Apr 07 2010
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Gaetti Project: Yuni at The Bat

Editor’s Note: This is Part 1 of The Gary Gaetti Project, a nine-part series to ring in the beginning of the Royals’ 2010 baseball season. Why Gaetti? Well, let’s just that anytime we can honor a guy that was nicknamed The Rat, wore a mullet… AND went to Northwest Missouri State, you gotta do it. Adding to the legend, Gaetti hit 35 homers for The Kansas City Royals in 1995… at age 36. And miraculously, he did it all while wearing a batting helmet with no ear flaps. Yep, we could all use a little more Gaetti in our lives.

Some people call Yuniesky Betancourt the worst every-day player in baseball.

You probably know that his WAR (Wins above replacement player) in 2009 was a historically awful -2.2, the worst in all of baseball.

You probably know what that number means. Just in case you don’t, WAR adds together the total contribution (offense, defense, baserunning, pitching) of each Major League player. A player with a WAR of 0 or 1 is easily replaceable. If your WAR is negative (like good ‘ol Yuni’s) you should be replaced.

So, yes, some people call Yuni Betancourt the worst every-day player in baseball.

I call him an inspiration…

*****

Yuni at the Bat

The Outlook wasn’t brilliant for the KC nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Bloomy died at first, and Kendall did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the partiers at The K.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
clung to that hope which springs from a Stroud’s chicken breast;
They thought, if only Yuni could get but a whack at that –
We’d put up even money, now, with Yuni at the bat.

But Getz preceded Casey, as did also Rick Ankiel,
And the former had no slug and the latter was no Emil;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Yuni’s getting to the bat.

But Getz let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Ank, the old southpaw, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Ankiel safe at second and Getz a-hugging third.

Then from 20,000 throats and more there rose a lusty cry;
It rumbled through Westport, it rattled the plaza-wide;
It knocked upon Okie Joes and recoiled over Gates,
For Yuni, mighty Yuni, was advancing to the plate.

There was ease in Yuni’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was WAR in Yuni’s bearing and VORP on Yuni’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Yuni at the bat.

40,000 eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
20,000 tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Yuni’s eye, a sneer curled Yuni’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Yuni stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman, the ball unheeded sped-
“That is my style,” said Yuni. “But ya wiffed,” the umpire said.

With a smile of Christian charity great Yuni’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But this time, Yuni ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Yuni and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Yuni wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Yuni’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Yuni’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in KC – mighty Yuni has struck out.

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Apr 05 2010
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One more play for the Royals’ lowlight reel

It’s getting to a point that someone could write a thesis about the Kansas City Royals and all their famous blunders and bloopers of the last 10 years. I’m not talking about writing of how the organization lost more games than anyone else in that time, how it drafted the No. 1 overall pick in 2006 without a general manager or how it lost 97 games with the Cy-Young winner pitching once every five days, or even how it paid a man who can’t play in the field, get on base, walk or hit for power $36 million.

I’m talking about the purely anecdotal evidence from players and managers. The lowlights. The hilariously awful moments. These could fill an easy 100 pages double-spaced.

To an extent, the Kansas City Star did this on Sunday. The Star, of course, featured a massive section, one you could consider a thesis, to preview opening day and this coming season that mainly detailed the Royals’ problems with fundamentals. One part of it highlighted these blunders I speak of.

It was brilliant. The Star reminded us of Kerry Robinson’s famous scaling of the outfield wall, only, upon reaching the apex of his jump, to find out that the ball bounced on the warning track in front of him. It reminded us of Ken Harvey getting hit in the back by his cut off throw, various sunglasses issues and others that you can read here.

Those are the chosen lowlights. Those are what we remember the Royals for in what is arguably the worst period of baseball imaginable. Those are what Joe Posnanski can reel off reflexively, along with moments like when the Royals promoted Eduardo Villacis to start at Yankee Stadium, when Tony Muser complained he had too many players who pounded milk and cookies instead of tequila, when Luke Hochevar let a runner advance to third base because he wasn’t looking, when a cat sprinted around the stadium and when manager Tony Pena showered in his uniform after that dreadful Villacis start and then told the press the Royals would win the division.

These are wonderfully terrible, hilarious moments. But everyone tends to overlook a certain lowlight when the discussing the Royals’ ineptitude.

Let’s go back to 2005. August. In the annals of bad baseball history, this would be Chapter One.

That month, Kansas City lost an otherworldly 19 games in a row. From July 28 to August 19, the Royals didn’t win once. One of the famous lowlights occurred during that stretch. In a game that the Royals had in the bag, Chip Ambres let a fly ball drop to the turf. His catch would have been the third out in the ninth. The other team went on to win the game.

So, yes, people will remember that August month for the losing streak and that game. Maybe that’s why this lowlight has largely been forgotten.

It happened on Aug. 27. The Royals led the Yankees, in the Bronx, 7-3 in the bottom of the ninth. Jeremy Affeldt, who had been a pretty reliable reliever, was pitching.

With one out and a runner on first base, he forced Jorge Posada into an 0-2 count. Then came the moment.

Posada hit an easy come-backer straight to the mound. Affeldt fielded it and had an easy throw to make for the game-ending double play. But these are the Royals, and easy often leads to a certain kind of remarkable that leaves you shaking your head for all the wrong reasons.

As he turned around to throw to Angel Berroa, who was covering second base, Affeldt tripped over the rosin bag. Let me write that one more time.

HE TRIPPED OVER THE ROSIN BAG.

The loss of balance caused him to poorly throw the ball, and both runners advanced safely. Of course, the Royals went on to blow their four run lead and lose 8-7.

So there it is, the forgotten piece of history. I guess it’s only natural that we forget or don’t emphasize certain parts of the past. Important details of the greatest civilizations have certainly been forgotten or lost. But our conscious keeps details of Tony Pena Jr.’s sunglasses, Robinson’s leap and so on. I say we add the rosin bag as well.

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Apr 05 2010
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Believe in Butler

The Butler will do it. Yes, I said. It. Tonight, the Butler will do it. The Bulldogs have to do it, right? That’s how this story is supposed to end, right? This is why we love college basketball. Heck, this is why we watch sports. Right? Right!?

Tonight, the Butler Bulldog will play the Duke Blue Devils.

I’ve heard a lot of things about the Butler Bulldogs. I’ve heard that they are the ultimate Cinderella. I’ve heard that they are NOT a Cinderella. I’ve heard that their story is better than Cinderella’s… better than a miracle… better than any story ever… (OK. That was this blog).

But here’s the thing about Butler.

This team is not a Cinderella. This team doesn’t need miracles to win. This team is, well, good. This team may even be great. They’ve won 25 in a row.

They have Gordon Hayward, who could be a first-round pick in this year’s NBA Draft. They have Shelvin Mack, a sophomore who will play for money at some point in his career. And they have Matt Howard, a junior who was the Horizon League player of the year last season, before Hayward took over.

Veteran scribe Joe Posnanski made a similar point yesterday, but he went further. He wrote:

“…This is not really some crazy Hoosiers-type saga, you know, with Gene Hackman teaching kids how to dribble around chairs and Jimmy Chitwood joining the team to save the coach’s job and Ollie making underhand free throws to win a game at the end…”

Of course, if you’re going to make the argument that Butler is not some Hoosiers-type, Cinderella tale, I think you also have to argue that Jimmy Chitwood’s Hickory Huskers weren’t even Cinderellas.

