Sandusky.
What else is there?
Unfortunately, plenty. Sadly, Happy Valley's current lowpoint is likely nowhere near the the depths of the hell beneath it, as we will likely learn more of stories that make Nightmare on Elm Street seem like a stroll through the French Quarter. But for now, the name of the famed former Penn State defensive coordinator has reached Satanic depths.
Have you vomited yet? Has your stomach flipped? Do your palms have lasting fingernail marks embedded into them? Has Sandusky, Ohio had enough time to add a referendum for a name change this Election Day?
This is a new low for American vitriol directed at one man. Even by bin Laden standards. This isn't polarizing--EVERYBODY hates this guy right about now.
Unless, of course, you count State College, Pennsylvania.
Right now, lawyers at Penn State are drafting and redrafting escape routes much like the ones Sandusky drew on the blackboards in Paternoland. FEMA has been retained for damage control. The light on Ari Fleischer's phone is likely lit with voicemail from the hierarchy trying to salvage the remains of the Nittany Lion Kingdom. Students are even occupying Beaver Stadium as if an injustice will occur.
Joe Pa's faux pas is simply not his fault, right kiddies?
Paterno's job/legacy/reputation/fiber/being/family are now forever aflame. Nobody will look back at this years from now with fresh eyes. That's like saying Hitler was misunderstood.
Woody Hayes' and Jim Tressel's trespasses will be considered footnotes compared to the Happy Valley Humper, and his Humpty Dumpty boss, who looked the other way each time until the old egg was finally pushed off the Great Wall, drunk off the power that allowed the murders of many innocent childhoods, as long as the Nittany Lions could keep winning national championships and Big Ten titles.
If SMU received the Death Penalty for having a higher payroll than the Dallas Cowboys, does the NCAA have an Eternal Damnation (Hell) Penalty even on the books?
Yes, Joe Paterno was the Pope of Pennsylvania. Paid by the state, he wielded more power than the Steel Curtain, Governors Scranton through Corbett. Much like the mad hatters of the Vatican, with one word, he could get what he came for. Or he could have just dialed 9-1-1. Instead, the Pope Pilated his way from any alleged wrongdoing and protected Sandusky like a diocese shuffling priests.
Meanwhile, the word rape has rarely been used in discussing this disgusting case as if having sex with a boy is somehow consensual. Right. Remember that the next time you see a report of a 21 year-old man charged with the statutory rape of a 16 year-old woman, regardless of her willingness to partake. That's rape. But child molestation somehow gets labeled "sex?"
Back to the Pope of PA: he belongs in jail, too, just like those who harbor terrorists, or those who aid and abet criminals. He, his men, and his assistants all had a chance to make this right. Instead, Jerry Sandusky has been allowed an extra nine years after JoePa punted these allegations "upstairs" from his old, shaky hands.
Jesus, a man who knew no popes, was quoted in both Matthew 18:6 and Luke 17:2 saying, But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.
There's the authority. Anyone else's opinion matter?
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
O Captain, My Captain
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! Your march yet still undone;
The bat has been pulled off the rack, the prize we sought is won;
Your swing they fear, the smack I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the Rays grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of Red Sox fans,
Where on the deck my Captain's three-thousandth hit lies,
Fallen into the stands.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--by you seven pennants won--for you the Curtain Calls; (10)
For you bouquets and pinstriped glee--for you Yankee Stadium a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces a'nodding;
Here Captain! Dear Jeter!
This shot, your three-thousandth hit;
For nobody dreamed as you sat on deck,
(It would have) Fallen into the stands.
My Captain usually does not answer, his lips are stoic and still;
My Captain usually plays it cool, displays no pulse; all chill;
But the Clippers weren't yet safe and sound, yet, their voyage far from done;
The Rays he rips, with three more hits, drives in the winning run; 20
Exult, Kay, Waldman and Sterling, ah, Hell!
And I at home pump my hands, (Jeter post-win style. Please do not read that part aloud.)
As My Captain's three-thousandth hit just fell,
Fallen into the stands.
Monday, June 13, 2011
You'll Forget This, Too, America
Most sports fans north of Florida, even those who proclaim to hate the NBA, found joy last night at the sight of another LeBronian letdown--just hours after sympathizing for a former world champion boxer-turned-convicted rapist-turned tragic figure.
