Thursday, April 10, 2003
Arch-May Adness-May
We all got up to dance,
But we never got the chance—Don McLean
I spent a lot of time this week watching basketball. In person. This is not something that I do normally, but I enjoy college basketball tournaments and was able to score many free tickets to this past week’s Missouri Valley Conference Tournament.
I’m a Saluki fan. This is because I graduated from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale and for no other reason. I suspect that if I’d gone to Creighton, I would be a Blue Jay fan. So, it seems like splitting hairs to be all jacked up over the fact that we (that is the Salukis) took a beating last night. Nevertheless, it was dismal.
It was dismal from the beginning. Creighton was 10 points into the game and die-hard Saluki fans were still standing, blocking my view, waiting for Southern (that’s what we Salukis call it) to score our first point. “Little Dudes In Front,” I said, “Whatever Mojo you think you’re sending to the team by staying on your feet Does Not Seem to be Working.”
They stared at me blankly. I’m pretty sure that all they knew from Mojo was that she made it to the Final Four on Joe Millionaire.
In the middle of the first-half groaning, the Saluki to my right suggested that Coach Weber was employing the Sean Astin strategy. “See, he’s going to trick Coach Altman into putting in all his Rudys and then we are going to KICK ASS.” I suggested that this might also be called the Corey Haim strategy, but that I hoped Coach Weber would employ something far more workable and predictable, like the Adam Sandler strategy, because the only way it looked like SIU was going to win is if the team had a secret-weapon Waterboy hanging out in the locker room.
Like I said, I only watch basketball during tournament time. Once, for the NCAA tournament I considered getting a T-shirt made that said, “Don’t ask me the score…I’m only here to watch boys watch boys play basketball.” But, by then, I’d found a boyfriend, and he thought the T-shirt was a bad idea. Of course, I met him in a liquor store, so I’m not entirely sure this idea could be worse. Instead, he made sure the tournament maintained my interest by betting huge amounts of money on teams so I would have someone to root for. Or, in most cases, just a score to root for, since he wagered a lot of over-unders.
One of the reasons I enjoy the NCAA tournament is the tree. It’s very big, with lots of branches. Every year when the brackets are published, I tear it out of the newspaper and diligently fill it out. I prefer those trees with numbers of games lost and won in parentheses, even though I rarely rely on them. Then, I hang my tree in a prominent place and if I can, enter it into a pool. I’m always for the underdog. Which is a good thing. Unless you live in North Carolina and your number one pick beats Carolina in the first round and you walk into your local barbeque joint and say, “How ‘bout that Weber State?”
The MVC tournament doesn’t hold quite as many surprises because it is much smaller and everyone gets to play. Creighton always seems to win, but there are often near upsets, like Saturday’s Jays Vs. Fighting Trees game. I discovered, because I sat with the former head football coach at Indiana State and his wife that what I always thought were little gold pompons lining the shorts and jerseys of the Fighting Trees’ uniforms are really sycamore leaves. Additionally, I learned that the Indiana State mascot is not in anyway supposed to resemble a Fighting Tree, but is actually a fox. One of those legendary Indiana Blue Foxes—vulpes azura—his name is Sycamore Sam. He’s very intimidating. Much in the same way that our floppy-haired Salukis are. It is a shame, I think, that it is no longer appropriate to use Indian Chiefs as mascots. Tomahawks are intimidating; I think this is what caused the rash of head shaving among basketball players years ago; subsequently, tomahawks became less intimidating and therefore merely a mockery of Native Americans, which in turn led to Indian Chiefs everywhere getting the axe. Quite frankly, I wish someone would do something about that stupid Wheat Monster from Wichita State. He reminds me of something from a David Lynch movie.
Another thing I learned this year, is about foul shot progression (which is a fancy term that I just made up). I didn’t realize that after a certain number of team fouls, certain foul shots are given. What a beautiful rule. However, I still received odd looks from fellow basketball patrons when I yelled such things as: “Where’s the flag on that play!” or “Man, did you see him recover that fumble?”
