Tag Archives: sports

Being a Fanatic

Both the men’s and women’s basketball teams are off to great starts, just as the soccer team completed an Elite Eight season. I am happy to reminded of why I am a sports fanatic . . .

Sunday morning kneeling at the altar rail as the communion assembly line does its thing is not a great place to be having less-than-holy thoughts. Up past midnight the night before, up at six this morning, I could think of dozens of things I’d rather be doing than being in church. The communion procession approached from my right–“The body of Christ, the body of Christ, the body of Christ . . .” I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be, I thought. I am so unprepared for the discussion group I’m leading after church. I hope someone has something interesting to say, because I sure as hell don’t. My buddy Bruce, one of the morning’s chalice bearers along with his wife Cathi, approached from the right with cup in hand. “The blood of Christ, the blood of Christ, the blood of Christ . . .” go friarsI looked up as Bruce lowered the cup to me. “Go Friars!”

Bruce gets it. Eucharist celebrations come and go—I could celebrate every day if I wanted to (I don’t). But the Providence Friars basketball team winning the Big East Tournament title? That happens once every twenty years. Literally. On a March Saturday in 1994, I received the call we had been hoping and praying I would receive—the offer of a tenure-track teaching position in the philosophy department at Providence College. CBUIt was the ticket for my family of misplaced Northerners out of Memphis, the South, and the little college that was my first teaching job out of graduate school. Since it was March, it was also March Madness—the best sports month of the year. The final game of the Big East tournament was on—underdog Providence College playing the evil and strongly favored Georgetown Hoyas. A few minutes later Jeanne returned from grocery shopping—“Come watch your new basketball team on TV!” I yelled out the door toward the driveway. The Friars pulled off the big upset—their only Big East tournament championship in the thirty-five year history of the Big East conference. Until last Saturday, that is. Up well past midnight watching their victory, up early to read as many articles about it on the Internet as I could find—no wonder I was bleary-eyed at the altar rail.

I am a sports fan in the true sense of the word—a “fanatic.” This is not easily accounted for. I am not an athlete—the only sports I ever have been decent at are skiing and tennis. I grew up in northern New England, hundreds of miles from any sports beyond high school. But I was a fan of all sports from an early age, a fanaticism that has distilled, as an adult, to theBoston strong Boston Red Sox and the Providence Friars. My passion for college basketball in general, and the Friars in particular, surprised my students and colleagues when I first arrived on campus, although it should not have surprised my colleagues. During a lunch with the philosophy faculty that was part of my on-campus interview in February 1994, someone asked “why do you want to teach at Providence College?’ The honest answer was that I wanted a tenure track job somewhere other than Tennessee. I think the continuation of my marriage depended on it. The answer I actually gave included some making some noise about wanting to teach at a place that takes philosophy seriously, focuses on the history of philosophy, and so on. On a more personal level, I continued, my wife and I badly want to return to our native Northeast (she’s from Brooklyn, I’m from Vermont). I concluded my response by mentioning that Division One basketball was also a very attractive feature of working at Providence College. There were a few snickers and smiles—but I wasn’t kidding.

I’m a different person entirely at a basketball game. It’s a great place for my inner beast to come out—even introverts have one of those—in ways that sometimes even I am surprised by. Once during our second year at Providence, when my season tickets were still in an upper deck nosebleed section, we were given two seats on the court by the Admissions Director Jeanne worked for. It was not a pretty game—we were being beaten by Iona. Providence should never be beaten by Iona, so obviously it was the referees’ fault. After a particularly horrendous call, one of the zebras went trotting by our seatszebra, just a few feet away, causing me to scream in his direction, along with several thousand other fans, just what was on my mind. A few seconds later I asked Jeanne “Did I just call the ref a fucking asshole?” “Yes you did,” she replied. That’s why I love basketball games—they provide the opportunity for unfiltered expression of what I really am feeling and thinking. Later in the game I looked up toward our usual seats where my son Justin was sitting. As he screamed with a beet-red face and veins popping out of his neck, I wondered “Why is he getting so upset? It’s just a game. Where does he get that from?”

I have had two season tickets in Section 104 for the past nineteen years. Section 104 is a family sectionS of A—if your family has a “Sons of Anarchy” disposition. Once several years ago a young man a couple of rows in front of me, the son of one of the season ticket holders, was telling a story to a friend during a timeout with all the energy, volume, and foul language that a half-inebriated twenty-something male can muster. “HE SAID BLAH BLAH BLAH SO I SAID GO F%&K YOURSELF! THEN HE SAID BLAH BLAH BLAH SO I SAID  GO F%&K YOURSELF!!” After a few more GFYs, a guy in the front row of the section turned around and yelled “Hey! Knock it off! I’ve got my wife with me!” The young guy apologized—“sorry, man”—but front row guy wouldn’t let it go and kept complaining. Before long, GFY guy goes “I SAID I WAS SORRY!! GO F%&K YOURSELF!!Me on the JumbotronI love Section 104.

I knew something special was up two weeks ago, at the final home game of the season. Our opponent, as it turns out, was my alma mater Marquette Warriors who had defeated us nine straight times over the past few years. It was Senior Night, with a pre-game ceremony honoring the five seniors on what has
turned out to be my favorite Friars team of the nineteen I have followed since showing up in Providence. During the first timeout, my seat was chosen, out of 11,000 plus fans, as the “lucky seat” of the night. I was interviewed briefly, was on the Jumbotron for half a minute, and got a signed basketball. We then proceeded to win a double-overtime game that I pronounced to be the best basketball game I had ever seen. And it was. Until last Saturday night. We were, against all expectations and predictions, playing in the championship game of the Big East tournament for the first time in twenty years. We were playing Creighton University, the twelfth-ranked team in the country who had beaten the crap out of us by fifteen points just a week earlier. 1981970_950337533977_574254381_nBut it was one of those magical nights that happens every once in a while in college basketball. The Friars flawlessly executed a brilliant game plan concocted by the coaching staff, led the whole way, and won the championship. As they celebrated and cut down the Madison Square Garden nets in front of a national television audience, I had tears in my eyes.

