slash through the canines.

More dogs. The Huskies (#4 Connecticut) meet the Toreros (#13 San Diego). Sounds like a lot of bull to me. U Conn mushes on.

Finally, the Boilermakers (#6 Purdue) drive their train right over the Bears (#11 Baylor) frozen on the tracks. Road kill for the Big 10.

* * *

South

The Tigers (#1 Memphis) and the Mavericks (#16 Texas-Arlington). A maverick is an unbranded calf that's been separated from it's mother. Need I say more?

The Longhorns (#2 Texas) take on the Governors (#15 Austin Peay). Who's more dull witted? A steer or a politician? Hook 'em, Horns!

The, uh, Bulldogs-- I kid you not-- (#8 Mississippi State) butt heads with the Ducks (#9 Oregon). Duck soup for the Dogs.

We've got Hurricanes (#7 Miami) and Gaels (#10 St. Mary's). One is a storm, the other just sounds like one. Miami blows them away.

Here's one for all you intellectuals. The Cardinal (#3 Stanford) in a shady match-up with the Big Red (#14 Cornell). Cardinal being a more robust hue, it'll be the former Indians in a rout.

The Spartans (#5 Michigan State) eat a kettle full of Owls (#12 Temple) and advance, a little wiser for the experience.

The Golden Eagles (#6 Marquette) and yet another bunch of Wildcats (#11 Kentucky). Gotta be consistent here. It's the Cats hanging around til the end and then pouncing in an upset.

And last but not least, we've got the Panthers (#4 Pittsburgh) and another bunch of Golden Eagles (#13 Oral Roberts). Are you getting as tired of this scenario as I am? Patience, the herd is being culled. Pitt feasts.

Okay, that's it for now. I'm all vibed out. Should you pick up mascotological prognostications from the energetic field that conflict with those posted here, please channel them into comments so that we may better understand this rediscovered art. We'll keep you up to date as the results roll in.

Fool's Gold

2008-03-15T06:13:00.011-10:00

By any measure, Bud Wilkinson, the legendary football coach at Oklahoma, was the epitome of success when he led the Sooners to 47 consecutive victories between 1953 and 1957. But Wilkinson didn't measure success by the tally of his team's wins.

"Every game is an opportunity to measure yourself against your own potential," he said, leaving unspoken the other half of the equation, that every game is also an opportunity to confront one's own limitations. Those who lack the courage to genuinely measure up in sport either quit or resort to the refuge of cowards-- cheating.

The NFL's Spygate debacle is a classic example of the fear-based approach to sport, for the notion that the end justifies the means is the creed of those who are afraid they don't have the goods to get there the old fashioned way: by earning it.

It is staggering to listen to an intelligent man such as Bill Bellichick try to rationalize that he thought shooting video of an opposing team's signals was somehow within the spirit and law of the game. Signals, by definition, are encrypted communiques designed to keep each team's game plan and play selection confidential, meaning the opposition must rely upon ingenuity, analysis of tendencies, and interpretation of on-the-field clues and reads if they are to decipher the code.

Theft, Mr. Bellichick, is not ingenuity or intellect. It's avarice.

The same can be said for those who trade in steroids, HGH, ghost-written college term papers, and their varied kin, for coming out ahead is not winning, it is not success, unless it has been attained honestly. Trophies, championships, and awards are the gaudy baubles of sport, not its essence, for bling can be bought. Bling can be stolen. And bling has a very short shelf life.

Character is the ageless heart and soul of sport. It is what pumps life and meaning into every athletic contest worth playing, viewing, or remembering. It can't be purchased. It can only be manufactured from within. And it is a choice that reveals itself never more splendidly than when it appears on a field of play.

"Character is that which reveals moral purpose, exposing the class of things a man chooses or avoids."

The words of Aristotle are over 2,300 years old but they resonate as though they'd been written yesterday. When an athlete cheats he plays to keep from losing rather than playing to win. And what he avoids in the process are the difficult experiences upon which character is founded and the revelation of bonafide potential, robbing us all, but mostly himself.

