Just around the corner...

I'm going to the Bulls/Warriors game Wednesday night with my buddy Kurt. Since I've been slacking for the past two weeks (a delayed Bears hangover has killed my urge to write) and I haven't been to a Bulls game since late December, I'm planing on keeping another running diary. I'm excited for this one because I've been following the Warriors this season (a little San Fran hangover) and so I think it'll be worthwhile. Should be up by Friday.
In case you haven't noticed (and judging by the hits for this site you haven't!), the UVa hoops team has managed to win a few ball games here and there and are threatening to win the ACC regular-season crown outright! That's right, there is a three way tie atop the ACC between UNC, UVA and VA Tech with two games left before the conference tourney. The Wahoos are hosting the Hokies this Thursday on EPSN which should be an extremely heated affair. I'm planing on watching with a bottle and a notepad, as is my esteemed colleague, so you may be treated to our scatterbrained and fragmented impressions of the game. Cross your fingers!

A New Hope

I was raised by my father with an inordinate amount of love for Virginia sports, especially hoops. I remember hollering at the TV in fourth grade as Bryant Stith and the Cavs downed Notre Dame for the NIT championship (at the time, I didn't realize that only made us the 65th best team in the nation). But for me it didn't matter, because from that moment on I was hooked... Harold Deane, Cornel Parker, Cory Alexander, Norman Nolan, Junior Burrough, Curtis Staples were all household names as far as I was concerned. My first UVa hoops game in person was at Stanford with my Dad. We got smoked by Brevin Knight AND his sociology of money. The next year my brother, my buddy Kane and I went to ARCO Arena in Sacramento for a second round NCAA tourney game between Virginia (7th seed) and Arizona (2nd seed). Unfortunately for us, Khalid Reeves and Damon Stoudemire dominated enroute to a Final Four appearance for the Wildcats. The following year, however, a more seasoned Wahoo team knocked off top seeded Kansas in the Sweet Sixteen before bowing out to Corliss Williamson and the Razorbacks in the Elite Eight. All big moments for me as I watched ACC basketball feverishly even though I lived on the West Coast through junior high. Twenty-win seasons and NCAA tourney births were commonplace in the mid-90's for UVa. Then coach Jeff Jones took off and Pete Gillen took the reins. After some growing pains, the Cavaliers returned to the big dance in 2001 when Benny Boy and I were just first years. Upset in the first round by Gonzaga. Haven't been back since. Respectable as a team, dangerous at home, but little else...

***
On Janurary 28th of this year I was in San Francisco visiting friends, squeezing 40s and tripping over the curbs on the most beautiful streets in the world. The Bears were one week away from the Superbowl. The Bulls were halfway through another slightly above average season. The Cubs were only two weeks away from pitchers and catchers. These were the only teams I truly had on my on my radar as I tossed my big Chicago belly through familiar double doors in those old gin joints on slanted streets with good friends, howling laughter and carrying on. Little did I realize that this day would also kickstart a dormant passion that, as my esteemed collegeue wrote below, consistently tantalized but rarely followed through. I watched this replay on the TV's above and marveled at this team, seemingly marginalized in another deep ACC field, clawing its way up...

Virginia down 63-49 with 5:05 left scored 15 straight to win by one.

Not the deepest Uva team I've ever seen, but it's inconsequential with heart like that. Selection Sunday can't come soon enough...

Atlantic Coast Conference

Boston College 9-3 18-7
North Carolina 8-3 22-4
Virginia Tech 8-3 18-7
Virginia 8-3 17-7
Duke 6-6 19-7
Clemson 5-6 19-6
Maryland 5-6 19-7
Georgia Tech 5-6 17-8
Florida State 5-7 17-9
North Carolina State 3-8 13-11
Miami (FL) 3-8 10-15
Wake Forest 3-9 12-13

The Trapdoor.

February-March 2007. The trapdoor of the scaffold will open. And that right quick. You know this and still dread the noose. In Hooville they are conditioned to the annual ritual that occurs as the dead of winter surrenders to the moonsoons that turn Virginia clay into the morass.

