Self Knowledge

The world, as seen through the eyes of a child, novice, or innocent is an untarnished perspective that can be wondrous and surprisingly insightful. And so it was last night, when I sat down to watch The Road Ends Here with my son, a football fan and self-professed indifferent to the game of basketball.

"Let's watch the first few minutes," I suggested.

He concurred, knowing his commitment to a little bonding time was limited by the quantity of ice cream in his bowl and the homework clamoring for his attention upstairs. Two hours and a couple of dozen Oh-My-Gods later, he was a riveted convert, his bowl licked clean by the cat and his homework still undone. I couldn't have cared less, for the lessons on display in the NCAA men's basketball championship game between Memphis and Kansas were more valuable than anything that awaited him in his texts and worksheets.

He was keenly interested in Kansas coach Bill Self, who, for the second game in a row, permitted CBS to broadcast his pre-game speech to his team. "Did you like what he said, Dad?" he asked with a tone that indicated he'd already made up his mind and his opinion of Self was positive.

I held the same view and we discussed the sports psychology behind the coach's choice of words, which emphasized the team's historic accomplishments that could never be taken away from them, his unwavering belief that they simply had to be themselves and nothing else to win the game, and that the event they were about to engage in would remain with them for the rest of their lives-- all confidence/comfort builders with a dash of understated challenge that he permitted the world to see in a masterful stroke of coaching genius that communicated a subliminal message to his team: we've got nothing to hide or fear because in the end, this is what we do and we're going to do it well.

The game tipped off and vaulted into the up tempo, never-say-die team sprint we knew was coming. My son was astonished, having been turned off to basketball by previous exposures to wide bodies backing it down into the paint in set piece half court offenses, boring parades to the free throw line, and one-on-one egofests. A minute and a half into the contest he declared, "This is the greatest basketball game I've ever seen."

It was the tip of the iceberg.

When Cole Aldrich entered the game for the Jayhawks the kid declared, "That's Jojo Johanssen," the fictional college hoopster from Tom Wolfe's novel, I Am Charlotte Simmons. And darned if he wasn't. Needless to say, it couldn't end there. Between compelling exhibitions of pick-pocketing defenses, high-flying acrobatics, tie scores, surges, dry spells, and lead changes, my son worked to peg the players on the screen to their "counterparts" on Wolfe's imaginary DuPont University club. Darrell Arthur was Treyshawn Diggs, Joey Dorsey was Vernon Congers, and so on and so forth.

With no emotional investment in either team, we both declared that we didn't want to see anyone lose. But with two minutes to go and Memphis up by 9 I noted it was time to face reality, that Kansas was toast. "Don't be so negative, Dad, " he chided with the wisdom of Bill Self.

And as the parade of Memphis players to the free throw line reverted to a cortege of pre-tournament brick layers, he gave me that look perfected by adolescents worldwide-- the look that says, "You're an idiot, Dad."

It was all in good fun. The only thing missing was a miracle and when Mario Chalmers swished an unbelievable trey at the buzzer to send the game into overtime, we let out a whoop that traumatized our still-missing cat. Alaskans, we agreed, really do have ice water in their veins after all.

With Vernon Congers, er, Joey Dorsey having fouled out of the game and the opportunity of a lifetime having been blown by an inability to control nerves or sink unmolested free throws, the body language of the Memphis squad suggested that overtime was going to be a formality. And it was, bringing the evening full circle-- back to Coach Self's message about winning being largely a matter of staying true to yourself.

It was a message to keep forever on a night that will be remembered forever by the Jayhawks, a father, and a son.

Deep In The Heart Of Texas

The ingredients were all in place for an epic, juicy drama: Love, a Rose, a foursome with two divorcees, and, of course, one Self. In the end, as is so often the case in these affairs, the outcome was not quite what was imagined, which is not to say there wasn't a whole lot of satisfaction.

The two semifinal games at the Final Four brought together four number one seeds for the first time in NCAA history-- UCLA, North Carolina, and Kansas, all deeply pedigreed basketball programs, and Memphis, no stranger to the dance but a comparative up and comer, albeit one who arrived with the best record in the field. 

I'd recorded the games on my DVR and settled in to watch Kansas take on North Carolina and their fine coach Roy Williams, who jilted the Jayhawks four years ago for the apparently bluer pastures of Chapel Hill, leaving behind more than few ruffled feathers in the heartland.

But hell hath no fury like that of a Jayhawk scorned, as Kansas laid waste to North Carolina in the first 13 minutes of the game with a blitzkrieg attack so quick and clean that the Heels looked as though they were stuck in . . . well, tar. Again and again the men from Lawrence picked Carolina's pockets with a ball-hawking defense that showed you don't necessarily need the pill to be on the attack. Never has defense looked so cool and sexy.