Last night’s game was humiliating. Or would have been humiliating had I not previously determined that being for one team rather than another was merely a matter of a rash choice made as a high school Junior. Lest you scoff at this, I know at least one person who opted to go to one school in North Carolina over another simply because he thought it was cool to say he was part of the “Wolf Pack.” No, what was really humiliating was asking what P3 stood for on the back of the Saluki Booster shirts worn by the marching band (can you call them that, even if they don’t march?). “Oh, it’s a bar in Carbondale,” the young kid behind me said. “Well, that’s a bar that didn’t exist when I went there,” I replied. “Pinch Penny?” he asked, thinking, I’m sure, she can’t be THAT old. “Oh, Pinch Penny Pub,” I said. I knew Pinch Penny all right. I think I got engaged there once.
Halftime was the highpoint of the game. Specifically, the Frisbee Dogs. Unlike the Salukis, the Frisbee Dogs caught all of their passes. I suggested to my strategy-trading seat mate that we substitute a couple of those dogs for a couple of our Dawgs. The man behind us suggested that the first team to 50 will have statistically won the game. With Creighton up 40-something to 22, I figured we’d take our leave before the end of the game. Especially when neither Adam Sander nor Turbo the Frisbee Dog made it into the post-half lineup. These same statisticians booed me for leaving early. I explained that if I’d traveled the 100 miles from Carbondale, I would stay, but I live five minutes away and since it was obvious no post-game celebrations would be blossoming at our end of the arena, I could just as easily watch them lose from the comfort of a bar stool.
We watched the rest of the game, sucking dollar drafts, rather than 6 million dollar drafts, at the corner tavern. Having left the same bar in high spirits before the game, my fellow tavern patrons expected to see me dejected. “But why?” I said, “After all we came in SECOND.”
We all got up to dance,
But we never got the chance—Don McLean
I spent a lot of time this week watching basketball. In person. This is not something that I do normally, but I enjoy college basketball tournaments and was able to score many free tickets to this past week’s Missouri Valley Conference Tournament.
I’m a Saluki fan. This is because I graduated from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale and for no other reason. I suspect that if I’d gone to Creighton, I would be a Blue Jay fan. So, it seems like splitting hairs to be all jacked up over the fact that we (that is the Salukis) took a beating last night. Nevertheless, it was dismal.
It was dismal from the beginning. Creighton was 10 points into the game and die-hard Saluki fans were still standing, blocking my view, waiting for Southern (that’s what we Salukis call it) to score our first point. “Little Dudes In Front,” I said, “Whatever Mojo you think you’re sending to the team by staying on your feet Does Not Seem to be Working.”
They stared at me blankly. I’m pretty sure that all they knew from Mojo was that she made it to the Final Four on Joe Millionaire.
In the middle of the first-half groaning, the Saluki to my right suggested that Coach Weber was employing the Sean Astin strategy. “See, he’s going to trick Coach Altman into putting in all his Rudys and then we are going to KICK ASS.” I suggested that this might also be called the Corey Haim strategy, but that I hoped Coach Weber would employ something far more workable and predictable, like the Adam Sandler strategy, because the only way it looked like SIU was going to win is if the team had a secret-weapon Waterboy hanging out in the locker room.
Like I said, I only watch basketball during tournament time. Once, for the NCAA tournament I considered getting a T-shirt made that said, “Don’t ask me the score…I’m only here to watch boys watch boys play basketball.” But, by then, I’d found a boyfriend, and he thought the T-shirt was a bad idea. Of course, I met him in a liquor store, so I’m not entirely sure this idea could be worse. Instead, he made sure the tournament maintained my interest by betting huge amounts of money on teams so I would have someone to root for. Or, in most cases, just a score to root for, since he wagered a lot of over-unders.
