Welcome to Marlinspike Hall, ancestral home of the Haddock Clan, the creation of Belgian cartoonist Hergé.
Some Manor-keeping notes:
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Enjoy your stay! There are some fuzzy slippers over there somewhere, too.
Pat Summitt of Tennessee and Coach K of Duke -- the winningest women's and men's basketball coaches in the history of the NCAA -- are the 2011 sportspeople of the year, courtesy of Sports Illustrated.
Krzyzewski joins former UCLA coach John Wooden (1972) and former North Carolina coach Dean Smith (1997) as the only other men’s college basketball coaches to win the award. Summitt, the all-time leader in women’s college basketball wins (1,075), is the first women’s college coach honored.
I am feeling downright, outright goofy. This happens with overstimulation.
I mean, imagine yourself as me. C'mon, be a sport. It won't take. I mean, you won't literally turn into me. I promise.
This goofiness flows from some intense physical pain, some worry over tomorrow's appointment with the surgeon, and a series of 5 (five) inane phone calls with a durable medical equipment supplier customer service representative.
It doesn't matter what product sector is being discussed, does it? All you have to do is reference "customer service" and your audience is primed. Sitting up straight, grabbing a fresh beverage, ready to smile and scoff!
Ah, but I am sorry to add that my addled state is also a combination of Sandusky, McQueary, the whole general topic of abused children, Coach K's landmark achievement, the discovery of a new poetics, and the inevitable buildup to the annual Cal - Stanford Big Game.
Maybe it is the pain medication, maybe not. I am just going to vomit the junk, the news, the thoughts, the expectations, and my essential pettiness... out. That's right, I'm going to purge all over you one more time.
Fred did his duty; He stood shifting from foot to foot, his weight over his left leg, then over his right, a short smile frozen under his incredibly sexy moustache -- looking all the world like a toddler about to wet his pants. We joke about it being his ADHD stance, the shifting being a heroic effort to maintain focus on my jabbering, my intense gossip, my steadfast repetition this afternoon of what I said last night.
Fred was saved by the bell. The kitchen timer went off, and he fairly ran out of Marlinspike Hall, my savory and cheesy polenta casserole carefully wrapped in a pink-and-white bath towel, destined for consumption at this Wednesday's Supper with his beloved bevy of Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists. O! To be Fred.
[O! I wish I had doubled the recipe and kept half for myself and the rest of The Manor Staff condemned to pass Wednesday evenings at home. Because that, my friends, was some excellent polenta -- if the many taste-testings it required were representative of its final superior wonderfulness.]
Like I said, goofy.
I would have thought that, by now, the automatic suggestion feature on Google Search would have adapted so that when you type "s-a-n-d" into the search subject box, "Sandusky" would appear.
Nope! "Sandra Bullock," that's what pops up as the suggested topic. I don't know, maybe that's a good thing. She's a good actress, a beautiful woman, funny, and by all accounts, a fine human being. All things that Jerry Sandusky is not.
Before I forget, let me say that I found Bob Costas' eyes incredibly compelling last night as he spoke with the alleged child rapist. They were red, tired-looking, and laser-like in the middle of an appropriately drawn visage.
In the wake of the continued disaster that is Assistant Coach Mike McQueary, I have a theory. [There's room in the Disaster Wake for my theory and millions more!] Now that he has torpedoed his hold on veracity by attempting to make himself look better in an email, it has also come out that the prosecution has been unable to identify, much less locate, the boy McQueary saw in the shower with Sandusky in 2002. My theory is that Sandusky is making a play on the situation's weaknesses and has bought the services of some former participant in The Second Mile, the charity through which the coach seems to have acquired access to kids -- a sickening reinterpretation of the expression "at-risk child," the charity's target population. With McQueary increasingly discredited, imagine Sandusky's triumph were he to produce the mystery victim of the shower incident recounted to the grand jury, and were that victim to deny the rape, and support the version of events that labels the interaction just naked rough-housing?
I smell a rat. What other scenario would support the otherwise clearly idiotic decision to give an interview to anyone, much less an on-the-air Bob Costas?
I was so hoping that we could send one clear message to the kids who are being abused right now, today, as you read this. Something along the lines of "we've got our act together now, young ones... we are listening now, we understand now, and we are coming to save you... hang on!" It's no surprise to them that this is turning into another adult clusterfuck.
