This morning's sporting page carried a short announcement that Shaquille O'Neil has received an EdD doctorate in education, a 54 credit hours degree specifically in the area of Organizational Learning and Leadership. Shaq completed his undergraduate degree at LSU and later earned an MBA. Right on! As an NBA player who devoted his post basketball life to education, I applaud Shaq's interest in higher learning. I remember somewhere hearing that Shaq is also an honorary sheriff, and was considering going into law enforcement. Although his 7 foot body and huge bulk might have helped to lower the crime rate in Florida, I'm delighted Shaq chose to go forward in education.
However, I was sorry to read that the big man is not going to use that advanced degree and his expertise to improve the lives of our young people, that is, to actually go into the field of education and join teachers and administrators in the trenches. These days young people need models desperately, and well educated professional athletes are a group of men and women who could provide such models. Can you imagine the impact Shaq would have if he taught in a high school where there were lots of at-risk type students? Imagine O'Neil walking down the halls towering over the students, all of them looking up at him, probably smiling, laughing, and joking with him. Consider what a leg up he would have dispensing advice to students who need to hear sound advice. Shaq and any other retired pro athlete would have to take monumental pay cuts, but certainly guys like Shaq don't need more money. It's time for the great stars to give back to the communities that nurtured and idolized them. It's time for them to get into the hands-on business of helping youth. Having foundations are worthy efforts, but not enough.
When I was a teen in San Francisco my buddies and I used to play a lot of pool. I've always believed playing pool helped me with depth perception, which in turn helped me shooting baskets. But I might have been rationalizing because I enjoyed hanging out in pool halls, leaning on cue sticks, acting tough, and occasionaly sneaking a cigarette and a slug of beer with adults who didn't care that I was underage.
Here's a poem for Pool and my short life in pool halls.
Pool is a Godless Sport by James Haug
I like the articulate crack
the cue ball makes
on impact, how it drops
what it's after and backspins back,
the chalk skids
on its bald surface, blue
and hard as water
or your eyes, keen straight
down the line of the poolstick,
how the clogged air of lies
and smoke clears as you circle
the table, the next shot
plump on the rail, a duck.
You're on a roll, playing
collisions of intent and dumb luck.
We don't talk as I gather
a new game in the rack;
no one's put down quarters.
We could shoot hours here.
The bartender yawns and looks on,
pinball bangs a free ball.
We play off the angles, combinations,
the felt before each break
fresh as a promise,
and let the rolling goemetry
plot our next move.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
On Metta Non Peace and etc
As a player who threw his share of elbows and wound up in a number of fights in my ten year NBA career, the most interesting and futile being the one I against Wilt Chamberlain, I was, none-the-less, sickened by Ron Artest's (Let's no longer call him Peace) vicious elbow to the head of James Hardin, a blow that seemed entirely random and unnecessary.
However, as much as I found such brutality repulsive, I found myself, as I watched ad infinatum replays of the incident, becoming more and more offended by the passivity of the Oklahoma Thunder players immediately following the attack.
Okay, Meschery, take a deep breath and stop pretending it's the Sixites, a time in the NBA in which players would have flown to the defense of their fallen teammate, unlike the Thunder who merely stood around, glaring and exhaling a lot of hot air.
Perhaps today's players are a different breed. Perhaps this is a different league, a kinder gentler one. Perhaps back in our day, we didn't have that much to lose financially that it didn't matter if we swung a punch or two to defend a fallen teammate, or perhaps the League understood the need for a player or players acting in self-defense, or perhaps we lived by a different code of honor?
I know in my heart that if anyone had hit me the way Artest brutally and intentionally hit Harden, our Warrior bench would have cleared to come to my defense, but by then it would have been too late because Al Attles would have torn the dude's head off. After such dust cleared, I'm not sure what action the League back then would have taken. Probably not much. That's the way it was; we took care of our own.
