When one finds meaning in an unexpected place…

The perspective of a sports fan is a strange thing. We love teams and players and exciting upsets. We strive for championships and records and every once in awhile are struck by the intrinsic beauty of physical perfection. But rarely are we removed from our bleacher seats or television screens — removed from our “rooting” selves — and forced to comprehend the humanity of those we watch.

And in almost every instance, the way we perceive these athletes — as beings who compete against one another – and the way we view the actors in our daily lives represents a divide that is perfectly acceptable. Athletes do not require a nuanced breakdown of their character in order to succeed. For our part, we do not owe them such an examination. We watch them because we like how they play; we watch them in the hopes that they win.

All of this is to lead up to a discovery I made earlier today, tipped off by the charming and irreverent Deadspin. Do you remember Maurice Clarett, the Ohio State running back who, as a freshman, led the Buckeyes to a national championship in 2002? Do you remember Clarett’s subsequent attempt to enter the NFL draft following that season, only to be denied entrance? Do you remember when he was drafted by the Broncos, overweight and out of shape, but never played a down in the NFL? Years later, do you recall Clarett’s arrest, leading to the confiscation of assault weapons, a katana, bullet-proof vests, and copious amounts of alcohol found in his car? And do you finally remember the utter disgrace and failure Clarett had become to the public after he pled to a seven-and-one-half year prison term?

I say all this not because these incidents have somehow been misrepresented by television sensationalism. Nor do I naively urge you to feel sympathy for a man who, by all accounts, did many terrible things. But today I found out that Clarett has a blog, which if nothing else offers a completely different picture of the Maurice Clarett most of us grew accustomed to condemning off-hand. Written in prison, of course, here is one of the many worthy passages, where Clarett describes his relationship with a young prisoner: 

When I spoke a few sentences to him, you could see his eyes light up. It’s as if his spirit was awakened just from me showing some type of concern about his personal issues. He spilled out all of his life experiences to me. The essence of all of his tales was that he didn’t know how to logically manage his life. His emotions dominated his decision making and he was in need of a little assistance when it comes to managing his life. I offered up a few words and suggested some books to read. He agreed to read them for the sake of us building a bond. I am interested in seeing how he comprehends certain information. From my personal assessment, I’ll then be able to see at what pace I can bring him along. I want to help him raise his level of consciousness for the sake of him giving life some type of value. Hopelessness leads to anger and anger leads to danger. I’ve been there before so it is a must that I give back and lead how I am supposed to lead. I know and understand the feeling. I want to be his symbol of hope.  

When activism becomes the obligation of the well-known…

The flurry of racial controversy surrounding a recent New York Post cartoon — a cartoon which appeared to many to allude in an offensive manner to President Barack Obama – has now migrated to the sports world. In today’s New York Times, columnist William Rhoden makes the connection, criticizing the silence of black professional athletes in days following its publication.

To conclude the piece, Rhoden offers an anecdote focused on New York Knicks guard Nate Robinson. Rhoden apparently confronted Robinson on the issue of the cartoon, and Robinson, after denying that he had even heard of the cartoon in question, offered a simple explanation for his lack of opinion: basketball was his gig, said Robinson; “It’s what I do best. It’s what I know.” Everything else, he admitted, was simply beyond his expertise.

Rhoden’s follow-up to this anecdote is terse and smug, dripping with self-righteous understatement. His analysis of Robinson’s answer ends the column: ”See no evil. Speak no evil. That’s one way to get through a career unscathed.” 

The piece, to my eye, reflects this vague and simplistic social condemnation in more ways than one. First and foremost, Rhoden’s dismissal of athletes who fail to speak of this racial consciousness rests on a basic premise that turns his argument upside-down. In a country with a Constitutional right to free speech, he argues, players should not shy from voicing their opinions for fear of roiling the waters of their fanbases. But look, the thing about free speech is that it inherently allows for the publishing of offensive New York Post cartoons in the first place. What would Rhoden have these athletes do? Call for the firing of the cartoonist? Boycott the Post? And wouldn’t these actions be a violation of this free speech that Rhoden so casually and one-sidedly employs?