Why am I a fanatic? There are all sorts of reasons a basketball obsessed academic might come up with. College basketball at its best is teamwork, dedication, solidarity, hope, and dreams on display. I have a colleague who teaches a “Philosophy of Sport” course, although I’ve never seen him at a game. I could teach that course. But for me this is personal. I suspect that my youngest son’s top five memories of his childhood involve being at a basketball game with me. I organize my memories of the past two decades by reference to memorable games and teams. fanaticsThere’s something excitingly visceral and primal about being in a crowd of several thousand cheering so loudly that the building vibrates. But bottom line I love being a fan because it reminds me that I’m more than a brain, more than the sum total of the roles I play, even though I love every one of them. Being a fan reminds me that there is still a kid inside who can get inexplicably excited, to the point of hyperventilation and tears, over something that makes no sense other than that I love it. Forty years from now, when I have just turned 100 in a nursing home, I will probably die of a heart attack as the Friars win their first national championship with a buzzer beating three-pointer. I’m good with that.

The Farewell Tour

I am a fan of all New England pro sports teams, but my attachment to the Red Sox is greater than my attachment to the Patriots, Celtics, and Bruins combined. The Patriots, lacking their all-world quarterback Tom Brady, have unexpectedly won their first three games of the season, but I have hardly noticed. That’s because the Red Sox, who have ended up in last place in their division each of the previous two seasons, are the champions of the AL East and begin the playoffs tomorrow. I always say that I don’t pay attention to the NFL until the Red Sox play their last game of the season–this year I hope that will not be for a few weeks.papi

At the heart of this year’s winning season has been the  most spectacular farewell tour in baseball history. When David “Big Papi” Ortiz announced several months ago that he would be retiring after the 2016 season, little did anyone know that the 40+ Ortiz would put together what has been perhaps the greatest season of his illustrious, Hall of Fame worthy career. His final season has been so remarkable that many don’t believe that he will really retire once the season is finally over. But I suspect that he will, hopefully with a fourth World Series ring in tow. 

I’m sure that a post just for Big Papi, and hopefully celebrating the 2016 World Series Champion Red Sox, will be forthcoming in a few weeks. For now, I am reminded of what I wrote at the end of the farewell tour of another athlete a couple of years ago, a reflection that led to some speculation about what the farewell tour of certain important figure from history might have looked like . . . 

In the mostly forgettable “Forget Paris,” the 1995 romantic comedy follow-up to his 1989 megahit movie “When Harry Met Sally,” Billy Crystal plays an NBA referee with all sorts of personal and romantic problems. forget parisOn one particular evening Crystal is refereeing a game in which Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and the LA Lakers are playing. Abdul-Jabbar is on a season-long “farewell tour” in each city his Lakers visit in the wake of announcing his retirement at the beginning of the season. Crystal’s personal problems have put him in a particularly bad mood that evening, and when Kareem mildly questions a foul call, Crystal immediately ejects him from the game. “You can’t eject me,” Kareem loudly complains—“I’m on my farewell tour!” forget paris referee“Well,” Crystal yells back, “let me be the first to say . . . FAREWELL!!”

Sports fans of all sorts, and baseball fans in particular, have been witnesses to the latest farewell tour during the months of the regular baseball season that ended last Sunday. Derek Jeter, the captain and twenty-year veteran shortstop of the New York Yankees made clear well before the beginning of the season that it would be his last, something that retiring sports heroes tend to do more and more often in recent years in order to set up a season of “lasts” as each sports stadium, arena or park is visited for the last time.Jeter farewell I haven’t paid a lot of attention to the Jeter farewell tour for a couple of reasons.

First, I’ve paid less attention than usual to baseball during this past season because by the end of May it was pretty clear that my beloved defending world champion Boston Red Sox were not only not going to repeat, but were destined for last place in their division. Second, Derek Jeter has spent two decades playing for one team—the freaking New York Yankees. I hate them with all the unwarranted and irrational hatred that only a sports fan can muster against their favorite team’s hated rivals. So, unlike the vast majority of baseball followers, I thought it was hilarious when ESPN’s Keith Olbermann began a seven-minute “Let’s knock Derek Jeter down to size” rant on his show last week with “Derek Jeter is not the greatest person in human history. He did not invent baseball, he did not discover electricity, he is not even the greatest shortstop who ever lived.”olberman

http://ftw.usatoday.com/2014/09/keith-olbermann-derek-jeter-espn

I might add that he also never (to my knowledge) walked on water, turned water into wine, or raised someone from the dead, although one might get that impression from the adulation flying around over the past few weeks during the final lap of Jeter’s farewell tour. I even tweeted about this the other day: baseball jesus“If Jesus was retiring from baseball, would he get as much play as Derek Jeter?” “Only if he played for the New York Yankees,” a Yankees fan who follows me for some reason tweeted back. Maybe Jesus picked the wrong profession.

Even some Red Sox fans I know were rather shocked by Olbermann’s rant (which I’m sure is exactly what Olbermann intended and hoped for). Why? Because even though I have every reason to hate Derek Jeter because of his bad taste in choosing a team to play for, such hatred is tough to sustain—he’s been a class act for twenty years. In a world in which sports stars seem unable to go through a full week without shooting themselves in the leg, being picked up driving drunk, failing a drug test, or punching their fiancée in the face, Derek Jeter was a model of consistency and class both on and off the field. No scandals. No garish headlines about cheating on significant others. No steroid use. No posturing and showing up umpires (he never got ejected from a game during his whole career). How can you hate a guy like that? I found out a while ago that even if I have a hard time hating Derek Jeter simply because he’s a Yankee, others don’t have that problem.