OK, it was a miracle that Hickory High, with 75 boys in the whole school, and a tragic figure at head coach, and a drunk as an assistant coach, did beat the big boys and win the Indiana state championship.

But it wasn’t necessarily a miracle that that team beat everybody. I mean, did you see that team? They could freaking stroke it. And Jimmy Chitwood must’ve been the best player in the state of Indiana. Yes, they didn’t have much height, but they could pass and cut and play defense — and again… they could fill it up from the outside.

This Butler team kind of feels the same way.

Sure, some people probably feel like they’re slighting them by calling them a Cinderella. After all, we’ve seen over and over that this Butler team is one of the best in the country.

But that’s not the miraculous part. The miraculous part is that Butler, a school of 4,200 students, a team that plays in the Horizon League, is even here in the first place.

The miracle is that ex-coaches Barry Collier and Thad Matta built the program into a viable mid-major… and that Todd Lickliter kept on bringing in talented players before bolting for Iowa … and that Brad Stevens, a 30-something with no head coaching experience, took over and molded this talented roster into one of the best teams in the country.

Yes, it is a miracle that Butler is here. And it would be a miracle if they win a national championship.

But for this team, the miracle part is over. They can beat Duke. Yes, they can. And what a story it would be if they did.

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Apr 03 2010
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Finally Four…

So here it is, Saturday night of the Final Four. Four teams. Two games. Two spots in the national title game on Monday night.

There are those who love the Super Bowl. There are those who worship Sunday at the Masters. There are those who would pick the Kentucky Derby or the World Series or the NBA Finals.

But for me, this is the best sports day of the year.

What other day gives you TWO games in the same venue. Four legions of fans, all in the same building. Close to five hours of college basketball at the highest level.

I love everything about the Final Four. I love the storylines and the cheesy music and Jim Nantz on the microphone.

And I love all the stories that come out of the ultimate hoops festival.

Love the fact that you might step into an elevator with David Robinson. Love the fact that you might see legendary Boston Globe columnist Bob Ryan strolling around a hotel lobby at 8:30 in the morning, looking like an old man trying to get an early start on his day of sightseeing.

Love the fact that you might randomly walk past a restaurant patio as former UCLA star Ed O’Bannon takes his seat (and a group of UCLA fans begins an impromptu chant of “EDDIE-O, EDDIE-O, EDDIE-O”).

Love the fact that you might randomly see former Wisconsin center Brian Butch walking down the street by himself and think — hey, it’s Brian Butch.

Love the college three-point and dunk contests that take place during Final Four weekend.*

*The following exchange took place during the college dunk contest at this year’s Final Four in Indianapolis.

Chris Roberts, who was a senior at Bradley this past season, had just thrown down a sick dunk and ESPN reporter Holly Rowe was waiting on the sidelines to interview him.

Rowe: So, Chris, what do you have to do to win this thing?
Roberts: Just go out, and keep making dunks

Well, sure… makes sense.

And lastly, I love the fact that you might accidentally pick a fight with a player from one of the Final Four teams just hours before the games begin.*

*All these things happened to me while I was at the 2008 Final Four in San Antonio, but the last one was the best. I was walking around the Riverwalk with Mark Dent and Daily Kansan photographer Jon Goering, and we stopped outside in a small patio area.

Of course, the talk turned to KU’s game against North Carolina, which would take place later on that night. We were half-heartedly breaking down North Carolina’s team, and Mark and I came to the consensus that the Tar Heels’ Danny Green was ridiculously overrated.

Then, as Mark blurted aloud that he thought Green more or less sucked, we turned around and saw Green standing just 10 feet away from us with a kid who looked like his younger brother.

Two things crossed my mind:

1. I really hope Danny Green didn’t hear us.
2. What the hell is Green doing here? KU plays North Carolina in like five hours.

But there’s still one thing that gives the Final Four its soul. And it’s the players.

You probably know that Kansas’ Cole Aldrich is leaving school early to enter the NBA Draft.

He announced his decision earlier this week at a press conference in Lawrence.

Aldrich had a pretty remarkable career at Kansas. He had a triple-double against Dayton in the 2009 NCAA Tournament. He never lost a game at Allen Fieldhouse. And he was a third-team All-American as a junior.

Still, as Aldrich reflected on three years at Kansas during his “I’m going to the NBA” press conference, I wonder if he thought about the night he went from little-used freshman to Kansas legend. The night he stepped off the bench and outplayed North Carolina’s national player of the year, Tyler Hansbrough, in front of the entire nation.

I can still remember the look on Aldrich face after Kansas took down Hansbrough and Roy Williams and the rest of the Tar Heels.

…The look on his face as he was asked about ripping a rebound from the clutches of Hansbrough.

It was a mix of pride and satisfaction and joy.

And that’s the Final Four. I can’t wait.

(Editor’s Note – Here is what I wrote about Aldrich on the night oh his coming-out party against North Carolina)

*****

SAN ANTONIO | Once upon a time, Cole Aldrich was an afterthought, the fourth big man off the bench — just another big body at Kansas’ coach Bill Self’s disposal.

On Saturday night against North Carolina, Aldrich etched his name onto the list of greatest relief performances in Kansas basketball history.

Kansas’ freshman center scored eight points and grabbed seven rebounds off the bench in Kansas’ 84-66 victory against North Carolina, including one board which Aldrich snatched from the clutches of North Carolina All-American Tyler Hansbrough.

“I wasn’t gonna let go,” Aldrich said.

Aldrich’s supporting performance may go down in Kansas lore if the Jayhawks follow up their Saturday night victory with a victory and a national title on Monday.

And oddly enough, Self saw it coming.

Earlier this week Self corrected a reporter who had asked how important Darnell Jackson, Sasha Kaun and Darrell Arthur would be in Kansas’ attempt to contain North Carolina forward Tyler Hansbrough. Don’t forget about Cole, Self reminded.

Self’s prophecy came true.

“He may have won the game for us tonight as much as anybody,” Self said.

With seniors Sasha Kaun and Darnell Jackson both committing two early fouls, Bill Self faced a coaching calamity. Send Cole Aldrich, who averaged 8.1 minutes per game during the regular season, on to the floor to guard Hansbrough, the Tar Heels leading scorer and the AP National Player of the Year.

No sweat.

Aldrich responded with 13 first half minutes played, six points during Kansas’ fun-n-gun first half, and one rebound that Aldrich couldn’t help by smile about.

With 10 minutes left in the first half, and Kansas leading 31-10, Aldrich sprung from floor and ripped the ball away from a bewildered Hansbrough.

“Tyler usually outworks someone, but tonight, he got outworked,” Rush said.

Aldrich, along with help from Kaun, Jackson and Arthur held Hansbrough to 17 point and nine rebounds, a shade below his usual averages of 23.7 points and 11.5 rebounds per game.

“I don’t think he was quite used to four guys that can hold their own,” Aldrich said.

The Kansas frontcourt also controlled the glass, shouldering a 42-33 rebound advantage against their frontcourt foes from North Carolina.

