The National Invitation Tournament: A New (and Blue) Perspective

The National Invitation Tournament is a college basketball tournament. It has a storied history dating back to 1938, one year before the NCAA Tournament began. Only the NAIA Tournament is older. For many years, the NIT was considered the most prestigious tournament in the country. In those days of Jim Crow, it was an integrated tournament played in legendary Madison Square Garden in New York. Only the best of the best were invited to the NIT.

In the early 1950’s, the NIT lost much of its luster because of a point-shaving scandal. City College of New York, Long Island University and others were implicated. One such school was my beloved University of Kentucky. We’re the only ones who rose from the ashes, although we had the distinction of receiving the NCAA Death Penalty by having the 1952-53 season cancelled. We UK fans like to point out that we were undefeated the next season and had the audacity to turn down an NCAA invitation. (That’s not as brassy as it sounds. Most of our best players were ineligible for post-season play. Adolph Rupp was no fool).

(As unrelated aside, it should be noted that UK played in integrated tournaments well before most teams in the South would do so. The next time you hear the story of Mississippi State playing in the NCAA Tournament in 1963, remember that Kentucky had been doing that for 20 years.)

Although the NCAA Tournament became more prominent, the NIT remained significant. The NIT was still prestigious enough that Marquette turned down an NCAA bid in the late ’60’s to play in (and win) the NIT. Over time, the NCAA Tourney has expanded to 68 teams, making the NIT little more than a glorified intramural tournament. Its glory days, sadly, are long gone.

Today, being invited to the NIT means you suck. You stink. You’re not worthy of making the NCAA Tournament. You don’t even get the play-in games. You’re not one of the 68 best teams in the country. Your program is in shambles. You don’t belong on the Big Stage. The Big Dance goes on without you. It’s the Little Dance for you and your fellow club foots.

Such is the fate now of my University of Kentucky Wildcats. Lest you forget, we won the NCAA Tournament just last year. (If you’re counting, that’s EIGHT titles, my friend). We’ve been in this position before. We won the NCAA Tournament in 1978, only to be relegated to the NIT the next year. We lost in the first round to Clemson, and at home, no less. I would point out, though, that we were playing without Dwight Anderson, arguably our best player that year. That loss deserves an asterisk, as do almost all losses in the history of our program.

Nowadays, folks call it the “Not Invited Tournament” or the “Not Important Tournament.” It has fallen into such disfavor that some schools have even turned down invitations. We won’t do that at Kentucky. Our fans want to see games–any time, anywhere, against any opponent.

We’re no strangers to NIT glory, mind you. We’ve won the NIT, twice–1946 and 1976. Both titles portended bigger and better things.

The 1946 NIT Championship was followed by NCAA Titles in 1948, 1949 and 1951. Our 1976 NIT Title was followed by an NCAA Title in 1978. See a pattern?

1945-46c

1946 NIT Champs

The 1976 NIT was similar to this year. The previous season, we lost the NCAA title game to UCLA. Graduation took many of our best players. We started the 1975-76 season 10 and 10 and lost of one of our best players, Rick Robey, to injury. Joe B. Hall, successor to Adolph Rupp, was our coach, and the annual cries for his head began. Those were dark days in the Big Blue Nation.

Coach Hall was always at his best when things were bleakest. The Cats won their last 10 games, including the NIT, beating the University of North Carolina-Charlotte in the title game. Center Mike Phillips became a beast during that run. All Cat fans know the names of Mike Phillips, Jack Givens, Jay Shidler, Truman Claytor, Marion Haskins, Dwayne Casey and James Lee. Two years later, we had NCAA title number 5! It is always darkest before the dawn.

mikep

Mike Phillips, NIT All-Time Great

Even today, the NIT isn’t the worst thing that can happen. There is also something called the College Basketball Invitational. It’s for 16 teams that don’t make either the NCAA or NIT. It isn’t to be confused with its competitor, the CollegeInsider.com Postseason Tournament, which has 32 more unworthy teams. So, if you don’t make the NCAA Tournament, you have 80 more post-season slots available. Including the NCAA, there are 148 chances to play in the post-season. There about 400 NCAA Division I basketball teams. You could be one of the 250 or so super-sucky teams which can’t play anywhere!