NYBosDuring the baseball all-star game a few years ago, I was at the house of a friend who traditionally hosted a party for a few friends to watch the game. My friend is a Mets fan who (if this is possible) hates the Yankees more than I do, but two of his best friends—a married couple also in attendance at the party—are rabid Yankee fans. Of course plenty of trash-talking took place throughout the game, as the host and I made fun of the Yankee all-stars as they batted or pitched and the married couple belittled the Red Sox all-stars. Toward the end of the game, Derek Jeter, a perennial all-star, was the topic of discussion. “Come on,” the Yankee fans insisted, “you can’t hate Jeter. No one hates Jeter.” Grudgingly I admitted that I did indeed have a difficult time hating Jeter. But my friend the host had no such problem. “F___  Jeter,” he said. “And f___ his mother too.” My goodness. There is no hatred as intense and uncompromising as a sports hatred.

The whole “farewell tour” thing is an odd one. What will Derek Jeter do for the rest of his life? Play video highlights of his now ended career? Even the greatest sports star slowly fades from memory like the Cheshire Cat’s grin after the end of the last game. When’s the last time anyone heard anything from Michael Jordan, for instance? Maybe Jeter will go the way of many retired jocks and become a talking head on ESPN or MLB-TV. Brad and AngieI hope not—it would be in keeping with his classy character to walk away from the game, start a philanthropic concern or two, adopt a bunch of orphans from across the globe like Brad and Angie, and practice walking on water or turning it into wine.

Speaking of impressive feats with water, if Jesus had conducted a farewell tour with modern technology available after he rose from the dead, what would it have included? Some possibilities:

  • A surprise visit to the Sanhedrin during one of its weekly business meetings.
  • An exclusive “60 Minutes” interview in which Scott Pelley will get Jesus to say what he really thinks about his dad.
  • 5000An on-site restaging of the feeding of the five thousand, with hidden cameras in the baskets containing the five loaves and two fish so everyone can see what’s actually going on in there.
  • A re-enactment of the forty day temptation in the wilderness, this time accompanied by a CNN film crew so we can find out what the devil looks like.
  • A serious grilling by the various talking heads at Fox News during which Jesus will try (unsuccessfully) to explain why helping the poor, widows and orphans is not just another example of enabling people who should be able to support themselves.
  • A massive industry in Jesus paraphernalia—crosses, tee-shirts, mugs, hats, pieces of his clothes and cross, tours that follow “in the footsteps of Jesus”—a commercial bonanza! Oh wait—all of that stuff’s already happened.

Of course, Jesus chose not to do a first century version of the mega-farewell tour. He chose instead to spend his final forty days hanging out with his closest friends before ascending into heaven observed by only a few people. Imagine what a fit his publicist would have had nowadays if Jesus had turned down the opportunity to ascend to heaven in prime time on all of the channels. Talk about a farewell! But probably Jesus chose not to make a huge public deal out of his final weeks on the job because, in a real way, he never left.DJ and Jesus

So Late So Soon–Memories of Olympics Past

It often is a surprise to those who know that I am a college professor to learn that I am also a sports fanatic. In truth, the most rabid sports fans I know are some of my academic colleagues—we talk trash about our favorite teams and athletes with the same energy you might find at any sports bar; indeed, we often have such arguments while drinking adult beverages. My own sports addictions have become selective as I get older, rionow largely focused on baseball (especially the Red Sox) and college basketball (all Providence Friars all the time). And the Olympics. I love the Olympics.

This month’s Rio Summer Olympics have arrived at the perfect time for me, a welcome respite from politics and an enjoyable bridge from sabbatical to getting back to the classroom for the first time in sixteen months the last Monday of August. Although I do enjoy track and field (although not the endless preliminary races that lead up to the finals), the first week of the Summer Olympics is always my favorite, phelpsmaybe because the focus is on two sports so far out of my wheelhouse that excellence in these sports strikes me as something otherworldly. I can swim just well enough to keep from drowning, so the towering achievements ofLedecki Michael Phelps and Katie Ledecki last week blew me away, as did the overall excellence of the entire US swimming team. The limit of my gymnastic abilities is performing a somersault (I’m not sure I can even do that anymore, and I’m not going to try it out), so watching Simone Biles, Ali Raisman, and the rest of the Final Five women’s gymnastics team blow away their competition in record fashion caused me to marvel at what a human being is capable of achieving.ReismanSimone

 

 

 

 

 

As I look back over my personal timeline, I realize that the Olympics are one of several recurring events that I use to organize my memories and locate myself in the increasingly misty atmosphere of the past. Certain events and athletes became part of my history—here are a few from my early years:

1968—The Grenoble Winter Games are the first that I remember clearly. I had just started learning to ski and France’s Jean-Claude Killy, winner of all three major skiing gold medals, was my hero. I knew, of course, that I was supposed to cheer for American athletes, but my patriotism could not withstand my strong attraction to winners. 1968 summer1968, of course, was a year of assassinations, unrest, and turmoil; the Summer Olympics, held in the high altitude and air pollution of Mexico City, were the stage for an iconic protest. During the medals ceremony for the 200-meter race, gold-medalist Tommie Smith and bronze-medalist John Carlos raised black-gloved fists throughout the playing of the National Anthem. Many, including my parents, were outraged, but I recall only thinking of what courage it must have taken for them to make this human rights statement at what was supposed to be an apolitical event. Smith later said, “If I win, I am American, not a black American. But if I did something bad, then they would say I am a Negro. We are black and we are proud of being black. Black America will understand what we did tonight.”

1972: American swimmer Mark Spitz won seven swimming gold medals in the Munich Summer Olympics—an achievement that stood until Michael Phelps won eight golds at the Beijing Olympics in 2008. But Spitz’s remarkable achievement was overshadowed by the Munich Massacre, the first time that terrorism burst into my consciousness. munich massacreEleven Israeli athletes were taken hostage by a Palestinian terrorist group; twenty-four hours later all eleven were dead. I’ll never forget my mother bursting into tears when Jim McKay, the multiple-award winning host of ABC’s “Wide World of Sports,” wept as he broke the terrible news.

When I was a kid my father used to say “Our greatest hopes and our worst fears are seldom realized.” Our worst fears have been realized tonight. They have now said there were 11 hostages; two were killed in their rooms this morn– yesterday morning, nine were killed at the airport tonight. They’re all gone.

