Randy Bennett and I had lunch about a month ago. Over the years I have met Randy either at St. Mary's games or banquets, but we never had a chance to really talk and get to know each other. Most of the time as we ate, we talked hoops, a little about my old St. Mary's team of '58 that went to the Elite Eight, losing to the team that won it all, Pete Newell's Golden Bears, and a little about his 2009/10 team that made it to the Sweet Sixteen before losing to Butler, an accomplishment in my opinion that equals our 1958 effort. And we talked about the previous season's Gaels. If I expected to hear Randy express regret over that team's disappointing loss to Kent State in the opening round of the NIT, I was mistaken. No doubt the game ended not to his liking, but Randy made it clear those were his boys win or lose. Loyalty is essential to Randy Bennett. And looking back is a waste of time.
Toward the end of our lunch, I asked Randy if he was happy at St. Mary's. Yes, he said, they are good people. He liked the program they'd developed together. He didn't elaborated. He didn't need to. A man of few words, Randy Bennett said it all. 1) He is happy. 2) The St. Mary's folks are good people. 3) The program is something they built together. I knew that I was talking to a man who believes in the team concept, from players through coaching staff, and through administration.
St. Mary's College signed Randy Bennett to a 10 year contract. I'm betting on 10 straight years of Gael's winning basketball. I'll be rooting for them. Congratulations to the team: Randy, Athletic Director Mark Orr,
and St. Mary's College President Brother Ronald Gallagher.
Just as there are All-Star coaches like Randy Bennett, and All-Star basketball players (you take your pick), there are All Star poets. Phillip Levine, a member of my All-Star Poets Team, has been selected Poet Laureate of the United States. A native of Detroit, he taught for years at Fresno State University, teaching and mentoring some fabulous American poets, including the genius poet and my tennis doubles partner at the University of Iowa's grad. school in Creative Writing, David St. John. A progressive and radical thinker, I'm betting Levine is going to shake things up at the Library of Congress. The following poem by Phillip Levine is not about sports, but it is about teaching, something I did for twenty-two years after I retired from professional basketball.
M. Degas Teaches Art and Science At Durfee Intermediate School - detroit 1942 by Phillip Levine
He made a line on the blackboard,
one bold stroke from right to left
diagonally downward and stood back
to ask, looking as always at no one
in particular, "What heave I done?"
From the back of the room Freddie
shouted, "You've broken a piece
of chalk." M. Degas did not smile.
"What have I done?" he repeated.
The most intellectual students
looked down to study their desks
except for Gertrude Bimmler, who raised
her hand before she spoke. "M. Degas,
you have created the hypotenuse
of an isosceles triangle." Degas mused.
Everyone knew that Gertrude could not
be incorrect. "It is possible,"
Louis Warshowsky added precisely,
"that you have begun to represent
the roof of a barn>" I remember
that it was exactly twenty minutes
past eleven, and I thought at worst
this would go on another forty
minutes. It was early April,
the snow had all but melted on
the playground, the elms and maples
bordering the cracked walks shivered
in the new winds, and I believed
that before I knew it I'd be
swaggering to the candy store
for a Milky Way. M. Degas
pursed his lips, and the room
stilled until the long hand
of the clock moved to twenty one
as though in complicity with Gertrude,
who added confidently, "You've begun
to separate the dark from the dark."
I looked back for help, but now
the trees bucked and quaked, and I
knew this could go on forever.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Old Farts
Recently I spent a fun afternoon having lunch with a bunch of old farts. To be more precise, a bunch of old fart jocks. The lunch took place at Athens Burger in Dublin. It was a scene out of a Grant Wood's painting. The old farts were Dave Newhouse, the great sports writer with the Oakland Tribune, Bobby Wendell, a guard on Cal's NCAA championship basketball team, Dennis Williams, an ex basketball coach at UOP, our host George Baljevich, and me. Bill McClintock of the Cal Bears NCAA champs was also supposed to be there but was in Milwaukee running Pete Newell's Big Mens and Womens Camp. For those who might not know what that means, it's a basketball camp for players destined to be centers and are having trouble walking and chewing gum at the same time. Drop step, first, fall-back jumper last, right, Bill?