“We knew we had to keep them off the glass to win the game,” Aldrich said.

Aldrich’s 6-foot-10 frame stood tall in Kansas’ victorious locker room, searching for words to describe his nation-wide coming-out party.

Aldrich finally settled on calling it,”…a blast.”

Kansas junior Matt Kleinnmann, sitting 35 feet to Aldrich’s left, had his own take on Aldrich’s first Final Four performance.

“He played like a man tonight,” Kleinnmann said.

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Apr 02 2010
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Only in Oklahoma

The ground turns red when the sign standing next to the highway welcomes you into Oklahoma. It’s a noticeable change. You look out the window, and the grass seems to disappear. There’s only dirt. And yes, it’s red.

This happens because the soil is enriched with oxidized iron, something that is common in other regions and states throughout America. Only Oklahoma, though, is synonymous with red dirt. It’s like Roland Garros, the clay there affectionately known as red dirt, minus the tennis and the Paris sophistication, or snobbery, depending on how you see it.

I see it as sophistication. And I see it as snobbery. Paris has both. Oklahoma seemed to have neither.

Really, what does Oklahoma have?

Even as a major fan of the Midwest, I never really held any particular admiration for Oklahoma. To me, it was partially just that song for Curley to sing about, and in it, even he admits that Oklahoma is only OK. It’s not fantastic. It’s not memorable. It’s OK.

Ok-la-ho-ma, OK.

At least, I saw it that way.

I drove through Oklahoma the other day* on a journey that took me from Dallas to Oklahoma City for a basketball game. Requisite signs of meth abuse warnings and finding God before you can no longer be saved dotted the side of the road on the way there.

*Two weeks ago now. Man, really procrastinated on this post.

A heavy rain began falling as I neared the city. This would turn into a blanket of snow and ice that would add misery to the ensuing Saturday evening Kansas basketball loss. It prevented fellow Brew House writer, Rustin Dodd, and I from driving home that night, he to Kansas City and I back to Dallas.

So we waited until the morning. Then I began the long drive back through Oklahoma. My car was shaking.

This, of course, was nothing new. My car had been shaking a couple of weeks earlier on a drive to Austin. I took it to a mechanic, who replaced all the mufflers – said he hadn’t seen any in that poor of shape all his life – and assumed everything would work. Or at least work as well as everything could work for a 2003 Hyundai Sonata that has damage so bad you can’t even open the passenger side doors.

This was an incorrect assumption. It started shaking, badly. Driving in the car, I felt strangely like someone sitting in one of those massaging recliners. At least, I thought, I’ll feel comfortable before this piece of junk breaks down and sends me into the roadside ditch.

But soon I would stop for gasoline. My stretch through Oklahoma was nearly ending, Dallas and hopefully a trip to another mechanic miles away.

At the gas station, I didn’t check the tires. I had just days before, and they seemed full of air, or at least full enough.

This was another incorrect assumption. Minutes after leaving the gas station, the ground made a pop and the smoky, smell of rubber wafted. The tire went flat.

Flat, though, wouldn’t describe what happened to the tire. Holes and gashes zig-zagged through the treads, as if the gremlin from that Halloween episode of the Simpsons latched onto the wheel and went to town.

But I didn’t really care. I’ve had about six or seven flat tires in the last two and a half years. I can change them quickly, not Ralphie’s dad in “A Christmas Story” quickly, but quickly nonetheless.

I popped the trunk, spotted the spare and, after a timely struggle, pulled out the jack. This wasn’t your ordinary jack. It was far worse. It was missing a piece. The lever that allows you to pump the jack, yeah, the most important part, the thing that actually helps you raise the car so you can attach the spare, it was missing.

Oh fudge.

I was in the middle of Oklahoma, and I had to try elevating the car by twisting a small, jutting part of the jack, an exercise that probably permanently damaged my wrist and did nothing. I considered calling AAA or some sort of tow service and called my mom and dad about seven times for advice.

Then a massive truck, no, it was more like a van, or maybe a van-truck hybrid, pulled to the side of the road. A man stepped out.

He quickly removed the type of jack you would find at a mechanic from his vantruck, slid it under my car and pumped it up in a matter of seconds. Two or three minutes later, we had affixed the spare, and I was ready to go, especially after he filled it up using an air canister that was sitting in the back of his vantruck.

His name was Terry. He had been driving for at least 15 hours because of the snow, he said, and had spent the last day or so in North Dakota. His teenage daughter sat in the passenger seat, noticeably angry that this trip would be prolonged a little while longer.

He had seen several accidents. He had seen a semi-truck completely stall in front of him. He had seen an crash, and a man laying in the snow surrounded by flashing ambulance lights.

And apparently, he saw me by the side of the road, vainly twisting my wrists to lift a Sonata with a faulty jack.

I couldn’t quite understand him, but I think he said he passed me on the highway, kept driving for about a mile and then turned around.

“I wondered if you needed some help,” he would tell me.

He handed me his card – he works in some sort of repair business – hopped back in his vantruck and drove away. I arrived home without any further problems and explained the story to my roommate, Joe, who happens to be from Oklahoma.

“People rag on Oklahoma and states like it,” he said, “but there’s nowhere else someone would do that.”

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Mar 30 2010
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YouTube Sesh: Scheyer Edition

Well, it’s time for another YouTube Sesh at the Brewhouse.

If you need a primer on the history of the YouTube Sesh, you can check here…

But here’s the short of it. Sometimes YouTube videos just need to be shared.

But before we get to the goods, we must start with a story about Jon Scheyer.

Scheyer is, of course, a senior guard at Duke. This weekend, he’ll start in the Final Four for the Blue Devils. You probably know a little bit about Scheyer. For instance, you probably know he’s a great shooter. And you might know that he started running the point for the Devils this season — at least, more than he ever had before. And you probably know that he’s been pretty good at playing the role of Duke’s fair-skinned villain.*

*Of course, it does seem like Duke has entire team of fair-skinned villains these days. And it also seems like none of them — not Scheyer, not forward Kyle Singler, not the Plumlees — has been especially good at being hateable (not a word, I know, but still). I suspect that part of that is due to the fact that Duke hasn’t won much the last four or five years, and it can be hard to hate people that lose all the time. Of course, that could all change this weekend.

Anyway, I was thinking about Scheyer this weekend, because I think he kind of represents an interesting case in how the internet has changed the sports world nowadays.

I’ll explain shortly… but first, my Scheyer story.

I can’t remember when I first heard about Scheyer. I believe it was sometime in late 2005, during the middle of the college basketball season. It could have been earlier. I suspect I ran across his name while checking the basketball recruiting scene that year. Scheyer attended Glenbrook North High School in Northbrook, Illinois, a well-to-do suburb located a short drive north of downtown Chicago*.

*So I was just trying to figure out the exact distance from Northbrook to Chicago — and I ended up having a little fun with the google machine.

Anyway, somehow, I ended up checking out Coach Krzyzewski’s wikipedia page. And somehow, I totally forgot that Coach K went to seven Final Fours in nine years. Seven! Wow. Obviously, Michigan State coach Tom Izzo has been getting a lot of love because he has somehow coaxed the Spartans to six Final Fours in the last 12 years. And that’s unbelievable. But seven in nine years?