With a little over seven and a half minutes remaining in the first half and Kansas up by a preposterous 38-12 score, CBS commentator Billy Packer declared, "This one is over." And though he was correct in the letter of his declaration, he couldn't have been more wrong in spirit. 

Displaying the valor of a champion, Carolina refused to roll over and die, whittling the lead down to 17 at the half, and coming within five points of the disbelieving Jayhawks before Kansas snapped out their fugue state, reasserted their dominance, and took it home with a decisive 18 point victory, making a prophet of their coach, Bill Self.

CBS had miked Self for his pre-game message to his underdog club, the kind of media contrivance that usually makes one cringe. But Self delivered a calm, unifying set of principles devoid of cliches, reminding his team that the game would be long, that adversity was expected, that the best players love games such as these, and that he fully expected they would all reunite in celebration a couple of hours hence. His marvelously balanced team delivered the goods as scripted in a manner that was-- dare I say it-- both Self-ish and un. 

It was only when CBS put up a graphic advertising Monday's championship game between Kansas and Memphis that I realized I'd watched the second of the two semi-final games, reminding me that I need reminders to take my ginko biloba. 

I hate watching recorded games when I know the outcome in advance and pride myself on being able to avoid spoilers-- even for  days when necessary-- by constructing an elaborate set of preemptive tactics that would make Monk proud. But duty called, so I persevered and waded into Memphis versus UCLA.

There are times when the game transcends the score. This was one of those times. To say that what I witnessed was artistry would be to damn Derrick Rose and his Memphis running mate, Chris Douglas-Roberts, with faint praise. The show they put on was Cirque du Soleil in sneakers. 

In what was otherwise a systematic and workmanlike victory over the Bruins, Rose and Douglas-Roberts swooped, soared, juked, streaked, and, above all, finished with exclamation points. They were not alone, supported by the sturdy infrastructure of Joey Dorsey, who scored no points but cleaned the glass with 15 rebounds. 

It is hard to believe that Rose is a freshman. He runs the floor and his club with ambidextrous flair and aplomb. And for good measure he's placed the maturation of his game on the fast track, draining 11 of 12 free throws-- perhaps inspiring his notorious, brick laying teammates who hit 20 of 23 from the line when it counted most. 

When all was said and done the Bruins, who kept it close for a half, simply couldn't keep up with Memphis' high octane attack, leaving the building with a 15 point deficit that ended their magnificent season, while Elvis remained behind to bask in the glory of his hometown's latest rock stars.

So now the foursome is a couple. Yes, Love is gone, but Self remains. This could be very interesting.

Did anyone see where did I put my ginko?

Outside The Box

Hold onto your blood pressure cuffs, sports fans. Larry Bowa has a valid point. It's just not the one he's trying to make.

In case you missed it, baseball's enfant terrible got tossed, fined, and suspended the other night for the vein-popping hissy fit he engaged in with umpire Ed Montague. The brouhaha started when Montague observed Bowa, the L.A. Dodgers third base coach, standing outside the chalk lines, in violation of the new rule that forbids base coaches from crossing the lines of their designated boxes toward home plate or the field until batted balls pass by them.

It's a simple rule to understand and follow, but Bowa believes the statute somehow doesn't apply to him because it is "ludicrous" and was written by "people in New York that wear the coats and ties and don't get on the field." Bowa, who has always had difficulty connecting the dots between his behavior and expected comportment, somehow missed the basic grade school lesson: you don't get to flout the authorities without consequences just because you think they're dumb.

In Bowa's defense, however, the behavior of Ed Montague was equally, if not more, egregious-- as revealed in a video we reviewed on YouTube before it was apparently taken down. All Montague had to do was inform Bowa of the violation and direct him to make the correction. Had Bowa refused to comply after a simple warning, Montague could have tossed him.

Instead, Montague got right up in Bowa's grill, violated his personal space, and jawed with him in a manner that was clearly provocative. Bowa naturally exploded and Montague, instead of walking away, kept circling like a peacock in heat, maintaining close range, and trading on his perceived immunity as an umpire to engage in behavior that players are forbidden from exhibiting. Even when Dodgers manager Joe Torre inserted himself between Bowa and Montague, the ump kept pressing in, pouring gasoline on the inferno.

Without a doubt, Bowa committed the cardinal sin by making physical contact with Montague, making his suspension inevitable. But seriously, I get jostled more firmly than Montague did just getting on a bus.