Let's think about something more pleasant. In Palo Alto Saturday, it's the 114th Big Game between Cal and Stanford. The Game, the Big Game, yadda yadda. What we all are referencing between the ears, of course, is The Big Play. That's right. November 20, 1982. Wikipedia lends the day sufficient gravitas, I suppose, in its accounting:
The Play refers to a last-second kickoff return during a college football game between the University of California Golden Bears and the Stanford University Cardinal on Saturday, November 20, 1982. Given the circumstances and rivalry, the wild game that preceded it, the very unusual way in which The Play unfolded, and its lingering aftermath on players and fans, it is recognized as one of the most memorable plays in college football history and among the most memorable in American sports.
After Stanford had taken a 20–19 lead on a field goal with four seconds left in the game, the Golden Bears used five lateral passes on the ensuing kickoff return to score the winning touchdown and earn a disputed 25–20 victory. Members of the Stanford Band had come onto the field midway through the return, believing that the game was over, which added to the ensuing confusion and folklore. There remains disagreement over the legality of two of the laterals, adding to the passion surrounding the traditional rivalry of the annual "Big Game."
With Cal leading 19–17 late in the fourth quarter, quarterback John Elway and the Cardinal overcame a 4th-and-17 on their own 13-yard line with a 29-yard completion, then managed to get the ball within field goal range for placekicker Mark Harmon. Elway called a timeout with 8 seconds left on the clock. Had Elway let the clock run down to four seconds before calling time, the ensuing kickoff would not have taken place since the clock would have run out on the field goal. But Elway was under instruction from coach Paul Wiggin to call time out at the 8 second mark to allow time for a second field goal try in case Stanford drew a penalty on the first attempt. Harmon's 35-yard kick was good, putting Stanford ahead 20–19. However, the team's celebrations drew a 15-yard penalty, enforced on the ensuing kickoff. This was crucial, as Stanford was now kicking off from their 25 instead of the 40. At that point, Cal announcer Joe Starkey praised Stanford and Elway for their efforts, and added, "Only a miracle can save the Bears now!"
With 4 seconds left, Stanford special teams coach Fred von Appen called for a squib kick on the kickoff. Due to confusion, Cal took the field with only ten men, one short of the regulation eleven, but still legal in American football. What happened next became one of the most debated and dissected plays in college football history.
The Play
Harmon squibbed the kick and Cal's Kevin Moen received the ball inside the Cal 45 near the left hash mark. After some ineffective scrambling, Moen lateraled the ball leftward to Richard Rodgers.
Rodgers was very quickly surrounded, gaining only one yard before looking behind him for Dwight Garner, who caught the ball around the Cal 45.
Garner ran straight ahead for five yards, but was swallowed up by five Stanford players. While Garner was being tackled, however, he managed to pitch the ball back to Rodgers. It was at this moment, believing that Garner had been tackled and the game was over, that several Stanford players on the sideline and the entire Stanford band (which had been waiting behind the south end zone) ran onto the field in celebration.
Rodgers dodged another Stanford player and took the ball to his right, toward the middle of the field, where at least four other Cal players were ready for the next pitch. Around the Stanford 45, Rodgers pitched the ball to Mariet Ford, who caught it in stride. Meanwhile, the Stanford band, all 144 members, had run out past the south end zone—the one the Cal players were trying to get to—and had advanced as far as twenty yards downfield. The scrum of players was moving towards them.
Ford avoided a Stanford player and sprinted upfield while moving to the right of the right hash mark, and into the band, which was scattered all over the south end of the field. Around the Stanford 27, three Stanford players smothered Ford, but while falling forward he threw a blind lateral over his right shoulder.
Moen caught it at about the 25 and charged toward the end zone. One Stanford player missed him, and another could not catch him from behind. Moen ran through the scattering Stanford Band members for the touchdown, which he famously completed by running into unaware trombone player Gary Tyrrell.