Coach K went in 1986, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92 and 94. I could be wrong, but given the state of college basketball — one-and-dones, roster turnover, parity, — I don’t think we’ll ever see seven in nine years again. Duke, of course, had the core of Laettner and Hurley for four of those Final Fours — and Grant Hill caught the tail end of that era before leading the Devils to the Final Four again in 1994.

So I heard about this young kid named John Scheyer. He was a scoring machine in the state of Illinois, he’d led Glenbrook North to the state championship as a junior — and he’d committed to Duke.*

*Not to get off topic again. But if you want to pinpoint the day in which Illinois coach Bruce Weber lost his “elite college coach” reputation, look no further than the day that Scheyer committed to Duke. Not only was Scheyer going to high school in the state of Illinois, but his high school coach was Bruce Weber’s brother.

Really. His brother. Not a good sign when you can’t lock up your state best player… who also just happens to play for your brother.

So I knew a little bit about Jon Scheyer. But then, it happened. Scheyer went viral. The funny thing was, at the time, I’m pretty sure people didn’t even refer to anything as going viral — unless you were talking about E. Coli or the mumps or the measles.

This was 2005. The internet was huge, no doubt. But YouTube barely existed. Facebook was just a few years old — and Twitter was just a idea in the mind of some advanced-thinking techie. In short, there just weren’t many channels for something to go viral on.

Still, Scheyer managed the trick. During a high school game at the Proviso West Holiday tournament in December of 2005, Scheyer pulled off one of the most amazing feats in the history of high school basketball. With his future college coach Krzyzewski in the stands, and his team trailing 71-58 with 1:24 left, Scheyer scored 21 points in the final 74 seconds. His team would lose, but Scheyer would finish with 52 points. In the final 1:24, he hit five three-pointers and six free throws. Think about that: 21 points in 75 seconds. That’s one point ever 3.57 seconds.

So, of course, the buzz on Scheyer went national. Everybody wanted to know about this scoring machine from suburban Chicago. It helped that J.J. Redick was finishing up his prolific career at Duke the same season. The comparisons were inevitable. Both shooters, both about 6 foot 4, both, well, fair-skinned. It may have also helped that Coach K was in the stands. After all, Coach K is a Chicago native — though it’s safe to say that the neighborhood Krzyzewski grew up in looked nothing like Northbrook.

Here’s how my Scheyer story ends. I went to Chicago for spring break that year — and I just happened to be in downtown Chicago on a Thursday night. I walked into a random sandwich shop with a friend, and Duke was playing LSU in the Sweet 16. Duke was a one-seed that year. And Redick, along with Gonzaga’s Adam Morrison, were the darlings of college basketball.

You probably know that Duke lost that game. And Redick’s career ended in the Sweet 16. I remember being in the sandwich shop and watching the game on television.

CBS showed a shot of a dejected Redick walking off the court after the game. And in the background, a guy yelled out: “It’s OK, Duke. Y’all be alright. You guys got our Jon Scheyer coming in.”

For some reason, that story stayed with me — at least, enough to be able to remember it four years later.

Anyway. I’ve followed Scheyer’s career for the last four years. And I use the term “follow” loosely. His first two years at Duke weren’t great. He was a little thin — and he didn’t quite have the career that Redick did.

But here’s the larger point about the sports world: There just aren’t any surprises anymore. There aren’t any prodigies that show up out of nowhere. Jon Scheyer, a player who’ll likely play minimally in the NBA — if at all — was on the national radar at age 18.

I understand this isn’t an earth-shattering realization. After all, it is 2010. And we’re inundated with tweets and videos and links all day long. If something crazy happens in the sports world, everybody talks about it for a couple hours, then we move on to the next crazy thing.

I also understand that basketball recruits have been provoking good feelings in college basketball fans for decades. Show me a top college recruit, and I’ll show you a little hope.

Still, it does feel different these days.

In order to find “the next big thing”, we put 16-year-old baseball players on the cover of Sports Illustrated. And we rank the nation’s top 100 high school freshman basketball players. And we hear about a 13-year-old soccer prodigy who turns out to be mediocre.

This isn’t a new phenomenon. But we’ve never seen it on this scale.

If somebody like Scheyer can go viral four years ago — before “going viral” even really existed, imagine the buzz his epic high school performance would stir today.

I’m not sure if that all makes much sense. But whatever.

Still… Scheyer’s performance is still pretty unbelievable. Enjoy.

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Mar 29 2010
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The Greatest Basketball Story Ever Told

“And David put his hand into his bag and took from it a stone and slung it, and struck the Philistine on his forehead.”

They say the story is here somewhere.

They say it could be epic, legendary — one of the greatest basketball tales of our lifetime.

Can you see it?

For some, it’s partially hidden, tucked away in a land where high school basketball gyms are more sacred than ancient cathedrals.

But for others — people that love the game and breathe the game and possess it in their veins — the story is everywhere.

These people see the story in the rusty basketball goals that hang from the roof of each garage. They hear it in the bouncing of the ball — the sound of worn leather hitting pavement at 11:15 p.m. on a Tuesday. The noise is a nuisance, a threat to their sleeping patterns. But it’s a necessary nuisance. The neighbor boy is working on his jumpshot — an endeavor that provokes feelings of admiration and respect.

These people know this story. They’ve heard it so many times.

And it always starts with a boy, a ball, and a basketball goal.

Next comes the coach. And he’s always a story unto himself. He shouldn’t be here. But he is, against all odds — and he preaches defense and toughness and teamwork.

Next comes the team — the heart of this story. The team isn’t supposed to be here. Isn’t supposed to win. But here it comes, winning games and changing minds and embodying the spirit of the underdog.

Next comes the miracle. The team from the little school in the little league beats the powerhouse from the big school in the big league.

This is story has it all. There’s the 6-foot-8 basketball prodigy who was raised to believe that this story can happen. There’s the 33-year-old coach who would get carded at any college bar in the nation. And then there’s the team — built and nurtured in the birthplace of the first miracle.

But… there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. This particular story is still being written. The miracle? Well, we’re working on that part.

But here it is…

Butler, a small university with an enrollment of 4,500, is in the Final Four.

Butler, a team from the Horizon League, is two wins from the National Championship.

And this Saturday, the Butler Bulldogs will play in their hometown of Indianapolis in front of upwards of 65,000 fans.

There are millions of people who believe the Bulldogs have no chance.

But here’s this story… and the narrative is so familiar… and the people want to believe again.

*****

OK. We will get to the story.

But first — before the prodigy and the coach and the miracle — we must answer this question.

Why do we love sports? There it is. I’ll just put it out there. It’s a question I think about a lot.

Of course, there are answers. But they always seem incomplete. They can’t explain the passion and emotion and adoration we feel. They just can’t.

Sure, we love sports for the drama and the theater and the unforgiving pressure.

Can this Phil make that 9-foot putt with the Masters on the line? Can Kurt Gibson limp up to home plate and go deep off Dennis Eckersley? Can Mario Chalmers sink that last-second three-pointer and send the NCAA championship game into overtime?

Of course, we love sports because of the unfiltered storylines.