As I am writing this, I am already apologizing to mothers and fathers of future athletes. There is so much violence in the world, that it is difficult to justify it in sports. And I know it is difficult to pick and chose which act of violence needs retribution, but all one has to do is look at replays of the Artest elbow, the way it was maliciously aimed and the frightening look on Artest's face to know that the players on the Thunder needed to do more. It seems that the "more" I'm suggesting, the Old Testament Eye for an Eye solution, is impossible in today's game, but it would sure have been satisfying to teach that bully a lesson.
Harden claims he is feeling fine. Perhaps, perhaps not. We will see once the playoffs begin. And I hope he doesn't take another blow to the head which could happen inadvertently as basketball is, indeed, a contact sport.
The commissioner of the NBA wagged a Stern finger and suspended Artest for seven games. Only seven games for an act that could have ended Hardin's career? I do not believe a longer suspension will solve Artest's brand of misdirected explosive violence, but suspending him from the playoffs might limit the damage he could inflict on other unsuspecting players. The playoffs are a pumped up time, a dangerous time to test Artest's ability to control himself.
I do not believe this is a kinder and gentler time in history nor is it, in my opinion, a kinder and gentler time in sports.
Let's not forget Andrew Bynum's cowardly attack on little JJ Barea and the recent headhunting scandal going on in the NFL. So as I write about violence, I offer this terrifying poem by the great American poet James Wright
Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio
In the Shreve High Football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.
All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home,
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.
Therefore,
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.
However, as much as I found such brutality repulsive, I found myself, as I watched ad infinatum replays of the incident, becoming more and more offended by the passivity of the Oklahoma Thunder players immediately following the attack.
Okay, Meschery, take a deep breath and stop pretending it's the Sixites, a time in the NBA in which players would have flown to the defense of their fallen teammate, unlike the Thunder who merely stood around, glaring and exhaling a lot of hot air.
Perhaps today's players are a different breed. Perhaps this is a different league, a kinder gentler one. Perhaps back in our day, we didn't have that much to lose financially that it didn't matter if we swung a punch or two to defend a fallen teammate, or perhaps the League understood the need for a player or players acting in self-defense, or perhaps we lived by a different code of honor?
I know in my heart that if anyone had hit me the way Artest brutally and intentionally hit Harden, our Warrior bench would have cleared to come to my defense, but by then it would have been too late because Al Attles would have torn the dude's head off. After such dust cleared, I'm not sure what action the League back then would have taken. Probably not much. That's the way it was; we took care of our own.
As I am writing this, I am already apologizing to mothers and fathers of future athletes. There is so much violence in the world, that it is difficult to justify it in sports. And I know it is difficult to pick and chose which act of violence needs retribution, but all one has to do is look at replays of the Artest elbow, the way it was maliciously aimed and the frightening look on Artest's face to know that the players on the Thunder needed to do more. It seems that the "more" I'm suggesting, the Old Testament Eye for an Eye solution, is impossible in today's game, but it would sure have been satisfying to teach that bully a lesson.
Harden claims he is feeling fine. Perhaps, perhaps not. We will see once the playoffs begin. And I hope he doesn't take another blow to the head which could happen inadvertently as basketball is, indeed, a contact sport.
The commissioner of the NBA wagged a Stern finger and suspended Artest for seven games. Only seven games for an act that could have ended Hardin's career? I do not believe a longer suspension will solve Artest's brand of misdirected explosive violence, but suspending him from the playoffs might limit the damage he could inflict on other unsuspecting players. The playoffs are a pumped up time, a dangerous time to test Artest's ability to control himself.
I do not believe this is a kinder and gentler time in history nor is it, in my opinion, a kinder and gentler time in sports.
Let's not forget Andrew Bynum's cowardly attack on little JJ Barea and the recent headhunting scandal going on in the NFL. So as I write about violence, I offer this terrifying poem by the great American poet James Wright
Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio
In the Shreve High Football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.
All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home,
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.
Therefore,
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
The Sacramento Kings' Crisis
Now that my beloved Warriors are in the hands of financially stable, energetic, and committed owners, Joe Lacob and Peter Guber, I turn my attention to the desperate condition of the Sacramento Kings, the team that represents the city in which I live. Financially stable, energetic, and committed are not adjectives that can be used to describe the Kings' owners, the Maloof brothers. I can think of more appropriate adjectives. Slimy comes to mind. And devious. How about manipulative?