The Cal players celebrated wildly—but the officials had not signaled the touchdown. Stanford coach Paul Wiggin and his players argued to the officials that Dwight Garner's knee had been down, rendering what had happened during the rest of the play moot. Meanwhile, the officials huddled. The chaos at the end of The Play made the officials' task very challenging. In particular, the questionable fifth lateral took place in the midst of the Stanford band, greatly reducing visibility. Referee Charles Moffett recalled the moment:
“
I called all the officials together and there were some pale faces. The penalty flags were against Stanford for coming onto the field. I say, 'did anybody blow a whistle?' They say 'no'. I say, 'were all the laterals legal'? 'Yes'. Then the line judge, Gordon Riese, says to me, 'Charlie, the guy scored on that.' And I said, 'What?' I had no idea the guy had scored. Actually when I heard that I was kind of relieved. I thought we really would have had a problem if they hadn't scored, because, by the rules, we could have awarded a touchdown [to Cal] for [Stanford] players coming onto the field. I didn't want to have to make that call.
I wasn't nervous at all when I stepped out to make the call; maybe I was too dumb. Gee, it seems like it was yesterday. Anyway, when I stepped out of the crowd, there was dead silence in the place. Then when I raised my arms, I thought I had started World War III. It was like an atomic bomb had gone off.
”
After determining that Cal had scored and no one had ruled any of the laterals illegal, Moffett signaled the touchdown, rendering the illegal participation penalty on Stanford irrelevant and ending the game. The final score was Cal 25, Stanford 20.
You know what? I kind of wish we could just stay in that moment! Arms in the air, band in the end zone, Cal over Stanford, what could be more right?
Anyway... Go Bears!
I made reference to having discovered a new (to me) poetics. For some reason, I was very much wanting to be in the Bay Area today -- thoughts of the Big Game (and memories of the Big Play) surely have given that away! So, of course, I fell into memories of late afternoon poetry readings and hitting the bookstores without any money to buy books, up one San Francisco hill and down another. I was thinking about Ferlinghetti, making sure he hadn't died (he hasn't) and that City Lights is still going strong (it is), and in the midst of all that clicking, I came upon an ad for something called The CHENI@D by Bill Costley, "poet, playwright, journalist, blogger," that has been published at The New Verse News.
CHENEY Qu@driDr@gonspits 4 sizzling bullets, splitting his unravelling reptilian-tongue in 4: 1: pricks Dubya’s 1-track brain,2: sprays the Ov@l Office w/vicious juice,3: invokes the CHENEY, Bush & Rove Trinity4: bewails his VP-apotheosis’ limitationto quadrennial surges of dr@conic-power. Hidden in a quasi-virtual cavern,a dr@gon-slayer matches those 4-tonguesup/w a Shick Qu@dr@, mantra-ing: “Detongue the Qu@driDr@gon…” unaware a 5-bladed Gillette Fusion will take his tongue as well…
And here, Book CXV, fast become an inexplicable favorite of mine:
It is, we are told, and I believe it, an "epic in progress." And somewhere in my readings, I could swear it was passed off as a new poetic, though maybe I made that up. The New Verse News blog site is dedicated to "politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues," not at all something new, but something I have always supported, and so, will lie about, if that helps the cause at all.
That about covers the broad strokes of my goofiness, my alleged goofiness. Except for the terrible pain, except for tomorrow morning's appointment with the surgeon, except for the hilarious phone stylings of the guy aiming to help me get a new wheelchair.
If you but apply yourself, Dear Reader, I'm sure you can approximate the pain, the surgeon, and that inanity much more efficiently on your own than with my bumbling, mumbling assistance. Plus, I am very likely to bring it up again.
From a Dukie Girl who did the K-Hole at the Shepherd Center, eh? Okay, from The NYT?
Mike Krzyzewski and Bobby Knight
Duke’s Krzyzewski Breaks Record for Victories in Men’s Division I Basketball
Duke Coach Mike Krzyzewski set the record for victories in men’s Division I college basketball Tuesday night as Duke beat Michigan State, 74-69, for Krzyzewski’s 903rd victory.
Krzyzewski’s career record moved to 903-284, spanning five decades that include four national championships at Duke.
With the victory, Krzyzewski surpassed his friend and mentor Bob Knight, who set the record for wins in 2008.
Coach K and Bobby Knight met courtside last night, and this is how Coach K reported their conversation to the Duke Chronicle:“I just told him… ‘Coach, I’m not sure people tell you this, but I love you, and I love what you’ve done for me, and thank you.’ And he says, ‘Boy, you’ve done pretty good for a kid who couldn’t shoot.’ I think that meant he loves me too.”