There’s Texas Western’s all-black starting five defeating Kentucky’s all-white squad for the 1966 NCAA basketball title. There’s Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis winning the Super Bowl MVP one year after finding himself immersed in a murder investigation. And there’s Drew Brees leading the Saints to an upset win in the Super Bowl four years after New Orleans was decimated by a hurricane.

And, of course, we love sports because of the spectacle.

We take joy in tailgating with 50,000 other fans in frigid temperatures at 8 a.m. on a Sunday. And we’re awed that more than 1 billion people will watch the World Cup final this summer in South Africa.

But for me, the answer always comes down to this. We love sports for the moment.

The moment is when the theater and the drama and spectacle come together, when we’re transported to another place, when we experience a state of euphoria that only be explained by the people that witness it.

The moment is Michael Phelps beating Milorad Cavic to the wall by a fingernail in a Beijing swimming pool. The moment is a 21-year-old Tiger Woods burying his face into his dad’s shoulder on the 18th hole at Augusta. The moment is Michael Jordan moving to his right, then crossing back to his left, leaving a helpless Bryon Russell in his wake, and burying a game-winner against the Utah Jazz in the NBA Finals.

These moments last just seconds, but they never truly end. They stay in the back of our consciousness, triggered into a memory when the time is right.

Of course, the NCAA Tournament is a breeding ground for moments. MJ against Georgetown. Keith Smart against Syracuse. Laettner against Kentucky. There are so many moments in March.

And on Friday, we had another moment.

*****

There’s an old cliché in sports. You’ve probably heard it. Something unbelievable will happen, and an announcer will inevitably say something like, “You know what, this story is so incredible, a Hollywood screenwriter wouldn’t even write this, because he wouldn’t believe it could actually happen.”

Maybe that’s why this story is a little different.

This basketball story has already been a movie. And that movie was, of course, based on a real story.

First, we must start with a history lesson. And our lesson begins with the legendary Bobby Plump.

In Indiana, the story of Plump is passed down from generation to generation, like an epic basketball poem.

In 1954, Plump led tiny Milan High, a school with an enrollment of 161, to the all-class Indiana state high school championship. The Milan High Indians beat perennial power Muncie Central in the state championship.

The story of Milan High would become legend. And it would be co-opted into a movie 32 years later. The movie would be titled, “Hoosiers” — and would star Gene Hackman as coach Norman Dale.

The character of Plump would morph into Jimmy Chitwood, a sweet-shooting guard with some off-the-court issues.

And Milan High would become the Hickory High Huskers.

But you have to remember. This is the greatest basketball story ever told. So the story couldn’t end with Chitwood and Dale and the Huskers.

The Milan High Indians would win the state championship at Hinkle Fieldhouse — the homecourt of the Butler Bulldogs.

And Plump, our protagonist, would go on to play college basketball at a little school in Indianapolis — you might have heard of it — named Butler.

*****

So by now, you probably know the framework of the Butler story.

The Bulldogs beat No. 1 seed Syracuse on Wednesday in Salt Lake City, and then followed that up with a 63-56 victory over No. 2 seed Kansas State in the West Regional final.

And you probably know the numbers: They Bulldogs are 30-4. They won 24 games in a row. They’ve beat Xavier and Ohio State and Siena. They’re 7-3 against NCAA Tournament teams.

But you probably don’t know these numbers. According to basketball statistician, Ken Pomeroy, the Bulldogs are sixth in the country in adjusted defensive efficiency.* And if you think the Bulldogs are relatively untested — given their membership in the Horizon League — consider this fact:

Butler played the second-toughest non-conference schedule in the nation. And they are 11-4 against teams in the top 100 of Pomeroy’s computer rankings.

*I admit, I’m not exactly sure what that means.

More than anything, Butler is the perfect team to embody this NCAA Tournament. Because when you strip away the artificial sponsors and the inane NCAA and the colossal stadiums, you are left with the game.

And to find the soul of the game, you have to peal away the acrobatic dunks and jaw-dropping blocks and blinding athleticism.

Yes, it’s there somewhere. The soul of the game. The essence of ball.

And when you finally do it, when you strip away everything, it comes down to this:

The game is really about passing and cutting and shooting.

Which team can pass? Which team can move without the ball? Which team can knock down shots?

Of course, these things should seem obvious. And yet, they are why basketball is the greatest game the world has ever seen. And why the NCAA Tournament is the greatest sporting event in the world.

Listen to Kansas coach Bill Self, and he’ll tell you the same thing. In March, it really comes down to this: Which team makes shots?

So, yes, you can strip it all away, and it really comes down to the romantic notion of basketball.

The kid. The ball. And the basket.

So let’s start there. The kid.

*****

Gordon Hayward knows this story.

He’s seen it before. He’s felt it before. And he’s lived it before.

Some say that the state of Indiana has a way of producing basketball heroes.

Larry Bird came from French Lick, and he was once the protagonist in this play. Oscar Robertson grew up in a housing project outside Indianapolis and led Crispus Attucks High to the Indiana state title in 1955. Decades before that, a young man by the name of John Wooden led Martinsville to the state championship in 1927.

And by a little twist of fate, Hayward has already been the hero once.

On a calm Indiana night in 2008, Hayward led Brownsburg High to the 4A Indiana state title. If the story ended there, well, it would be still be amazing.

But, no, the story does not end there. Because on that calm Indiana night, the Brownsburg Bulldogs trailed Marion 39-38 with 2.1 seconds left.

Brownsburg’s in-bounds passer would heave the ball 70 feet down the court. The ball would be tipped… and a mad scramble would ensue.

And somehow, the ball ended up in the hands of Hayward…

Moments later, the Brownsburg players were dancing on the court at Conseco Fieldhouse in Indianapolis.

Hayward’s short jumper had dropped through the net, and the Bulldogs were state champions.
*****

There’s an old cliché about Indiana high school basketball.

They say Indiana produces shooters. And, yes, Hayward can shoot.

But he can do more. At 6-9, Hayward can pass and rebound and create off the dribble.

He can hit step-back three-pointers and bang with the most physical of bigs.

And on Friday, with a little help from CBS’ Gus Johnson, he also gave us a moment.

The moment came in Butler’s game against K-State — and I can only assume this story will be told for decades in Indiana.

Johnson, of course, was broadcasting the game. And late in the second half, with Butler holding onto a small lead, Hayward skied for an offensive rebound, yanked the ball down, rose for the put-back and drew a foul.

In an instant, Johnson shouted these words:

“DON’T LET THE SMOOTH TASTE FOOL YA.*”

*If you didn’t know, “Don’t let the smooth taste fool ya” is an old marketing slogan for King Cobra malt liquor.

In retrospect, the moment was just as much Johnson’s as it was Hayward’s.

And, yet, in this moment, something else happened. Butler had already defeated No. 1 seed Syracuse. And here they were, hanging with K-State, who at the time, seemed to be destiny’s team.

But here was Butler. And for the first time, the ultimate basketball miracle seemed to be possible.

*****

Every one of these basketball miracle stories has to have a coach. That much is obvious.

But Butler coach Brad Stevens is no Norman Dale, the redemptive figure in “Hoosiers”.

But in some ways, Stevens’ story is more unlikely.

He graduated from DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana in 1999 after a four-year playing career. And he temporarily took a marketing job in Indianapolis while working as a voluntary high school coach.