Harsh? I don't believe so. Here's why. It seems clear to me and increasingly clear to the Sacramento public, as it must to all the parties concerned regarding the recently crafted agreement to build a new arena, that the Maloofs never intended to honor their handshake deal with the City of Sacramento, the NBA, and AIG.
Why, then, did the Maloof brothers return to Sacramento and declare there were no deal breakers? The terms were all spelled out in black and white. Do they have a reading problem? Why did they stand in the center court of Power Balance arena with their hands raised, tears in their eyes, and proclaim victory? Do they have an honesty problem? Why on that same Power Balance court did they hug Mayor Kevin Johnson knowing full well that they had no intention of paying $3.6 million dollars in predevelopment costs, (and other costs) that their handshake deal called for?
The answer is simple. They are belly-crawling around for a better deal, and in the Maloof swamp its okay to mislead as long as it benefits the Maloof family. I can not prove it, nor can anyone else, but I am convinced the brothers planned this manipulation from the get-go. They are gambling (They are gamblers, are they not?) that with so much time, energy, and reputation committed to the arena project, the NBA, the City, and AIG will cave in to their demands. I suspect that the Maloofs feel they are in control. Worse comes to worse, they can sell the team, and from what I've read there seems to be a number of takers, especially now that Sacramento and the NBA are committed to a new arena.
(New arena = new ownership interest = higher profits from sale of team for the Maloofs; No new arena = no new ownership interest = financial trouble for the Maloofs. GET IT?)
Even if they don't sell the team - and I'm convinced this is what their plan is - if their bluff works they will wind up with their team in a better financial position and a new arena at a lower cost to them. And they can continue to sit courtside and play big time NBA owners.
We're talking manipulation at the highest level. We're talking about David Stern of the NBA and Mayor Kevin Johnson like laundry being hung out to dry.
My only hope is that David Stern turns his well-documented fury on the Maloofs, in which case the City of Sacramento might have a chance of retaining their beloved Kings and building a new arena in which to watch them. And Kevin Johnson might be more than a one term mayor.
Although I'm not a great baseball fan, I am a fan of baseball poems. Here's one oldie but goodie:
Hits and Runs by Carl Sandburg
I remember the Chillicothe ballplayers grappling the Rock
Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by
darkness.
And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke
against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock
island players were a yellow smoke against the sun-
down.
And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes
and outs, and the umpire's throat fought in the
dust for a song.
Harsh? I don't believe so. Here's why. It seems clear to me and increasingly clear to the Sacramento public, as it must to all the parties concerned regarding the recently crafted agreement to build a new arena, that the Maloofs never intended to honor their handshake deal with the City of Sacramento, the NBA, and AIG.
Why, then, did the Maloof brothers return to Sacramento and declare there were no deal breakers? The terms were all spelled out in black and white. Do they have a reading problem? Why did they stand in the center court of Power Balance arena with their hands raised, tears in their eyes, and proclaim victory? Do they have an honesty problem? Why on that same Power Balance court did they hug Mayor Kevin Johnson knowing full well that they had no intention of paying $3.6 million dollars in predevelopment costs, (and other costs) that their handshake deal called for?
The answer is simple. They are belly-crawling around for a better deal, and in the Maloof swamp its okay to mislead as long as it benefits the Maloof family. I can not prove it, nor can anyone else, but I am convinced the brothers planned this manipulation from the get-go. They are gambling (They are gamblers, are they not?) that with so much time, energy, and reputation committed to the arena project, the NBA, the City, and AIG will cave in to their demands. I suspect that the Maloofs feel they are in control. Worse comes to worse, they can sell the team, and from what I've read there seems to be a number of takers, especially now that Sacramento and the NBA are committed to a new arena.
(New arena = new ownership interest = higher profits from sale of team for the Maloofs; No new arena = no new ownership interest = financial trouble for the Maloofs. GET IT?)