Acoustic Immediacy

2008-03-13T05:29:00.008-10:00

Sports are compelling for many reasons, one of which is their power to create immediacy, the experience of being only in the present moment with no conscious awareness of the past or a future beyond the event. Generally speaking, the more compelling the event, the longer the sense of immediacy.

But on a smaller scale, auditory experiences associated with sports also produce immediacy in pleasurable little moments that effortlessly sharpen, excite, and sweeten the senses.

The sounds of sport that resonate with one individual may not resonate with another, for the phenomenon is purely subjective. Here are a few-- both acoustic and amplified-- that, for me, never fail to captivate:

The muffled pop of a baseball nestling into the pocket of a glove, harkening summer regardless of the season.
Jackie Stewart's Scottish brogue, so cool no matter what he's talking about.
The rhythmic, echoing thud of a basketball dribbled in an empty gym-- blissful solitude, just a player and his game.
"Marichal kicks and delivers . . . and there's a high drive deep into center field . . . back goes Mays, a way back . . . to the wall . . . she's gone!"
The dampened, percussive drumbeat of hooves syncopating the turf as a fleet of thoroughbreds rounds a corner at The Derby.
The low, rumbling roll of a 16 pound ball honing its inexorable way toward a xylophonic collision with tenpins.
"Runners to your marks . . . se-eh-eh-t" . . . bang!
An America's Cup spinnaker unfurling, luffing in the breeze like an enormous piece of fresh laundry, then snapping taut with a smart whap as it fills.
The Three Stooges doink when a brick clangs off the iron in hoops at any level.
The clacking of a racked set of pool balls exploding into a microcosm of the Big Bang, as the cue ball releases their energy.
"And down the stretch they come!"
The doppler-effect whine of Indy cars streaking by like comets trying to outrace their tails.
The modulated rattling of a putt settling into the cup-- the quintessential signature of finessed success.
The thwock as the plastic collars rotate in the oar locks, releasing eight blades in unison from the water as they vault a 60 foot long racing shell to the apex of its speed in the stroke cycle.
The battering of helmets and shoulder pads as the men in the trenches come off the ball at the snap.
"Goa-oa-oa-oa-oal-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l!!!"
The comingling of The Anthem and cheers as the last stanza transitions into "Play ball!"
The crack of the bat hitting the ball right on the sweet spot. There's no better sound in sport.

Thanks for listening.

Requiem For An Offense

2008-03-11T09:25:00.020-10:00

Only three things can happen on a forward pass and two of them are bad. So went the mantra of Ohio State's legendary football coach, Woody Hayes, who passed away at the age of 74 on this date in 1987. Hayes, of course, was absolutely correct in his analysis of the pass, but somehow it was never mentioned that the same rationale can be applied to the running game, upon which he based his beloved "three yards and a cloud of dust" offensive strategy.

I was privileged to have witnessed the fallacy of Hayes' logic first hand in 1974, on a magical and bizarre afternoon in East Lansing when the #1 ranked Buckeyes rolled into town to slobberknock the perpetually mediocre Spartans of Michigan State. Hayes was the original star of the Big 10 theatrical production, "Coaches Behaving Badly," before the mantle was passed to, and perfected by, his understudy, Bobby Knight. He was reviled throughout the state of Michigan, where toilet paper rolls bearing his image on each and every sheet were marketed shamelessly.

Hayes' presence in East Lansing was a lightning rod that must have provided relief for the Spartans' beleaguered coach, Denny Stolz, a Woody wannabe who lacked the horsepower and verve of his adversary. In fact, Stolz never met a failed run-it-up-the-gut play that he wasn't willing to duplicate dozens of times, an obsessive-compulsive tic that reached its nadir in 1973.