Shortly after, he would take a gamble and dive headfirst into the coaching business. He joined the Butler staff under then-coach Thad Matta in before the 2000-01 season.

After one season, Matta would leave Butler for Xavier, assistant Todd Lickliter would take over, and Stevens would become a full-time assistant coach.

Nine years later, the 33-year-old Stevens has the Bulldogs in the Final Four in his third season at Butler. He’s 88-14 in three seasons — the most wins by any coach in his first three seasons.

And yet, Stevens’ trademark doesn’t seem to be his sterling record or his remarkable rise.

No, instead, Stevens is perhaps more famous for his boyish looks. It’s almost as if Ferris Bueller stumbled into Hinkle Fieldhouse and became one of the top young coaches in the country. He’s calm and he recruits and he is a wizard of mental preparation… now all he has to do is get up on a parade float and sing “Twist and Shout”.

*****

Lastly, there is the team.

There’s sophomore Shelvin Mack, a lead guard from Lexington, Kent., who was passed over by the hometown Wildcats. There’s sophomore Ronald Nored, a deep-thinking defensive specialist who devours books with messages of inspiration. There’s Matt Howard, a crafty, 6-foot-8 forward who was the player of the year in the Horizon League last season.

And there’s eight more players from Indiana — eight more players who know this story.

*****

Yes. The people want to believe again. In their dreams they can see Plump leading Milan High to the state title.

They remember Larry Bird rising from the poor streets of French Lick. And they remember one of their own, Oscar Robertson, slowly becoming the best basketball player in the world.

And when the close their eyes, they can hear it, the voice of Gene Hackman, bringing his team together before the state championship game in Hoosiers, moments before the dramatic denouement.

They can hear Hackman’s question: “Does anybody have anything else to say?”

And the answer is always this: “Let’s win it for all the small schools that never got a chance to get here.”

The can visualize the final scene: Jimmy Chitwood looking into his coach’s eyes and telling him calmly… “I’ll make it.”

They can remember it all. Because in Indiana, basketball miracle stories aren’t just possible — they also define the state’s heritage.

And so, on Saturday, thousands and thousands of Indianans will make the pilgrimage to Lucas Oil Stadium in downtown Indianapolis.

And Butler, a school of 4,500 from the Horizon League, will take on Michigan State, a school that has played in six of the last 12 Final Fours.

The story, of course, is still being written.

But here’s this story… and the narrative is so familiar… and the people want to believe again.

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Mar 22 2010
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Guy Fieri vs. Adam Richman

This is the story of two men.

The first guy travels the country. He unearths culinary treasures, shedding light on overlooked food joints in the nooks and crannies of America. He spouts off quirky and energetic instant-reviews. And as you might expect, he’s slightly overweight.

The second guy… well, he also travels the country. He also unearths culinary treasures, shedding light on overlooked food joints in the nooks and crannies of America. He also spouts off quirky and energetic instant-reviews. And yep, he’s a little chubby.

As you probably guessed. The first guy is Guy Fieri from “Diners, Drive-ins and Dives” on the Food Network.

And the second is, of course, Adam Richman from “Man vs. Food” on the Travel Channel.

So yes, this is the story of two men.

But really, this is journey to the heart of this question:

Why is it so enjoyable to watch too hefty dudes grub extremely unhealthy (and greasy) comfort food?

Yes. You probably know the premise of each show. “Diners, Drive-ins and Dives” (which premiered in 2007) features stars Fieri in a one-man roadtrip to find America’s best (well) diners, drive-ins and dives.

He “traverses” the country in a Chevy Camaro convertible, searching for places that serve American classics (hamburgers, hot dogs, fried food, etc.) He finds places with unbelievable dishes and menus, a hole-in-the-wall place that combined Chinese and Mexican food comes to mind. He finds regional specialties and eclectic restauranteurs and, somehow, we get a little slice of Americana along the way.

But there’s a method to his quest. The food must be gourmet… and from scratch.

And that’s where the show finds its voice.

Fieri will watch the chefs, cooks and restaurant proprietors prepare their best dishes. He will watch them throw flour and salt and garlic powder into the pot. He will watch them fry hot dogs. He will watch them craft together the best chili recipe a person could imagine.

This is the part of the show that sucks you in*. And this is where we will begin to answer the question. I first saw Triple D (its nickname) when I was a senior in college. I would sit on the couch, mesmerized by the combinations, my mouth watering at the high-definition images of fatty goodness. Why is this show so entertaining? My roommates would wonder the same thing. Perhaps the answer is simple. At least, it could be. Because if you’ve ever watched the show, you know what I’m talking about. There’s really only one reaction you can have, and it’s usually some derivative of this:

“Dude, that’s looks SO GOOD…”

Of course, Fieri will sample the food, and throw in some (presumably) canned review.*

*He generally goes with these old staples. If somebody is cooking something on in a boiling pot, every ingredient is getting “tossed into the pool. If the dish is getting a little spicy, you’ll hear, “Oh, brother, we’re going to flavor town.” And otherwise, most dishes are considered “money.” 

Some other classic Guy quotes: 1. “Holy Moly, Stromboli.”  2. “This is bananas, and bananas is good.”

So yes, perhaps this subject is not worthy of such nuanced thinking. Food is good. Deece restaurant food is ever better. People love food. Thus, people love watching the food being made.

But this is the part where we get to the story of the second guy.

I can remember when I saw the first commercial promo for “Man vs. Food”. The premise was simple. Adam Richman* travels the country, seeking out the country’s toughest eating challenges.

*So just who is Adam Richman? Well, if you listen to the show’s opening you know this:

“He’s no competive eater. Just a regular guy with a serious appetite.”

Turns out Richman is really an actor who has appeared in such shows as “Guiding Light” and “Joan of Arcadia”. He actually graduated from Yale’s drama school – so there’s that. 

Right now, as I’m writing this, Richman is eating a 190-pound cheeseburger. Yea. 190 pounds! Yea. Not sure what the point is. But they also added 10 pounds of cheese. Four pounds of  bacon. Three heads of lettuce. About 25 tomatoes. And about 100 pickle slices. He’s not eating it by himself, of course. There’s a group of like 40 people — including members of the band KISS, a group of high school football players and a bunch of construction workers — and even they couldn’t take it down. You know the first thought that popped into my head? America.

So yes, I always associated “Man vs. Food” with “Triple D”.  And I’ve always associated Guy with Adam.

There are differences, of course. I could be wrong, but it did seem like the first few episodes of “Man vs. Food” were centered around the Eating Challenges. They paid little attention to how the food was prepared. The show still had great ratings.

But it seemed to lack the voice that carried “Diners, Drive-ins and Dives”. Of course, it is interesting to watch Richman attempt to eat truckloads of food. But it’s safe to say that the novelty could wear off fast.

Thus, Richman began to mimic Fieri, and the show basically became a copy of Triple D — with a food challenge at the end.

And yet, it works… and it’s still entertaining.

So here’s the question again. Why do we love Richman? Why do we feel the need to watch Fieri do the same thing every week? Does it say something about America’s relationship with food? Does it provide a subtext into the discussion of Obesity? Am I just filibustering by throwing out unanswerable questions because I have no answers?