We UK fans want to be enthusiastic about the NIT, but it’s tough. We view the NCAA Tournament as our birth right. Any UK fan knows the significance of the years 1948, 1949, 1951, 1958, 1978, 1996, 1998 and 2012. To exclude us from the Big Dance after a 20 win season is sacrilege. We know it’s because of jealously or even downright hatred. That’s okay, because we hate the NCAA and its member institutions even more than they hate us.

UK needs to put an indelible stamp on the NIT. I have a few simple suggestions to turn the NIT into the tournament, at least for one year:

  • Unilaterally declare that former UK center Mike Phillips is the “Greatest Living Player” in the history of the NIT and insist that he be introduced as such before each game. Maybe he can wear some kind of crown.
  • Have both our NIT Championship trophies sitting beside the bench.
  • Coach John Calipari will repeatedly refer to the NCAA Tournament as the “suck ass” tournament.
  • Have Honey Boo Boo and her Mom be cheerleaders.
  • Adopted cool team nickname of “69ers” in honor of being the 69th best team in the country.
  • In a tip of the hat to tradition, shave points.
  • UK President Eli Capilouto will profanely condemn the NCAA for not allowing UK to play in both tournaments.
  • Brashly challenge the CIT and CBI tourney champs to a “Loser Leaves Town” playoff.
  • Hire an Amish assistant coach.
  • Run the Jody Arias trial on the Jumbo Tron
  • Bring entire UK team to NCAA Championship Game and loudly berate participants for not playing in Madison Square Garden.
  • In each post-game interview, coach UK players to work in references to Roy Williams as a “mincing cry baby” and Mike Krzyzewski as a “rat-faced bastard.”
  • If we lose, crack opposing coach over the head with 2012 NCAA Championship Trophy

These are but a few ideas. As fans, there are many things we can do to help, too. For example, we have a tradition of burning couches in the streets after big NCAA wins. In keeping with that, perhaps we can burn ottomans or occasional tables after each NIT win. We can wear confusingly arrogant T-Shirts that say things like “YOU CAN’T SPELL NORTH CAROLINA WITHOUT ‘NCAA.'” Most of all, let’s say we’d rather win the NIT than lose the NCAA Tournament, even though we probably would have won that, too.

So, take heart, Big Blue Nation. All is not lost. There are many positives:

  • Our first round game at Robert Morris University will be the biggest event ever in Moon Township, Pennsylvania where, by the way, Coach Cal went to high school.
  • We trail St. John’s in NIT titles–6 to 2. Another title cuts that in half.
  • An NIT title gives us 11 combined NCAA/NIT titles, only one behind UCLA.
  • We will pad our all time wins record.
  • Rupp Arena hosts the first two rounds of the NCAA Tournament. Imagine the embarrassment to that haughty exhibition when rounds 2 and 3 of the NIT outdraw it.
  • We’ll proudly hang our NIT banner, adding to the already-cluttered rafters of Rupp Arena.
rupp

There may not be room for another banner.

Remember, too, that UK fans are also known for our almost unbearable arrogance. An NIT championship would the perfect chance to take this seeming character flaw to new heights. Let us all rationalize that we got on a roll in the postseason and would, in fact, have won the NCAA Tournament were it not for the petty jealousies that kept us on the sidelines. If we lose, we will simply dismiss the NIT as beneath us and unworthy of our time, anyway. How could we possibly be motivated for it? The NIT Trophy is little more than a door stop, and the banner wouldn’t be fit to be a floor mat in our opulent locker room.

After all, it’s just the NIT, for God’s sake–unless we win it.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

Dennis Rodman: Athlete, Spy, … President?