I'm not sure about ex advertising execs or retired plumbers, but when old athletes get together, they manage to take sentiment to a new level. Notice I did not say sentimentality, which connotes an entirely more maudlin state of mind.. I won't mention our ages, but when someone uses the phrase, bye-gone days, you can probably make an educated guess. Names came up as they should since sports is really about people not events. Fred LaCour, for example. We all agreed he was the best SF high school hoopster ever to play the game - overall honors in that category going to Jason Kidd at Saint Joe's. Someone said that Rene Herrerias, assistant coach at Cal under Pete Newell and later head coach, retried from coaching, is now a San Francisco historian extraordinaire. I think that was me. Bob Hagler, St Mary's College undefeated freshman team's coach was mentioned and praised, so was Joe Gardere, of McClymonds High and briefly of St. Mary's - lots of amazing stories of Joe at 5'7" and his precocious jumping ability. We argued over who was the best Bay Area basketball player ever. Newhouse insisted it was Frank Lusetti of Stanford. Maybe, but how does one slight Bill Russell? I found out a bit about Jack Molinas, the ball player and gambler who fixed games. I had no idea he was that good a player.
You get the picture? Old farts dropping names from their past. I loved every minute of it. It is healthy every once in awhile to honor those names.
When we stopped talking about players, we talked about the great playground system that flourished in San Francisco, run by the Parks and Recreation Department (Is there such a thing anymore?) that gave youngsters the space to hone their skills and compete without a lot of rigid structure. If you grew up in San Francisco, there was Lawton gym, Julius Kahn playground, Booker T, St. Monicas, St. Vincint de Paul's and Selesian's in the Northbeach. Every night of the week, players knew which gym to go to for the best competition. And on the weekends, the incomparable Marin Town and Country Club where Saturdays and Sundays the best of the Bay Area basketball players played shirtless and sweating on the club's sunny outdoor courts. Losers out. The beer, the games of Pedro, the Saturday night dances, ah!
Back to the names. How many people out there remember Willy Wo Wo Wong? How many people remember that two of the leading politicians in California George Mosconi and Johnny Burton were excellent college hoopsters. And I'll bet not too many folks know that Johnny Mathis played basketball for Washington High and San Francisco State and at 5'7" could dunk the ball. Remember the great guard Cappy Lavin? Remember Ron Tomsic? Remember the great Olympic Club basketball teams?
We talked about Bill McClintock and Pete Newell and that fabulous 1958-59 NCAA Championship team. Bernie Simpson, Bobby Wendell threw your name out on the table for discussion, and I countered with your St. Ignatius High teammate Ray Paxton, one heck of a deep shooter. We tossed around a lot more names. We laughed a lot. From his briefcase Baljevich brought forth old programs and player cards from his amazing collection of over 30,000 pieces of memorabilia. Can you imagine his house? He has to rent storage space for the overflow.
We talked until we began picking the crumbs off our plates and the sun began to set. Not really, but it seemed that way as our words shortened the afternoon to dusk. On my drive home I imagined Old Farts from all over America spending similar afternoons doing what we did, sitting around reminiscing, throwing out the names of ball players that make up the history of their regions.
Old Farts never die, you know, they just keep talking, and talking.
Cheap Seats, the Cincinnati Gardens, Professional Basketball, 1959 by William Matthews
The less we paid, the more we climbed. Tendrils
of smoke lazed just as high and hung there, blue,
particulate, the opposite of dew.
We saw the whole court from up there. Few girls
had come, few wives, numerous boys in molt
like me. Our heroes leapt and surged and looped
and two nights out of three, like us, they'd lose.
But "like us" is wrong: we had no result
three nights out of three: so we had heroes.
And "we" is wrong, for I knew none by name
among that hazy company unless
I brought her with me. This was loneliness
with noise, unlike the kind I had at home
with no clock running down, and mirrors.