The occasion was the annual clash with arch-rival Michigan, that I endured in a freezing, non-stop downpour from a second-row endzone seat. Mercifully, the view was dreadful, as the Spartans were drubbed 31-0 by the Wolverines, crossing the 50 yard line only once, whereupon they fumbled the ball over to to Michigan on the very same play. It was, arguably, the most miserable offensive output in the history of football.

So when the Buckeyes took a 13-3 lead into the fourth quarter that autumn afternoon back in '74, it might as well have been 33-3. Never mind that the score had been tied 3-3 at the half or that the Buckeyes were coughing up the football all over the place. They were like a bored cat playing with its prey. The outcome, however protracted, was inevitable and everyone knew it.

And then out of nowhere came a flash of hope. Midway through the fourth quarter on a first down from the Michigan State 33, quarterback Charlie Baggett inexplicably dropped back to pass. The Ohio State defense, shocked into a state of catatonia, froze as receiver Mike Jones streaked into the secondary and hauled in a 67 yard bomb for a touchdown that tightened the score to 13-9. Years later, Al Davis, in one of his more grandiose moments, would claim he channeled the play into Coach Stolz' headset.

But when the Spartans missed the extra point, the air went out of the stadium and the crowd settled into a state of resignation. A field goal would do them no good, the Buckeyes would chew up the clock, and there was no way they'd be fooled again by a one-in-a-million pass play. And so it went.

With a little over three minutes remaining in the game, Michigan State took possession on their 12 yard line. As Baggett handed off to fullback Levi Jackson for yet another fruitless, time wasting dive up the middle, an audible "No-o-o-o, Yes-s-s-s-s-s!!!" chorused from the stands in unison. Jackson darted through a seam on the right side, juked a defender at the 20, and then lit up the afterburners as he streaked down the sidelines, into the promised land, untouched for 88 yards, escorted by a deafening howl of ecstatic, suspended disbelief.

The extra point was good, but the beast had been wounded. With no time to spare, Ohio State took the ensuing kickoff and proceeded to meat-grind its way down the field, gobbling up large chunks of yardage and precious time in equal doses. With 1:06 left in the game they drove to the Spartan 11.

Now, suddenly, there was an eternity left. The Buckeyes, who still had one time out remaining, had the luxury of controlling the clock in any number of ways. But Woody Hayes only knew one way-- the highway.

A draw play effectively halved the distance to the Spartan 5, where Ohio State called their final time out with 40 seconds remaining. And then . . . two things that can go wrong on a run, did. First, fullback Champ Henson plunged within inches of the goal line, where he was stopped by a desperate defense, who then took their sweet time unpiling with 29 seconds to go. Hayes went berserk on the sidelines, threatening to have his second coronary of the year. The scrum untangled at last and the Buckeyes rushed to the line of scrimmage, where they chaotically snapped the ball, which squirted between the legs of quarterback Cornelius Greene, only to be picked up by wingback Brian Baschnagel, who lugged it into the endzone.

Pandemonium ensued as head linesman Ed Scheck signaled a touchdown, while field judge Robert Dagenhardt indicated time had run out before the play had gotten off. Fans and players poured onto the field, uncertain about what had actually transpired. Hayes, looking like an electrical engineer gone amok, raced around in his trademark glasses and white short sleeved shirt punching Michigan State fans, one of whom stole the cap right off his head.

The scoreboard remained frozen: Michigan State 16, Ohio State 13. For forty-six minutes, the world was kept in suspense about which of the two conflicting officials' calls would stand. As Big 10 Commissioner Wayne Duke conferred and deferred about what to do, the crowd in the stadium-- estimated to be 40,000 of the 78,533 who'd attended the game-- sang out, "Bulls**t" and associated bouquets they'd perfected in the halls of academe.

Eventually, Duke decided to announce what the officials had told him all along: that Scheck had signaled touchdown because his job was to keep his eye on the goal line, that time had indeed run out before the play had been executed, and that Ohio State would have been penalized for failing to set for the required one second prior to the snap, thereby ending the game regardless.