Even if they don't sell the team - and I'm convinced this is what their plan is - if their bluff works they will wind up with their team in a better financial position and a new arena at a lower cost to them. And they can continue to sit courtside and play big time NBA owners.
We're talking manipulation at the highest level. We're talking about David Stern of the NBA and Mayor Kevin Johnson like laundry being hung out to dry.
My only hope is that David Stern turns his well-documented fury on the Maloofs, in which case the City of Sacramento might have a chance of retaining their beloved Kings and building a new arena in which to watch them. And Kevin Johnson might be more than a one term mayor.
Although I'm not a great baseball fan, I am a fan of baseball poems. Here's one oldie but goodie:
Hits and Runs by Carl Sandburg
I remember the Chillicothe ballplayers grappling the Rock
Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by
darkness.
And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke
against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock
island players were a yellow smoke against the sun-
down.
And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes
and outs, and the umpire's throat fought in the
dust for a song.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Master's Weekend
I watched amazed as Louis Oosthuizen's 4 iron shot from the fairway on the second hole traveled 253 yards, hit the front of the green, rolled to the back and dropped into the cup for a double eagle.
I've never been a golfer, and only recently in my old age took up the game, with reservations and trepidation. It's embarrassing after years of dissing golf as a non-sport to admit it's not only a sport, it's one of the most demanding and thoroughly frustrating sporting endeavors. To all my golfing friends I ridiculed, I apologize.
Okay, enough with the mea culpas and back to Oosthuizen's shot. It rolled and it rolled. The ball had eyes is an old basketball saying attributed to great shooters - Ray Allan, Kobe Bryant, Kevin Durant, for example, when they're hot. The same can be said for this fantastic history making shot. It had eyes. And speaking of eyes, how in the world did Bubba Watson hit out of the pine needles onto the green during the sudden death playoff? It's a total mystery, like when a poem comes to you all at once and surprises the hell out of you. The spontaneous and miraculous is what makes sports and art so compelling.
Here's a poem about golf
Hitting Golfballs off the Bluff by Jeffrey Harrison
They come back now, those nights my friend and I
hit golfballs off the bluff behind his house.
We were sixteen and had our learner's permits
but no grilfreinds, unlike the football jocks
we couldn't stand but secretly envied.
Neither of us actually played golf,
but late one night we took his father's clubs
and started what became a ritual.
A Freudian would have a field day with it:
the clubs, the balls, the deep ravine below
with train tracks and a river running through it.
But for us it was pure exhilaration:
the sure feel of a good connection, zing
of the white ball disappearing into blackness,
then silence as we waited for the thud
against the ground below, splash in the river,
or bang against the roof of a freight car.
That drawn-out moment when we only listened,
holding our laughter back, seemed never-ending
and one time was: no sound came back at all,
as if we'd sent the golfball into orbit
like a new planet - one we might still see
moving across the sky on any night,
pocked like the moon, but smaller, shining green
with envy now, now deep red with desire.
I've never been a golfer, and only recently in my old age took up the game, with reservations and trepidation. It's embarrassing after years of dissing golf as a non-sport to admit it's not only a sport, it's one of the most demanding and thoroughly frustrating sporting endeavors. To all my golfing friends I ridiculed, I apologize.
Okay, enough with the mea culpas and back to Oosthuizen's shot. It rolled and it rolled. The ball had eyes is an old basketball saying attributed to great shooters - Ray Allan, Kobe Bryant, Kevin Durant, for example, when they're hot. The same can be said for this fantastic history making shot. It had eyes. And speaking of eyes, how in the world did Bubba Watson hit out of the pine needles onto the green during the sudden death playoff? It's a total mystery, like when a poem comes to you all at once and surprises the hell out of you. The spontaneous and miraculous is what makes sports and art so compelling.
Here's a poem about golf
Hitting Golfballs off the Bluff by Jeffrey Harrison
They come back now, those nights my friend and I
hit golfballs off the bluff behind his house.
We were sixteen and had our learner's permits
but no grilfreinds, unlike the football jocks
we couldn't stand but secretly envied.
