The Malice at the Palace

I want there to be no misunderstanding, so let me make my position clear right from the start. I am not claiming to be any less hot headed or more capable of showing restraint during an altercation than Ron Artest. I'm a little older than Ron, perhaps somewhat more mature, but that's subjective opinion and my intent here is to stick with the facts. The fact is that if anybody came into my place of business and threw their beverage on me, they would at the very least be the recipient of a bad intentioned punch to the face. It's a matter of pride, of dignity, of dry cleaning expense. I would enjoy being showered in beer or soft drink as much as the next sane guy, which is to say, not very much at all.

Although we share matching mindsets when it comes to being doused by a stranger, there are a few subtle but critical differences between Mr. Artest and myself. He is considerably taller than me, and I'll concede that he's a better athlete, or at least a better basketball player. As result, Ron Artest is employed by the NBA. Like the rest of his co-workers, he's pretty well paid, earning millions of dollars per year to dribble and shoot and defend. Playing professional basketball at an elite level automatically qualifies him to be a beloved celebrity, if not necessarily a role model. The role of rich and famous athlete comes with all sorts of great perks, such as the opportunity to record a vanity rap album to name just one. This makes being Ron Artest not too bad a deal. I've learned to be content as an obscure middle class armchair quarterback who pens articles for your entertainment. My deal comes with far fewer perks, but also protects me from being subjected to some of Ron's hardships.

For example, I rarely if ever have to deal with hecklers at work. I've received a few rejection letters from editors over the years that were less than pleasant, but to date, not a single editor or literary critic has shown up at my office to call me nasty names, hurl personal insults, and demand that I be taken out of the game. Any disappointing, or infuriating, or humiliating experiences that I find myself subject to are not played out in view of the demanding public. If I choose to make a fool of myself, the only image that will be tarnished is my own. When I misbehave, for better or worse I only have my wife to answer to. So far in our marriage she has yet to suspend me.

Like my wife, the NBA commissioner is adept at administering a stern message when deemed necessary. On Sunday, November 21 he made himself loud and clear regarding what he is unwilling to tolerate. Vince McMahon need not fear that the NBA will ever compete against his pro wrestling league when it comes to selling violence, artistic or otherwise. Ron Artest may have thrown the first and last punches during the fracas that took place when his Indiana Pacers visited the world champion Detroit Pistons, but David Stern got the final word a couple days later when he suspended Artest for the remainder of the season.

Was Ron Artest justified when he leapt from the scorer's table that he was inexplicably laying upon after some liquid refreshment was thrown on him, charged into the stands, and started to throw punches at a spectator who was in the vicinity of where the beverage came from? Some might think so. Others would even say that he exercised good judgment by placing his physical safety at a premium, opting to attack a fan (the wrong one, as it turns out) that he figured he could easily take rather than going after Detroit's sculptured and afro'd Ben Wallace, the player who had just roughly shoved Artest after being fouled by him. Rather than retaliating against Wallace, Ron Artest decided to take a rest while the other players on the court bumped chests and did their best to appear macho without doing enough to collect personal fouls. Then the beverage went flying and Ron Artest decided to escalate a run-of-the-mill NBA scene into an ugly, dangerous near riot. I say "decided" because even if his initial burst of anger was instinctive and excusable, he certainly had enough time while stumbling towards his intended victim to ponder the possible repercussions. He had ample opportunity to reconsider what he was about to do. He could have simply grabbed the fan by the shirt collar and given him a piece of his mind. So that the punishment might fit the crime, he could have grabbed another fan's drink and done some beverage tossing of his own. He even could have decided to turn around, rather than ruining the promise of his career and the playoff chances of his team in selfish defense of his own ego. But instead he chose to make the transformation from basketball player to street fighter, from representative of David Stern's world class NBA to common thug.

