Gotta' look good

I have the Oklahoma/Kentucky women's basketball game on in the background - happened to look up and notice some of the women athletes with their heavy mascara and eyeliner.

My first reaction is my old reaction - a real basketball player doesn't wear makeup.

Then I think of all the games the last few weeks in which the guys display their full body makeup of tattoos.

I guess real basketball players keep up appearances, no matter what it takes.

At least their pants are not on the ground!

A. B. D.

There ought to be all new fresh faces in the Final Four this year. I watched with glee as West Virginia beat Kentucky. I agonized over Kansas State's loss to Butler, but you knew it was coming when K-State had to go to double-overtime to barely beat Xavier.

The game on television right now is Tennessee vs. Michigan State. Who will win? Who cares? Tennessee would be the sentimental favorite, overcoming a longer drought.

But please, please, please let the Baptists beat the Evil Ones. I'm a huge fan of the Big XII Conference, having grown up in the old Southwest Conference. My alma mater, Rice University, a former Southwest Conference member, is a baseball powerhouse, but lives in the basketball poorhouse. Big XII basketball is the next best thing and, with my other teams out, I'm rooting for Baylor.

Baylor University is less than two hours south of here. It's a team so hungry and has overcome a difficult past. Many of my husband's former students and other kids we know are at Baylor. And Baylor's No. 41, an agile, graceful giant, reminds me of my childhood hero - No. 6 Bill Russell of the Boston Celtics.

(Did you know that Bill Russell, one of the greatest to ever play the game, only played one year of high school basketball? The basketball coach recruited him from the track team because he was tall. A college scout happened to see the one decent performance he had in high school and he received a basketball scholarship to the University of San Francisco. The rest is history. I know all this because I read his biography, and all things Bill Russell, while in junior high.)

It's not long until tip-off.

Anybody

But

Duke !

Unexpected

The boys are at the Dallas Stars' hockey game this afternoon. This is what's going on outside the arena - on this literally freezing, wet and nasty day. These protests are going on all over the county. There are an estimated 30-40,000 people on the mall at the Capitol today, protesting the potential federal takeover of our healthcare choices. (You won't see pictures unless you go to blogs or FoxNews.)

Is there any way we can channel this energy into enacting term limits? Nothing would help stop bad legislation more than limiting the perpetuators. Don't ya' think?

On another note, St. Mary's just whipped Villanova in the NCAA tournament. Watching snippets of the game, I remember both teams from last year's tournament and should have anticipated the result. In my bracket picks, I had picked St. Mary's to win their first round game, but not this one. I'm glad, anyway.

I picked 21 games correctly out of the first 32. How's your bracket holding up?

The scorecard

KERRY		WILEY
-501		-501
25		25
8		42
31		33
31		70
31		8
51		10
22		47
42		68
25		34
22		44
35		45
44		25
34		40
23		0	12
18		0	16
26		0	11
33
0	0	-10	39

So what game is this and who won?

A prize to the first person, family members excluded, who correctly answers the question!

Boys will be boys

We returned late yesterday from a fun filled weekend in Houston, Texas at our thirty year college reunion. Lots of friends showed up, so that made it especially memorable. Our football team won its first game of the year, so even better.

But the most fun I had was Sunday morning, watching Ricky play three games of volleyball as part of a men's volleyball team alumni get-together.

Earlier in the month he was reluctant to attend the reunion, and even more reluctant to attempt volleyball. But wifely pressure prevailed, and we went.

We did manage to arrive in town too late to play sand lot volleyball on Friday. Only a few played the sand game, figuring the legs would only be there once, and Sunday would be better.

It was amusing to watch them warm up Sunday morning, hitting balls against the walls, practicing serves, setting each other for hits, peeking sideways to see how the other guys were doing. Showing up were nine men who played competitively for Rice in the late seventies and early eighties, their coach and a couple of club players from the current team. So they were able to play six on six - three games to twenty five.

Ricky didn't warm up much. He joked that he only had five jumps left and didn't want to waste them. No one expected to do great - there was just the fear of being awful in front of the people you used to be great with.

But the game began, and they quickly settled in. Old rotations and plays showed up as if used yesterday. The taunting, the laughing, the language - all the same. And they always knew what the score was.

Everyone had at least a couple of good hits and saves and there were many long rallies. Ricky did well as long as he didn't have to hit twice in a row! He even managed to do his famous backwards roll at the end of a dig. So maybe a few more balls hit the floor or the net than in yesteryear, but not much else differed.