Neither of us actually played golf,
but late one night we took his father's clubs
and started what became a ritual.
A Freudian would have a field day with it:
the clubs, the balls, the deep ravine below
with train tracks and a river running through it.
But for us it was pure exhilaration:
the sure feel of a good connection, zing
of the white ball disappearing into blackness,
then silence as we waited for the thud
against the ground below, splash in the river,
or bang against the roof of a freight car.
That drawn-out moment when we only listened,
holding our laughter back, seemed never-ending
and one time was: no sound came back at all,
as if we'd sent the golfball into orbit
like a new planet - one we might still see
moving across the sky on any night,
pocked like the moon, but smaller, shining green
with envy now, now deep red with desire.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Back to Blogging
I'm sitting in front of my computer and blogging again. My four months hiatus came about for a number of reasons, which included moving from the Bay Area back to Sacramento. But mostly I've been too busy finishing the upteenth and final draft of my first novel Mr. Dolby's Dream, a story about an aspiring pro basketball player and his autistic nephew, at the same time that I've been putting the finishing touches on my new book of poetry, Some Men, due to be published April 10th. Hardly time to breathe, let alone blog. But with our housing situation under control and both writing projects done, and the shortened NBA season drawing to a close, it's time to deliver my ten cents worth of commentary. Lots to catch up on, and some wonderful sports poems to share with you - whether you like poetry or not. If not, perhaps I can convert you.
Comment #1: I'd like to call out Peter Vescey for a recent article he wrote about Phil Jackson coaching the Knicks in which he refers to moi as a power forward, pot smoking, motor-cycle riding, midnight cowboy, hippie poet. Do your research Peter. I've never driven a motorcycle in my life.
Comment #2: The shortened season and the new NBA CBA. The players got real, the owners finally gave a little ground, and a contract was signed. Most importantly, although not a lot was made of it, people working at and around NBA arenas were able to get back to work. Now that this is settled, owners, administrators, players, and coaches should resolve to spend the rest of the CBA years devoted to lowering costs to its loyal fans. Give the little guy a break! He and she have been shelling out big bucks (check out the price of a less than delicious hotdog) in order for owners, players, and coaches to reward themselves Big Bucks for a long, long, long, long...long...long time.
Oops!!! Reading over the last comment, I must be more of a socialist than I thought. How dare I think of the average loyal fans trying to figure out how they can afford to buy season ticket to a professional sporting event, short of mortgaging their houses.
Comment #3: I've been meaning to ask this question for awhile. Is there any chance that any of the NBA dance teams might in this lifetime or any lifetime perform a unique, interesting, original, routine instead of the silly, long-haired-swishing, humping, boring, mind-numbing, robotic stuff they do now? Is this the message we want to send to our daughters and granddaugters of female beauty, intelligence, sexuality, and creativity? God helps us if it is.
Comment #4: I'd be remiss if my first blog back since the start of the NBA season didn't have a Jeremy Lin component. Congratulations, Jeremy. Someday, when you attain true iconic status, you may have a park in the Bay Area named after you the way Willie Woo Woo Wong has in the North Beach District of San Francisco. Willie was older than me, but I played against him in AAU games. One hell of a guard. And there was my teammate Al Mock, at six-five, another legend from Chinatown, a smooth shooter on my Lowell High Team and there was my favorite little man, Norman Ow-Young, redefining prep quickness. You're top notch, Jeremy, but I want to remind my readers of the Chinese basketball greats from the Bay Area. Tradition is a good thing.
Comment #5: Gutsy Move Award to Golden State Warriors and owners Joe Lacob and Peter Guber for the recent trade they made. If Andrew Bogut stays healthy, the Warriors have a legit center for the first time since Nate Thurmond. My apologies to Clifford Raye, but we're talking a franchise quality big. And congratulations to Warriors owners and administrator Rick Welch for retiring Chris Mullins jersey and to Chris for his class act. I'm not sure I would have been as generous with Don Nelson as he was.
Okay, a good start. Now for today's sports poem. Opening of baseball season upon us, so a baseball poem seems in order. I'm crazy about this strange little poem. I was a huge Supremes fan. Ditto most of Mo Town.