“There is nobody in the CIA who can tell you more personally about Kim Jong Un than Dennis Rodman and that in itself is scary.”

Former Deputy Assistant Secretary of State Steve Ganyard

rodman

Dennis (“the Worm”) Rodman recently visited North Korea. He went there with three Harlem Globetrotters–I don’t why only three, but that was it. The Globetrotters were there to play ball with some North Koreans. Rodman went to watch.

Now, the Worm claims that the “FBI” wants him to be a spy.  At least that’s what he told The Miami Herald recently.  Perhaps that’s true.  I’ll set aside the obvious questions about why the FBI would be involved with this, given its focus on domestic law enforcement.

North Korea is the most cloistered country on Earth. It is, as it has always been, shrouded in secrecy. Foreign media is banned.  The U.S. does not have diplomatic relations with the Democratic People’s Republic of North Korea. No embassy. No official visits. No communication. No one really knows what goes on there. In fact, The Korean War isn’t even over. The North and South just declared a truce. We know almost nothing about what goes on there.

One man knows, at least to some extent. That man is Dennis Rodman. The Worm. The hard-partying, tattooed, body-pierced, rebounding machine. The same Dennis Rodman who once wore a wedding dress to promote his autobiography. Arguably, the best rebounding forward to ever play basketball.

The confluence of these two personalities is significant, at least to me. Both fascinate me. Rodman, the ultimate blue-collar athlete. Kim, the ultimate political loony, a Communist dictator in an age where there are few Communists. Both are mysterious and more than a little unhinged. Yet, there they are together.

In some ways, Rodman’s life is the American Dream. He and his two sisters were raised in poverty by their mother. His absentee father claims to have fathered over 20 other children. Rodman says it may be more like 40. He wasn’t a high school basketball star. He wasn’t recruited. He was 5′ 6″ high school freshman who couldn’t make the basketball team. He graduated high school and worked as a janitor until he got a chance to play. He attended a junior college and then Southeastern Oklahoma State, where he was an NAIA All-American. While in college, he was taken in by a white family he considers now to be his own.  It’s a story right of Hollywood.  It rivals our President for a rags-to-riches tale (more on that later).

Rodman was drafted by the Detroit Pistons where he did the dirty work–defense and rebounding. He was quiet, even humble. He cried when he was named NBA Defensive Player of the Year. He perfected rebounding, making it his one dominating skill.

Somewhere along the line, he became the Dennis Rodman we now know. Dyed hair. Tattoos. Piercings. He never stopped being a defending, rebounding machine. Along the way, he dated Madonna, married and divorced Carmen Electra and even did a stint on Celebrity Rehab. He’s made movies. He’s wrestled. Now, at 52 years old, he still has the sculpted physique of an athlete and the lifestyle of out of control rock star.

We know Kim Jong Un, too. Sorta. He’s the cherubic evil dictator of the DPRK following in the footsteps of his grandfather and father. His father, the late Kim Jong IL, was best known to Americans in photos of him looking at things, which he apparently did quite often. Dad loved Elvis, basketball and action movies. Reportedly, he also was quite fond of pornography. We all know that he was a stellar athlete, shooting 34 under par the first time he played golf, running marathons in record time and regularly bowling perfect games.

We know considerably less about young Kim. He’s called Dear Leader. We know he’s in his 30’s. He may or may not be married. He bears a striking resemblance to Russell from the film Up. He has a jacked-up haircut which is odd considering that his Dad has a fabulous pompadour. Like his father, he likes to look at things. He has a disgraced brother who has been banished from DPRK. Other than that, we don’t know much about him.

up

Nuclear boom-boom make Dear Leader happy!

Like Pop, Un likes to saber-rattle, threatening South Korea and the United States with destruction. He lives like a king or at least an evil dictator. He’s a fat little bastard in a country where people regularly starve to death. He likes nuclear testing and firing rockets, even if they don’t always work.