I'm not sure about ex advertising execs or retired plumbers, but when old athletes get together, they manage to take sentiment to a new level. Notice I did not say sentimentality, which connotes an entirely more maudlin state of mind.. I won't mention our ages, but when someone uses the phrase, bye-gone days, you can probably make an educated guess. Names came up as they should since sports is really about people not events. Fred LaCour, for example. We all agreed he was the best SF high school hoopster ever to play the game - overall honors in that category going to Jason Kidd at Saint Joe's. Someone said that Rene Herrerias, assistant coach at Cal under Pete Newell and later head coach, retried from coaching, is now a San Francisco historian extraordinaire. I think that was me. Bob Hagler, St Mary's College undefeated freshman team's coach was mentioned and praised, so was Joe Gardere, of McClymonds High and briefly of St. Mary's - lots of amazing stories of Joe at 5'7" and his precocious jumping ability. We argued over who was the best Bay Area basketball player ever. Newhouse insisted it was Frank Lusetti of Stanford. Maybe, but how does one slight Bill Russell? I found out a bit about Jack Molinas, the ball player and gambler who fixed games. I had no idea he was that good a player.
You get the picture? Old farts dropping names from their past. I loved every minute of it. It is healthy every once in awhile to honor those names.
When we stopped talking about players, we talked about the great playground system that flourished in San Francisco, run by the Parks and Recreation Department (Is there such a thing anymore?) that gave youngsters the space to hone their skills and compete without a lot of rigid structure. If you grew up in San Francisco, there was Lawton gym, Julius Kahn playground, Booker T, St. Monicas, St. Vincint de Paul's and Selesian's in the Northbeach. Every night of the week, players knew which gym to go to for the best competition. And on the weekends, the incomparable Marin Town and Country Club where Saturdays and Sundays the best of the Bay Area basketball players played shirtless and sweating on the club's sunny outdoor courts. Losers out. The beer, the games of Pedro, the Saturday night dances, ah!
Back to the names. How many people out there remember Willy Wo Wo Wong? How many people remember that two of the leading politicians in California George Mosconi and Johnny Burton were excellent college hoopsters. And I'll bet not too many folks know that Johnny Mathis played basketball for Washington High and San Francisco State and at 5'7" could dunk the ball. Remember the great guard Cappy Lavin? Remember Ron Tomsic? Remember the great Olympic Club basketball teams?
We talked about Bill McClintock and Pete Newell and that fabulous 1958-59 NCAA Championship team. Bernie Simpson, Bobby Wendell threw your name out on the table for discussion, and I countered with your St. Ignatius High teammate Ray Paxton, one heck of a deep shooter. We tossed around a lot more names. We laughed a lot. From his briefcase Baljevich brought forth old programs and player cards from his amazing collection of over 30,000 pieces of memorabilia. Can you imagine his house? He has to rent storage space for the overflow.
We talked until we began picking the crumbs off our plates and the sun began to set. Not really, but it seemed that way as our words shortened the afternoon to dusk. On my drive home I imagined Old Farts from all over America spending similar afternoons doing what we did, sitting around reminiscing, throwing out the names of ball players that make up the history of their regions.
Old Farts never die, you know, they just keep talking, and talking.
Cheap Seats, the Cincinnati Gardens, Professional Basketball, 1959 by William Matthews
The less we paid, the more we climbed. Tendrils
of smoke lazed just as high and hung there, blue,
particulate, the opposite of dew.
We saw the whole court from up there. Few girls
had come, few wives, numerous boys in molt
like me. Our heroes leapt and surged and looped
and two nights out of three, like us, they'd lose.
But "like us" is wrong: we had no result
three nights out of three: so we had heroes.
And "we" is wrong, for I knew none by name
among that hazy company unless
I brought her with me. This was loneliness
with noise, unlike the kind I had at home
with no clock running down, and mirrors.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
One mystery solved, one remaining
Thank goodness for Joe Lacob, new owner of the Golden State Warriors. He has solved one of two mysteries that have been troubling me for awhile.