Well, maybe the sore shoulders and knees and ankles for the next few days is a little different than thirty years ago. With a legal drinking age of eighteen, college guys never stayed sore after beating themselves up on the court.

Thirty years ago they would drive all night, play match after match and then drive back to school, crammed five or six into compact cars. Even now they can recite specific plays and tournaments and outcomes and team pranks.

Even now they are boys who can play and have a good time.

A Year Too Late To Gig 'Em

In the fall of 1974 (thirty-five years ago, oh, my!) I was a freshman at Rice University in Houston, Texas. One of the reasons I picked that school over similar Ivy League schools was its participation in Division I intercollegiate athletics. I love sports, whether playing or watching. Rice was a member of the old Southwest Conference, which included schools such as the University of Texas and the University of Arkansas.

I had a date to the Texas A&M game that fall, the game held at its College Station campus, about a hundred miles north of Houston. Although their team has struggled the last few years, A&M was a football power house in the old Southwest Conference.

My date and I, wearing our Rice T-shirts, walked to the field from the parking area through a tunnel of silent hostility. I didn't fear for my life, but I was a little nervous, glad that my friend was six foot two and "built." The year before Rice had not only won the game 24-20 in a stunning last minute victory, but the Rice Marching Owl Band (MOB) had made serious fun of some of the Aggies' serious traditions.

The Aggies have school traditions that continue to this day. The student body, as the "12th man," stands for the entire game. They have midnight yell practice (which I went to a few years later.) The Corps band marches in military style with great precision marching. Seniors in the Corps wear dress boots, considered an honor. The Corps also cares for the school mascot, a dog named Reveille. The Aggies have a particular rivalry with the University of Texas, resulting in branded cattle and huge bonfires. My former business partner is an Aggie, along with my niece and nephews. I'm still holding out hope that one of my kids will go to A&M, but if not them, maybe a grandkid in twenty years. Unless they're playing Rice in baseball, I root for the Aggies over any other Texas team.

That being said, I still enjoy the story of the Rice-A&M football game on November 17, 1973, the results of which created the hostility I met a year later at Kyle Field. The 1973 game was held at Rice Stadium, a huge venue host to Super Bowl VIII in 1974. The stands were mostly filled with Aggies, though. Rice, with a class size of about five hundred, could have put every alumni from inception into its stadium and it would not have been half full.

The following paragraphs are the script of that half-time MOB show, a script that mocked the Aggie traditions with an aside tribute to Marvin Zindler, a Houston area news reporter who exposed a brothel posing as a chicken ranch - a story memorialized by a Dolly Parton movie.

So imagine a football stadium teeming with Aggie maroon, all fired up after watching their band fill the field with their hundreds of military uniformed members marching and playing perfectly. Now picture the Rice MOB, fifty kids in vests, berets and tennis shoes, some of them playing kazoos, running out to the fifty yard line. As you read the script, add in that the MOB used appropriate props for boots and fire hydrants and may have even formed boobs to represent Dolly Parton.

The announcer begins the show:

Band lines up on north end of field. Called to attention.

Announcer:

Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the 1973 Marching Owl Band, or MOB – [pause] the only thing funnier than a good Aggie Joke. The MOB is directed by Mr. Bert Roth, with twirlers Janet Breston, Suzan, McCorkle, Liz Moy and Karen Blackwell. And, in his last appearance with the MOB today, the person responsible for pulling together the halftime shows this year, Drum Major Bob Hord.

Music:

Fanfare

Announcer:

Today the MOB salutes Texas A&M and the Aggie band. So to begin, the band will warm up with a little old-fashioned military marching. [in German accent] You will enjoy!

Field Action:

Band goosesteps out to old Germanesque march. Stops. Marches into chicken leg.

Announcer:

Before we go any further into our halftime festivities, the MOB takes time to pay tribute to Mr. Marvin Zindler. [pause] Yes, you heard correctly – the MOB has formed a large chicken thigh, and Marvin Zindler (the most hated man in Lagrange) will twirl to that famous greeting "Hello, Dolly."

Music:

"Hello, Dolly"

Field Action:

Band marches into boot to cadence.

Announcer:

The MOB has formed a famous Senior Boot, the greatest thing to happen to Aggieland since the manure spreader. [pause] Aggie freshmen will agree that at the base of every Senior Boot is a big heel.

