Money Bowl

“Men in suits should not undo what boys in uniform have achieved.” Gary Alan Fine

I don’t follow college football or college sports in general. The annual Bowl season, yawn; March Madness, snooze. When it comes to the NCAA’s big money makers, football and basketball, I’m not sure the term “scholar-athlete” carries any meaning. Gobs of money are made from the talent and skill of athletes who receive no remuneration for their efforts and have no rights or voice in the games they play. Talk about a feudal system.

I think I lost interest in college football when the number of bowl games proliferated to the point they became a meaningless collection of corporate advertising opportunities. It seems ancient history when the Rose Bowl was simply the Rose Bowl; now it’s the (insert name of major corporate sponsor here) Rose Bowl. Or Sugar Bowl. Or Fiesta Bowl. Take your pick.

Big time college sports in general, and football in particular, spiraled out of control years ago, driven by the American public’s love and a sophisticated promotion machine run by the NCAA that transformed athletic programs at major universities into hugely profitable enterprises. As a result, coaches at athletic powerhouses became highly paid, iconic and untouchable figures. The likes of Woody Hayes, Bobby Knight and Jerry Tarkanian are allowed to make fools of themselves on the sidelines, berating opposing players and referees, throwing chairs, or screaming obscenities at their own players, almost always without sanction because these, and other big name coaches, bring championship hardware home, which equates to prestige and cash for their schools and programs.

In keeping with the American Way, winning justifies aberrant behavior. 

As I have a general bias against college sports, I didn’t follow the Penn State-Jerry Sandusky-Joe Paterno scandal very closely. I heard the lewd allegations on the morning news, watched video of Jerry Sandusky climbing in and out of a black SUV, and saw file footage of storied coach Joe Paterno leading his Nittany Lions to glory – all before he turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to the evil deeds being perpetrated in his own kingdom.

When Paterno died it was as if a head of state or the Pope had passed away, and for me the excessive media coverage of the funeral was emblematic of the outsized significance afforded college athletics. No question about it, Joe Paterno was a great football coach, but it’s not like he discovered the cure for HIV or led a social movement to guarantee civil rights for an oppressed minority or changed our conception of the universe; unfortunately, the American media doesn’t make much of an effort to place events and personalities in the proper perspective.

Former FBI Director Louis Freeh conducted an investigation on the cover-up and issued a report clearly indicting the adults involved for placing their own interests before those of young men. Earlier this week, the governing body of American college athletics, the NCAA, handed down its punishment. Most people focused immediately on the monetary aspect of the sanctions -- $60 million – but what captured my attention was threefold. First, the effort the NCAA made to protect its brand -- all that high-minded rhetoric by CEO Mark Emmert about athletics never again being allowed to overshadow academics. Seriously? Worshipping athletics at the expense of academics is exactly what fills university coffers with coin. Second, the sanction eliminating scholarships for athletes who were exiting nursery school when Jerry Sandusky was buggering boys in the Penn State locker room. Why slam the doors of opportunity on innocent kids? Punish the adults who were so intent on protecting their reputations, the good name of the university, and the money machine, but leave the innocent kids alone. Third, the NCAA’s sweeping decree erasing fourteen years of Penn State football history from the record books. Poof, in one fell swoop, all those games never happened, don’t count, and cannot be considered part of Joe Paterno’s legacy. As Gary Alan Fine noted in a New York Times editorial, George Orwell’s Ministry of Truth would approve.

Despite the NCAA’s actions, Penn State football will recover. Relatively speaking, $60 million is a drop in the bucket. The white men who run the NCAA empire will pat themselves on the back for swiftly disciplining a rogue athletic program, but until the too-big-to-fail nature of college athletics is rectified, little will change.

Until the day arrives when professors and graduate teaching assistants earn more than football or basketball coaches, the NCAA cannot claim with any credibility that academics are more important than athletics.

Return of the Warrior: A Conversation with the Doctor

He started like this: “It will come down to a handful of swing states and a hundred million dollars in propaganda.”

Last I saw my friend the Doctor he was running down his driveway dressed in a monk’s robe and wielding a pitchfork. I chased after him that afternoon in the hope I might prevent him from injuring himself or one of his neighbors, but the retired professor was too quick for me and had too large a head start. When nothing appeared on the KEYT News or the police blotter of the SB Independent in the days following, I assumed the Doctor had survived.

That was a few months ago and life moved on as it always does. The school term ended for my kids, the overblown summer Solstice festival came and went, tomatoes ripened on the vines in the backyard, fireworks lit the sky on the 4^th of July, and the marine layer rolled in and out; some famous people died, some unknown people were born; the happy little capitalist renovating the triplex across the way finally finished, though he shows up every other day to admire his handiwork.