Mystery #1: Why haven't the Warriors retired Chris Mullin's number and placed it along other retired numbers high above Oracle Arena on the Warriors Wall of Fame? Solved by Joe Lacob. Mr. Lacob has announced that Chris will indeed be honored in keeping with Warriors' tradition. (Hey, istn't it great to hear someone talk about Warrior tradition again?) Why Chris was not honored long ago I'm sure had to do with some petty squabbling during the previous ownership, which flew in the face of Mullin's tremendous contribution to the Golden State Warriors and to the game of basketball. Good for you, Mr. Lacob! We look forward to honoring one of the greatest Gym Rats in the game of basketball and one of the NBA's best.
Mystery #2: Still unsolved. Why haven't the Golden State Warriors honored Franklin Mieuli with A Night at one of the games, show some clips of the eccentric, lovable fellow; allow some players to say a few words? If some of you out there in Warrior Land don't know who Franklin is (died April, 2010), here's a quick history. Franklin was one of the investors who brought the Warriors from Philadelphia in 1962. He became principal owner the following year and kept the team in the Bay Area on a shoe-string budget. The Warriors won their first and only NBA Championship in 1976 during his ownership. His personality was eclectic to say the least: moody, intelligent, loyal, zany, sensitive, tough, humorous, often inscrutable, and, yes, eccentric, a man who once rode his motorcycle into a bar to order a beer, and lived for a time on his catamaran. After Franklin sold the Warriors, he remained a devoted fan, hardly ever missing a home game, watching the action from his court-side seat wearing his Sherlock Holmes hat and cape. There are a lot of ex players waiting for a Franklin Mieuli Night to happen, ready to fly in from all over the United States to honor him.
It may be, for some reason, the Mieuli family does not want such a Night. If that is the case, they should say so and clear up the mystery. Otherwise I look forward to Mr. Lacob righting this wrong. If anybody represented Warrior tradition, it was Franklin.
Here is one of the first poems written about sports. It keeps my thinking in perspective.
ON THE TOMB OF KALAMACHUS THE JOGGER
He slowed once
and death caught him.
Mystery #1: Why haven't the Warriors retired Chris Mullin's number and placed it along other retired numbers high above Oracle Arena on the Warriors Wall of Fame? Solved by Joe Lacob. Mr. Lacob has announced that Chris will indeed be honored in keeping with Warriors' tradition. (Hey, istn't it great to hear someone talk about Warrior tradition again?) Why Chris was not honored long ago I'm sure had to do with some petty squabbling during the previous ownership, which flew in the face of Mullin's tremendous contribution to the Golden State Warriors and to the game of basketball. Good for you, Mr. Lacob! We look forward to honoring one of the greatest Gym Rats in the game of basketball and one of the NBA's best.
Mystery #2: Still unsolved. Why haven't the Golden State Warriors honored Franklin Mieuli with A Night at one of the games, show some clips of the eccentric, lovable fellow; allow some players to say a few words? If some of you out there in Warrior Land don't know who Franklin is (died April, 2010), here's a quick history. Franklin was one of the investors who brought the Warriors from Philadelphia in 1962. He became principal owner the following year and kept the team in the Bay Area on a shoe-string budget. The Warriors won their first and only NBA Championship in 1976 during his ownership. His personality was eclectic to say the least: moody, intelligent, loyal, zany, sensitive, tough, humorous, often inscrutable, and, yes, eccentric, a man who once rode his motorcycle into a bar to order a beer, and lived for a time on his catamaran. After Franklin sold the Warriors, he remained a devoted fan, hardly ever missing a home game, watching the action from his court-side seat wearing his Sherlock Holmes hat and cape. There are a lot of ex players waiting for a Franklin Mieuli Night to happen, ready to fly in from all over the United States to honor him.
It may be, for some reason, the Mieuli family does not want such a Night. If that is the case, they should say so and clear up the mystery. Otherwise I look forward to Mr. Lacob righting this wrong. If anybody represented Warrior tradition, it was Franklin.
Here is one of the first poems written about sports. It keeps my thinking in perspective.
ON THE TOMB OF KALAMACHUS THE JOGGER
He slowed once
and death caught him.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
NFL Retiree Care: The Next Issue
I'll keep this short. Gwen Knapp's article in today's Sporting Green, reinforcing the argument that the NFL must do more to help retired NFL players suffering from dementia and other diseases because of their years playing professional football, begs the question who will take care of all the football players who didn't play in the NFL? How about players from the CFL, and other professional football leagues?