One of the reasons I enjoy the NCAA tournament is the tree. It’s very big, with lots of branches. Every year when the brackets are published, I tear it out of the newspaper and diligently fill it out. I prefer those trees with numbers of games lost and won in parentheses, even though I rarely rely on them. Then, I hang my tree in a prominent place and if I can, enter it into a pool. I’m always for the underdog. Which is a good thing. Unless you live in North Carolina and your number one pick beats Carolina in the first round and you walk into your local barbeque joint and say, “How ‘bout that Weber State?”
The MVC tournament doesn’t hold quite as many surprises because it is much smaller and everyone gets to play. Creighton always seems to win, but there are often near upsets, like Saturday’s Jays Vs. Fighting Trees game. I discovered, because I sat with the former head football coach at Indiana State and his wife that what I always thought were little gold pompons lining the shorts and jerseys of the Fighting Trees’ uniforms are really sycamore leaves. Additionally, I learned that the Indiana State mascot is not in anyway supposed to resemble a Fighting Tree, but is actually a fox. One of those legendary Indiana Blue Foxes—vulpes azura—his name is Sycamore Sam. He’s very intimidating. Much in the same way that our floppy-haired Salukis are. It is a shame, I think, that it is no longer appropriate to use Indian Chiefs as mascots. Tomahawks are intimidating; I think this is what caused the rash of head shaving among basketball players years ago; subsequently, tomahawks became less intimidating and therefore merely a mockery of Native Americans, which in turn led to Indian Chiefs everywhere getting the axe. Quite frankly, I wish someone would do something about that stupid Wheat Monster from Wichita State. He reminds me of something from a David Lynch movie.
Another thing I learned this year, is about foul shot progression (which is a fancy term that I just made up). I didn’t realize that after a certain number of team fouls, certain foul shots are given. What a beautiful rule. However, I still received odd looks from fellow basketball patrons when I yelled such things as: “Where’s the flag on that play!” or “Man, did you see him recover that fumble?”
Last night’s game was humiliating. Or would have been humiliating had I not previously determined that being for one team rather than another was merely a matter of a rash choice made as a high school Junior. Lest you scoff at this, I know at least one person who opted to go to one school in North Carolina over another simply because he thought it was cool to say he was part of the “Wolf Pack.” No, what was really humiliating was asking what P3 stood for on the back of the Saluki Booster shirts worn by the marching band (can you call them that, even if they don’t march?). “Oh, it’s a bar in Carbondale,” the young kid behind me said. “Well, that’s a bar that didn’t exist when I went there,” I replied. “Pinch Penny?” he asked, thinking, I’m sure, she can’t be THAT old. “Oh, Pinch Penny Pub,” I said. I knew Pinch Penny all right. I think I got engaged there once.
Halftime was the highpoint of the game. Specifically, the Frisbee Dogs. Unlike the Salukis, the Frisbee Dogs caught all of their passes. I suggested to my strategy-trading seat mate that we substitute a couple of those dogs for a couple of our Dawgs. The man behind us suggested that the first team to 50 will have statistically won the game. With Creighton up 40-something to 22, I figured we’d take our leave before the end of the game. Especially when neither Adam Sander nor Turbo the Frisbee Dog made it into the post-half lineup. These same statisticians booed me for leaving early. I explained that if I’d traveled the 100 miles from Carbondale, I would stay, but I live five minutes away and since it was obvious no post-game celebrations would be blossoming at our end of the arena, I could just as easily watch them lose from the comfort of a bar stool.
We watched the rest of the game, sucking dollar drafts, rather than 6 million dollar drafts, at the corner tavern. Having left the same bar in high spirits before the game, my fellow tavern patrons expected to see me dejected. “But why?” I said, “After all we came in SECOND.”
Horatio Alger Works for Fox
I admit it. I was a Joe Mill Junkie. I told my boyfriend last night that all other operations at CasaChristy would cease between 7 and 9. Thank God for TiVo, or the pizza delivery boy would still be standing outside.