Perhaps.

But you know what? The food looks SO GOOD.

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Mar 17 2010
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The Gary Gaetti Project*

So I guess I should say this first: 

 I had this great idea — an epic idea — to manufacture a 5,000-word post on the Kansas City Royals.

 You know, the baseball season does start in less than three weeks.*

 *It’s funny. This is an incomplete thought, but a lot of people always talk about the natural patterns during the course of a year that let you know something is coming up. For example, the leaves start to turn orange and yellow and brown – and you know it’s almost time for Halloween and high school football.

 Another example: People see snow – and automatically connect it to Christmas. And so on.

Perhaps this is just me, but most of the signs and signals that let me know what’s coming up are artificial and pop-culture related. For example, I just saw a commercial for The Masters – you know, the music and azaleas and Jim Nantz saying, “A tradition unlike any other”. The strange thing is that commercial doesn’t really make me think about The Masters. I see that commercial and all I can think about is the NCAA Tournament.

 Anyway, I had this idea. Really, it started with this thought: How did we get here? How did the Royals become the worst team in baseball — and a top-five laughingstock in all of American sports? Of course, I’m not the first to think about such things. And of course, there is no easy answer.

 But I wanted to try. Plus, I have some Royals stories stored up in the vault. Some telling, some funny, and some depressing.

 So I basically figured I could break it down into nine short stories, nine little narratives that could encapsulate 15 years of ineptitude, put a face on the hurt, and give us some sort of compass to find our way. 

But after some careful consideration, I decided that we better break this thing up into nine different posts.

But trust me, we got some good stuff coming. The first story includes John Buck and Lady Gaga and the worst stretch of baseball any Kansas City team has ever played.

For now, we’re calling it “The Gary Gaetti Project.” Why? Why not? 

So consider this the prologue. The Spring Training of our little adventure. Meantime, do me a solid, and read this short spring training story.

*****

They say spring training is when hope springs eternal. Or at least, I thought they used to say this.

Spring training for the Royals used to be the high-point of the season – for obvious reasons. The franchise would be on the heels of another season of 90-plus losses, and the whole gang would gather together at Spring Training (first in Baseball City, Fla., then in Surprise, Ariz.) in an attempt to exorcize the demons of the previous season.

You’d hear stories about veterans who’d never been in better shape. You hear stories about how the new players on the squad – generally, average veteran players from average teams. But somehow, someway, these average vets were bringing new life to the local nine, lifting the spirits and teaching the tenets of winning baseball.

You’d hear about young pitchers with dynamite stuff. And prospects with five tools. You’d hear about it all.

 And then, you’d read the annual column by Joe Posnanski – the most optimistic writer in America – in The Kansas City Star. And of course, Poz would write that the Royals were going to win the division.

 And then it happened. You couldn’t contain yourself. You were buying in*.

*Bartender, I’ll have what he’s having.

 You know what? These guys have a chance!

 But we know what would happen next. The rug would be ripped out from underneath and the sucker punch would come flying in from somewhere in the back.

Still, there was hope.

And perhaps that’s the difference this year. The Royals have the best pitcher in baseball. They have a 23-year-old first baseman who can mash. And they have an  All-Star closer.

And yet, for the first time in years and years and years, the hope seems to be gone.

Perhaps it’s because I spent last summer with a front-row seat to a devastatingly bad team.*

*More on this later.

 Or better yet. Maybe it’s this. I sat at work on Tuesday night. Reading the latest from The Star’s brilliant beat writer Bob Dutton. And I’ve never been more bummed out by spring baseball.

Dutton’s first dispatch was a short update on the Royals’ left-handed options for the bullpen.

The story started like this:

 “The left-handed options for the Royals’ bullpen now consist of three guys who worked primarily as starters as recently as last year and a veteran newcomer still under close observation while he recovers from a shoulder injury that forced him to miss all of last season.

Club officials believe that might not be as bad as it sounds.”

And you know what? Those words read like bright, shining optimism compared to what came next.

It was the game story from Tuesday’s 2-0 loss to Milwaukee.

In Dutton’s poetic prose:

“Perhaps the Royals fell victim Tuesday to the day-after effect from their first spring night game. Or maybe they were just overmatched by a relay of six Milwaukee pitchers.

Either way, they managed just eight hits in a 2-0 loss to the Brewers at Surprise Stadium. The offensive snooze followed a 17-hit attack Monday in a 9-1 victory over the White Sox.

“We were hitterish (Monday) night,” manager Trey Hillman said. “We could have made it easier on ourselves if we had executed. We’re going to start bunting a little more the last couple of weeks. We just didn’t execute.”

The main lack of execution came on successive bunt plays in the second inning. Kila Ka’aihue was at third with one out when Yuniesky Betancourt fouled off a squeeze bunt.

After Betancourt was hit by a pitch, Hillman called for a safety squeeze by Brian Anderson — and the result couldn’t have been worse. A poor bunt enabled the Brewers to trap Ka’aihue before completing a double play by foiling Anderson’s bid to reach second.

… Anderson’s slim roster chances weren’t helped by two head-shaking decisions. First, he put down a poor squeeze bunt with runners on first and third and one out in the second inning.

When the Brewers trapped Kila Ka’aihue between third and home, Anderson tried for second — and the result was a double play. Score it 1-2-5-3-3-8. That’s right, center fielder Carlos Gomez took the throw at second.

Anderson then threw to first from center field on Joe Inglett’s sacrifice fly with runners at first and third with one out in the Milwaukee fourth. The problem was the Royals had nobody at first. The ball rolled toward the Brewers’ dugout, which allowed the runner to take second.”

*****

Listen. I hate cynicism. There’s nothing worse, really. Of course, I love sarcasm. Show me a guy with a quick wit, and I’ll buy him drinks all night. But show me a cynic – and I’ll show you depressing room.

Still, I’m not sure if this is cynicism or sarcasm.

*In fact, I could probably do an entire post about on that subject. But anyway…

 But I could only think of one thing when I read this quote:

 “We could have made it easier on ourselves if we had executed,” Hillman said. “We’re going to start bunting a little more the last couple of weeks.”

 Yes. Yes. Yes! More bunting. By golly, they’ve  got it! That’s what they need. That’s the ticket. Bunting. Why didn’t I think of that?

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Mar 17 2010
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The other Ford Center memory

The Ford Center brings with it a certain connotation, giving rise to images of weariness, disgrace and pain for Kansas fans.

Everyone remembers a night from 2005. A group of seniors thought by many to be the greatest class in Kansas history lost to Bucknell. It had been to two Final Fours and came within three points of a national title. It came within an overtime period of another Final Four a year earlier. It included Wayne Simien, Michael Lee, Keith Langford and Aaron Miles.

And those stars lost to a group of guys in pumpkin-orange jerseys named McNaughton and Bettencourt.*

*Funny how people with variations of the last name Bettencourt (i.e. Betancourt) just seem to aggravate Kansans/Kansas City sports fans.

The senior who spoke forever on his senior night missed the last shot. With about three seconds left, Simien found a spot just inside the top of the key, turned around and attempted a shot he had made hundreds of times throughout his career, the shot that fans associated Simien with…and missed. The ball bounced off the iron, the Bucknell players swarmed the court and Kansas reached what many considered the nadir of its basketball program.