1976: I married (the first time) less than two months before the beginning of the Montreal Summer Olympics, but they are locked in my memory for a couple of reasons. FComaniciirst, Montreal is only a couple of hours north of where I grew up. Second, they were the Olympics of Nadia Comaneci, the first gymnast ever to receive a perfect score of “10” in the Olympics. She was everyone’s darling—she was cute, spectacularly talented, and in the middle of the Cold War, it was a big plus that she wasn’t Russian (although I doubt many of my friends and family could have located Romania on a map). The rise of the United States as a world force to be reckoned with in gymnastics began over the next decade, largely fueled by young gymnasts who wanted to “be like Nadia.”

1980: Every American above a certain agemiracle can tell you exactly where she or he was when a bunch of US college kids beat the greatest hockey team in the world in the Miracle on Ice at the Winter Games in Lake Placid. I was standing with my mother and father in the middle of their Florida condominium living room, screaming at the television and reveling in Al Michaels’ famous call: Do you believe in miracles? YES!!! Thirty-five years later memories of that evening came flooding back as I screamed at the television watching the final seconds count down on a wildly improbable victory by the Providence Friars men’s hockey team in the 2015 national college championship game. Miracles do happen—sometimes thirty-five years apart.

torvill dean1984: The opening of ABC’s “Wide World of Sports” used to include a montage of clips illustrating “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.” The Winter Olympics in Sarajevo featured Torvill and Dean, the ice dancing pair from Great Britain who earned twelve perfect scores from the judges for their program choreographed to one of my favorite pieces of music, Ravel’s “Bolero.” SarajevoLess than a decade later, in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet Union, Sarajevo was the epicenter of the vicious and bloody Bosnian War; thousands died during the four-year siege of Sarajevo. The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat indeed.

boitano orserAnd so many more—The US boycott of the 1980 Moscow Summer Games followed by the Soviet boycott of the 1984 games in Los Angeles, where Mary Lou Retton struck gold for the US in gymnastics; The Battle of the Brians at the 1988 Winter Games in Calgary;ali 1996 Muhammad Ali lighting the torch at the 1996 Atlanta games; Michael Phelps’ dominance of five straight summer games.

A week ago yesterday my Episcopal priest friend used the following poem from the immortal Dr. Seuss in his sermon:

How did it get so late so soon?

It’s night before it’s afternoon.

December is here before it’s June.

My goodness how the time has flewn

How did it get so late so soon?

The thrust of his sermon was “don’t waste time,” using Seuss’ poem and several of the day’s readings to emphasize the importance of not letting opportunities to be Christ in the world escape our daily notice. The poem comes back to me now as a reminder of how each of our lives are marked by memorable events, the hooks, so to speak, on which we hang the various garments of our lives. The Olympics have served that purpose for me for over fifty years—a regular touchstone populated by people forever young in my memory as I grow older. Olympic memories cause me to both recognize the passage of time and the eternal youth of the human spirit. No wonder I’m a sports fanatic.

Simply “The Greatest”

Upon hearing a week ago that Muhammad Ali had passed away, I posted something very simple on Facebook and Twitter: “Muhammad Ali’s sports nickname says it all. He was simply The Greatest.”the greatest Jeanne and I left shortly afterwards for a weekend trip to Pennsylvania, so I did not get to see or hear the dozens of tributes from across the globe both mourning the champ’s passing and celebrating his remarkable life until returning home. Ali won the heavyweight boxing championship for the first (of three) times when I was a young kid; my growing up years were regularly marked by the latest explosion of this very public man’s life into the news from the boxing ring and the court room. What possible impact could the life of a Muslim, African-American boxing champ have on a white boy as he inched toward adulthood in northern Vermont? A significant one, as it turns out.Ali liston 1

I was eight years old when Cassius Clay won the heavyweight boxing championship at the age of twenty-three, defeating the fearsome Sonny Liston in one of the greatest upsets in boxing history. He was loud, brash, an entertainer, extremely confident and full of himself—and was poetry in motion. I was used to watching the Friday night fights with my father on television when he was not on the road, but I’d never seen anything like this guy—a heavyweight who moved like a middleweight. As a white boy growing up in northern Vermont, I was mildly aware of what was going on in the early Sixties—the civil rights movement, early resistance to the Viet Nam war, the counter culture—but the champ was the first public figure who embodied all of it for me. When, shortly after winning the title, the new champ announced that he was a member of the Nation of Islam, that he was rejecting his “slave name” Cassius Clay for a new name—Muhammad Ali—then that he was refusing to be drafted, confusion and cognitive dissonance reigned at my house. My father was a big boxing fan and had declared Clay (he wasn’t inclined yet to accept the champ’s new name) the best boxer he had ever seen (and Dad remembered Sugar Ray Robinson and Joe Louis). But my father found it hard to believe the Nation of Islam business and declared the champ to be a traitor and coward for refusing to serve his country (even though my father had escaped the draft during the Korean War, due to a deferment available to seminarians). Ali draftI knew no black people and knew nothing about Islam, but was intrigued by Ali’s principled stand and refusal to compromise his beliefs—even if I didn’t know or understand exactly what they were.

Because he refused to be inducted into the Army, in 1967, Muhammad Ali was stripped of his title, forced to surrender his passport, and could not get a license to fight for three-and-a-half years. By the time the U.S. Supreme Court overturned his conviction in 1971, attitudes concerning his resistance to the war had changed, both across the country and in my family. My father, who had originally called Ali a coward and traitor, came to understand along with many others that Ali’s resistance to the war was absolutely right, just four or five years ahead of its time. My Dad testified in front of our local draft board in support of my older brother’s case for conscientious objector status in the early seventies—rumble in the jungleI have no doubt that Muhammad Ali’s stand had something to do with my father’s change of heart.