The powerful, but inflexible mastodon that was Woody Hayes' bread and butter offense had run itself into defeat, trumped by two lightning plays that signified an impending future and a gloried past. A little over two years after that sun-kissed November 9 day, Denny Stolz was gone, replaced by the innovative Darryl Rogers who brought the precursor to the West Coast offense with him from San Jose State.

They've been throwing the ball in the heartland ever since.

As for Woody Hayes, four years after time ran out on his national championship aspirations in East Lansing, it sadly ran out on his career as well, when he ignominiously punched a Clemson player in front of the world during a bowl game, making his termination mandatory.

Woody Hayes has been gone for twenty-one years now, but the spoils of trench warfare football that personified the Big 10 live on in the memories of those who were there when it was in full regalia. I relived those dusty memories today with Kale Ane, the undersized 220 pound center from Hawaii whose key block helped spring Levi Jackson and his mates into Spartan lore. "I had only one thing in mind on that play," said Ane. "My guy wasn't going to make the tackle." And by God, he didn't.

Ane went on to play in the NFL for seven years before returning to his home in the islands. As we reminisced in his office at Punahou School, where he is the current head football coach, we were transported back in time and quickly discovered that the magic from 1974 just took a little sprinkle of attention to course its way into our veins once again. We vowed not to make this our last journey back.

None of this would have been possible without Woody Hayes' genius, meanness, and game between the tackles. Like his offense he was flawed but beautiful for oh-so-long, and a couple of guys in the middle of the Pacific are grateful to have experienced it all on that one fine day back when.

Rest in peace, Coach.

The Carolina Way

2008-03-09T18:40:00.016-10:00

"The way she lived her life embodied the Carolina way." The words of University of North Carolina Chancellor James Moeser wafted in the rarefied ether of Duke University's Cameron Indoor Stadium two days after he'd uttered them, as the gathered throng paid silent tribute this past Saturday evening to Eve Marie Carson, the slain student body president of UNC. She was, by all accounts, an extraordinary person, cut down in the spring of her youth by an act of senseless, depraved violence.

From 5,000 miles away I watched and listened as the silence gave way to an uncertain, but unmistakable, crescendo that signified the onset of a game between bitter rivals and national championship contenders, the importance of which paled in comparison to the tragic loss of life that now colored the entire spectacle before us. The huge high definition picture I gazed into was awash in a sea of blue, a synonym for melancholy. But the hues on the screen were anything but melancholic. They were the gorgeous colors of the Tar Heels and the Blue Devils, symbols of two universities that have exemplified excellence in both academics and athletics for as long as I can remember.

"What is the Carolina way?" I wondered, as the starting lineups were introduced. And then I got a taste, as the arena announcer introduced the coaches as "Mr. Roy Williams" and "Mr. Mike Krzyzewski." And though the two adversaries have had words with one another in the press this year, they shook hands and exchanged what appeared to be sincere and sober pleasantries.

The game tipped off and accelerated instantaneously into an exhilarating, relentless, up-tempo contest of attacks, counterattacks, brilliant athleticism, and inevitable mistakes-- errors that were invariably responded to with discipline, character, and nary a whine or pout. The #1 Tar Heels, sporting black patches with "Eve" stitched upon them, appeared on a mission the first half, forging a double-digit lead as Duke struggled to find its rhythm, rushing their pace and tossing up one errant three-pointer after another.

But the second half was another matter, as Coach K's boys came roaring back with a retooled defense that slowed Carolina's fabulous All-American, Tyler Hansbrough, and an unflagging faith in their long range shooting, that smart-bombed the Blue Devils into the lead with minutes remaining. And when Carolina dug in its Tar Heels at the end to prevail 76-68, the arena filled with jubilation, disappointment, and mutual respect in sizable doses.

As the coaches and athletes shook one another's hands in a ritual that is always moving when done with sincerity, I was struck by how perfect the world seems for at least a few moments when sport is conducted at such a high level of athleticism and that old fashioned word, sportsmanship. Perhaps the memory and specter of Eve Carson influenced the fiber of this game. Then again, maybe what we witnessed was simply the embodiment of the Carolina way.