I didn’t see any of it. That night I was in Guatemala City, far away from TV or radio or March Madness or any type of medium in which you could even see a bracket. The next morning at the airport my group and I wondered about the game. We, of course, assumed Kansas won. A few Guatemalans told us otherwise, but we assumed it may have been a joke or miscommunication. Only when I returned home and saw the “Death-Knell” headline in the Kansas City Star did it fully hit.

Yet none of that night has ever quite registered the way it likely has for most Kansas fans.

This week, perhaps, they’ll think of the Ford Center because Kansas is playing there again. They’ll think of that night. They’ll think of Bucknell.

I’ll think about the NCAA Tournament at the Ford Center in a different way.

***
The 2002-2003 season was the first time I hadn’t seen a KU game in person at Allen Fieldhouse in six years. My family started going to one game a year in 1997.

That season we saw Kansas defeat Brown by approximately 984 points, and it was Jacque Vaughn’s second game back from his wrist injury. The next year, we saw them defeat Baylor by approximately 983 points. Then it was a loss to Iowa, then a loss to Iowa State and so on.*

*Yeah, we were a pretty unlucky group. Kansas never loses at Allen Fieldhouse, unless the Dent family comes to watch. Later on, as a junior in high school, I was there when KU lost to Richmond, too.

Every season, we saw one game. That was pretty much the rule, and it was generally a game that no one else would want to see, thus the reason why we could actually get/afford tickets.

But we didn’t see one in 2002-2003. Oh, I would have liked to have seen one. It was Nick Collison’s last year. Same with Kirk Hinrich. Two of Kansas’ all-time greats were going to graduate, and I wouldn’t get to see them in their final season.

It wasn’t exactly a tragedy along the lines of, say, Oedipus Rex or Macbeth, but I was a high school kid living in Kansas who had studied KU basketball for years. It sucked.

Then the NCAA Tournament rolled around. The Jayhawks earned a No. 2 seed and would play their opening round games at the Ford Center in Oklahoma City. I’m sure I could use a quick Google search to determine who they played in the first round but at this point, I am feeling lazy and just wanting to stream of conscious everything, so I will just say that they smoked their first round opponent.

In the second round, they would face Arizona State. The Sun Devils had a power forward named Ike Diogu who was supposed to be one of the best power forwards in the nation. I assumed, like for all the games, that I would watch it on TV.

Then my dad, Paul Dent, had this crazy idea. The day before the game, a Friday, he suggested that we travel to Oklahoma City to watch Kansas play against Arizona State.

It was a five-hour trip. Oklahoma was playing in the other second-round game, meaning all those football fans would be more than happy to sell their tickets and watch replays of Josh Heupel, Jason White in their basement.

We would have an opportunity to see Nick and Kirk, not to mention Keith Langford and Aaron Miles. Yes, it was a great idea.

My brother, sister, dad and I (my mom had some sort of open house thing, whatever that means, and couldn’t go) left early in the morning in my dad’s Toyota Avalon.

You get to Oklahoma City on I-35, a devil of a highway that pretty much runs from Canada to Mexico. It seems that everyone in the Midwest must traverse I-35 to reach any destination. It also seems that I-35 intentionally drags through the ends of the earth regardless of its latitudinal location.

Once you get past the Flint Hills and Wichita the only destinations between there and Oklahoma City are rest stops with broken vending machines and sketchy bikers wearing jean jackets. Diners with names like “Grab and Dash” and “Manny’s” pop up every 50 miles or so but that’s it.

After stopping at Braum’s (and thankfully not “Grab and Dash”), we found a hotel in Edmond, Okla., the hometown of Bill Self. This being 2003, none of us knew or cared about that then. We cared about finding tickets. And that would be a problem.

The Ford Center was buzzing. Oklahoma would play the first game of the day and you could tell.

Men and women in red shirts milled around outside, each desiring tickets like us and scanning for the either nonexistent or unapparent scalpers. My dad looked puzzled. My sister joked that she should try and persuade a security guard to let us in. I could have sworn I saw someone from my high school, not that that would have helped.

At this point, nothing helped. Kansas would be playing inside the arena looming tall in front of us in about two hours, and we had no idea how we could move from the sidewalk to the cheap seats.

So we didn’t. We kept walking, and my watch kept ticking, moving closer toward game time. With about an hour to go and elusive scalpers still very much elusive, we decided watching the game at a restaurant was better than not watching anything at all.

Bricktown’s red hues rose up within walking distance of the Ford Center, and we settled on a restaurant there. TV screens showed Gonzaga lose to Arizona in a second round overtime game before the Kansas game started.

My brother and I split a pizza. We would watch Kansas on TV again, just in a slightly different location.

And for a while we did. Nick Collison, Kirk Hinrich, Aaron Miles and Keith Langford dominated Arizona State like we all expected.
Then something funny happened. CBS switched broadcasts. The screen went from that awkward split-phase to full-blown coverage of something else, something that wasn’t Kansas.

We drove five hours in one day, and now we couldn’t even watch the Jayhawks on TV? This was a new low. The game involving our favorite team, with two of its greatest players of all time, was taking place five minutes from where we sat and we couldn’t see it.

Powered by the thought that there had to be some sort of TV screen showing this game closer to the Ford Center, we walked back. Like before, hordes of people in red Oklahoma shirts walked outside.

This was different, though. They were leaving the arena en masse. They saw the ensuing KU blowout victory as CBS did, a worthy diversion for one half but not for anything longer.

Problem was, empty seats didn’t make a difference. We couldn’t just ask for their tickets because, upon leaving the arena, they were voided.

One half of basketball was left, one half that seemingly nobody in Oklahoma City wanted to see but us, and we couldn’t see it.

Then we had an idea, my sister’s desperate idea. I don’t know how we came up with it or who exactly suggested it, but we ran with my sister’s joke from earlier about just asking a security guard to let us in the arena.

An old man wearing a yellow jacket guarded one of the side entrances. He appeared to be a volunteer, the type of person excited about sports and helping others. My sister asked the question. Would he let us in?

Sure, he said.

We didn’t even think of ascending the stairs toward the upper levels and instead focused on seats located a few rows behind the Jayhawks’ bench. Four of them awaited.

For one half, we watched, the best view I’d ever had at any sporting event when 30 minutes earlier it seemed we wouldn’t get to see any of it.

I don’t remember much about that second half now. Kansas extended its lead, and I’m sure Hinrich and Collison led the way; but it’s really just a hazy image of fast-breaking, turnover-inducing Roy Williams basketball at its finest.

I do remember the end. As we walked out, a few older people decked out in KU garb waited by the same exit. I recognized one of them as Wayne Sr., or at least that’s what they always called him during the game broadcasts.

He was Wayne Simien’s father and came down to watch even though his son couldn’t play because of a shoulder injury. Feeling content from all the night’s events, I approached Wayne Sr. and told him I wished for a smooth recovery for his son.

He shook my hand. He told me he appreciated everything.

In two years, this man’s son would miss a shot in the same arena that would send fans fuming and writing threatening letters to Bill Self, a shot that people still remember and probably will for quite some time.

I won’t. I’ll remember Wayne Sr.’s handshake.

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