The pine floor hasn't yet disappeared from below. Yet. But it only nurtures the apprehension. Like most gleams of hope tend to do.

You find the hope aggravating. It makes this time of year far more emotionally complicating than it's been in years past. It's simpler to pretend that you don't care about a team that loses to Iowa State, Providence, and Western Kentucky. Can't win on the road. Don't play past St. Patrick's Day. But they do play awful well at U-Hall. The disappointment becomes less disappointing, almost comfortable. This time around, all the familiar symptoms were there. L to Purude in Indiana, Appalachian State and Utah in Puerto Rico.

Knotted hemp continues to weigh on top of the spine, constrict the Adam's apple over the burns of other seasons. Pete Gillen. Gary Forbes, Keith Jenifer.

Travis Watson and Donald Hand.

The trap still holds. Road W's against North Carolina State, Clemson, Maryland, and (Singletary-willing) Virginia Tech. First place in Devil's Den, the slaughter pen that is ACC basketball. Any instant you expect to look up. Give the nod to the hangman. "Let 'er drop."

8-2 appraoching the Anniversary of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. The zenith of the program in the 21st Century. Adam Hall. The poster shot in your head is indelible. You can see his face through the window of the glass. Legs akimbo. Clearing the cro-magnon ridges of the head of Shane Battier. The rim strangled by his hands. The ball, an afterthought.

And now, a new image. At the 2:23 mark below. The stare of death into the ESPN camera. Mind the point. The personal communication of a solitary message to every individual watching the screen.

"Fuck you, hangman." We're going to dance a little longer, floor intact.

The Quiet after the Storm: The 2006 Chicago Bears

I was watching the second half of the Bulls/Jazz game last night by myself when my eye wandered to the clock on the wall. The symmetry was too obvious not to note, for it was exactly 24 hours since the Bears had lost Superbowl XLI. I sunk down in my chair to take an inventory, to surmise the pain. It seemed strange because I still felt reasonably normal (save for some minor pangs of sadness that another NFL season was over, but I get that every year) and whatever emotional letdown I originally expected wasn't yet taking hold. It was an odd sensation because here I was treating this sub zero Chicago Monday like any other, when all other indicators pointed to it being the saddest day in recent memory. Sure, I was experiencing some denial and participating in some mild aversion therapy (I holler obscenities at myself every time I instinctually turn on ESPN when channel surfing ) but I didn't expect to be able to stave off the heavy heart a diehard is supposed to carry on "the day after". My presumptions led me to believe that a loss would send shocks through the body - an unholy alliance of bitterness, rage, sorrow, hopelessness and disappointment. However, that wasn't the case...

I watched the game with some of my best friends. We had deep dish pizzas and wings. We took shots of SoCo and lime. We listened to the Power and the Glory music from NFL Films. We were bundles of nervous drunken energy by the time the game started... before Devin Hester made our initial worries fade to black. Peyton threw a pick on third and long and we're slugging beers and smacking fives. Now, we all know what happened after that, so I'm not going to get into it... rather than what happened, I was more influenced by how I watched what happened. Having everything unfold the way it did with those very special people is what I will remember the most. The familiar banter. The outright booing at lame commercials. The optimistic women in the room trying to cheer up the devastated stone-faced men after another Grossman fumble/interception. The halftime show that had nothing to do with Prince. The knowing looks at a best friend when things started to slip away, finally retiring to the back porch to grab a quick smoke once the unfortunate became the inevitable, not commiserating but simply enjoying the buzz and the company and the night.