In the aftermath of this particular variant of schoolyard inanity that seems unique to baseball, both Bowa and Montague waxed idiotic.

Said Bowa regarding his suspension, "...that's a joke. It's totally uncalled for. You got guys that tested positive for steroids and they admitted they took them. No suspensions."

Can't you just hear the conversation at MLB headquarters? "Yeah, we really screwed up this steroids thing, so we gotta let the chippy stuff slide this year. That outta restore our credibility, don't you think, Bud?"

Montague, the provocateur, called Bowa's ejection "stupid," referring to Larry's behavior when he should have been referring to Moe's. "I think he got off," said Montague, feeling that Bowa's sentence was light, given the owie he must have gotten from the physical contact between them.

And then there was Torre, assessing Bowa's behavior in this vein: "That's how we should all play this game, with a sense of urgency." Uh . . . yeah.

Two days removed from the incident, Bowa remains symptomatic, spewing paranoid accusations against Bob Watson, baseball's vice-president of field operations, challenging his manhood, and asserting that since nobody from Watson's office personally told him about the new rule, he shouldn't be held accountable for not reading the literature describing it, which was handed out to every major league club prior to the start of the season.

Watson, who finds himself in the middle of the sandbox, has an easy solution at his disposal. All he needs to do is to ask Ed Montague how long he really should have suspended Bowa and then impose that sentence on Montague.

Can't we all just get along?

Lost In Translation

Beleaguered Oakland Raiders Coach Lane Kiffin finally went public about his recent contretemps with team owner Al Davis during a Q&A in Palm Beach, Florida yesterday. In attendance were members of the Mexican press corps, who are covering off-season events as part of an ongoing civic effort to support Mexico City's desire to land an NFL franchise.

Our Indie Sport correspondent in Guadalajara has obtained a copy of this morning's issue of the Mexican daily, La Verdad, whose translation of Kiffin's remarks makes it clear how much our great neighbors to the south still need to learn before they are NFL-ready:


Q. Coach, what's it like working for Al Davis?

A. "I need a sip of water."

La Verdad: "I have a drinking problem. Okay?"


Q. What about Davis' involvement with the team?

A. "It's very unique. He's an owner who's very hands-on, prides himself on his knowledge of football."

La Verdad: "He's an insufferable, interfering megalomaniac with grandiose delusions."


Q. The last several Raiders coaches have not lasted long. Do you feel threatened?

A."It's not the easiest job. I know people have left because of that. Al is very demanding. At the same time, he is someone who has done a lot of things in this league -- coach, (AFL) commissioner, owner -- and has a lot of knowledge."

La Verdad: "I hate this job. I'm just biding my time for a better gig. Al is a narcissist who sucks up my time with his constant need to be the center of attention. He's a relic who the game has passed by. He hasn't had an original idea since Daryle Lamonica was here."


Q. What about Davis' decision to retain defensive coordinator Rob Ryan?

A. "At the end of the season, Rob and I had a meeting and Rob felt it was in his best interest to go somewhere else. I met with the owner and expressed that with Al, we talked about a lot of things and a lot of different scenarios that could come up, and Al decided to stay with Rob. Rob has one year left on his contract. I've always had a strong and very good relationship with Rob."

La Verdad: "Rob can't stand Davis either. I threatened to trim Al's pompadour if he dumped Rob and he caved in. We're both out of here next year."


Q. What did you take away from last year?

A. "Nobody was happy with 4-12, but it was a very valuable year for me and our staff to learn more about the team and see what we had. All that information helps for the future."

La Verdad: "We sucked, we will continue to suck, and Al Davis sucks. All that information helps for the future."

Q. "Thanks, Coach."

A. "No problem."

La Verdad: "Did I mention that I have a drinking problem?"

Masters Of The Conundrum

The island of Lanai, nestled in a blue crescent of the Pacific formed by the arc of Molokai, Maui, and Kahoolawe, is a paradise for golfers and honeymooners. Thus, it was with great anticipation that my wife and I boarded a twin-prop flight in Honolulu yesterday morning on a journey to celebrate our wedding anniversary . . . and to pay homage to the 119th anniversary of a seminal event in U.S. golfing history-- the opening of the first American golf course in 1889, by John T. Reid in Yonkers, New York.

Our 20 minute puddle jump was uneventful, save for the jarring landing that reminded us of the old pilot's axiom: a good landing is simply one you can walk away from. We alighted from the aircraft and were immersed in the cool, morning air, chilled by the altitude that surprises so many visitors who forget that Hawaii is both tropical and mountainous. With each step the stress of our hectic lives evaporated in the breeze, slowing our rhythm into harmony with the environment.