Hearing nothing from the Doctor wasn’t unusual, as he often went to ground for six months or more, traveling the globe, entangling himself in doomed romances with foreign beauties half his age. When it came to the Doctor, virtually anything was possible.

At least he called before midnight.

“Hey Doc, you in town or calling from your secret bunker?”

“I’m on the landline, which is probably tapped. I destroyed my cell phone with a sledgehammer. I’m not letting the NSA track my movements -- they can suck my ball sack. How’ve you been? What the fuck is up?”

“Nothing much. My wife got called for jury duty. Were you aware that all bags, briefcases and backpacks brought into the jury waiting area are subject to search, and that jurors are not allowed to bring firearms, explosives, knitting needles, box cutters, toothpicks, nail clippers, knives or any other item that might be construed as a weapon?"

“That’s the security state for you. The whole process would move a lot more expeditiously if every juror packed a loaded Glock.”

“They also advise against wearing swim trunks, tank tops or flip flops, and layers of clothing are recommended because the temperature in the courtroom is unpredictable. I’m not making this up.”

“Country has lost its sense of humor. Humor died along with accountability. OK, so what about Obama-Romney, how do you see this fiasco playing out?”

I told the Doctor I had sworn an oath to my family not to think, speak, or write about the November election until after Labor Day as doing any of the three was detrimental to my mental equilibrium.

“OK, fine, but here’s the deal: Romney’s outspending Obama by an astronomical factor in key swing states, and his Republican governor cronies are doing everything in their power to disenfranchise thousands of Democratic voters. Romney buys this thing or he steals it. Mark my words. It doesn’t matter that Mitt zips around the country spouting complete gibberish or that he’s a kooky Mormon – it’s just money, money and money. The Holy Trinity.”

Despite a brutal battering over the past decade, some of my idealism remains intact, and I want to believe democracy in America is still alive and that the dreams and aspirations of ordinary citizens still matter to the men and women we elect to represent us. But my sense is of a corner turned, a bulwark breached; the collective consciousness of the nation isn’t what it was when we valued – and expected -- fairness, responsibility and accountability in our political, business, and religious leaders.

Our worst and dullest have deposed our best and brightest. The coup is very nearly complete.

“I know, Doc, but I can’t think about it without descending into a major depression.”

“The last candidate I believed in was Jimmy Carter,” the Doctor said, somewhat wistfully. “A fucking peanut farmer from the Deep South who wasn’t afraid to talk about honor and decency. He was the beginning of the end for the Democrats. All of them are craven pussies now. Well, fuck, at least we are a nation of well entertained citizens.”

“Where would we be without the Kardashians?” I said.

“Or Hoarders.”

“Or Cake Boss.”

“Top Chef.”

“American Idol.”

“The Voice.”

“Jersey Shore.”

“Is that still on?”

“No clue. You drinking again, Doc?”

“Heavily. I can’t cope without drink and illegal hallucinogenic substances. I’ve re-established reliable supply lines.”

“I’m glad. Your Buddhist monk phase threw me for a loop.”

“Me, too. I’m a warrior, man, not a saint. Keep the faith. The pig fuckers are strong but by no means invincible. They will overreach, and when they do, they will fall and be stomped to death.”

Ransacked in Rome

My wife and I have a free afternoon and decide to spend it at the movies. Our viewing choice is between Ted and Woody Allen’s new film, To Rome with Love, and because I like Woody and my wife likes Judy Davis, the Woodman wins our 15 bucks.

We arrive early, find seats, unpack contraband from Starbucks we have smuggled in -- chicken sandwich, iced coffee and a small bottle of Pellegrino. A predominately AARP audience arrives and settles in, and all is pleasant until First Look starts pimping new TV shows. CBS is launching some drama called Elementary, in which a modern day Sherlock Holmes, boasting tats and hip patter, solves crimes in New York City with his sidekick, Dr. Watson, a woman in this incarnation, played by Lucy Liu. Yawn.

I ask my wife if every second of contemporary American life must be filled with advertising.

“Wherever a captive audience can be found,” she says, “there will be ads. The moments before the previews roll is a prime advertising opportunity.”

“But nobody is paying the slightest attention,” I say. “Look around. What are people doing? Fiddling with cell phones, chomping popcorn and junior mints, staring into space.”

“Subliminal,” says my wife, tucking into her half of the chicken sandwich. “The messages work on a subconscious level. We’re being indoctrinated right now.”