Ali’s greatest fights happened during my high school and early college years. I watched in disbelief when Ken Norton broke Ali’s jaw and handed him only his second career defeat. I skipped class my freshman year in college to listen to the “Rumble in the Jungle” in Zaire on the radio. In what was perhaps the greatest sporting spectacle of the twentieth century, very few gave Ali a chance against the devastatingly powerful and much younger champion George Foreman—but he knocked George out in the eighth round. I skipped class once again a year later and listened to the “Thrilla in Manila,” the rubber match in Ali’s epic three fight rivalry with Joe Frazier. thrilla in manilaAli won what was perhaps the greatest boxing match in history with a fifteen-round unanimous decision. But for me, Ali’s larger-than-life persona was even more riveting than his boxing. Looking underneath Howard Cosell’s toupee during an interview; getting into a scuffle on air with Joe Frazier during another Cosell interview prior to their second fight; breaking into impromptu rhyme at the drop of a hat; cleverly insulting his opponent speechless prior to each fight—I loved everything about him. When ESPN awarded it’s “Athlete of the Century” to Michael Jordan instead of Muhammad Ali at the close of the twentieth century, I dismissed their decision as a laughable mistake. Ali not only transcended his sport—he changed the world.

The most lasting memory of Muhammad Ali for many people is probably his lighting of the Olympic torch to officially start the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta. OlympicsAfflicted with Parkinson’s disease for more than a decade, the image of an obviously frail and shaking Ali completing his task successfully was truly compelling. Many of the tributes in the days following his passing focused on that image, as well as his philanthropic work; they were remembering a kind and generous ailing elder statesman. That’s a worthy tribute, but that is not the man I remember, the man who regularly burst into my early years in various ways. Muhammad Ali was an original, edgy, flamboyant, and always a bit scary. My people became comfortable with Dr. King’s role in the civil rights movement over time,Ali and X but Ali was in the mold of Malcolm X. Angry, abrasive, eloquent, successful—and not the least bit concerned with playing any of the roles or saying any of the things that white folks expected black athletes and public figures to do or say. He refused to accept the world he was born into, and throughout his life he explored his power to change it.

My son Justin, was born just a couple of weeks before Ali retired for the last time in late 1981 after making one too many comebacks, as many aging athletes do. We talked on the phone a few days after the champ died; Justin told me that for many years, first in his dorm room, then in the bedroom of various apartments, he hung the iconic picture of Ali yelling for Sonny Liston to get up after knocking Liston out with one devastating punch less than a minute into the first round of their second bout. “He was one of my heroes,” Justin said. That makes sense, because he was one of mine as well. He was simply The Greatest.Ali Liston II

Gotta Have More Cowbell

Guess what? I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell. Bruce Dickinson

This evening the Providence College Friars men’s hockey team plays in the semifinals of their league’s playoffs, hopefully yet another successful step in their defense of the national championship that they unexpectedly won last spring.

We Are the Champions!

Although basketball still trumps hockey on my list of sports preferences, I bought a hockey season ticket this year for the first time. The Friars were 16-1-2 at home this season; the only game they lost at home was the one I was unable to attend. That should tell you something about the power of a fanatic fan.

one leg at a timeLast weekend the Friars played a best-of-three playoff series at home against Merrimack College, a series in which they were strongly favored since the Friars were the two-seed in the tournament and the Merrimack a mere six-seed. Season ticket fans were informed via email that the first 1000 fans at the Friday night game would receive a free cowbell. I wanted a cowbell, of course—I’m one of those millions of people who cannot hear the word “cowbell” without remembering one of the greatest skits ever from Saturday Night Live, where the Bruce Dickinson (played by Christopher Walken)—who says that “I put my pants on just like the rest of you–one leg at  time. Except once my pants are on, I make gold records”—guides the iconic rock band Blue Oyster Cult as they record their mega-hit “Don’t Fear the Reaper.”

But as fate would have it, the Friday night hockey game was at the exact same time as the Friars basketball team’s game against Villanova in the Big East tournament semifinals in NYC. Thanks to living only five or six blocks from our on-campus hockey arena, I was able to catch the final period of the game after watching the basketball team lose a tough one. It’s a good thing I went to the hockey game, because the team needed me. I arrived just a few minutes into the third and final period with the score tied 1-1.cowbell fever

Moving to my usual seat just a couple of sections down from the section occupied by the inordinately loud and obnoxious Merrimack students and band, I had just settled in when, during a time out, there on the Jumbotron was a brief clip from the SNL skit—Christopher Walken insisting to the band that despite Will Farrell’s best efforts to drown out the rest of the group with his cowbell playing, it isn’t enough. “Guess what?” Walken says—“I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell!” The crowd went wild as they shook their tiny cowbells, which unfortunately were too small to drown out the “Let’s Go Merrimack!” cheer coming from enemy territory. But shortly after the time out one of our Friar freshmen scored on a beautiful shot between the goalie’s glove and the post and we were on our way to victory. The father of one of the Friar senior defensemen ran in front of the Merrimack section with his best Will Farrell imitation as he banged on a real cowbell with a drum stick and the crowd went wild. Add an empty netter in the last minute, and we won 3-1.cow cowbell

The “more cowbell!’ meme went viral shortly after the SNL skit first played in April 2000. In a 2007 interview, Christopher Walken reported that after ordering a salad for lunch at a Singapore restaurant, the waiter delivered the salad and said “You know what this salad needs? More cowbell!” Whenever some important ingredient is missing but you don’t know what it is, you need more cowbell. Having a bad day at work? You need more cowbell. Stuck in bumper to bumper traffic? Gotta have more cowbell. Your kids are on drugs and your spouse just walked out? You need more cowbell. Some of the most important people in the world know this.Obama cowbelloffice space cowbell

 

 

 

 

 

most interesting man cowbell

Sean Bean cowbell

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last Saturday night I got to the game early enough to get my very own cowbell. It’s pretty small and not very loud, but it’s more cowbell than I used to have. My being in attendance helped once again—a late third period goal and an empty netter sent the Friars to the semis with a 2-0 victory. I will have my cowbell in hand this evening as I watch the Friars play for a spot in the league championship game. Because guess what? I have a fever, and the only prescription is another Providence Friars hockey national championship! And, of course, more cow bell.Jesus cowbell

Losing is not as much fun as Winning

sports fanaticAnyone who knows me or who reads this blog even occasionally knows that I am a sports fan in the true sense of the word’s etymology— “fanatic.” My fanaticism is focused and selective. I pay no attention to the NBA unless the Boston Celtics make a deep run in the playoffs (something that hasn’t happened for a few years). My interest in the NHL is similarly connected to whether the Bruins are in the playoffs. My obsessions, in ascending order of obsessiveness, are the New England Patriots, the Boston Red Sox, the Providence College Men’s  Hockey Friars, and the Providence College Men’s Basketball Friars. Once the Red Sox finished last in 2015 for the third time in the last four years (they won the World Series the other year), little did I know that I was entering a fall/winter sports season that has so far been one for my record books. Pats nationThe Patriots and the two Friars squads have been doing nothing but win. I did encounter a sobering reality this past week though—losing is not as much fun as winning.