More importantly, what about the men who began playing contact football at around age ten and didn't stop until the end of their senior year in college? Does anybody doubt that university football programs do not mirror the NFL in intensity and violence? Is it possible that after playing football for the University of Miami, or Ohio State, or Alabama, or USC or any other Division I university (I do not exclude Division II schools), many of the athletes (those graduated and not gone on to the pros) have already experienced enough hits to the head that make them vulnerable to brain related illnesses in the future?
If your answer is no, I suggest simply that you attend some major college football team practices. I've watched a few over the years. I'm no wimp, but some of the pounding I've observed, make me happy I took up the game of basketball. Heck, you don't have to go to a college game to witness head pounding, spend some time at a local high school football practice and game. Remember, some of these high school boys will be blasting each other for another four years in college. Do the math. I don't have the where-with-all to pay for the kind of in depth research it will take to determine how playing intense football for, say, eight years (high school + college) can affect a young man's brain, but a major newspaper like the Chronicle has the resources.
How about it Ms. Knapp? I won't even charge you for this Pulitzer Prize winning story.
Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio by Jame Wright
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.
More importantly, what about the men who began playing contact football at around age ten and didn't stop until the end of their senior year in college? Does anybody doubt that university football programs do not mirror the NFL in intensity and violence? Is it possible that after playing football for the University of Miami, or Ohio State, or Alabama, or USC or any other Division I university (I do not exclude Division II schools), many of the athletes (those graduated and not gone on to the pros) have already experienced enough hits to the head that make them vulnerable to brain related illnesses in the future?
If your answer is no, I suggest simply that you attend some major college football team practices. I've watched a few over the years. I'm no wimp, but some of the pounding I've observed, make me happy I took up the game of basketball. Heck, you don't have to go to a college game to witness head pounding, spend some time at a local high school football practice and game. Remember, some of these high school boys will be blasting each other for another four years in college. Do the math. I don't have the where-with-all to pay for the kind of in depth research it will take to determine how playing intense football for, say, eight years (high school + college) can affect a young man's brain, but a major newspaper like the Chronicle has the resources.
How about it Ms. Knapp? I won't even charge you for this Pulitzer Prize winning story.
Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio by Jame Wright
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.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
NBA, Collective Bargaining Agreement.
Here's the deal. Everybody knows the rules of haggling. If you don't know, go to any bazaar in Morocco. The shop owner starts high, you counter low, and you come together in the middle. Sold!
Now that you've got the cash issues out of the way, move on to the big stumbling block: hard and soft caps. Are you trying to tell me its an either/or proposition, that there is no middle ground? I don't believe it, and neither do all the fans out here in NBA land who, I'm afraid, are beginning to feel that professional sports is a big pain in the ass, not to mention the pocket book.
My biggest fear is that the NBA players will let their collective egos get in the way of a rational solution. Let's face it, the players are absolutely RIGHT when they say that they are not responsible for the financial mistakes of the owners. Everybody agreed to the last CBA, etc, etc, yada, yada yada. Now the owners are crying poormouth, but did anyone notice the selling price of the last couple of teams? Guys, as hard as those numbers are to stomach, it doesn't matter how stupid some of the NBA owners have been, how much they have overspent, how greedy they have been not to revenue share. The bottom line is that, unlike the NFL owners, NBA franchises are hurting financially big-time.
It is up to you players to come to the rescue of a league that is out of control. Give the league its hard cap, and higher percentage of gross revenues. In return your union can make the following demands: owners must revenue share, (that will keep the smaller franchises alive and competitive), owners must create an independent accounting system which the union is free to inspect. Finally, owners upon selling a franchise will pay a % of the enormous profits said owners receive at point of sale back to the union to be used for, say, retired players' medical benefits, etc. You can figure out the etc's. (These profits are astronomical. OK, I realize any owner who reads this will be clutching his heart and running to his cardiologist, but I'm dead serious).