Music:

"Get It On"

Field Action:

Marches into fire hydrant to cadence.

Announcer:

The MOB now salutes Reveille, the mascot of the Aggies. This is a little dog with a big responsibility. But even Reveille likes to make that pause that refreshes. [pause] So the MOB has formed a fire hydrant and plays "Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?"

Music:

"Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?"

Field Action:

Band marches into giant 'T'.

Announcer:

The MOB now salutes the Marching Band from Aggieland by forming their famous marching T. [pause] Watch now as the MOB has it their way.

Field Action:

Band plays bugle call into to the Aggie War Hymn and transitions into

Music:

"Little Wooden Soldier" March.

Announcer:

There you have it, fans, the band that never sounds retreat. Thank you and goodbye.

Field Action:

Band runs off while trumpets blow "Retreat".

The Aggie fans were stunned by the MOB's performance and later by the outcome of the game. Totally incensed, fans trapped the MOB in the stadium tunnels for hours after the game ended. Rice administration used food service trucks to haul the MOB out of the stadium to safety. The snarling Aggies were forced to watch at attention as the Rice kids played the Star Spangled Banner during their departure.

As a Rice alumna, November 17, 1973 is a day of glory. The Aggies have had their revenge in subsequent annihilations on the field, but "The Half-Time of Infamy" will live forever.

Friday Night Lights

It's Friday night in Texas, and even though it's the start of Labor Day Weekend, the home stands are comfortably full.

The stadium is a little nicer, the scoreboard a little flashier, the helmets are a little safer, but otherwise you're looking at the same picture our parents were looking at forty years ago.

If you want a real sense of community, go to a high school football game. We've been season ticket holders for thirteen years. We started when our oldest was a seventh grader, wanting a preview of what our public high school would be like.

We first sat in unreserved seating in the snake pit section of junior high kids. The next year we moved across the aisle so that we could see the snake pit (and our daughter) but didn't have to hold them off with a torch to enjoy the game.

We've gradually migrated, as our kids aged, to lifetime option seats on the fifty yard line, twenty-five rows up. We'll be in those seats at least a dozen more years.

There is no other word for Friday nights than "glorious." There are about two thousand students at our high school and nearly five hundred participate each game - the football team, band, drill team, cheerleaders, and various spirit groups. The stands fill up with younger kids, high school kids, alumni, family members and others. Many regular attendees have no connection to the high school other than living in the community. We all come together on Friday nights with smiles and handshakes. Having center aisle seats, lots of graduates stop by to catch up with my husband, their former teacher.

The PA announces local scores throughout the game, with corresponding oohs and aahs from the crowd. At the end of half-time he calls the winning ticket of the weekly raffle, which supports a former player who lost his hands and feet to bacterial meningitis. Most of the time the winner doesn't claim the prize, so the young man gets it all. Then there is the announcement of lost keys, looks like Jaguar keys, and you can line up at the stadium elevator to make your claim.

For a few hours each week, we are a small town, like every other small town, joined in one purpose encouraging our children.

You see the football parents, wearing their son's number, agonizing over the dropped ball or exulting in the hard tackle. Our football team made the playoffs last year and ought to do reasonably well this year. (Our district's other high school team wins state championships and is playing against a Utah team at the new Cowboys Stadium on Labor Day.)

The band parents, like us, intently watch and applaud the half-time performance. The show will develop in segments over the season until the end, when our band, a state champion, will compete for a second national marching band title in Indianapolis.

If you are concerned about the youth of America, come to a high school football game. Watch the kids from both teams play their guts out. Listen to the choir group sing the Star Spangled Banner. Watch the cheerleader pick up her instrument and march with the band at half-time. See the student trainers sprint with water bottles to the huddle on the field. Hear the band playing and the fans in the stands singing the alma mater to the team after a heart breaking loss or hard fought win.

Best of all, see the kids leaving the stadium sweaty and tired, depleted by their efforts, ready to do it all over again.

Taking a Pass

Our younger daughter was an athlete in school. Beginning age eleven, she played AAU basketball, a select basketball league for players with more talent and drive than average. My husband and I loved to watch her compete and did all we could to support her ambition to improve. (That little girl is now twenty-three and still loves to play basketball.)