Consider the Patriots. Ten games into the season they sported a 10-0 record; comparisons were being made to the 2007 team that came one Super Bowl defensive stop short of having a perfect season and everything was great in Patriots Nation. Then injuries and sloppy play caught up with them and they limped into the playoffs with a 12-4 record, looking very much like a team that plans to be “one and done” when they play their first playoff game in ten days. I even had to suffer the indignity of going behind enemy lines and watching them lose to the despised New York Jets a couple of weeks ago at my brother-in-law’s house on Long Island surrounded by in-law Jets fans. I was gracious and took the high road—the Patriots had already clinched a spot in the playoffs and the Jets had to win to keep their hopes alive. I must say, though, that I took delight in seeing the Jets lose the next weekend and fail to make the playoffs after all. hockey6The Patriots may do fine in ten days, but I’m not holding my breath. One thing I do know—losing is not as much fun as winning.

Consider the PC Friars hockey team. I wrote in this blog last April about their astounding run to the NCAA National Hockey Championship last winter—one of my most memorable sports experiences.

We Are the Champions!

This season they have played as if they intend to repeat as champions, going undefeated in the first half of the season that ended at Christmas with a 12-0-3 record and ranked #1 in the country for six consecutive weeks. Then last week happened. The Friars played in a between-Christmas-and-New-Year’s tournament in Florida of all places; they were upset by Cornell in overtime in the first game for their first loss of the season (they won the next day). mayors cupFour days later they were beaten by in-town rival Brown University (we had beaten them 4-1 a few weeks earlier) in an even larger upset. I understand the whole “throw the comparative records out” truism about in-town rivals, but it sucks to lose to a team that has only won three games all year. Don’t they realize who they were playing? We’re the national champions, for God’s sake!

In the latest rankings, the Friars have “tumbled” from #1 to #3. Tonight we play mighty Boston College at their place, then tomorrow night here in Providence—two very important league games (we’re still undefeated in league play). Two wins will right the ship and propel us toward a vigorous defense of our national title when playoff time comes. Because one thing I know for sure—losing is not as much fun as winning.PC basketball

Consider the PC Friars basketball team. They have gradually become the talk of college basketball nationwide by starting the season 14-1 with wins over two top-ten ranked teams away from home and with their only loss being to the team that was at the time ranked #1 in the country (we were in the lead with just six minutes left in that game). We were on the sports world’s radar at the beginning of the season because our point guard is a strong candidate for national player of the year and is likely to be an NBA lottery pick in June—he stunned everyone but the most hopeful Friars fans by choosing not to jump to the NBA at the end of his sophomore year last season. But the team’s being this good came out of nowhere; after making it into the national Top 25 rankings a few weeks ago, they climbed to the rarified air of #8 last Monday, the first time in decades they’ve been ranked that high.friartown On the same day an ESPN basketball person tweeted that at this point in the season the Friars arguably have the national player of the year, the national coach of the year, and the national most improved player of the year all on the same team. Friartown, to say the least, is going nuts.

Then last Tuesday happened. We hosted the Marquette Golden Eagles—the very team that we played (and defeated) last season when I was the honorary faculty bench coach for a game.

Retiring Undefeated

Marquette is my alma mater—I always want the Golden Eagles to do well, except when they play the Friars. The Friars were favored by ten points, coming into the game with an eight game winning streak and two Big East wins under our belt while Marquette had lost their first two league games. The crowd was nuts, everything looked great—then the game started. As the saying goes, this is why they play the games rather than just awarding the victory to the favored, higher ranked team. We looked out of sorts all night, couldn’t get our offense in synch and couldn’t play defense for long stretches of time. Marquette slapped a zone defense on us, which we approached in a similar fashion to the penguins struggling with a rope in this video:

Still, we came back from a big first-half deficit and took an eight-point lead in the second half—game over, I thought.

Not so much. Marquette didn’t realize they were supposed to stop playing at that point, caught us with a minute or so left, shut us down during our last possession, and won by a point. It’s funny how the rules declare the team with the most points at the end of the game the winner. In the post-game press conference, cooleythe coach annoyingly provided solid words of wisdom: “Understand this isn’t the end of the world. It’s a game. It’s our 16th game. Is it disappointing to lose? Absolutely. But we lost to a good basketball team and there is a lot of basketball to be played. It’s disappointing to lose at home but at the same time it’s a learning experience for the guys. We lost. Move on. You’re not going to go 30-1, 28-2.” The fanatic in me asks “Why not?” The realist in me says “Of course not. But losing is not as much fun as winning.”

The fact of the matter is that if your team makes the playoffs, the final game of the season will be a loss unless they win the championship. I have been fortunate as a fan to have my teams win a collective eight championships in the last fifteen years, but even with great programs that is the exception rather than the norm. One thing I know for sure: Losing is not as much fun as winning.losing and winning

The Difference Between Canadians and Americans–in one baseball game

CN towerA beautiful day in Toronto in front of me—what to do? Jeanne was tied up last Saturday from 8-5 with work, the reason we were in Toronto in the first place, so the day was mine to kill. Several items of interest were within a five-minute walk of our hotel. The CN Tower? Maybe. The aquarium? We decided we would do that together on Sunday morning, so not a Saturday option. My choices boiled down to two possibilities—walk the beautiful downtown on a picture perfect day, or catch a Blue Jays-Orioles game at the Rogers Centre just a five-minute walk from our hotel. It was a no-brainer. The Red Sox’s performance has been so abysmally bad so far this season that this might be my only opportunity to see decent professional baseball live all year. WIN_20150620_122151Both teams are in the Red Sox’s division and both are well ahead of them in the standings. Maybe both of them would lose.