Essentially, Joe Millionaire is a rags to riches story. Horatio Alger couldn't have done better. First, the fiction: we have Evan, the poor heavy machinery operator, who suddenly inherits 50 million dollars, a chateau in Paris, a jet, etc. And now he needs a woman to share this with. Someone who will love him for him.
Next we have a bevy of women hoping to go from Rags to Riches. They are weeded out, first based on initial chemistry, then by the possibility of sticking around after the truth is revealed and then by virtue (Zora, who refuses to even french kiss is chosen over Sarah, who believed the true path to his cash was in those woods somewhere).
But then Evan must tell Zora the truth. He is just a poor heavy machine operator. He has nothing to offer but his heart. Does she want it? Can she forgive him?
Zora, either out of genuine forgiveness or out of a necessity to save face on National television forgives him. They are both as poor as churchmice (except for the potential earnings that will subsequently follow through exclusive interviews and the inevitable endorsements), so she can relate, they will get through this somehow.
But there is a reward for both of them. (Besides the diamond ring which she plans to sell, along with all the other jewelry given her so that her aunt in Yugoslavia can be cured of her cancer). $500,000. Granted, 500 grand is a mere drop in what must be, for Fox, the biggest damn bucket it's ever seen, but the moral is still there--virtue and goodness are rewarded.
Zora went from rags to riches based--in the fictitious setting--on her virtue, her honesty, her genuine lack of guile and then, in reality, on her capacity to forgive (or at least her capacity to fake forgiveness). Evan's meteoric rise probably has more to do with his tousled dumb giant look and a contract with Fox. Nevertheless, I'm fairly certain that our dear Evan isn't such a thespian as to fake the reaction to that check.
And how does it end: Zora, like any real Alger hero, is even getting her own parade back in Smallville, New Jersey. Evan probably buys several acres of dirt and a bulldozer and spends his days moving earth, making small roads and villages. Smoothing them over. Maybe he'll build a ballpark--whoops, wrong story, wrong author
I admit it. I was a Joe Mill Junkie. I told my boyfriend last night that all other operations at CasaChristy would cease between 7 and 9. Thank God for TiVo, or the pizza delivery boy would still be standing outside.
Essentially, Joe Millionaire is a rags to riches story. Horatio Alger couldn't have done better. First, the fiction: we have Evan, the poor heavy machinery operator, who suddenly inherits 50 million dollars, a chateau in Paris, a jet, etc. And now he needs a woman to share this with. Someone who will love him for him.
Next we have a bevy of women hoping to go from Rags to Riches. They are weeded out, first based on initial chemistry, then by the possibility of sticking around after the truth is revealed and then by virtue (Zora, who refuses to even french kiss is chosen over Sarah, who believed the true path to his cash was in those woods somewhere).
But then Evan must tell Zora the truth. He is just a poor heavy machine operator. He has nothing to offer but his heart. Does she want it? Can she forgive him?
Zora, either out of genuine forgiveness or out of a necessity to save face on National television forgives him. They are both as poor as churchmice (except for the potential earnings that will subsequently follow through exclusive interviews and the inevitable endorsements), so she can relate, they will get through this somehow.
But there is a reward for both of them. (Besides the diamond ring which she plans to sell, along with all the other jewelry given her so that her aunt in Yugoslavia can be cured of her cancer). $500,000. Granted, 500 grand is a mere drop in what must be, for Fox, the biggest damn bucket it's ever seen, but the moral is still there--virtue and goodness are rewarded.
Zora went from rags to riches based--in the fictitious setting--on her virtue, her honesty, her genuine lack of guile and then, in reality, on her capacity to forgive (or at least her capacity to fake forgiveness). Evan's meteoric rise probably has more to do with his tousled dumb giant look and a contract with Fox. Nevertheless, I'm fairly certain that our dear Evan isn't such a thespian as to fake the reaction to that check.