Now, these two unlikely characters have crossed paths. Rodman has met the Kim Jong Un–the only American to ever do so. Think about that. Dennis Keith Rodman is the only American to meet the man. What does this mean? I don’t know, but I’d like to speculate.

I don’t discount the possibility that Rodman is a traitor, a gender-bending Benedict Arnold (I’ve seen pictures of Benedict. He might have been doing a little gender-bending himself). Perhaps he’s come into government secrets while partying. He might have been in Colombia with those congressmen and black-mailed them. Armed with this information, he traveled to North Korea. Kim then paid him in millions of whatever weird-ass money they use (with Kim’s face on it, no doubt).

Don’t expect the Worm to be hanged for treason. Treason is hard to prove. Plus, no one really knows what it is. According to scholars like Sean Hannity it’s whenever someone criticizes a Republican president during a war. Woodrow Wilson thought it was saying anything negative about a declared war. It’s all confusing. That’s why people get prosecuted for espionage, instead.

Call me naive, but I don’t see the Worm as a traitor. Only in America could a man from his background rise to the level of success and public curiosity as he has. He wouldn’t turn on us.  Besides, there is, as they say, more to the story here.

Is he an assassin? Could be. Maybe he planned to garrote the rotund strong man but didn’t get the chance. As easily the largest human in the DPRK, he probably could have strangled dozens of people before being subdued. If he went off, he’d look like something from a Japanese monster movie, crushing tiny Koreans under his feet. It’s no coincidence that Rodman was drinking a Coke with Un. Coke is not sold in the DPRK. Maybe Rodman was allowed to smuggle in a few cans to addict the portly strongman to the elixir known as high fructose corn syrup. This time, it was regular Coke. Next time? The really New Coke, with extra arsenic.

Perhaps it was simply a diplomatic mission. Un hates Americans. That’s clear. It’s part of his upbringing: America = Evil. But, he loves basketball, just like his father. Pops owned a basketball signed by Michael Jordan. Maybe young Kim thought Rodman was Jordan. That wouldn’t be too hard to pull off. Under this theory, Rodman’s trip has the tacit approval of the State Department. Rodman can use his new friendship for our benefit. Now, if Kim starts testing nuclear weapons again, Rodman can call his cell phone:

KIM: Hello, Dear Leader here.

RODMAN: Yo, Un. Worm.

KIM: Dennis! How’s it hunging?

RODMAN: Hey, dude, man, what’s up with all that underground testing shit?

KIM: Worm, we must show your evil government that we are ready to destroy it.

RODMAN: [Laughing] You are one crazy mutha——. Hey, if you drop that shit, I’ll shoot over and play you a game of HORSE. Bring some Cokes, too,

KIM: Hmmm. DEAL!

Crisis averted. That’s a reasonable scenario, but I think more is at work here than a mere budding friendship between a crazed nuclear madman and an alcoholic, cross-dressing NBA Hall of Famer.

Dennis Rodman is a spy, enlisted by the President of the United States himself to infiltrate North Korea. With today’s nano technology, outfitting a nose ring with a camera is child’s play. Nipple rings go from a fashionable accessory to stealth recording devices. He is returning home with invaluable information.

Implausible, you say? Consider this: Rodman’s estranged father owns a restaurant in the Philippines called–get this–Rodman’s Rainbow Obamaburger! How convenient that he somehow got permission to use the President’s name for commercial purposes. Coincidence? You be the judge.

rodman3

To my knowledge, no one in the State Department has commented on Rodman’s father’s cozy relationship with the President.