Plausible Deniability

2008-03-09T06:31:00.007-10:00

Late breaking news, just in from Major League Baseball headquarters: doctors have now confirmed that Commisioner Bud Selig's case of cranial rectumitis is officially chronic. The diagnosis was confirmed on the heels of Selig's announcement that he will not read the recently released transcript of Barry Bonds' grand jury testimony because, "I don't think there's any reason for me at this time." (See previous Indie Sport post, The Gospel According To Barry, for an excerpted version of the transcript.)

"I think all the lawyers around me will [read the transcript]," said a confused Selig, uncertain about whether the subjects of cheating, lying, substance abuse, and the validity of ballplayer performance are worthy of his attention "at this time."

Given the vascular pressure being exerted on Mr. Selig's cranium by his medical condition, common decency mandates that he must be excused for "misremembering" that now is actually the time.

Our thoughts and prayers go out to Mr. Selig in anticipation of the extraction procedure he will undergo at an undetermined date in the future. According to experts, the probability of success is less than 50-50.

Godspeed, baseball.

Eye On The Ball

2008-03-07T09:35:00.016-10:00

Is there any doubt that college hoops, with all its quirks and imperfections, has it hands down over the homogenized, over-processed package served up by the NBA? As if we need another reminder, today's development in the Seattle SuperSonics hostage crisis once again drives the point home.

While college basketball gears up for the passion play known as March Madness, the city of Seattle struggles to raise enough money to renovate KeyArena-- the home of the Sonics-- to prevent team owner Clay Bennett from relocating the club to Oklahoma City. At issue is Bennett's claim that the facility just isn't posh enough to get the job done.

It's enough to make one wonder how the Boston Celtics managed to win all those championships and fill the stands when they played in the decrepit confines of Boston Garden.

But that was back in the day when the game was everything, not the venue. All that was needed was a decent sight line and a place to sit. Call me old fashioned, but don't the nouveau-riche luxuries that coddle fans in today's disposable arenas actually impoverish the game by varnishing over much of the grit that makes sport visceral, grounded, and alive?

KeyArena, originally constructed in 1962, was completely rebuilt and expanded only thirteen years ago at a cost of nearly $100 million, $21 million of which was paid for by the Sonics, the remainder by the city of Seattle. But today the city, in conjunction with four private investors, unveiled a $300 million plan to upgrade the facility yet again, with half that cost being dumped on the taxpayers. Is this a smart move, or will it just encourage the next hijacker a dozen years from now, who may simply feel his franchise can't compete without gold faucets in the luxury suites?

I attended a Sonics game in KeyArena before the 1994/95 renovation and found it just fine, thank you. What struck me was not the facility, but the soulless nature of the game. Don't get me wrong-- it was played with great skill, but little passion. Ironically, the frenzied, near-constant efforts by the game announcer, dancers, and synthesized music to artificially whip the audience into a state of real engagement only made the experience more sterile and empty.

It was a stark contrast to sitting in Jennison Fieldhouse-- a dump if there ever was one-- at Michigan State University watching Magic Johnson, Greg Kelser, and their no-name pals keep everyone on their feet, at full throat, without requiring prompting from management. Yes, the drive to the national championship was compelling, but it was the cherry on the sundae.

The college game was, and remains, emotional, drawing deep connections rooted in tradition, rural (as well as big city) representation, a season short enough to make most games meaningful, rivalries that have been around forever, and a sudden death playoff that makes impossible dreams possible. The players may come and go, but George Mason isn't going anywhere, and didn't we all get a vicarious thrill out of their run in 2006?

The NBA has nothing comparable to offer.

I feel badly for the Sonics fans, but hey, let the mercenaries go. There's a better, less costly show in town just up the road at U-Dub-- and it's got a lifetime commitment to Seattle.