Ron Artest's actions may have been just the sort of thing to make his album go gold or platinum, but he had to realize that his decision making would not endear him to his employer. "The actions of the players involved wildly exceeded the professionalism and self-control that should fairly be expected from NBA players," Stern said in a prepared statement, adding that the league must not "allow our sport to be debased by what seems to be declining expectations." Hard to argue with that.

Anyone who watches ESPN or sports coverage on their local newscast has seen the footage. They saw how Ron Artest took a bad situation and made it far worse. They stared in shock as he crossed the line, both figuratively and literally, that is drawn between spectator and professional athlete. The brawl was instigated neither by Ron Artest's foul nor Ben Wallace's response to it, but by a mindless fan in expensive seats who threw an overpriced drink into the fray. Fans are allowed to cheer or shout disapproval to their heart's content during games. But when an object or substance is thrown on to a court or field of play, it can create a dangerous situation. If law enforcement possesses film that shows who the culprit was, they should definitely take action against the individual. As for the players who were involved in the mayhem, they are David Stern's responsibility, and he wasted little time dishing out punishment. Four players were suspended for a game apiece because they left their bench area. Ben Wallace was suspended for six games and Anthony Johnson of the Pacers was suspended for five. Indiana's Stephen Jackson was suspended for 30 games and Jermaine O'Neal for 25, since they were especially active participants in the madness. As for Mr. Artest, he can spend the rest of the season actively promoting his album, because he will not be allowed to play in Commissioner Stern's basketball league, or to collect his paychecks.

Ron Artest has not exactly been a choirboy during his time in the NBA, so his actions came as no big surprise. As for David Stern's harsh reaction, there will be those who disagree with its severity, and the Player's Association will probably contest it. But with a really great deal comes minimal responsibility. Ron Artest was able to enjoy all the perks of being young, rich, and famous. To maintain them, he needed only to play the game of basketball and keep his pampered fists to himself. This proved too difficult a task for him. David Stern's hand was forced to make a strong statement against chaos, and that is precisely what he did.

I shake my head at Ron Artest's folly, but I can't claim to be mad at him. For however much harm he caused, at least his actions hushed ridiculous overreaction to the "scandalous" commercial starring Terrell Owens and Nicollette Sheridan that showed during Monday Night Football recently. Janet Jackson's breast are bared before Justin Timberlake during halftime at the Super Bowl and people lose their minds. Nicollette Sheridan drops her towel to tantalize the controversial TO and people do likewise, even though it's just a silly commercial and no naughty bits are actually exposed. Outrage seems to be the automatic reaction in this country whenever sexuality is displayed between an attractive black person and an attractive white person. Well, maybe not all the time, but certainly when it shows up unexpectedly on national TV during prime time. After all, we have the precious sensibilities of our children to protect. Those who protest all things lewd will no doubt continue to raise a fuss. But the talking heads of sports need not concern themselves any longer with the uncomfortable subject of inappropriate sexual content, because the more familiar subject of reckless violence has surfaced and taken its rightful place at center stage.

When Sports Stood Still

 

My main purpose for embarking on this series of articles was to examine the variety of issues contained within the arena of sports, and to illustrate how sports reflect the value system and moral ambiguities being struggled with by society at large. Sports serve as a metaphor for the everyday complexities facing the Everyman, while simultaneously being a pleasant diversion from real life. But on certain occasions, often those that are grave in nature, the worlds of sports and reality collide. It is then that everyone from casual viewers to the most fanatical followers of how the balls bounce are forcibly reminded that after all is said and done, sports are no more or less than the games men and women play. And sometimes playtime, at least temporarily, must come to a halt.

There is no need for me to recount the awful events of September 11, for they are permanently imprinted on our minds, visions of terror endlessly replaying before our disbelieving eyes. Prominent among the reasons being credited for the terrorists’ heinous acts of war against America is a desire to disrupt and dismantle our way of life. Our enemies want to intimidate us into surrendering the freedoms that we cherish, yet have come to take for granted. To surrender our inalienable rights to live freely is to grant our enemies victory. In order to claim victory for ourselves, despite the tremendous number of lives lost and devastation wrought, we must carry on. We must continue to participate in our passions, ranging from the critical to the leisurely, for these acts are part of what defines us as Americans.