How do I know Rodman is a spy? Consider the evidence:

  • Why were only three Globetrotters on the trip? What did the others know that made them a security risk?
  • Isn’t it strange that our State Department doesn’t even plan to talk to Rodman, the one man who knows Kim Jung Un personally?
  • Kim Jong Un loves basketball. Rodman played basketball.
  • The entire Kim family loves Michael Jordan. Rodman played with Michael Jordan.
  • Rodman’s father clearly has close connections to the White House.
  • Why does Rodman always wear sunglasses?
  • Photographic evidence proves that Rodman has a close personal relationship with former President George H.W. Bush. Why does the mainstream media continue to suppress this?
rodman2

Suppressed photo of meeting between Rodman and former CIA Director and President George Bush

My theory, amply supported by all the above, is that Rodman’s trip was anything but a basketball mission. One scenario is that, in the 1990’s, a young Barack Obama was climbing the ladder of success. Although most of his time was spent orchestrating his shaky Hawaiian Birth Conspiracy and fake Christianity, his sights were set much higher. Knowing that cooperation from the notoriously haughty Michael Jordan would virtually impossible, he forced Bulls owner Jerry Reinsdorf to trade for Dennis Rodman, the odd everyman of the NBA. Reinsdorf no doubt feared that Obama would call upon the aging vestiges of the Weather Underground to “disrupt” the Bulls’ season. Once Rodman was in Chicago, his relationship with Michael Jordan would open doors for Obama who knew of the elder Kim’s affection for MJ. A mere 10-15 years later, it all came to fruition as Obama called Rodman for a favor. The Worm delivered.

This theory, while certainly plausible, is too simplistic. There is more at work here. Much more.

At this point, you’re probably wondering the same thing that struck me during my research. Is it possible that Dennis Rodman and Barack Obama are the same person? Naturally, I have no proof of anything, but there are simply too many coincidences. How do you explain the following?

  • Both men were born in 1961.
  • They are African-American males.
  • Both Rodman and Obama spent several years in Chicago at the same time. There are no known media reports about what they did together during that time. How can that be?
  • Both Rodman and Obama had so-called absentee fathers who lived in foreign countries.
  • Both have two daughters.
  • Both Rodman and Obama enjoy playing basketball.
  • Both Rodman and Obama smoke.
  • There are no known photographs of them together.
  • Why hasn’t the White House responded to my many letters and faxes demanding to see a photo of Obama and Rodman together?
  • Obama has been the President for over four years, and Rodman has not visited the White House even once during that time.  How can that be?
  • Why hasn’t Rodman produced a copy of his birth certificate?
  • Why hasn’t Obama produced his college transcripts? Could it be that they show excellent grades at Southeastern Oklahoma State?

Then, too, there are the startling physical similarities between the two men:

dennis_rodman1

Note how Rodman cleverly covers his ears in most photos. Protruding ears, of course, cannot be easily masked. Consider, too, how covering one’s body in tattoos and piercings distract the viewer from facial features.  There is also little doubt that somewhere in all that is a Muslim tattoo of some kind.

Then, we have the President:

obama

Note the laughably inept body make-up. Even skilled Photoshopping doesn’t help. Thanks to the butchering of this photo, the President’s physique doesn’t even resemble Rodman’s. Yet, his nipple piercings are apparent when this photo is magnified. It’s not surprising that the White House doesn’t release such “photos” to the public.

Does this prove that they are the same person?  Well, no, but it raises questions–questions no one seems willing to address.  Don’t expect “your” government to offer anything.

I know that I’ve put myself at great risk by raising this issue, but it’s time that public knows the truth.  The Worm has indeed turned.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

The Sporting Life of Me

I like sports. Maybe I love sports. Loving something like that (or is it those?) seems odd to say out loud, but it’s possible that I do. Why? I’m not sure, but I know this much: It isn’t because I was ever good at any of them.

If you’ve read any of my sundry blog posts, you know that I will opine on almost any topic–politics, religion, TV, movies, fighting girls, self-help and, yes, sports. These things interest me, and I like to write–and talk–about such things. One might call me self-centered. One might be correct about that, too. I assume that others will be interested in these subjects since they interest me. Mostly, I believe that others are, or at the very least should be, interested in what interests me. If not, they must be interested in me, generally. With that in mind, let’s talk sports.

I’m not an athlete. I never was. Oh, I tried my hand at various sports. Never, though, did I find my game.