It's sad, but after I posted this last night, into my mind popped the rapes and sexual abuse at Penn State that have dominated sport's news this past week. Jerry Sandusky is probably the most well known college coach of the moment, and the charity he founded, The Second Mile, is probably the most notorious.
Mike Krzyzewski, on the other hand, has always been notable for his standards, most especially because he finds nothing notable about having stringent guidelines -- as moral as practical -- that stand the tests of time and scrutiny.
Even in "normal" times, not in the midst of such a huge scandal, college athletics invite suspicion -- just think of recruiting practices and violations, the role of big football and big basketball in the financial life of academic institutions.
Of most import to me? Take a look at student-athlete graduation statistics, including the graduation rate "gap" between student athletes and the regular student body -- a whopping -38% at UCLA.
In 2009, the most recent year for which these stats are available, Duke graduated 96% of its football players and 92% of the hoopsters. The rate of graduation for the entire student body (only available for 1995-2003) ranges from 92-97 percent.
The ACC also has some shocking numbers at each end of the spectrum. Maryland is in the basement with its basketball-playing students graduating at a rate of 8 (eight) percent. Wake Forest managed a perfect record -- graduating all its basketball players for 2009.
Anyway, back to Coach K, His Squeaky-Cleanness! In this ESPN-International video from February 2011, Coach Knight points out how his former player, colleague, and friend is one of the few scandal-free coaches in the business. (And this from a guy who is notoriously disdainful of sucking up to anyone and rarely hesitates to speak his mind...)
The late Emily Krzyzewski emigrated with her parents from Poland to the United States and grew up in western Pennsylvania. She established a home on Chicago's North Side, a poor, racially diverse neighborhood where she and her husband, William, raised two sons, Mike and Bill.
Emily Krzyzewski persevered when the family struggled to adjust to a new nation, a new people and a new language, while still providing a nurturing environment for her sons. Bill was an elevator operator who was known by the name of "Kross" to avoid the sting of anti-Polish discrimination, and to improve his chances of getting a job. Emily worked nights as a cleaning lady. Her hopes and dreams inspired her youngest son, Mike, to rise from such a humble beginning to become one of the best coaches in all of basketball.
Duke University men’s basketball players are all familiar with Emily Krzyzewski because Coach K often cites her as an example of the toughness, perseverance and caring that are trademarks of Duke's perennially powerful team. And now her indomitable spirit inspires students and families across the Durham-area community as well through the work of the center that bears her name.
On top of his mother’s love, tenacity and work ethic, an important ally in Mike Krzyzewski’s trajectory to the top of the coaching profession was a community center that became a second home to him, a place that provided invaluable support to him and to his family, and changed his life. He founded the Emily Krzyzewski Center to bring to Durham the opportunities he and his mother experienced years before in Chicago’s North Side for focused student programming that can inspire hopes and dreams and forever transform lives. Today, Coach K and his entire family are as committed to making the Emily Krzyzewski Center a driving force within the Durham-area community as his parents and the North Side community center were committed to him.
Emily Krzyzewski passed away in 1996, but her strong legacy lives on through the work of the Emily Krzyzewski Center.
My last offering comes from the Official Coach K Website: a video of him addressing a group of former players who surprised him after the momentous 903rd win last night. Again, how nice to witness a "coach" being just what we all know and hope a "coach" ought to be...
Fervent wee-hour prayer spotted over at GoDuke.com:
Dear God, Please allow the NBA lock-out to occur this coming year and keep Kyrie Irving at Duke for one more year to play with Austin Rivers, Quinn Cook and Marshall Plumlee. Amen.
Best summation, by Matt Wallace, Compleat Heretic:
LET'S GO DEVILS!!! There is One Coach and his name is Coach K and the Duke Blue Devils are his instrument. Woe to the unbelievers . . . especially Tar Heel fans...
Total domination on a hostile court against an excellent team!!! This Duke team has the potential both to repeat and to do so undefeated; it's that deep and that talented. Mason Plumlee is looking really good in the hybrid F/C position; I love watching him get called for goaltending! On the downside, Kyrie Irving is so scary good that he's clearly one-and-done regardless, but one can dream of a full collegiate career...
. . . and having watched the last two Carolina games, it appears they're going to have another season of five random guys running up and down the court in Tar Heel uniforms . . . Roy Williams is clearly no Mike Krzyzewski...
Blessèd be the Orange Orb.