Perhaps, the media-marketed "Chosen One" doesn't deserve to have his first name spun into an adjective like Ruthian or Jordanian because he has no championships to his credit despite his efforts doubling as a general manager as much as he was a free agent.
Today you heard the comparisons--few original--of LeBron James' future, when most haters--including this one--cringed while the Miami Heat cruised through the Eastern Conference playoffs. Maybe you've heard some of these:
* LeBron will never be Jordan. OK, that's pretty easy to say now.
* LeBron is the new Wilt-A-Rod-Peyton Manning. Well, those guys eventually won, so that may not be a bad bite of crow to bite off.
* LeBron played on a collection of great athletes when the Mavs played as a team. OK. Fair. For now.
* LeBron is a (blank).
People have a right to feel this way. Since "The Decision," LeBron has played a better villain than the late Heath Ledger in "The Dark Knight." And he came within two games from ruling the world, much like bad guys do in great films. He even turned Dwyane Wade into the nWo-turned Hulk Hogan.
The NBA wins. David Stern wins. And America wins. Enjoy it. Savor it. Let this loss carry you for the next several months while the possibility of two sports locking down and a baseball postseason with no real national enemy (this Yankee fan knows the Bombers are done).
When the dollars finally settle on the stripclub floors and LeBron and his few media minions stop coddling him and amplifying his excuses (bad coaching, bad cast, mama and baby mama bangin') uncle Pat (Riley) will swoop in and save the day.
And like Wilt, A-Rod and Manning, he'll get his title. And it won't matter if he plays a mediocre series--a ring is a ring is a ring. Only unlike the others, LeBron will have a much better chance of winning more.
More importantly, we'll forget the fact that we currently hate LeBron, just like we forget we once hated Muhammad Ali, Kobe Bryant, oh and that co-star of "The Hangover" series whom everyone seems to revere and celebrate and make excuses for--MISTER Tyson.
Yup. Time is truly society's healing salve. Eventually, The Decision, The Heatles, and even The Disappearing Act will be footnotes after LeBron gets his rings. And he will.
And he will make us all forget we were witnesses. And we'll be hypnotized by his performance because we all love winners. And we'll all have excuses for his behavior this past year like we made for other athletes mentioned earlier and call it forgiveness, even if we do use it like Fabrese rather than truly forget.
And like today, we'll find a new villain, a new scandal, and a new hate.
Because in sports, there really are no new stories:
Just short memories.
Perhaps, the media-marketed "Chosen One" doesn't deserve to have his first name spun into an adjective like Ruthian or Jordanian because he has no championships to his credit despite his efforts doubling as a general manager as much as he was a free agent.
Today you heard the comparisons--few original--of LeBron James' future, when most haters--including this one--cringed while the Miami Heat cruised through the Eastern Conference playoffs. Maybe you've heard some of these:
* LeBron will never be Jordan. OK, that's pretty easy to say now.
* LeBron is the new Wilt-A-Rod-Peyton Manning. Well, those guys eventually won, so that may not be a bad bite of crow to bite off.
* LeBron played on a collection of great athletes when the Mavs played as a team. OK. Fair. For now.
* LeBron is a (blank).
People have a right to feel this way. Since "The Decision," LeBron has played a better villain than the late Heath Ledger in "The Dark Knight." And he came within two games from ruling the world, much like bad guys do in great films. He even turned Dwyane Wade into the nWo-turned Hulk Hogan.
The NBA wins. David Stern wins. And America wins. Enjoy it. Savor it. Let this loss carry you for the next several months while the possibility of two sports locking down and a baseball postseason with no real national enemy (this Yankee fan knows the Bombers are done).
When the dollars finally settle on the stripclub floors and LeBron and his few media minions stop coddling him and amplifying his excuses (bad coaching, bad cast, mama and baby mama bangin') uncle Pat (Riley) will swoop in and save the day.
And like Wilt, A-Rod and Manning, he'll get his title. And it won't matter if he plays a mediocre series--a ring is a ring is a ring. Only unlike the others, LeBron will have a much better chance of winning more.
More importantly, we'll forget the fact that we currently hate LeBron, just like we forget we once hated Muhammad Ali, Kobe Bryant, oh and that co-star of "The Hangover" series whom everyone seems to revere and celebrate and make excuses for--MISTER Tyson.
Yup. Time is truly society's healing salve. Eventually, The Decision, The Heatles, and even The Disappearing Act will be footnotes after LeBron gets his rings. And he will.