During the second or third year, when she was twelve or thirteen, we were approached by an AAU coach about whether she would be interested in playing on the team he coached and substantially funded. He was a retired professional baseball player in his mid thirties who enjoyed basketball. It was quite flattering to have our child courted by a coach with his background of athletic success. And with his sponsorship of the team, it would have saved us some dollars as well.

But after thinking about it we decided to pass on that opportunity and stay with the team she was already on. It seemed just a little odd that a relatively young, attractive man would choose to spend himself that way. The vague feeling of uneasiness was enough to dismiss the opportunity.

Today the coach was convicted of sexually assaulting one of the girls on the team (when she was twelve) and he is awaiting a second trial with respect to another victim. The first victim eventually told the police a couple of years ago. Her parents were the last to know. The girl testified "I felt like if they knew, they would blame themselves. It's not their fault. It's not my fault."

I read the description of the trial in the newspaper today. My heart breaks for those parents who trusted that man and let him into their home and family. You want so much what is best for your children. Someone comes into your sphere and tells you how talented and special your child is. He says what a privilege to help support that talent. And you think "Wow, my girl must really be special to get that kind of attention." Et cetera, et cetera.

I can understand how the mom and dad were deceived. They were deceived by someone who they thought had their child's best interests at heart. It was outside the realm of possibility that someone they admired and trusted could hurt a child, their child. Thank God that dad's testimony was able to help convict this horrible man. Good parents do the best they can. Sometimes terrible things happen.

I can't tell you why we had reservations when others did not. In this case we just happened to find out we were right. I wish for the sake of those other little girls that we had been wrong. But thankfully some courageous young ladies and their families are making sure the "coach" is retired from life, not just baseball.

You can't leave me like this.

My favorite sports anchor, Dale Hansen, is taking the month of June off. Of course the month of June is rather slow in our wide, wide world of sports. But I expect he's now at the top of that slippery slope heading toward retirement.  He's probably a little more fifty something than I am and has been so successful for so long that there will be fewer and fewer incentives for him to retain a consistent schedule.

Why should I care?  Well you see, I absolutely love sports.  And I'm still that generation who watches the 10:00 news.  (Actually, I watch the 10:15 weather and sports since I have the news on the radio or TV most of the day.)  I've watched Mr. Hansen since moving to this area in 1985. And Dale Hansen loves sports, whether it's little league or the Texas Rangers, high school playoffs or the Dallas Cowboys.  He's even managed to slog his way through hockey with Our Dallas Stars.  He admires the achievement and passion and calls out the slackers and whiners. If he reports on an event, I can rely on the description and the conclusion.  I don't always agree with his opinions, but I usually do and if I don't I can at least respect them.  And best of all, there's no "political correctness."  If something is ridiculous, including his Hawaiian style shirts, he calls it out, no excuses or apologies.  If something is courageous or poignant, he honors it. He appreciates and pointedly honors those who display character.

Is that a generational thing?  When Dale Hansen is no longer reporting the sports activities of the day, will someone take his place?  Or is this next generation indifferent to passion and glory, the "thrill of victory and the agony of defeat," and most of all sheer effort? Or am I just a sentimentalist?  I hate to think so.

Meanwhile, my message to Dale......Come back to work soon, you can't leave me like this.

Fashion Statement

Have you been noticing the sports announcers and commentators these days? They are making statements on national and local broadcasts, fashion statements. The color orange is everywhere. I saw one guy in a loud blue plaid suit with an orange shirt. And did you see Charles Barkley with his orange shirt flowing above and below the screaming button of his jacket? Then there was the pink plaid suit with the pink tie. The list grows daily.

I thankfully moved on from the clothes of the late seventies and early eighties. I cringe at the photos. What were we thinking?

What are they thinking?

Back and Forth

We got a ping pong table for Christmas. Since it doesn't require any real athleticism, I've been able to hold my own with the boys. In fact, my 20 year old won't play, since he can't beat me easily.

My 14 year old wants to play every day and weather permitting we have been, for months now. Since I consistently beat him (a longer reach and I played much in my teenage years) I wasn't playing most competitively.

This weekend we decided on a strategy where I spot him 7 points. When you only play to 21 that's a bit of a spot, forcing me to bring my "A" game.

The funny thing is, as I played with him at a higher level, his skill level rose dramatically. In a matter of days, I'm barely holding my own with no spot at all.

Hmmmm. Is this a lesson in raising expectations and getting results?