Dean Smith, 1931-2015

Allow me to add a word to the story everyone in America has been talking about the past week: the passing of basketball coaching legend Dean Smith.

You know you’re somebody when the President himself offers his condolences upon your death, and in the past four days I have not heard one unkind word about the man so many have idolized over the years. Myself included.

We all know Dean Smith’s accomplishments as a coach: 879 wins, 13 ACC Tournament Championships, 11 Final Fours, two national titles, an Olympic gold medal, and a slam dunk member of the Basketball Hall of Fame. It is his accomplishments of the court that have received much attention over the past few days, however much they were overshadowed during his career: something like a 97% graduation rate among his players, and–there’s no other way to say it–turning boys into men. They say Dean Smith treated everyone on the team fairly and with kindness, from Michael Jordan himself down to the equipment manager and ball boy. Was this true? Well, have I heard anyone deny it over the past 50 years? Nope.

There is nothing I can write here to add to Dean Smith’s legacy. It speaks for itself. One personal word, though, on his aura.

No athlete from my hometown of Binghamton, New York, was ever more heralded than King Rice (currently the head coach at Monmouth University). If you’re from the Binghamton area, King Rice is the best you ever saw, bar none. When King was choosing where to go to school, what did our local folk say about his decision? Did they say, that King Rice is going to play Division I basketball!

Nope.

Did they say, that King Rice is going to play at the University of North Carolina!

Nope.

They said: King Rice is going to play for Dean Smith.

That is all.

And the Grammy goes to…

Watching the Grammys on TV last night I found myself asking one question more than any other.

Who the hell is that?

Seriously. Thank God the Grammy folks put a few old timers in the mix so I’d at least have some idea of what was going on. And I did recognize last night’s most heralded song… I’ve been hearing Tom Petty sing it since I was seven.

It’s not just that I consider myself proudly out of touch with today’s popular “music.” Even the artists I’ve heard of have me baffled with their bizarre appearances and eccentric deeds. There’s no surer way to appear out of place at a modern awards ceremony than to show up dignified and nicely dressed.

I’m not sure when I got so old and serious, but the whole thing looks to me like the bar scene from Star Wars. By way of comparison, I think the United Nations looks like a 1950s Moose Lodge. And Thomas Jefferson and George Washington would feel more at home were they to walk into the White House today than if any presenters from the first Grammy Awards show in 1959 had stepped onto the stage last night.

Oh, it wasn’t all bad, of course. Looking past the theatrics I did get to hear some pretty entertaining music. At times. Kudos to someone named Ed Sheeran for bringing some class to the show in one of its better moments. Surrounding himself with a few of my heroes helped.

And kudos to Tony Bennett for putting up with all that garbage and still bringing it at age 88. If only he didn’t have to share the stage with what’s-her-name.

And Katy Perry singing solo? Guess Left Shark had another gig last night.

See ya at the Oscars.

A final word on the Patriots’ “dynasty”

We can’t seem to stop hearing about the Super Bowl. The game, the ending, the seemingly bonehead idea to pass instead of run, Deflate-gate, Marshawn Lynch, Left Shark, and tearjerker commercials.

But there’s one thing one which I must comment: the Pats’ place among football’s great dynasties.

The thing about dynasties is that there’s no real official definition of what exactly one is. Is it two Super Bowl wins in a row? Three in five years? Seven great years in a row but only one title? These are legitimate questions.

I’m not one to toss about the word dynasty casually. Most troubling to me about this particular case is the length of time: 14 years. Fourteen years of good football is great. But it was three Super Bowl wins in four years, then a decade before the next one. That’s nine years of someone else holding up that trophy and going to Disney World.

In the era of great player turnover, can we even call it the same team? Yes, I understand it’s Brady and Belichick. But other than Brady, can you name one player on both the 2004 Patriots and the 2014 team? There’s only one: Vince Wilfork, a rookie in 2004 and hardly a household name.

Were the Pats from 2001-2004 a dynasty? Three Super Bowls in four years is pretty damn good. Seems to me though a bit too short to be a dynasty. And adding a fourth a decade later, with different players and assistant coaches? Well, that might be too long to be dynastic. Hmm.

Were the Yankees of 1996-2000 a dynasty? Four World Series wins in five years? Pretty good if you ask me. How about when they tacked on a fifth nine years later with a new manager and (mostly) different players? I wouldn’t call the whole era dynastic, and the Yanks at least had a “core” (I use the term with purpose) of consistent players. If the Patriots are the New York Yankees of football (other teams and fans hate them for their money and success), can we give them the benefit of what we deny the Bronx Bombers? And let’s not forget, the Pats were half a yard from losing three Super Bowls in a row.

I guess that’s why we don’t put an official definition on “dynasty.”