The view from my $15 seat high in the upper deck above the Blue Jays dugout (half the cost of the cheapest standing-room ticket in Fenway Park) was spectacular. I arrived an hour early, as is my custom for just about any sporting event. For a while, it appeared that I would be the only occupant in my twenty-seat row, which would have been fine with me, but by the bottom of the first inning every seat was full, pinning me in the middle of the row hoping that my almost sixty-year-old bladder would manage over the next three hours to hold the $11.50 beer I had already consumed (it did). WIN_20150620_142133Usually a glass-half-full sort of person, I realized that it is a good thing to be seated smack in the middle of a twenty-seat row. No one will be crawling over you during the game.

It was a well-played, interesting game with good pitching, no errors, and no home runs, coming in at exactly three hours (about how long it takes the Red Sox and Yankees to get to the fifth inning in a typical game). I cheered mildly for the Blue Jays since I was in their stadium and city, noticing that just about everyone else in the stadium—90% of whom were dressed in Blue Jay blue—were also cheering mildly, at least by the home crowd standards I am accustomed to. It must be a Canadian thing. There were several other Canadian things that I also noticed.

  • Canadian baseball fans have a different sense of rhythm than American fans. Every American sports fan knows the clapping cheer Dah-Dah Dah-Dah-Dah Dah-Dah-Dah-Dah: Let’s Go!, participating like lemmings as soon as the first two Dahs are played over the PA. Canadians have something like that, but the rhythm is entirely different, and there’s no Let’s Go! at the end. Fast clapping, then slow, then fast again (about eleven or twelve claps)—I never did get the pattern.
  • I did not hear a single F-bomb all day. f-bombActually, the only colorful language I heard during the entire game was on two occasions when a guy a couple of rows behind me yelled (or rather said a bit loudly) “Shit!” when something contrary to the Blue Jays, interests happened on the field. After the second “Shit!” the father figure in the family group to my right turned around and gave the offending person the look for several seconds. Apparently we were sitting in a no-“Shit!” section.
  • Speaking of F-bombs, the stage was set for a cascade of them in the bottom of the eighth. The score was tied 2-2 and the Blue Jays loaded the bases with nobody out. Poised to not only take the lead but also to put a several run distance between them and the Orioles, the next three Blue Jays proceeded to strike out, stranding all three runners on base and failing to break the tie—just the latest blown opportunity of many for the home team throughout the afternoon. deflating baloonThis was followed by the Orioles scoring three runs in the top of the ninth to take a substantial 5-2 lead headed into the bottom of the inning and the Blue Jays’ last chance. Crowd reaction? Other than a sad collective “OHHHhhhh . . .” that sounded like the deflating of a balloon from the crowd as the third Blue Jay in a row struck out and stranded three men on base, there wasn’t any reaction. Or at least not of the sort that I am accustomed to. I couldn’t help but imagine what the reaction at Fenway Park to a similar Red Sox failure would have been.
  • WHATTHEFUCKISWRONGWITHYOUASSHOLES???? angry red sox fanBoos cascading from the stand, reverberating throughout the stadium like rolling thunder. CAN’T ANY OF YOU EVEN GET A BAT ON THE F**KING BALL?? A chant of “Fire Farrell” (the Red Sox manager, for those not in the know) starts in one section and spreads like wildfire. I CAN’T F**KING BELIEVE THESE GUYS GET PAID MILLIONS OF F**KING DOLLARS TO DO THIS F**KING SHIT!! And that’s what it sounds like in the Family Section. Don’t even ask about what’s going on in the outfield bleachers.
  • In the bottom of the ninth, the Blue Jays mounted a rally and, with just one out, had scored one run and had runners on first and third with just one out. The mighty Jose Bautista, their best home run and RBI man, comes to the plate. One swing of the bat can send the home team to a walk-off win. Theangry red sox fan 2 place gets louder than it has all day—and on the first pitch Jose taps a harmless grounder to second, starting a game-ending double play. In a similar situation at Fenway: YOUPEOPLEAREFUCKINGPATHETIC!! I CAN’T BELIEVE I SPENT $300 TO BRING MY F**KING FAMILY TO SEE THIS F**KING CRAP!! During the long trek out to Yawkey Way and Landsdowne Street, there would be endless second-guessing and armchair coaching. “Why didn’t Farrell bring in Koji in the ninth?” “Can you f**king believe that Panda struck out with the bases loaded again?” “I told you Papi’s all washed up—what a waste!” “Why didn’t he pinch hit for Napoli in the ninth? That’s guy’s f**king useless!” And so on.
  • At the Rogers Centre, it’s a bit different. After another deflated balloon “OHHHhhhh . . .” after the game-ending double play, the fans started filing out in the usual pleasant and orderly Canadian manner. “Well they almost won.” “It was a beautiful day for a game, eh?” “We’ll get them tomorrow in the rubber match.” “It’s a marathon, not a sprint.” “The Orioles are still one game behind us in the standings.” “I wonder if the Maple Leafs are going to be better next season.” And so on. I thought I was exiting a croquet or curling match.curling

At dinner with Jeanne’s Canadian friends and colleagues that evening I provided an account of my afternoon at the game. Everyone nodded in recognition as I described the civilized and humane attitudes of the Blue Jay fans toward their team’s failures—“That’s the Canadian way,” someone said. But then someone else suggested that I would undoubtedly have a different experience if I went to a Toronto Maple Leafs game. “You might hear a few F-bombs there, eh?”mad maple leafs

We Are the Champions!