Players, union leaders, if you are not willing to take the high road, then I'm afraid Sir Charles is right. There may not be a season next year, and that will be a shame. Who will suffer the most? The Players. The owners will go to their respective country clubs, light up cigars, and go on with their privileged lives. They may be joined at the club by LeBron James, Kobe Bryant, Pau Gasul, and others who already have their $$$ safely socked away in investments. But what about the rest of you? OK, I guess you'll survive as well. It's not as if you've been underpaid these last few years, like all the high school teachers I know. Finally sports writers will lose stories and blogers will stop paying attention. Over the land will fall a faint mist of regret. But nobody will be opening his or her umbrella.
As for the fans, they too will survive, but they may decide to buy season tickets to their local college games and, who knows, may find that those games are a lot of fun to watch. If there is a lockout, that's what I'll be doing. My wife and I will be sitting in the stands rooting for our St. Mary's Gaels. They play an awesome brand of basketball.
While the NFL is locking out its players, and the NBA is doing the same, Wimbledon has been going on. Maria Sherapova lost, which is tantamount to saying Venus goddess of love fell from grace. And Bob and Mike Bryan won the men's doubles for the second time. The Sporting Green didn't give them a lot of ink, even though they are Stanford grads. What's up with that? Oh, I guess they're too worried about the NBA lockout to notice. And documenting Michael Crabtree's silly twitters.
Here's a poem about Tennis
On the Tennis Court at Night by Galway Kinnell
We step out on the green rectangle
in moonlight: the lines low,
which for many have been the only lines
of justice. We remember
the thousand trajectories the air has erased
of that close-contested last set -
blur of volleys, soft arcs of drop shots,
huge ingrown lops of lobs with topspin
which went running away, crosscourts recrossing
down to each sweet (and in exact proportion, bitter)
in Talbert and Olds' The Game of Doubles in Tennis.
The breeze has carried them off but we still hear
the mutters, the doulefaulter's groans,
cries of "Deuce!" or "Love two!",
squeak of tennis shoes, grunt of overreaching,
all dozen extant tennis quips - "Just out!"
or, "About right for you?" or, "Want to change partners?"
and baaah of sheep translated very occasionally
into thonk of well-hit ball, among the pure
right angles and unhesitating lines
of this arena where every man grows old
pursuing that repertoire of perfect shots,
darkness already in his strokes,
even in death cramps waving an arm back and forth
to the disgust of the night nurse,
and smiling; and ta few hours later found dead -
the smile still in place but the ice bag
she left on the brow now inexplicably
Scotch taped to the right elbow - causing
all those bright trophies to slip permanently,
though not in fact much farther, out of reach,
all except the thick-bottomed young man
about to double fault in soft metal on the windowsill:
"Runner-Up Men's Class B Consolation Doubles
St. Johnsbury Kiwanis Tennis Tournament 1069"...
Clouds come over the moon;
all the lines go out. November last year
in Lyndonville: it is getting dark,
snow starts falling , Zander Rubin wobble-twist
his worst serve out of the black woods behind him,
Stan Albro lobs into a gust of snow,
Dom Bredes smashes at where the ball theoretically
could be coming down, the snow blows down
and swirls about our legs, darkness flows
across a disappearing patch of green-painted asphalt
in the north country, where four men,
half-volleying, poaching, missing, grunting,
begging mercy of their bones, hold their ground,
as winter comes on, all the winters to come.
Now that you've got the cash issues out of the way, move on to the big stumbling block: hard and soft caps. Are you trying to tell me its an either/or proposition, that there is no middle ground? I don't believe it, and neither do all the fans out here in NBA land who, I'm afraid, are beginning to feel that professional sports is a big pain in the ass, not to mention the pocket book.
My biggest fear is that the NBA players will let their collective egos get in the way of a rational solution. Let's face it, the players are absolutely RIGHT when they say that they are not responsible for the financial mistakes of the owners. Everybody agreed to the last CBA, etc, etc, yada, yada yada. Now the owners are crying poormouth, but did anyone notice the selling price of the last couple of teams? Guys, as hard as those numbers are to stomach, it doesn't matter how stupid some of the NBA owners have been, how much they have overspent, how greedy they have been not to revenue share. The bottom line is that, unlike the NFL owners, NBA franchises are hurting financially big-time.