BASEBALL

I played a lot of baseball growing up. I wasn’t particularly good, but I played. I had one God-given skill and that was speed. I was pretty fast. That was helpful, to some extent. I also have decent hand-eye coordination–decent, not excellent. I couldn’t hit very well nor did I have a good arm. In my 20’s, a doctor told me that it was likely that I had torn muscles in my shoulder when I was young, which would explain chronic pain and weakness. I use this now as an excuse to explain my overall mediocrity. I am now convinced that I tore my shoulder when I was 4 years old.

My baseball career, as it were, can be summed up in one game when I was 14 years old. My team faced a pitcher who threw side arm. I couldn’t hit him neither could my team-mate batting in front of me in the order. In the last inning of an extra inning game, we both had struck out four times. There were two outs, and I was on deck. Since we both had the dreaded Golden Sombrero (four Ks), I silently prayed that my team-mate would get out so that I would not end the game for us. He did. On strikes. I was happy. There may be no “I” in team, but there damn sure is one in “strike out.”

I was also volatile and difficult to coach. I would argue with my coaches. I would argue with opposing players. I would argue with my team-mates. These may seem to be attributes of the modern athlete; however, they are best reserved for the modern, outstanding athlete. The borderline, average teenager in the 1970’s did not benefit from such behavior. One time, I even got into an argument with my coach’s father during a game. Not a good move.

I combined lack of skill and bad attitude with laziness. If I needed to work on something, I preferred to just sit around and hope I improved. Oddly enough, it didn’t work.

BASKETBALL

I also played basketball or, more correctly, tried to play. To say that I was not a good basketball player is to say that William Shatner is not a good singer. The speed which I flashed playing baseball disappeared with a basketball in my hands. I couldn’t go to my left at all. I could barely go to my right. But, could I shoot? No. Try as I might, my jumper was always an awkward “push” shot. It would have looked good in the days of the two hand set shot.

My lack of skill limited my play to pick up games, except for a brief period in elementary school when I played what we called “Little League” basketball in my home town. I played for Loyall Christian Church. Although I did not attend church there, they sponsored our team. I played three years and might have scored 10 points total. Honestly, that’s probably a stretch. I do know that my high game was four points. Wow.

The highlight of my organized basketball career was a fight–not involving me, of course. My Dad had an older kid walk me to my games at night (Dad was often on the road for work during the week). One night, we encountered a hoodlum of some renown. My guardian slapped the cigarette out of the hood’s mouth, picked it up and took a long drag off it. He then flicked the butt off the hood’s chest. I can still see those ashes exploding against his chest in the dark. Why did he do this? I think it was just to make a point. Okay, that’s not really a fight, but I was just 7 or 8 years old, and I thought it was cool.

I would occasionally play pick up games, usually quite poorly. The only time I ever recall playing well was in a one on one game with a friend in high school. For reasons now obscure, I had mouthed off about how I could beat him. I don’t why I did that since he was taller than I was and, by all appearances, more athletic. He challenged me to a game to 20 by ones. Something possessed me and, for that one game, I could really play. I couldn’t miss a shot. My awkward, two-handed J hit nothing but net. The game winner was made after a quite accidental cross-over dribble off my knee. My opponent slipped and I nailed a jumper from about 15 feet. My friend was wowed. I used up all my basketball luck in one game.

I also played in the occasional pick up game in college. Again, poorly. My friends tolerated me, because…well…they were my friends. I’m sure it pained them to watch me. Sometimes, I would play against girls. They were also better than I was. Perhaps the highlight of my college career was a violent body check/pick laid on me by a University of Kentucky football player. He was about 6′ 4″, 350 maybe. No front teeth and he wore a down vest to play basketball. After his bone-pulverizing pick, I predictably collapsed in a pathetic heap. He then screamed obscenities at me, rightfully questioning my manhood.

I used to play basketball with my kids. Then, they got better than me, too.