And how does it end: Zora, like any real Alger hero, is even getting her own parade back in Smallville, New Jersey. Evan probably buys several acres of dirt and a bulldozer and spends his days moving earth, making small roads and villages. Smoothing them over. Maybe he'll build a ballpark--whoops, wrong story, wrong author
Sunday, April 06, 2003
Arch-May Adness-May
We all got up to dance,
But we never got the chance—Don McLean
I spent a lot of time this week watching basketball. In person. This is not something that I do normally, but I enjoy college basketball tournaments and was able to score many free tickets to this past week’s Missouri Valley Conference Tournament.
I’m a Saluki fan. This is because I graduated from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale and for no other reason. I suspect that if I’d gone to Creighton, I would be a Blue Jay fan. So, it seems like splitting hairs to be all jacked up over the fact that we (that is the Salukis) took a beating last night. Nevertheless, it was dismal.
It was dismal from the beginning. Creighton was 10 points into the game and die-hard Saluki fans were still standing, blocking my view, waiting for Southern (that’s what we Salukis call it) to score our first point. “Little Dudes In Front,” I said, “Whatever Mojo you think you’re sending to the team by staying on your feet Does Not Seem to be Working.”
They stared at me blankly. I’m pretty sure that all they knew from Mojo was that she made it to the Final Four on Joe Millionaire.
In the middle of the first-half groaning, the Saluki to my right suggested that Coach Weber was employing the Sean Astin strategy. “See, he’s going to trick Coach Altman into putting in all his Rudys and then we are going to KICK ASS.” I suggested that this might also be called the Corey Haim strategy, but that I hoped Coach Weber would employ something far more workable and predictable, like the Adam Sandler strategy, because the only way it looked like SIU was going to win is if the team had a secret-weapon Waterboy hanging out in the locker room.
Like I said, I only watch basketball during tournament time. Once, for the NCAA tournament I considered getting a T-shirt made that said, “Don’t ask me the score…I’m only here to watch boys watch boys play basketball.” But, by then, I’d found a boyfriend, and he thought the T-shirt was a bad idea. Of course, I met him in a liquor store, so I’m not entirely sure this idea could be worse. Instead, he made sure the tournament maintained my interest by betting huge amounts of money on teams so I would have someone to root for. Or, in most cases, just a score to root for, since he wagered a lot of over-unders.
One of the reasons I enjoy the NCAA tournament is the tree. It’s very big, with lots of branches. Every year when the brackets are published, I tear it out of the newspaper and diligently fill it out. I prefer those trees with numbers of games lost and won in parentheses, even though I rarely rely on them. Then, I hang my tree in a prominent place and if I can, enter it into a pool. I’m always for the underdog. Which is a good thing. Unless you live in North Carolina and your number one pick beats Carolina in the first round and you walk into your local barbeque joint and say, “How ‘bout that Weber State?”
The MVC tournament doesn’t hold quite as many surprises because it is much smaller and everyone gets to play. Creighton always seems to win, but there are often near upsets, like Saturday’s Jays Vs. Fighting Trees game. I discovered, because I sat with the former head football coach at Indiana State and his wife that what I always thought were little gold pompons lining the shorts and jerseys of the Fighting Trees’ uniforms are really sycamore leaves. Additionally, I learned that the Indiana State mascot is not in anyway supposed to resemble a Fighting Tree, but is actually a fox. One of those legendary Indiana Blue Foxes—vulpes azura—his name is Sycamore Sam. He’s very intimidating. Much in the same way that our floppy-haired Salukis are. It is a shame, I think, that it is no longer appropriate to use Indian Chiefs as mascots. Tomahawks are intimidating; I think this is what caused the rash of head shaving among basketball players years ago; subsequently, tomahawks became less intimidating and therefore merely a mockery of Native Americans, which in turn led to Indian Chiefs everywhere getting the axe. Quite frankly, I wish someone would do something about that stupid Wheat Monster from Wichita State. He reminds me of something from a David Lynch movie.