Heart Broken

2008-03-04T12:17:00.009-10:00

This is not the way it was supposed to go down. No, the winner-take-all race between the world's two greatest oarsmen for New Zealand's lone Olympic berth in the single sculls was supposed to be like every other desperately contested battle these past few weeks-- a brilliant, titanic culmination of the unofficial World Series of Rowing between three-time world champion Mahe Drysdale and his fellow countryman, 2000 Olympic gold medalist Rob Waddell (see previous Indie Sport posts, Kiwi Magic, Heart Of A Champion, Knockout, and Singled Out).

But nature, which is so often wondrous, as exemplified in the spectacular display of athleticism and character that Drysdale and Waddell have given us again and again the past two months, showed how capricious it can be today when Waddell was cruelly struck down by an acute attack of atrium fibrillation 300 meters into the race. Waddell's medical condition, which can lead to a heart attack and cause episodes of pain, a loss of up to 25 percent of cardiac efficiency, accelerated heartbeat, and-- for an athlete, especially-- debilitating reductions in energy, was first diagnosed in 1997. He received appropriate treatment for the disorder and has been functioning at full capacity the past two years without medication. Thus, his attack came as a complete surprise.

"You think is it happening, is it not happening? There's always a sort of moment of confusion. I tried to settle the rating down a bit but unfortunately it just persisted," said Waddell, whose heartbeat accelerated "in excess of 200 beats per minute."

"The simple feeling is you're like rowing in mud. There's nothing you can do about it-- it's just the way it is."

The onset of Waddell's attack was readily apparent in the video coverage of the race. With 300 meters gone and the two boats essentially even, Waddell suddenly fell off the pace and Drysdale surged ahead, amassing a huge lead that defied logic, given the history of their superb series, in which the two champions have traded hard fought victories.

"I knew there was something amiss, he's too good to let you do that, " said Drysdale. "It's a shame it happened. He's an awesome competitor and what he's done this summer has been absolutely amazing . . . I've never had racing in the last three years where you've just battled it out the whole way down the course."

In the end, the result was academic as Drysdale crossed the line a staggering 25 seconds ahead of Waddell, who showed the world what he is made of by bravely rowing out the course in agony. With his health now in question, the issue of whether or not Waddell will challenge for an Olympic spot in New Zealand's double sculls, pair, or four is up in the air. He may yet opt for corrective surgery.

As for Drysdale, it is hard to find sufficient superlatives to describe what he has accomplished. He was effectively ambushed by Waddell's comeback from retirement, forcing him to scuttle his well laid training plans, which were predicated on what otherwise would have been his inevitable selection as New Zealand's single sculls entry at Beijing. Instead he was forced to abruptly gear up for a death match against an oarsman who is considered by many to be the best in the world. Drysdale retooled brilliantly and fought back from repeated, demoralizing defeats at the hands of Waddell to claim victory when many believed he could not.

In the end we have been treated to a competition so fine that we may never see another like it for years to come, if ever. This was sport at its pinnacle, contested by men whose courage and skill are nothing less than exquisite.

The Myth Of Pedigree

2008-03-04T09:58:00.018-10:00

As the well deserved accolades pour in for Brett Favre in honor of his career and retirement, which he announced today, a reflection on his many achievements serves as a reminder that we are blessed to live in a land where talent, character, and drive trump privileged position when given the chance.

National Football League MVPs are not supposed to come from Southern Mississippi, but that's where Brett played his college ball. This is not to insult his fine alma mater, but in a world that all too often overemphasizes pedigree, elitism, and narrow definitions of what constitutes the highway to success, we've been led to believe that stars of Favre's magnitude should come from powerhouse programs like U.S.C., Ohio State, or Florida.

We revel when an upstart like Appalachian State slays the Michigan Goliath and when a guy who's taken the road less travelled makes his way to the mountain top despite the odds against it. So, in honor of Brett Favre and for the sheer fun of a little journey down memory lane, here, in no particular order, are some quarterbacks who've led their teams to the Super Bowl because of who they are and the dreams they believed.