Am I only kidding myself? Downplaying the importance to save face? Hiding behind the "good friends, good times" rap when I should be drafting an open letter and finding a length of rope? Perhaps, but I’m not entirely sure that's how I feel right now, nor do I see it playing out that way around the bend. For some perspective, I was physically ill when the Cubbies got bounced in 1989 and 2003 (not so much 1998 for some reason). I cried when the Bulls broke up after the 1998 season. I'm used to extremely visceral reactions when it comes to these matters because that's what I think I choose to feel. It seems to somehow validate how I felt about it all along. For instance, when you break up with someone very important it can be a tremendously traumatic experience. You can mope around and beat yourself up and dig into that shoebox of photos OR you can take a few days get your act together before getting a head full of Jack Daniels and zeroing in on a rebound "encounter" that will surely find its way back to your ex. Either way, you deal with the pain in your own way. As time passes, you learn how to cope better and better once you've been through the wringer a few times. I think that's where I am right now. The way I see it, the seven-game series structure in baseball and basketball is a continual "on-edge" experience. If your team blazes a trail into the championship round, the playoffs are no longer enjoyable. It highjacks your life for weeks on end and turns you into a perpetual ball of worry, a bi-polar junkie for W's. Football is great because of its finality. One game. Sixty minutes. Heroes and goats are made in an afternoon. Then it's over. You can pick up the pieces much easier because there isn't as much to internalize...

This brings me back to the Bulls/Jazz game from last night. The CSN microphones were picking up EVERYTHING one Utah fan was saying. He was obnoxious, loud and consistently unfunny. "Hinrich! You gotta rash on your leg!" or "Deng sucks!" were heard over every lull in the action to the point where Red and Stinky Stace would sporadically acknowledge him during the broadcast. As the Jazz began to pull away in crunch time (we coulda really used Nocioni for matchup purposes down the stretch) I began to do my own fan profiling on this guy. He sounded around my age, probably Mormon (just kidding), obviously drunk (I hope for his sake) and somewhat diehard. Although the camera's never spotted him, I pictured him with a Jeff Hornacek jersey and matted hair. I'm guessing hygiene issues and verbal ticks kept him from meaningful relationships. He probably has a laundry list of phobias highlighted by, but not limited to, self-control and self-discovery. Then I started to think about what his likes and dislikes are... and things began to snap into focus. He HATES the Bulls. For me, this is just another game on a West coast roadtrip - Sonics, Trailblazers, Warriors, Jazz, etc. For this guy, it's probably much more. He certainly still remembers the sting of Jordan's Flu Game. His Airness and his Game 6 heroics. The tired pain of back-to-back basketball seasons ending on the ultimate stage to the same foe. Having two Hall of Famers submit to two better Hall of Famers. It's just the breaks sometimes. When it comes down to sports, I've had my joy and I keep it alive everytime I pop in a DVD. That's not to say I'm ever going to celebrate Peyton Manning (or Will Clark or Pudge Rodriguez for that matter), but I can take solace that the better team won. And that happens. Nothing will change.

So as long as I get to the point where I'm not choking on my own rage during a regular season Bears/Colts game in 2017, I think I will come out of this thing alright...

Swaying with the Cold

The weather in Chicago is bleak these days. Supposedly we're looking at single digit highs for the next week with a wind chill factor dropping to overnight lows beyond repair. I can't complain because it's been so unseasonably warm until this point, but the sting of winter never becomes comfortable no matter how hard-nosed you pride yourself in being. Previously short walks unravel into physical tests of fortitude. So with this cold settling in for the foreseeable future, I search out the warm spots in my mind. The Superbowl dream. I tug at my jacket as I breathe deep, chest swelling in and out, the lake effect howling through buildings smacking my rosy cheeks. Reasonable Doubt bumping through my ear buds as my pockets are the only sanctuary for my unsure hands. Walking down Michigan Ave past the Hancock, quick strides, Bears hat pulled low. I see the soul of a city on the brink. Chicago Bears mania has caught hold. I ride the EL and overhear three black gentlemen acting as if someone has spit in their respective faces. They're talking about the seven point spread for four stops before they get off. A father gives his Bears-clad son a piggyback ride down Rush Street. Office lights are strategically left on all night, breathing life into the skyline. Big, bushy, glorious mustaches are on every corner. Screenings of Superbowl XX have been happening all week at bars far and near. Cubs and White Sox fans hook arms around shoulders, forgetting subscribed summertime affiliations. Three days until Super Sunday...

...more to come.