Lanai (pronounced Lah-nigh-ee) has no traffic lights. It's all of 18 by 13 miles in size, has more pine trees than palms, and boasts a population of only 3,000. Ancient Hawaiian legend held that Lanai was once an evil place, overrun with demons. By the middle of the 20th century, however, it was overrun with pineapples, generating 75% of the world's crop at the high point of production. But the industry soured in the late 1980's, leaving the local economy with little choice but to reinvent itself.

Out went the fruit and in came the dough, in the form of luxurious sister resorts-- the prototypically tropical Manele Bay Hotel and the upcountry Lodge at Koele, replete with expansive gardens, manicured croquet lawns, a great room with fireplace, horses, pool room, and a polished wood library boasting a million dollar view that you gaze onto from overstuffed chairs so soft that you're cradled as if in a cocoon.

The island's golf courses are no less sublime.

The Challenge at Manele Bay is a Jack Nicklaus designed links course that uses the Pacific Ocean as a water hazard on three of its holes. Be prepared to lose your balls here, but should that be your fate you'll be more than compensated with views of spinner dolphins leaping and twirling for your entertainment in Hulopo'e Bay, far below the sea cliffs from which you launched your errant shots.

In exquisite contrast, The Experience at Koele is a Greg Norman designed course that begins at an elevation of 2,000 feet. Here you enter a realm of lush mountain foliage, wooded slopes, and sweeping ocean views of Maui and Molokai. It's heaven on earth, as is The Challenge, and I'd played them both before this visit.

But a golfing pilgrimage of the magnitude my wife and I were undertaking calls for something truly special. So we eschewed the merely extraordinary and opted for the ultimate, supreme, and unique test of skill and nerve-- the Executive Putting Course at Koele.

Laid out over a monstrous par-51, 18-hole course measuring 1,671 feet in length, The Conundrum, as we dubbed it, undulates like a belly dancer, taunting all comers with wicked dog legs, impossible par-2's, water hazards, sand traps, and roaming wild turkeys, none of whom were visible the day we played, perhaps victims of Mike Tyson's latest visit.

My wife is not a golfer, but is, as she likes to say, "of golf," having been raised in a home on Golf House Road, right across the street from the fabled Merion Golf Club in Haverford, PA. I, on the other hand, am a hack-with-the-yips who hadn't picked up a club in six years. We were both sorely in need of guidance before taking on The Conundrum.

There was only one solution: call the Gator.

The Gator, shorthand for his more formal handle, RU Gator, is a caddy to the stars in western New Jersey and a prolific, heavily read blogger on the CNN/SI website, FanNation (http://www.fannation.com/). The Gator never publicizes his fees because if you've got to ask, you can't afford him. We were fortunate enough to have placed him on retainer, so when we called for putting advice, he turned on the meter and held forth.

"Rule #1," he belted out in his delightful Joisey accent. "Speed is more important than line."

"Rule #2. If the ball doesn't make it to the hole, it doesn't go in."

"Rule #3. Never miss short. No decent pro putter ever misses short."

"Aren't those essentially all the same tips, Gator?" I asked timidly.

"Hey, you're in Hawaii and I just finished picking up dog s**t here in 37 degree weather. How's that for juxtaposition?" he replied, employing the Socratic method that has made him legendary up and down the eastern seaboard.

"I understand, sensei," I said. "But we're both left-handed. Any special instructions for southpaws?"

"Oh, God. Yeah, left-handers are like people who eat organic food all the time and live in Denver. There are no answers. It's all bulls**t. Have a good time."

As always with the Gator, the lessons were deep and hard-earned.

"And what about drinking? What's the winning etiquette?" I queried, mindful that the meter was running and our tee time was rapidly approaching.

"No moderation whatsoever," he roared, relieving our guilt for the bottle of wine we'd consumed the night before at dinner.

Imbued with the Gator's juju we took on The Conundrum, a few sheets to the wind, free of any need to seek answers, mindful of only our pace. And lo if this magic wasn't heaven sent, as I watched my wife drain a trecherous, curling putt for a birdie on the ignominious 141 foot par-4 7th hole, her stroke as smooth as silk. And as the round progressed, the Gator's mantra whispered in the breeze, quelling my yips and setting my stroke free. I turned Mulligan Corner, bent an ear to the east, and parred six of the nine holes on the back side.

We walked off the 18th green arm in arm, one with each other and the rhythm of the course we'd both taken and played, luxuriating in the knowledge that when you play to win you never come up short.