Secondly, the Nate Robinson anecdote, used by Rhoden to illustrate the callous apathy of athletes, suggests to me something entirely different: humility. What is so terrible about a man who has recognized his ignorance? Is it wrong that he refuses to comment on an issue about which he has little knowledge? Would anyone be well served by Robinson opining on something he knows nothing about?

Of course, it isn’t as simple as all that, and I know too little of Robinson to completely let him off the hook. Indeed, I have little respect for those whose incuriosity spits in the face of opportunity. But to recognize one’s limitations as well as strengths, to know oneself and one’s failings; these are traits fully deserving of my respect. They are traits that William Rhoden might be well-served to adopt.

People might pick up on this one…

Progress, for which the Athlete is enduringly grateful:

For those of you without a title, look no further than “Internet enthusiast.”

Michael Phelps, the pot-smoking devil

I’m sure that at this point most of  you have seen the now-infamous Michael Phelps photo — taken at a South Carolina house party – in which Phelps appears, if one is willing to leap to conclusions, to be smoking an unknown substance out of a bong – a piece of paraphernalia usually associated with marijuana. This is the same Michael Phelps, lest we forget, who this past summer captivated the world with the single greatest Olympic performance of all time, sweeping his way to eight gold medals and a country’s adoration. His brilliant season was capped by the bestowal of Sports Illustrated’s coveted Sportsmen of the Year honor, so given because his efforts were deemed to have been the grandest in all of athletics in 2008.  

Unfortunately, in recent days, all these accolades seem to be going by the boards. Since the photo’s release, a flurry of condemnation has rained down on Phelps, who has subsequently been forced to apologzie and might now be facing criminal charges brought by an intrepid South Carolina sheriff. All in response to a grainy photograph with little to no real evidence behind it. 

Philosophical oppositions to reactionary moralizing aside, I am, first of all, firmly opposed to what appears to be a gross misallocation of law enforcement resources. What case could possibly be made against Phelps when the only evidence is a photograph that does not even indicate the presence of marijuana? How can they possibly bring charges if USC police admit they ”have no evidence?” What’s more, if photos alone were sufficient to bring marijuana smokers to justice, what’s to stop law enforcement from perusing Facebook — filled with countless much more incriminating photos — and arresting young people by the thousands? After all, as Richland County Sheriff spokesman Chris Cowan scrambles to point out, “There’s no difference between Michael Phelps and several other people that we arrest for the same type of a charge everyday.” Please…

At the very least, I hope this mini-scandal helps to expose the fallacious premise upon which the anti-marijuana lobby is based. Central to the campaign is the idea that marijuana usage – regardless of duration, frequency, or circumstance –necessarily precludes achievement of any sort. In other words, they cling to the assumption that one joint always ruins the life of whoever smoked it, and that there is in every instance a causal relationship between smoking and life success. Let me end by retorting with two facts: 1) Barack Obama, our president — the first black man to ascend to our highest office — has admitted to smoking pot, and 2) the finest Olympian the world has ever seen just might have done the same.

Breaking news! Mark McGwire might’ve taken steroids!

First, the selfless obligation to expose performance-enhancing drug usage in professional sports fell to Jose Canseco. Now, it seems that the mantle has passed to Jay McGwire, younger brother of former MLB first-baseman Mark McGwire, who has taken up the cross. Reports surfaced yesterday indicating that Jay is looking to publish a mud-slinging tell-all aimed at his much-more-famous bro, alleging – among other things – that Jay was the one who introduced the drugs to Mark in the first place.