“Silence has been totally devalued. Can I have the trail mix, please?”

“What trail mix? I didn’t bring any trail mix.”

“I put a bag in your purse before we left the house.”

First Look was now recapping the shows the audience had just ignored.

“You ransacked my purse?”

“Who said anything about ransacked? I simply opened your purse and dropped a bag of trail mix inside. That hardly qualifies as ransacking.”

My wife turns in her seat to look at me.

“You violated the sanctity of my purse, the one place where I have any privacy. Do I ever ransack your wallet? No, of course not. I respect your right to privacy even though you don’t reciprocate. You’re as bad as our children.”

“May I have the trail mix, please?”

“Not until you acknowledge my point,” says my wife, “and promise to respect the sanctity of the purse from this day forward.”

“OK, got it, though I think you’re taking this too far. I didn’t look through your purse -- I only put something in it that is too bulky to fit in my pocket. Now, if you will kindly hand over the trail mix, we can enjoy the movie.”

“Acknowledge my point.”

“I just did.”

“Not even close. Tell me what I need to hear and mean it.”

Beaten, I acquiesce, even though I still think she’s making an issue out of nothing. No point in waging a protracted battle now – I want to enjoy the movie and my trail mix.

Reaching in her purse, feeling around as if the thing were bottomless -- past wallet, cell phone, makeup pouch, checkbook, Kleenex, gum, key ring, pencil, pen, highlighter, miniature flashlight, hand sanitizer, lipstick, hand lotion – until she locates the bag of trail mix and shakes her head with obvious disappointment.

“You didn’t transfer it to a Ziploc bag.”

“I was in a hurry.”

“No trail mix for you. Opening this bag in a theatre would be like setting off a bomb in a closet.”

“Half the people here are partially deaf. They’ll never know.”

“They will. And they will hate us. We’ll be bombarded with hate vibes.”

“Who cares? Please, hand the trail mix over.”

The previews are about to start, the lights dim; a woman in the row behind us clears her throat with unrestrained gusto, as if she is sitting alone in her living room. Late arriving patrons stand in the aisle looking for seats. “Are those three taken?” “Is anyone sitting there?” Why people show up late and expect to find good seats is a mystery to me. Now the latecomers are climbing over people, imposing on them to move their legs, their shopping bags, canes, muttering, “excuse me, sorry, pardon me,” making a nuisance of themselves as the first preview rolls. I’m thinking of almonds and peanuts – natural and honey roasted – prisoners in my wife’s fortress purse; they call to me, but I am powerless to liberate them.

To Rome with Love isn’t as entertaining Woody’s last film, Midnight in Paris, and a half-hour in I’m bored and thinking we should have opted for Ted, the foul-mouthed talking teddy bear. The woman in the row behind us obviously agrees, for she is asleep, head cocked to one side, mouth open. The sight of Woody Allen on the screen doesn’t make me laugh, and the dialogue doesn’t sparkle. What happened, Woody?

My wife must be having the same thoughts. Dropping the bag of trail mix in my lap she says, “Knock yourself out.”

  

Teach the Children (The Last in a Series of Downer Posts)

“It all depends on the money/and who is in your family tree.” Bloody Well Right, Supertramp

That about sums up where we are, doesn’t it? Money and connections are the tickets to the fabled American Dream.

Don’t teach your children to work hard and play by the rules -- that’s for suckers, so hopelessly 1992 -- progress to our brave new world. Take a lesson from American bankers: teach them to lie and cheat, game the system, rig the rules so that even if they lose, they win.

Teach them the virtue of selfishness. If the house next door catches fire it’s no concern of theirs, let it burn.

Teach them that there is no such thing as conflict of interest, only self-interest.

Teach them to disdain the poor, the infirm, and the weak. The world is made of winners and losers; winners are righteous, losers are lazy, stupid or both.

Teach them that wealth and power are infallible signs of superior character, and that moderation isn’t a virtue a rational person pursues.

Teach them to blame the victims. Tuck them into bed at night with stories of rugged individualism, heroes that go it alone, asking for no help from anyone.

Teach them that the world is full of parasites eager to latch onto the successful, sucking the lifeblood of drive, initiative and ambition; explain that despite what they may see or hear or experience, the playing field is level and the game fair for all.

Teach them that “government” is the most rapacious parasite of all, an insatiable demon hell bent on redistributing wealth.  

Teach them to know rather than to think.

Teach them that some human lives are inherently more valuable than other human lives.

Teach them that honesty is for the faint of heart, accountability for the unenlightened.

Bloody well right.