Rod McKuen, 1933-2015

Over shadowed by vaccinations, deflated footballs, and out-of-step dancing sharks this week was the passing of one of America’s great and greatly maligned artists: Rod McKuen. McKeun died this past Thursday at the age of 81.

I was first introduced to the work of Rod McKuen through the album A Man Alone, Frank Sinatra’s only record devoted entirely to the work of one composer. Sinatra released the album in 1969, the same year that McKuen lent his pen to several songs featured in A Boy Named Charlie Brown, the Peanuts gang’s first (and best) full-length movie.

Getting to work with Frank Sinatra and Charlie Brown in the same year is pretty impressive. It makes sense because McKuen was sort of a Charlie Brown, and one of the many personae of Frank Sinatra. The brooding one. The lovestruck character John Cusack plays in most of his movies. McKuen was John Cusack in real life.

Rod McKuen was panned throughout his career because, well, for lack of a better description, he was a commercial success. His lyrics and poetry books were filled with maudlin clichés and sappy truisms. Newsweek called him the King of Kitsch. Nora Ephron said his poems were superficial and platitudinous.

But I liked his work. And so did 60 million people who bought his books and 100 million who bought his records. As a singer, songwriter, poet, and author, I approved of his message.

And that—to borrow a cliché—is a life well lived.

Game deserved to be called “super”

Well, the game has been played and the Patriots won fair and square. At least we don’t have to hear about Deflate-gate any more.

Are you kidding me? It took less time for that line of questioning to come out than it did to get the air out of the balls!

Kudos to those Patriots who kept it together when those questions came up. I could probably imagine myself not being quite so civil.

(Pause for dramatic effect.)

But I’d still go to Disney World.

Ready for the game

When I was a kid it was all about the game. But between Deflate-gate, media flaps, and the rest of the baggage that accompanies America’s most popular professional sport, I’m ready for some football.

What surprises me most, listening to the week-long pregame show this week, is how upfront media personality are about their collective vacation in Arizona. Half the on-air conversations are about how much the journalists drink and carouse while waiting for the game. Is this new? Was I this naïve as a child? Have we simply reached a point in our culture that we’re too oversexed or undersexed or stupid that this is all we can come up with?

Also, note to self… father-son trip to Super Bowl week some day. When he’s older.

We just can’t stop talking about it

I’m pretty sure I’m the only commentator left in America who has not weighed in on “Deflate-gate.” Let me amend that.

By now we have all heard the story—under-inflated footballs used in the AFC Championship Game seemingly with the knowledge of the home team—and speculated about which Patriots knew what and who told who to lie about it. Guh. At least we stopped talking about domestic violence and child abuse for a few minutes. Anyone know there’s a game on Sunday?

The real problem is that this is exactly what the Super Bowl is. People who don’t care about football 364 days a year jumping in for one day to watch singers, dancers, commercials, wardrobe malfunctions, and sixth grade gossip.

To the game, I do think the Patriots will emerge victorious, regardless of what size balls are used. Too bad their victory’s already tainted. And they’re really in a no-win situation here: win and you’re still a cheater; lose and you obviously got here only by cheating.

Pitchers and catchers report in 21 days.

Still smiling after yesterday

You’ve got to love a day in which two of the four  major professional sports have their all-star games, one of which ended 17-12 (hint: it wasn’t football). Earlier in the day basketball coaching god Mike Krzyzewski won his 1000th career game (he’s the first to do so), and on the later side my hometown Wizards came from behind to actually defeat a Western conference foe. Sports will keep you smiling through any blizzard.

Saturday schedule for an almost adult champion

Saturday, January 24, 2015.

9:30 a.m. Wake-up

10 a.m. Family storytime at public library

12 p.m. Kentucky vs. South Carolina

2:30 p.m. Georgetown vs. Marquette

5 p.m. Watch The Interview. Toast America.

7:30 p.m. NHL skills contest

10 p.m. Go outside and pretend to skate around like NHL all-star

10:30 p.m. Nurse hockey injury with hot chocolate and Wizards game

12:30 a.m. Bedtime. Nothing left to prove. #adulthood

 

 

State of the Union, Shmate of the Union

Like the weatherman who tells you what you can plainly see is happening outside, President Obama’s State of the Union speech last night didn’t really tell me anything I didn’t already know. He’s a good-looking ideologue who speaks in pleasant-sounding platitudes. Yeah, I knew that.

Thankfully over the years fewer and fewer Americans have been paying attention to State of the Union speeches. Perhaps because they find them worthless or perhaps because there are just too many other things on TV, I’m pretty sure more Americans care about the faux government shown on Parks and Recreation that the real one that followed it on NBC last night.

Which reminds me, nobody post a comment about Parks and Recthat one I still want to watch later.