Allegiances by Forrest Hamer
I loved the Supremes as much as baseball
at eleven, my first base plate a stage.
So in those summertime lulls in action,
all base hits easily thwarted, I sang
the way Diane Ross did - rare and
heavy-lidded, often about some love
that did her wrong. The background girls concurred.
And I noticed myself changing pronouns,
suddenly aware that the other boys
listened closely to their first baseman,
more now than he had, reminding him
how necessary practice is with pronouns,
converting he to she at every turn;
otherwise a guy on the other team
might get past you, and then another one
could bat him in, the other side winning
and your whole team holding you responsible.
Comment #1: I'd like to call out Peter Vescey for a recent article he wrote about Phil Jackson coaching the Knicks in which he refers to moi as a power forward, pot smoking, motor-cycle riding, midnight cowboy, hippie poet. Do your research Peter. I've never driven a motorcycle in my life.
Comment #2: The shortened season and the new NBA CBA. The players got real, the owners finally gave a little ground, and a contract was signed. Most importantly, although not a lot was made of it, people working at and around NBA arenas were able to get back to work. Now that this is settled, owners, administrators, players, and coaches should resolve to spend the rest of the CBA years devoted to lowering costs to its loyal fans. Give the little guy a break! He and she have been shelling out big bucks (check out the price of a less than delicious hotdog) in order for owners, players, and coaches to reward themselves Big Bucks for a long, long, long, long...long...long time.
Oops!!! Reading over the last comment, I must be more of a socialist than I thought. How dare I think of the average loyal fans trying to figure out how they can afford to buy season ticket to a professional sporting event, short of mortgaging their houses.
Comment #3: I've been meaning to ask this question for awhile. Is there any chance that any of the NBA dance teams might in this lifetime or any lifetime perform a unique, interesting, original, routine instead of the silly, long-haired-swishing, humping, boring, mind-numbing, robotic stuff they do now? Is this the message we want to send to our daughters and granddaugters of female beauty, intelligence, sexuality, and creativity? God helps us if it is.
Comment #4: I'd be remiss if my first blog back since the start of the NBA season didn't have a Jeremy Lin component. Congratulations, Jeremy. Someday, when you attain true iconic status, you may have a park in the Bay Area named after you the way Willie Woo Woo Wong has in the North Beach District of San Francisco. Willie was older than me, but I played against him in AAU games. One hell of a guard. And there was my teammate Al Mock, at six-five, another legend from Chinatown, a smooth shooter on my Lowell High Team and there was my favorite little man, Norman Ow-Young, redefining prep quickness. You're top notch, Jeremy, but I want to remind my readers of the Chinese basketball greats from the Bay Area. Tradition is a good thing.
Comment #5: Gutsy Move Award to Golden State Warriors and owners Joe Lacob and Peter Guber for the recent trade they made. If Andrew Bogut stays healthy, the Warriors have a legit center for the first time since Nate Thurmond. My apologies to Clifford Raye, but we're talking a franchise quality big. And congratulations to Warriors owners and administrator Rick Welch for retiring Chris Mullins jersey and to Chris for his class act. I'm not sure I would have been as generous with Don Nelson as he was.
Okay, a good start. Now for today's sports poem. Opening of baseball season upon us, so a baseball poem seems in order. I'm crazy about this strange little poem. I was a huge Supremes fan. Ditto most of Mo Town.
Allegiances by Forrest Hamer
I loved the Supremes as much as baseball
at eleven, my first base plate a stage.
So in those summertime lulls in action,
all base hits easily thwarted, I sang
the way Diane Ross did - rare and
heavy-lidded, often about some love
that did her wrong. The background girls concurred.
And I noticed myself changing pronouns,
suddenly aware that the other boys
listened closely to their first baseman,
more now than he had, reminding him
how necessary practice is with pronouns,
converting he to she at every turn;
otherwise a guy on the other team
might get past you, and then another one
could bat him in, the other side winning
and your whole team holding you responsible.
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