Photo courtesy of The Sports Union: Cameron Crazies
("I don’t know that there is a tougher place to play...")
Congratulations to Coach K for his *800th* win at The Gothic Wonderland!
Calling all Cameron Crazies! Tonight, 9 pm, watch Boston College go down in flames as the inexorable march toward the Final Four continues...
Unbelievable. The College of Charleston evicted Davidson, then was routed by Chattanooga -- and so neither is likely to see NCAA tourney play. I was hoping to see more of Stephen Curry and the rest of the giant-topplers.
But that is what March Madness is all about.
There's always Tyler Hansbrough.
Yes, I am a rabid fan of the teams of Tobacco Road. Hmm. Do people still say "Tobacco Road" to reference the ACC's Duke, UNC-CH, Wake Forest, and NCSU b'ball teams (using the strictest of north-carolinian definitions/if not, people can be so lax as to include GA Tech or FSU and then that would lead to the inevitable conversation about Massachusetts and the North Atlantic coast and how the HELL BC got into the ACC... You wouldn't want that, now wouldya? Huh? Wouldya? I thought not.)?
It's improbable, but not impossible, that folks are speaking of Erskine Caldwell.
How rabid? Are there degrees of rabid? Do you believe that Dean Smith's car, unwisely parked in front of Duke Chapel, was dismantled and rebuilt inside that Holy Place? Do you remember the energy that Jim Valvano brought to the game? Defensive players fairly stomping their feet in frustration at the Four Corners offense? The East Regional Final in 1992, Christian Laettner's jump shot? That hustler Danny Hurley? Oh... and what's his name? Jordan, Michael Jordan.
And I guess the tale must be retold, the story of the 1998 Michael Jordan Jersey Caper, as explained in The Chronicle, the Duke student newspaper:
Balancing atop the rafters at nearly 140 feet above the Dean Dome’s center court in the early morning hours of Feb. 2, 1998, four Duke students had one thing in mind—stealing Michael Jordan’s jersey. One student used belaying equipment, which he borrowed from members of Project WILD, to pull himself up to the scoreboard and open the door to the arena’s rafters. Another student walked across the rafters with just the support of a climbing rope. Armed with a wrench, he unscrewed Jordan’s jersey from its honorary loft. “There were several close calls. The cops were looking for people out there, but they never had any sightings,” said one of the students, who referred to himself as “The Sixth Man” in a 1998 letter to The Chronicle. “A security guard came in to show his girlfriend the Dean Dome while we were ducking behind seats.” The Blue Devil fans finally left the Dean E. Smith Center at 4 a.m. and hid the jersey in a gap between the rafters and the wall. They returned to the stadium the following night to pick up the jersey, which they then hid in a Central Campus apartment for almost three weeks. “Everyone had assumed the jersey had disappeared at a Yanni concert that had happened that weekend,” The Sixth Man said.
March, March! I love March!
As soon as my brother-unit, Grader Boob, checks in with his predictions, I'll regale you with mine. I know, you're all aflutter at the thought.
************************************************************************************* With five seconds left in the second half, UNC is up by a point over Virginia Tech, and has drawn a foul. (Do you remember the days when the seconds weren't micromanaged?) Okay, now we're at 4.6 seconds, UNC made both foul shots and is up by three. Now 3.5... and, merciful God, the buzzer. Carolina takes Va Tech 79-76.
Yes, we have a channel completely dedicated to American college basketball here at Marlinspike Hall, deep deep in the Tête de Hergé. La Belle et Bonne Bianca Castafiore has a huge Carolina blue foam finger that she keeps waving around as she yodels something about "f'blasticball! f'blasticball! allez, dooook-uh! allez, dooook-uh!" I got tired of trying to explain that Duke was not one of the teams on the court but she keeps giving me that look of condescending pity so dear to gallic schnobs. Fred? As hard as it is to believe, he doesn't care much for basketball -- he's more of a track and field fanatic. Still, he's gracious when March rolls around and has learned to expect the screaming and inevitable tears. So it's me and The Castafiore, courtside.
Despite the fact that oceans and ponds separate us, the Brother-Unit Grader Boob still maintains a firm hold on my psyche during a good many sporting events, from the Tour de France to the Australian Open, as explained in Blather. May Malted Milk Balls melt all over his students' ungraded final drafts! (je plaisante, mon frère, mon cher!)