Terry Bradshaw, Louisiana Tech
Doug Williams, Grambling
Roger Staubach, Navy
Trent Dilfer, Fresno State
Steve McNair, Alcorn State
Kurt Warner, Northern Iowa
Phil Simms, Morehead State
Rich Gannon, Delaware
Ben Roethlisberger, Miami (Ohio)
Stan Humphries, Louisiana-Monroe
Ken Anderson, Augustana
Ron Jaworski, Youngstown State
Jake Delhomme, Louisiana-Lafayette

Thank you, Brett. It's been a helluva ride.

Show Me The Money

2008-03-03T11:40:00.018-10:00

What are we to make of the lack of interest in Randy Moss, a gifted athlete who hasn't received so much as a nibble in the three days that he's been available to the highest bidder on the free agent market? One popular theory is that the market is "chilled" because everyone knows that Moss, who set an NFL record with 23 touchdowns last season, really wants to stay in New England and is simply using free agency as a way to leverage a better deal out of the Patriots.

That could very well be. Then again there are these possibilities:

His disappearance in the playoffs: 3 games, 7 catches, 94 yards, 1 TD. Yes, he was double-teamed. So was Jerry Rice who, in 28 playoff games, hauled in 151 catches for 2,245 yards and 22 TDs.

The ability of the Patriots, and every other team in the history of the NFL, to win the Super Bowl without Moss and his contract demands.

The New York Giants, who showed, as have others, that you can win the big one without an expensive home run hitter who has a lengthy history of behavior and attitude problems. Perhaps there is simply better bang for the buck to be had by many (or most) NFL teams by dividing a Moss-sized contract among multiple contributing players.

As for Moss' behavior, it's been remarkably prosocial in New England, unless there's any merit to the January allegations that he assaulted a female friend in her Florida home. Regardless of the veracity of her claim, the fact of the matter is that Randy Moss staying out of trouble is an anomaly, not the norm. One hopes that his current period of apparent stability in New England is a sign that he has truly matured, but will any other team be willing to take the risk on having him revert to poor form once he's outside the uniquely "therapeutic" culture of Bill Belichick? We'll see.

It's hard to imagine Randy Moss having it any richer than getting millions to play with Tom Brady on a perennial championship contender that is committed to winning year in and year out. Then again, when greed comes into play, anything is imaginable.

Kiwi Magic

2008-03-02T15:02:00.005-10:00

The epic poem unfurling in New Zealand added another magnificent verse today when 2000 Olympic gold medalist Rob Waddell, on the brink of elimination, powered to victory over three-time world champion Mahe Drysdale in a battle for their nation's lone single sculls berth in the 2008 Beijing Olympics (see previous Indie Sport posts, Heart Of A Champion, Knockout, and Singled Out).

Waddell's win at the Olympic trials evens the best-of-three series at one victory apiece, setting up a dramatic showdown tomorrow on Lake Karapiro (click here for a video link).

The race today, contested on a rippled surface, was a white knuckle affair of ebb and flow with the combatants never separated by more than a length. Drysdale, who had beaten Waddell by a length-and-a-half yesterday in Round One, nosed ahead around the 1000 meter mark. But Waddell would not let him go, setting up a final, desperate drive to the finish, in which he surged ahead for good with only a few hundred meters remaining to win by half a length.

The two oarsmen, the best in the world, have now traded victories in each of their last four races. Regardless of the margin of victory or the desperation of circumstance, each has come off the canvas to impose his will on the other. The supreme mental toughness and athleticism of these champions cannot be overstated. For the past several weeks they have been locked in an unrelenting, grueling war of attrition that comes down to one final battle tomorrow.

Should the race be close, the winner will not necessarily seal the deal, for the ultimate fate of the oarsmen lies in the hands of New Zealand's selection committee, who will announce their Olympic rowing team next Friday. The decision will be heartbreaking to one, exhilirating to the other. But what we will remember most is not who won or lost, but the courage and honor two unyielding athletes brought to their sport in a contest that is already legendary.