Another thing I learned this year, is about foul shot progression (which is a fancy term that I just made up). I didn’t realize that after a certain number of team fouls, certain foul shots are given. What a beautiful rule. However, I still received odd looks from fellow basketball patrons when I yelled such things as: “Where’s the flag on that play!” or “Man, did you see him recover that fumble?”
Last night’s game was humiliating. Or would have been humiliating had I not previously determined that being for one team rather than another was merely a matter of a rash choice made as a high school Junior. Lest you scoff at this, I know at least one person who opted to go to one school in North Carolina over another simply because he thought it was cool to say he was part of the “Wolf Pack.” No, what was really humiliating was asking what P3 stood for on the back of the Saluki Booster shirts worn by the marching band (can you call them that, even if they don’t march?). “Oh, it’s a bar in Carbondale,” the young kid behind me said. “Well, that’s a bar that didn’t exist when I went there,” I replied. “Pinch Penny?” he asked, thinking, I’m sure, she can’t be THAT old. “Oh, Pinch Penny Pub,” I said. I knew Pinch Penny all right. I think I got engaged there once.
Halftime was the highpoint of the game. Specifically, the Frisbee Dogs. Unlike the Salukis, the Frisbee Dogs caught all of their passes. I suggested to my strategy-trading seat mate that we substitute a couple of those dogs for a couple of our Dawgs. The man behind us suggested that the first team to 50 will have statistically won the game. With Creighton up 40-something to 22, I figured we’d take our leave before the end of the game. Especially when neither Adam Sander nor Turbo the Frisbee Dog made it into the post-half lineup. These same statisticians booed me for leaving early. I explained that if I’d traveled the 100 miles from Carbondale, I would stay, but I live five minutes away and since it was obvious no post-game celebrations would be blossoming at our end of the arena, I could just as easily watch them lose from the comfort of a bar stool.
We watched the rest of the game, sucking dollar drafts, rather than 6 million dollar drafts, at the corner tavern. Having left the same bar in high spirits before the game, my fellow tavern patrons expected to see me dejected. “But why?” I said, “After all we came in SECOND.”
We all got up to dance,
But we never got the chance—Don McLean
I spent a lot of time this week watching basketball. In person. This is not something that I do normally, but I enjoy college basketball tournaments and was able to score many free tickets to this past week’s Missouri Valley Conference Tournament.
I’m a Saluki fan. This is because I graduated from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale and for no other reason. I suspect that if I’d gone to Creighton, I would be a Blue Jay fan. So, it seems like splitting hairs to be all jacked up over the fact that we (that is the Salukis) took a beating last night. Nevertheless, it was dismal.
It was dismal from the beginning. Creighton was 10 points into the game and die-hard Saluki fans were still standing, blocking my view, waiting for Southern (that’s what we Salukis call it) to score our first point. “Little Dudes In Front,” I said, “Whatever Mojo you think you’re sending to the team by staying on your feet Does Not Seem to be Working.”
They stared at me blankly. I’m pretty sure that all they knew from Mojo was that she made it to the Final Four on Joe Millionaire.
In the middle of the first-half groaning, the Saluki to my right suggested that Coach Weber was employing the Sean Astin strategy. “See, he’s going to trick Coach Altman into putting in all his Rudys and then we are going to KICK ASS.” I suggested that this might also be called the Corey Haim strategy, but that I hoped Coach Weber would employ something far more workable and predictable, like the Adam Sandler strategy, because the only way it looked like SIU was going to win is if the team had a secret-weapon Waterboy hanging out in the locker room.
Like I said, I only watch basketball during tournament time. Once, for the NCAA tournament I considered getting a T-shirt made that said, “Don’t ask me the score…I’m only here to watch boys watch boys play basketball.” But, by then, I’d found a boyfriend, and he thought the T-shirt was a bad idea. Of course, I met him in a liquor store, so I’m not entirely sure this idea could be worse. Instead, he made sure the tournament maintained my interest by betting huge amounts of money on teams so I would have someone to root for. Or, in most cases, just a score to root for, since he wagered a lot of over-unders.