It is up to you players to come to the rescue of a league that is out of control. Give the league its hard cap, and higher percentage of gross revenues. In return your union can make the following demands: owners must revenue share, (that will keep the smaller franchises alive and competitive), owners must create an independent accounting system which the union is free to inspect. Finally, owners upon selling a franchise will pay a % of the enormous profits said owners receive at point of sale back to the union to be used for, say, retired players' medical benefits, etc. You can figure out the etc's. (These profits are astronomical. OK, I realize any owner who reads this will be clutching his heart and running to his cardiologist, but I'm dead serious).
Players, union leaders, if you are not willing to take the high road, then I'm afraid Sir Charles is right. There may not be a season next year, and that will be a shame. Who will suffer the most? The Players. The owners will go to their respective country clubs, light up cigars, and go on with their privileged lives. They may be joined at the club by LeBron James, Kobe Bryant, Pau Gasul, and others who already have their $$$ safely socked away in investments. But what about the rest of you? OK, I guess you'll survive as well. It's not as if you've been underpaid these last few years, like all the high school teachers I know. Finally sports writers will lose stories and blogers will stop paying attention. Over the land will fall a faint mist of regret. But nobody will be opening his or her umbrella.
As for the fans, they too will survive, but they may decide to buy season tickets to their local college games and, who knows, may find that those games are a lot of fun to watch. If there is a lockout, that's what I'll be doing. My wife and I will be sitting in the stands rooting for our St. Mary's Gaels. They play an awesome brand of basketball.
While the NFL is locking out its players, and the NBA is doing the same, Wimbledon has been going on. Maria Sherapova lost, which is tantamount to saying Venus goddess of love fell from grace. And Bob and Mike Bryan won the men's doubles for the second time. The Sporting Green didn't give them a lot of ink, even though they are Stanford grads. What's up with that? Oh, I guess they're too worried about the NBA lockout to notice. And documenting Michael Crabtree's silly twitters.
Here's a poem about Tennis
On the Tennis Court at Night by Galway Kinnell
We step out on the green rectangle
in moonlight: the lines low,
which for many have been the only lines
of justice. We remember
the thousand trajectories the air has erased
of that close-contested last set -
blur of volleys, soft arcs of drop shots,
huge ingrown lops of lobs with topspin
which went running away, crosscourts recrossing
down to each sweet (and in exact proportion, bitter)
in Talbert and Olds' The Game of Doubles in Tennis.
The breeze has carried them off but we still hear
the mutters, the doulefaulter's groans,
cries of "Deuce!" or "Love two!",
squeak of tennis shoes, grunt of overreaching,
all dozen extant tennis quips - "Just out!"
or, "About right for you?" or, "Want to change partners?"
and baaah of sheep translated very occasionally
into thonk of well-hit ball, among the pure
right angles and unhesitating lines
of this arena where every man grows old
pursuing that repertoire of perfect shots,
darkness already in his strokes,
even in death cramps waving an arm back and forth
to the disgust of the night nurse,
and smiling; and ta few hours later found dead -
the smile still in place but the ice bag
she left on the brow now inexplicably
Scotch taped to the right elbow - causing
all those bright trophies to slip permanently,
though not in fact much farther, out of reach,
all except the thick-bottomed young man
about to double fault in soft metal on the windowsill:
"Runner-Up Men's Class B Consolation Doubles
St. Johnsbury Kiwanis Tennis Tournament 1069"...
Clouds come over the moon;
all the lines go out. November last year
in Lyndonville: it is getting dark,
snow starts falling , Zander Rubin wobble-twist
his worst serve out of the black woods behind him,
Stan Albro lobs into a gust of snow,
Dom Bredes smashes at where the ball theoretically
could be coming down, the snow blows down
and swirls about our legs, darkness flows
across a disappearing patch of green-painted asphalt
in the north country, where four men,
half-volleying, poaching, missing, grunting,
begging mercy of their bones, hold their ground,
as winter comes on, all the winters to come.
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