And he will make us all forget we were witnesses. And we'll be hypnotized by his performance because we all love winners. And we'll all have excuses for his behavior this past year like we made for other athletes mentioned earlier and call it forgiveness, even if we do use it like Fabrese rather than truly forget.
And like today, we'll find a new villain, a new scandal, and a new hate.
Because in sports, there really are no new stories:
Just short memories.
Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.8
Friday, March 25, 2011
Just Be There
Back in June of 2007, my father died. He lost his three-year battle with colon cancer in Brooks Hospital in Dunkirk.
Technically, it was a four-year war. Like with so many people, the cancer started fighting a year before my dad knew it was attacking.
My family and watched him from his diagnosis, to his body overcoming the odds and shrinking the tumors--to the point we believed he'd beat it--to that point where the cancer goes '72 Dolphins and takes over. Cancer and chemo always play a cruel game of cocktease.
When he died, several friends drove home--some great distances--to be there for me. One being my friend, Patti.
When dad died, I hadn't spoken to Patti in years. But she drove all the way up from Cleveland to be at my father's funeral, and playfully remind me that our ten-year plan from prom night had expired due to the caveat that she'd found the man of her dreams. I reminded her that the day wasn't about her, and then pointed to the dead guy behind me in the box.
(Kidding, of course. No, I did it. But I was trying to lighten the mood. Albeit, poorly.)
I just spoke with Patti a little while ago. She lost her father suddenly this past week. I don't know the details, but I can only imagine how she feels.
She said to me, "Well, you went through it."
Yes, I did. But whether you watch your father die slowly over three years, or get a jolting call from home at an unusual time of day, you're still shocked when your daddy is gone.
I thought about trying to cram some advice over the phone before she went to the first viewing of her father. The phone cut out. But that was actually a blessing.
The truth is, I should probably keep my mouth shut.
Because I don't know. And, I know better.
We'll all lose someone we love. But that doesn't mean we can assume we'll all react the same way.
I only met Patti's dad a couple times. Once when our friend Anthony King had just purchased a green Saturn with fiberglass features that GM advertised were dent-proof. Mr. D asked Tony if he could throw a basketball at the driver's side door to see if the advertising was true.
The other times were at Class Night and graduation. To say Mr. D loved his family dearly and was proud of his daughter--who held offices at Silver Creek and several organizations in high school, graduating with honors--is ridiculously obvious. I've always believed that a father's true love for his babies--which they will always be--is reflected by his children's reverence and affection toward him.
When I spoke with Patti, she didn't have to tell me how much her father loved her, or even how much she loved him. You felt it in her tone. You could hear it. You could hear her miss him. You could hear her fears.You could sense the loss. And she hadn't even been to the funeral home yet.
I've been through something similar. But that doesn't mean I know the feeling.
I know a similar feeling. But I don't know and neither should I assume I know the worst loss in my life is on par with that of anyone else.
I can only imagine what it would be like to have my father at my wedding--something Patti experienced. I can only imagine watching my father watch me reach another milestone like marriage, or entrusting me with someone else for the rest of my life.
And the more and more moments you share with your father, the more and more painful it becomes when you lose him.
But I do know what it's like to say goodbye forever--and know you have the opportunity. She didn't have that chance. That's cruel. There's never closure or substitute for that.
I'd like to say I know what she's going through. But I don't. And I, and anyone who has lost a parent, thinks can probably offer advice.
There really is no advice to offer someone in a time of loss. It doesn't make you feel better. It doesn't ease the pain. It doesn't bring anyone back. It's appreciated. And it's nice. It's even remembered. But it doesn't do what you want it to do, which is bring that person back.
That, I do know.
So here's my advice--namely to myself.
"Don't."
Just be there. Don't try to offer a template for what I think is going to happen. Just listen. Just hug. Just love. And if they want my help, they'll ask. That much I DO know. Death in my life doesn't make me an expert for someone else's tragedy.
If there's any advice I an offer the living--on the living--it would be this:
Make the best of each little moment as it happens. Always be present. Cameras are for those moments you know are coming. Memories are for those moments that just happen.
I know Patti's family had a lot of those. And like all families, both good and not-so-good. But the latter moments, are the ingredients to best preserve the better ones.