One of the reasons I enjoy the NCAA tournament is the tree. It’s very big, with lots of branches. Every year when the brackets are published, I tear it out of the newspaper and diligently fill it out. I prefer those trees with numbers of games lost and won in parentheses, even though I rarely rely on them. Then, I hang my tree in a prominent place and if I can, enter it into a pool. I’m always for the underdog. Which is a good thing. Unless you live in North Carolina and your number one pick beats Carolina in the first round and you walk into your local barbeque joint and say, “How ‘bout that Weber State?”
The MVC tournament doesn’t hold quite as many surprises because it is much smaller and everyone gets to play. Creighton always seems to win, but there are often near upsets, like Saturday’s Jays Vs. Fighting Trees game. I discovered, because I sat with the former head football coach at Indiana State and his wife that what I always thought were little gold pompons lining the shorts and jerseys of the Fighting Trees’ uniforms are really sycamore leaves. Additionally, I learned that the Indiana State mascot is not in anyway supposed to resemble a Fighting Tree, but is actually a fox. One of those legendary Indiana Blue Foxes—vulpes azura—his name is Sycamore Sam. He’s very intimidating. Much in the same way that our floppy-haired Salukis are. It is a shame, I think, that it is no longer appropriate to use Indian Chiefs as mascots. Tomahawks are intimidating; I think this is what caused the rash of head shaving among basketball players years ago; subsequently, tomahawks became less intimidating and therefore merely a mockery of Native Americans, which in turn led to Indian Chiefs everywhere getting the axe. Quite frankly, I wish someone would do something about that stupid Wheat Monster from Wichita State. He reminds me of something from a David Lynch movie.
Another thing I learned this year, is about foul shot progression (which is a fancy term that I just made up). I didn’t realize that after a certain number of team fouls, certain foul shots are given. What a beautiful rule. However, I still received odd looks from fellow basketball patrons when I yelled such things as: “Where’s the flag on that play!” or “Man, did you see him recover that fumble?”
Last night’s game was humiliating. Or would have been humiliating had I not previously determined that being for one team rather than another was merely a matter of a rash choice made as a high school Junior. Lest you scoff at this, I know at least one person who opted to go to one school in North Carolina over another simply because he thought it was cool to say he was part of the “Wolf Pack.” No, what was really humiliating was asking what P3 stood for on the back of the Saluki Booster shirts worn by the marching band (can you call them that, even if they don’t march?). “Oh, it’s a bar in Carbondale,” the young kid behind me said. “Well, that’s a bar that didn’t exist when I went there,” I replied. “Pinch Penny?” he asked, thinking, I’m sure, she can’t be THAT old. “Oh, Pinch Penny Pub,” I said. I knew Pinch Penny all right. I think I got engaged there once.
Halftime was the highpoint of the game. Specifically, the Frisbee Dogs. Unlike the Salukis, the Frisbee Dogs caught all of their passes. I suggested to my strategy-trading seat mate that we substitute a couple of those dogs for a couple of our Dawgs. The man behind us suggested that the first team to 50 will have statistically won the game. With Creighton up 40-something to 22, I figured we’d take our leave before the end of the game. Especially when neither Adam Sander nor Turbo the Frisbee Dog made it into the post-half lineup. These same statisticians booed me for leaving early. I explained that if I’d traveled the 100 miles from Carbondale, I would stay, but I live five minutes away and since it was obvious no post-game celebrations would be blossoming at our end of the arena, I could just as easily watch them lose from the comfort of a bar stool.
We watched the rest of the game, sucking dollar drafts, rather than 6 million dollar drafts, at the corner tavern. Having left the same bar in high spirits before the game, my fellow tavern patrons expected to see me dejected. “But why?” I said, “After all we came in SECOND.”
