Bad Mittens & Remembrances of West Africa.

As I read about the badminton teams dumping games to gain a seating advantage so as to better their chances to win gold medals, I said to myself, okay, what's new? Why are we exorcised over these pithy failures in human nature, while all around us the big dogs of finance and industry cut corners, lie, cheat, and manipulate the systems to increase their bottom line? The Olympic Committee will ban the badminton players, as they should, and change the badminton rules to avoid further temptations, as they should, but I doubt the cheaters, those denizens of high finance responsible for our current economic depression will ever be brought to justice. The Olympics are a four year blip on our moral and ethical screen. So if it does our hearts good to see these badminton teams lose their opportunities for gold, well, hurrah for small justices. 
I watched the U.S. men's basketball team whack Nigeria, and thought back to my years beginning in the summer of 1963, coaching in West Africa. During those summers some of the African players showed up to practice without shoes. On my first trip I traveled with John Havlick and Casey Jones, two wonderful travel companions. On my second trip Siugo Green of the St. Louis Hawks (now Atlanta) was my traveling companion. On subsequent trips to Africa I traveled by myself. Back then, I counted myself lucky if I found one player per country who might have been able to make an American college Division I team, and I stress the word, might. So, despite the shellacking the Nigerians endured at the hands (or should I say three pointers) of the NBA's finest, I felt a great deal of pride over the great progress these countries have made over the last fifty years, so many of West Africa's finest playing at American colleges and in the NBA.

When Rebecca Soni turned her lovely face to the camera after winning a gold medal in the 200 meter breast stroke, breaking her own world record, I thought to her beginnings as a swimmer and of my own daughter, Megan, who possessed a natural talent for swimming, and of a poem by Phillip Booth.

First Lesson   by Phillip Booth

Lie back, daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man's-float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

Stars Earn Stripes

This morning I read on the Internet that NBC will produce a television show called Stars Earn Stripes co-hosted by retired General Westley Clark. On this show, celebrities will pair up with members of the armed services to compete at war-like tasks that include long range weapons fire.

Is NBC insane? Movies show graphic depictions of war. Video games are filled with simulations of war played nightly by hundreds of thousands of men and boys. Now were going to extol the virtues of war on television and call it sports. As an athlete I am deeply offended.

We are in the middle of the 2012 Olympics, dedicated to peaceful competition between athletes of all nations, and what do the nitwits at NBC come up with? War sports. Shame, and double shame on them.

If there is anyone out there as horrified as I am, please comment on my blog.

Here is a small poem I wrote about War wondering at some of the stupid games we played at as little boys.

The Origin of War    by Tom Meschery

I stepped forward into the long arc of the branch,
he had stripped of its leaves and meant to hurt,
because we were no longer ten and a dare at eleven
must be accepted no matter what, especially if it were doubled,
which it was. I took the blow on my chest but did not flinch.
Then it was my turn. I swung the branch
from side to side imagining his worst pain.
Walking home together, he screamed,
This is war! Tomorrow, one of my father's
two-by-fours. We'll see who'll cry, have the last laugh.
It started like a lot of games do, with a dare.
I should have known better.
In the end, what else could I do but surrender.

Olympics in Advertising

Okay, so I'm an unapologetic knee-jerk, 1960's/'70's liberal, but wouldn't it be wonderful and inspiring, and peaceful if once, just once, in the history of television, the American public could view the Olympic Games without a single commercial? Uninterrupted action, Yea!

This blog is not about dissing the corps that buy these games' supporting ads. because I understand the financial requirements needed to televise a huge production such as the Olympics. But, here's my suggestion to the corps: Forget the profits! Do the games pro-bono. In the long run, what do you really lose that you can't make up in any number of ways later? And please don't tell me that you're in such dire financial straights that loss of Olympic income will bust you.

Be it ever so humble, here's my rationale for a commercial free Olympics. First, I'm reasonably sure that there are no convincing stats out there that prove corporations' sales increase during or immediately after an Olympics Games. So, in terms of bottom line, are the companies getting their bang for their buck? I doubt it. Second, the corps that own the TV stations may or may not make a profit, iffy at best. Third, it looks to me that the only folks in econ-land improving their bottom-line are the advertising companies. Since I've always felt the advertising industry works on the principal of The Emperor's New Clothes, it wouldn't bother me if their bottom-line suffered through a brief Olympic Games diet.

The Olympic Games only last for a short period of time and then everybody, corps, television, advertisers, could get back to the business of making money, and we viewers, alas, would return to pressing our MUTE buttons during those pathetic beer commercials. But, oh, how pleasant it would be to look back on a glorious, a magnificent, an improbable dream-come-true, commercial-free Olympics.

Just the thought of it makes me shiver with excitement.

As the Olympics begin this week, did you know that in ancient Greece, the competing athletes would hire poets to write victory odes for them should they win?  And that poets attending the games would set up stalls from which they would declaim poems honoring the games?

Here's a funny poem about the Games, by Australian poet, Graeme King

I ran into the stadium, and heard the mighty roar;
the crowd was on is feet and going wild,
no sign of all the field, they were a mile behind and more.
I looked into the audience and smiled.

I ran the final lap and saw those five Olympic rings,
the flame was burning brightly in the sky,
the track was like a cloud, it felt as though I ran on wings,
the people cheered as I went running by.

I turned the final corner, one more straight to win the gold,
the finish line a hundred yards away.
Right from the start I'd grabbed the lead, and kept a stranglehold,
the others couldn't catch, not today.

The Marathon - a test of athlete's tolerance to pain,
so may hours of torture now was past,
I'd buried all the hurt down somewhere deep inside my brain,
and now I'd reap my just rewards at last.