If Patti's dad was like mine--and judging from her tone, I believe he was--he was the greatest man besides Christ himself who could walk the earth. That's all anyone needs to know.
If there is anything to celebrate, it's the response of those whom he loved, loving him back as a tribute to a life well lived.
Judging by that, and by the daughter he raised, I'd say Patti's dad was a pretty successful man.
Romans 8:18.
Technically, it was a four-year war. Like with so many people, the cancer started fighting a year before my dad knew it was attacking.
My family and watched him from his diagnosis, to his body overcoming the odds and shrinking the tumors--to the point we believed he'd beat it--to that point where the cancer goes '72 Dolphins and takes over. Cancer and chemo always play a cruel game of cocktease.
When he died, several friends drove home--some great distances--to be there for me. One being my friend, Patti.
When dad died, I hadn't spoken to Patti in years. But she drove all the way up from Cleveland to be at my father's funeral, and playfully remind me that our ten-year plan from prom night had expired due to the caveat that she'd found the man of her dreams. I reminded her that the day wasn't about her, and then pointed to the dead guy behind me in the box.
(Kidding, of course. No, I did it. But I was trying to lighten the mood. Albeit, poorly.)
I just spoke with Patti a little while ago. She lost her father suddenly this past week. I don't know the details, but I can only imagine how she feels.
She said to me, "Well, you went through it."
Yes, I did. But whether you watch your father die slowly over three years, or get a jolting call from home at an unusual time of day, you're still shocked when your daddy is gone.
I thought about trying to cram some advice over the phone before she went to the first viewing of her father. The phone cut out. But that was actually a blessing.
The truth is, I should probably keep my mouth shut.
Because I don't know. And, I know better.
We'll all lose someone we love. But that doesn't mean we can assume we'll all react the same way.
I only met Patti's dad a couple times. Once when our friend Anthony King had just purchased a green Saturn with fiberglass features that GM advertised were dent-proof. Mr. D asked Tony if he could throw a basketball at the driver's side door to see if the advertising was true.
The other times were at Class Night and graduation. To say Mr. D loved his family dearly and was proud of his daughter--who held offices at Silver Creek and several organizations in high school, graduating with honors--is ridiculously obvious. I've always believed that a father's true love for his babies--which they will always be--is reflected by his children's reverence and affection toward him.
When I spoke with Patti, she didn't have to tell me how much her father loved her, or even how much she loved him. You felt it in her tone. You could hear it. You could hear her miss him. You could hear her fears.You could sense the loss. And she hadn't even been to the funeral home yet.
I've been through something similar. But that doesn't mean I know the feeling.
I know a similar feeling. But I don't know and neither should I assume I know the worst loss in my life is on par with that of anyone else.
I can only imagine what it would be like to have my father at my wedding--something Patti experienced. I can only imagine watching my father watch me reach another milestone like marriage, or entrusting me with someone else for the rest of my life.
And the more and more moments you share with your father, the more and more painful it becomes when you lose him.
But I do know what it's like to say goodbye forever--and know you have the opportunity. She didn't have that chance. That's cruel. There's never closure or substitute for that.
I'd like to say I know what she's going through. But I don't. And I, and anyone who has lost a parent, thinks can probably offer advice.
There really is no advice to offer someone in a time of loss. It doesn't make you feel better. It doesn't ease the pain. It doesn't bring anyone back. It's appreciated. And it's nice. It's even remembered. But it doesn't do what you want it to do, which is bring that person back.
That, I do know.
So here's my advice--namely to myself.
"Don't."
Just be there. Don't try to offer a template for what I think is going to happen. Just listen. Just hug. Just love. And if they want my help, they'll ask. That much I DO know. Death in my life doesn't make me an expert for someone else's tragedy.
If there's any advice I an offer the living--on the living--it would be this:
Make the best of each little moment as it happens. Always be present. Cameras are for those moments you know are coming. Memories are for those moments that just happen.
I know Patti's family had a lot of those. And like all families, both good and not-so-good. But the latter moments, are the ingredients to best preserve the better ones.
If Patti's dad was like mine--and judging from her tone, I believe he was--he was the greatest man besides Christ himself who could walk the earth. That's all anyone needs to know.
If there is anything to celebrate, it's the response of those whom he loved, loving him back as a tribute to a life well lived.
Judging by that, and by the daughter he raised, I'd say Patti's dad was a pretty successful man.
Romans 8:18.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
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