I admit it—hockey has never been my number one sport. That in itself is odd, since I’m a native New Englander and lived the first eleven years of my life in rural Vermont with a small river behind our house that froze over every winter. My brother, my Dad and I skated a lot (I learned to skate before I learned to ski, which is my real winter love) and often played three-person hockey (I’ll leave to you to figure out how that works). HN in CanadaI grew up in pre-cable days, and we got only three television stations with the huge antenna on our roof. One of them was from Montreal (our closet big city), and we watched broadcasts of “Hockey Night in Canada” twice a week, featuring either the Montreal Canadians or the Toronto Maple Leafs, depending on who was playing that evening. This was in prehistoric times when there were only six NHL teams (no dilution of talent in those days), so often the opponent would be our beloved Boston Bruins (I am genetically a fan of all Boston/Southern New England sports teams). bruinsBut weak ankles and flat feet made me a mediocre skater at best and once I moved from New England after high school, not returning to live for twenty years, my interest in hockey waned. They don’t do a lot of hockey in New Mexico, Florida, Wyoming or Tennessee—a few of the states I lived in during my absence from New England—or at least not enough for me to notice.

I returned to New England in the 1990s with the family when I was hired to teach philosophy at Providence College. I made it clear at my job interview that one of the many attractive features about PC for me, were I to be hired, would be Division One sports. My future colleagues thought I was kidding—but I wasn’t. My sport fanaticism is well established for anyone who knows me (and anyone who reads this blog), and I have held two season tickets to Friar basketball for all twenty-one years I’ve been here, missing only a handful of home games in twenty-one seasons. SchneiderI also noticed that PC has a hockey team and an on-campus arena within ten minutes walking distance of our house—but in college sports it has been all college basketball all the time for me my whole adult life. But that might be changing . . .

This academic year has been a spectacular success for PC athletics. Our men’s soccer team made the NCAA Final Four in the fall before being eliminated on a fluke goal. One of our distance runners set the national record, then won the NCAA championship in the 3000 meters. Our men’s basketball team made the NCAA tournament for the second year in a row for the first time in more than twenty years. Running parallel to their season, just slightly above my sports radar, the men’s hockey team was putting a fine season together. friar logoRanked in the top ten nationally in the preseason polls, they started a bit slowly but ended up second in their tough league, hosting the New Hampshire Wildcats for a Friday-Sunday best-two-out-of-three series as they opened the playoffs. I saw two of the games, including the Sunday game they lost in overtime which knocked them out of the playoffs. “They look tired,” I thought, assuming that their season was over. I was wrong.

A few days later, the Friars basketball team, sixth-seeded in the NCAA tournament, chose a poor time to have one of their worst games of the year and were beaten by eleventh-seeded Dayton. daytonThere was a lot of injustice involved—as the better seed we had to play them at a venue a mere fifty miles from their campus, the referees were out of control, indiscriminately calling a flagrant foul on our star player in the first two minutes of the game, a technical on the coach toward the end of the game that an ESPN analyst called “the stupidest call I’ve ever seen”—in short, it was a very bad night. Assuming that winter sports were over for the year, I resigned myself to giving a crap about what the Red Sox were doing in spring training.

When I heard that the hockey team might sneak into the NCAAs by the skin of their teeth if things broke favorably in the finals of other league tournaments, I made sure to watch the selection show on ESPNU. And sure enough, we did make it in—the last team selected to the sixteen-team field. Then in the first of a series of signs that the hockey gods were smiling favorably, we were placed in the Providence regional as a four seed, playing literally a mile away from campus at the Dunkin’ Donuts Center. “Sounds good to me,” I thought, entirely forgetting my outrage a few days earlier at the injustice of the basketball team having to play a worse-seeded team close to their campus.regionals I purchased tickets for the Friday and Sunday sessions, grateful for the chance to be a fanatic for a little bit longer.

And thus began a journey that only the most the most dedicated Friar fanatic could have predicted. First the number one seed Miami of Ohio went down in one of the craziest hockey games I’ve ever seen, then second-seeded Denver bit the dust on Sunday. This was a completely different team than the tired looking squad I watched a couple of weeks earlier. “These guys aren’t playing like they are glad to have made the tournament,” I said to Jeanne after one of the games. “They’re playing like they intend to win the whole thing.” Focus, energy, team work, discipline—and they appeared to really be having fun. mascotThe crowd was great with the dancing Friar out of control, the band blasting in my ears just a few rows behind, and the best student section I’d ever seen at a Friar sporting event. I was high-fiving strangers all around me as the Friars scored goal after goal.

In the almost two weeks between their regional championship and the Frozen Four in Boston, I had plenty of time to think about why this run was making me so happy, beyond my usual pleasure when a team I root for is doing well. Several guys on the team are my former students. One of the top forwards and the back-up goalie were in my DWC seminars both semesters last academic year. They worked hard (usually). They ran contrary to stereotype and came prepared, ready to participate. They sat in the back row during lecture, where they tried to get away with checking out their phones during class until I threatened to confiscate their devices. All of them were normal students, in other words, good guys now getting ready to make a run for glory never matched by any previous Friar team. This was my team, our team, and everyone was psyched.end of gajme

Hockey fans and Friar fans know what happened. The Friars dominated Nebraska-Omaha so thoroughly in the semifinal game that only a spectacular performance by the opposing goalie kept it from becoming a rout. The final against mighty Boston University, college hockey royalty of the highest order, was probably the most tense three hours of sports I have ever sweated through. A third period for the ages, marked by a fluke goal straight from hockey Olympus to tie the game, one of the prettiest goals you’ll ever see two minutes later to take the lead, and perhaps the greatest hockey save I’ve ever witnessed by our goalie in the final minute to seal the deal. Priceless.

At the on-campus celebration at the hockey arena on Tuesday, it was clear that for everyone involved, from the college president who is as huge a sports fan as I, to our brilliant athletic director who bleeds black and white, to the students, faculty and administrators, to our fabulous coach, to the fans and to the players themselves, this is still a “pinch me—I’m dreaming moment.” But it’s real. Queen was right—we are the champions. Pinch me—I’m dreaming!

Friars sing “We Are the Champions”