I broke the tape, the world went mad, I couldn't hear a thing,
the cheering washed across me like a sea,
I'd done what I set out to do: a winner in Beijing,
the referee was beckoning to me.

H shook my hand and said, "I know this may sound rather mean,
the field and you was just like cheese and chalk;
if only you had looked behind, perhaps you may have seen
this was the Forty Kilometre WALK.

Top Down for a Successful Sport's Franchise and etc

When I first started teaching high school eons ago, I had a sergeant's attitude towards officers, ie: a teacher's attitude toward administration. When I retired from teaching in 2005 I knew that a high school is only as good as its principal. A lazy, unintelligent, or uninspired principal and you can say so long to the general well fare of your school.

The same holds true for sports. How is it that the Golden State Warriors could have been so dense, made so many bad decisions, were so uninspired that the franchise teetered on the edge of last place abyss for so many years. Clearly, the fault lay with the administration - from owner, gm, scouts, to coach and staff.

As of last year, our Warriors have a new principal and vice principals. There's an administration in place, and they are taking risks, drafting well, replacing average players with effective players, working from the Top down. All of a sudden things are looking up for the Warriors.

We all know that the risks (Bogut & Curry) are still there and Warrior success depends on them being healthy, but how about Thompson, Michael's son, destined to surpass his father's fame?  (No wonder Jerry West likes the kid; the kid plays a lot like him.) Let's not forget the acquisition of David Lee, a blossoming power forward with tons of All-Star possibilities. As for rookies, Harrison Barnes is going to be a winner. Festus Ezeli has great upside, and Draymond Greeen might turn out to be a steal in the low second round. Now, along comes the trade for J. Jack (sounds like a neat whiskey) to complete a solid three man guard rotation. Jack is a solid defender and a consistent scorer. And, he's got passion. Add to that some bench strength in Brandon Rush and Dominic McGuire. The only remaining question is how to dump Biedren's contract after which this looks like a team the Bay Area can get excited about.

But, before I wax too optimistic, let me say that it appears to me that a number of teams that were down last years have improved their rosters through trade and free agency, so it still boils down to what happens after the ref throws the ball into the air to start the game.

Now for Kobe Bryant's silly prediction that the present Olympic Team could beat the Dream Team. I suppose he couldn't very well said, no we're second best, but he could have been slightly more intelligent. Nothing wrong with asking a question with a question. What do you think, Mr. Reporter? Give him a wink and you'd have been off the hook.

Question? If Steve Nash plays as well as he did last season (at 38 yrs young), is it possible that Kobe Bryant could surpass Wilt Chamberlain's 50 pts a game avg record season?

Speaking of Kobe Bryant, remember his learning curve when he entered the league out of high school? He was not the star he is now. I wrote this poem at that time about him. It is in my first book of poems: Nothing You Lose Can Be Replaced.

Kobe Bryant

Three air-balls in a row
and the face of the cock-sure
millionaire becomes the face
of Billy Harris who I told
to take the last shot
for the city championship,
although he was too young,
the only sophomore on the team.

When the ball left his hand
I knew right away its failure
and wanted to climb the air
to pull it back before
it fell two feet short, and the fans
began to stomp their feet
and point that terrible pronoun
at him, as if you, you, you
didn't already understand
he'd never be the same person
he was the day began.

Tonight, on TV against the Jazz,
I watch Kobe and believe
it's my fault all over again
because Billy Harris never
got his shot back no matter
what I did or said to him
for the next two seasons.

Are Sports Fans Really Fans Anymore?

In yesterdays Blog I mused about the Standing Room Only sections of football stadiums and baseball parks. I referred to these areas as social gatherings, which begged the question are the people inhabiting these zones there to watch the sport? I'm not sure I was emphatic enough with my answer. Today I will be. The answer is No. Part of the social media generation, the people in the Standin Room Only sections are there primarily to socialize; they are not there to watch the sport.

Musing, further, on this new phenomena, I found myself thinking how many people in all the other sections of the stadiums, ballparks, and arenas are there actually watching the game? I mean seriously watching the action? Ask yourself, how many times during a game (any of the Big Three sports) are you able to sit uninterrupted in your seat without someone excusing him or herself over you or in front of you or just behind you to go the the concession stands? Or wherever? Never, would be my guess. Throughout the game there are always people leaving or returning. It's my experience that this behavior has increased over the years.

In addition, have you noticed how many people in their seats while the games are going on (not during timeouts) are concentrating on their electronic devices? I bet that after a game has ended, few fans today could provide a clear quarter by quarter, inning by inning account of the event they just saw. Why? Because they really didn't see it; they were buying beer, shmoozing in the lounge, or responding to their Twitter or Facebook.

So, I ask you, can you call today's fans really fans? As you sit in your seat at your next game, look around you and ask yourself that question. I'd be interested to know your answer.

It's the dead of summer and the heart of fishing season. I remember in grad school in Iowa City, oh so many years ago, heading to the ponds in the morning, fishing for small mouth bass and picking Morrell mushrooms. Later frying the bass and sauteing the mushrooms in butter and garlic. All of us, young and sassy, washing the meal down with cheap wine.

The Pike   by Theodore Roethke

The river turns,
Leaving a place for the eye to rest,
A furred, a rocky pool,
A bottom of water.

The crabs tilt and eat, leisurely,
And the small fish lie, without shadow, motionless,
Or drift lazily in and out of the weeds.
The bottom-stones shimmer back their irregular striations,
And the half-sunk branch bends away from the gazer's eye.

A scene for the self to abjure! -
And I lean, almost into the water,
My eye always beyond the surface reflection;
I lean, and love these manifold shapes,
Until, out from a dark cove,
From beyond the end of a mossy log,
With one sinuous ripple, then a rush,
A thrashing-up of the whole pool,
The pike strikes.