GOLF

I also tried golf. There weren’t a lot of golfers when I was growing up in Harlan County, Kentucky. Some people belonged to the Harlan Country Club. I heard that they played golf up there on a 9 hole golf course. Other than the occasional miniature golf game (they had miniature golf in Evarts), I didn’t touch a golf club until I was in my 20’s.

I thought golf would be a good game for me. It didn’t require much (or any) athleticism. I imagined myself strolling the links with fellow hot shots, playing and making lucrative business deals. Sadly, my golf play resembled nothing so much as Spaudling Smails in Caddyshack. Here are some of the reasons golf didn’t work:

  • I discovered that most people didn’t enjoy playing with someone in a blind rage the whole time.
  • People would give me pointers which I desperately needed; however, I HATE pointers, advice, helpful hints or whatever the hell you want to call them.
  • I broke my pitching wedge beating it against a tree after sailing an approach shot over the green.
  • I broke my 9 iron. By running over it with my car. On purpose.
  • I bent my putter. Throwing it.
  • I would curse loudly and often.

Ultimately, I abandoned the game because I was just terrible at it. Terrible. The only thing I liked about it was that one could drink alcohol while playing. In my case, it didn’t affect my game at all. Now, I often think about what my father said of golf: “If a man has enough time to play golf, he should do something productive instead. Like work.” That gives me some comfort. Some. I don’t do much productive, either.

BOWLING

I tried other sports. Bowling, for instance. Sucked. Like golf, I can tell you all the fundamentals one must embrace to excel, but I can’t execute any of them. Once I stopped drinking, I found out that the only reason I ever bowled was for the alcohol, anyway.

BILLIARDS

How about pool? I love shooting pool. I can visualize every shot on the table. I can’t execute any of them. I’ve broken a couple of pool cues over my leg. I used to have a nice pool table, but I gave it away. It taunted me every time I walked by it. Again, though, one could drink beer and play. It had that going for it.

YO-YO

In the 1970’s, there was a yo-yo craze. That’s right–yo-yo. Everyone had a yo-yo, me included. The craze even reached Harlan County. Every hay-shaker and hill jack in the county was walking the dog, rocking the baby and going around the world. Me? I cracked myself in the mouth once trying to go around the world. Split my lip. Sometimes, I would walk the dog, and the yo-yo would pop up and hit me in the forehead. It was just sad.

EVERYTHING ELSE

My mediocrity knew almost no limits. Ping pong, darts, dodge ball, volley ball and softball all mastered me. PE in high school was a struggle, because there were no games at which I excelled. Our PE teacher was an affable enough fellow who went on to a successful career as a college football assistant coach. He was affable, that is, until he had a psychotic episode of yelling and screaming about something. He once hit a kid with a desk. He was better, though, than the head football coach who someone once aptly described as a “shaved ape.” They brought to mind the old Woody Allen joke: “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. Those who can’t teach, teach gym.”

Of course, it was a right of passage that one take PE. At the time, I suspected that it was because of a homoerotic desire to force us all to shower. I guess that was wrong, but–hey–I was 14. It made sense at the time.

One sport I never tried was football. I was WAY too small and have an aversion to being hit. I also don’t like injuries of any kind. When I grew no one played soccer. I never ran track or swam competitively or played Frisbee. I like to think that I could have excelled at any of those if I’d only tried.

Later in life, I met many people who didn’t grow up with me. Someone would ask if I played basketball, and I could say, “Oh, yeah. I was pretty damn good, too.” Or I could say I was baseball star. Fortunately, when you reaches a certain age, people don’t challenge you or invite you to join their teams. If they do, you can alway claim some injury like a torn rotator cuff or unresolved sports hernia prevents it.

Now that I’ve written this, I think I know why I love sports. It’s precisely because of my incompetence. Perhaps, I live vicariously through these athletes. Perhaps, I admire their expertise. It could be that they represent all that I wanted to be. Or maybe it’s because I REALLY love watching TV. I am very good at that.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012