You’ve read my take on Canseco, and without getting too worked up, I’ll simply say that my feelings with regards to this particular story are similar. My hunch is that Jay’s a bit strapped for cash, and assumed that a public, ever-hungry for pro-athlete/celebrity dirt would eat up his story.  Unfortunately for him, the difference here is that we’ve heard the McGwire story too many times. With the exception that it’s his own brother selling him out, which does add a vaguely tragic, familial dimension to the story, there is no shocking scoop that Jay offers us. Mark was tried and convicted in the court of public opinion the moment he declined to answer Henry Waxman’s “Did you take steroids?” question in the midst of his Congressional inquiry. Nobody doubts anymore that the source of the man’s power went beyond his hard work in the weight room. So, keeping that in mind, my main reaction is that I find this attempt pathetic. Especially pathetic considering the fact that, when examining the writing itself, it becomes obvious that Jay really, really, really needs to go back to English class. Via Deadspin, an excerpt from the book:

Shortly after I won the Contra Costa Bodybuilding Championships in May of 1994, Mark took the plunge. I accompanied him to Sacramento where we met with my supplier and trainer, who explained to him how the different drugs would work on his body and answered a myriad of questions from Mark. Given Mark’s curiosity and lack of knowledge about steroids I saw from Mark, I would be shocked if Mark did something like what Jose Canseco claimed happened back in the early years….[M]ark began to use, but in low dosages so he wouldn’t lift his way out of baseball. Deca-Durabolin helped with his joint problems and recovery, while growth hormone helped his strength, making him leaner in the process. I became the first person to inject him, like most first-timers he couldn’t plunge in the needle himself. Later a girlfriend injected him. 

So yeah, judge for yourself. It makes me kinda sad…

Charles strikes again

DUI arrests are tricky things. For some of us, the consequences are immense, both on wallet and conscience, and we are quickly whipped into strict, law-abiding shape, determined to alter ourselves for the better and atone for our reckless, dangerous, and stupid actions. Then again, that’s true only for some of us…

Charles Barkley and I wish everyone a very happy New Year.

Iowans Gone Wild

Because us Iowans never tire of hearing about fellow Iowans engaging in random, out-of-state bathroom sex (we’re not known for this kind of thing, you see), let me point you to a nice little piece up on Salon.com, written by Garrison Keillor, which is just pretty darn funny and cute. Keillor is, of course, a Midwesterner, and he knows how to write about Midwesterners, which makes his gentle quips all the more endearing. Here’s a snippet of what perhaps really was racing through the minds of this passionate pair:

She leads him into the women’s john and into a stall, and she says, “I never did this before,” and he says he never did either, and the two of them have wild sex and it is magical, it is stupendous, until 50 women waiting for a stall start shrieking, “Hey, there was a line!” and pound on the door and security comes running and pulls them apart and they’re arrested, and there’s shame, of course, being led by police through a crowd of the sensitive and genteel (“They did what? You’re kidding!”), but also pride — they crossed a line and it feels brave and good and also it’s their ticket to something better. He was National Guard but now he’s thinking about acting school. She’s thinking she’ll write a memoir called “Lavatory of Love.”

Very funny, and a not a little poignant.

Live in Arizona? Politically inclined? Smart? Then this one’s for you…

I’ll take a moment here to plug for my good friend Evan Lisull’s blog, The Arizona Desert Lamp, which is at the moment in the midst of a nationwide blogging-scholarship competition. The blog is a “conservo-libertarian publication” (his words) that offers excellent journalistic reporting and commentary, specifically focused on the University of Arizona.

If you like what you read there, I urge you to vote to send him on his way to winning the scholarship.

Apologies…

Sorry about the absence, guys, I’ve been a bit caught up in the second wave of midterms. Also, I’m pretty lazy…

An essay of mine on the joys and sadness of the baseball season’s end was recently published in the newest edition of the Kosmopolitan Online – a pretty cool site recently established by some very bright young men and women. So if you’re bored, check it out. The whole site is worth perusing, if you’ve got the time.

Lucky Cowboys

Not to be deterred by the financial crisis, the venerable T. Boone Pickens has reinforced his massive contributions to Oklahoma State’s athletic department, adding another $63 million to an already substantially larger amount in the Cowboy coffers (Pickens originally gave $165 million)…

Here at the U. of Arizona, we were blessed by Richard Jefferson’s unprecedented $3.5 million donation last year, which at that time exceeded the highest ever private donation by a professional athlete to their alma mater. Unfortunately, looks like we’ve been recruiting in the wrong field, and I have only one question: any billionaire oil magnates out there who happened to have graduated from Arizona?