It goes without saying that professional sports comprises a large sized portion of the American way. Not this week, however. Although most television stations are running the news 24/7, sports are not part of the program. It’s as if they have ceased to exist. Last week the stretch run of the baseball season was underway. This week, Major League games have been postponed until Monday at the earliest. Last weekend the NFL kicked off its season. This Sunday was supposed to be filled with week two games. That plan has been scrapped. Major League Soccer has canceled the remainder of its regular season games. The NHL has canceled this week’s scheduled preseason games. NASCAR events and PGA tournaments have been nixed. The highly anticipated middleweight title unification bout between Felix Trinidad and Bernard Hopkins has been postponed. So too have been college football games and Davis Cup match play. Sports junkies have no choice but to go into withdrawal.

The argument for these postponements and cancellations is overwhelmingly strong. Respect and honor must be paid to those who were killed, those who may possibly be clinging to their lives beneath tons of rubble, and those who work tirelessly to find them. Our nation is on the verge of war, the lives of our soldiers will be put in peril, so this too must be acknowledged. The very least we can do is miss a few sporting events.

Those who protest, although not too strenuously, feel that the enemies of freedom must be shown that we are unbroken and unbowed. By going forth with the business of living in a democracy rather than a police state, we will discourage future acts of terrorism by showing that they are ineffectual when it comes to breaking our collective spirit. This is a valid point. But I can’t help but reflect on the sobering fact that Giants stadium, home of both the NY Giants and Jets, is currently being utilized as a gigantic makeshift morgue. We must and we will move on, but everything must take place in due course. Football can wait. Sports can survive a brief hibernation. The games we love will be played again, just not right away. America should take a moment of reflection, not because we have been weakened, but to ultimately be more resolved than ever. Sports can work wonderfully as metaphor, allegory, entertainment, and a way to escape. But before escaping, this great nation of ours has some harsh reality to face.

The NFL's Naughty Words List

 

You may remember the NFL’s actions against the cable soap opera, Playmakers. Well, they are at it again, once more going on the attack against freedom of expression. And since the big wigs who run pro football are apparently a bit cheap and rather lazy in addition to being proponents of censorship, they’ve automated the process of squashing free speech. It’s certainly not my intention to equate the NFL with the firemen in the novel Fahrenheit 451 who went about burning books that weren’t on the approved list. The NFL almost had their heart in the right place when they set their current procedures in place. Their goal was to restrict people from associating the NFL brand with obscenity or vulgarity. I can understand that. Personalized pro sports team jerseys has become big business in recent years, accounting for 20 percent of the NFLShop.com’s $60 million in annual revenues. But the way players move from team to team with such frequency nowadays due to free agency, it has become a risky proposition to purchase the jersey of your favorite player on your favorite team. Chances are that in a year or two he will be playing for a different team, rendering your expensive purchase obsolete. Better to put your own name, or nickname, or a favorite phrase on the jersey, since you won’t be traded or have the opportunity to accept an offer from another team with more salary cap space.

To accommodate this demand, yet also keep firm control of its officially licensed products by prohibiting fans from selecting words/phrases that were offensive and crossed the lines of good taste, a dirty word filter was installed at the NFL’s online store. This filter prevents a list of 1,159 banned words from being selected. So what could go wrong? Shortly after the last Super Bowl, a Louisiana State professor tried to purchase a jersey. The champion Patriots rookie cornerback Randall Gay happened to be a former student of the professor, and since he isn’t a big name player whose jersey could easily be found in a nearby Modell’s or Sports Authority, she decided to buy a personalized jersey to honor Randall. Her request was promptly rejected. A message popped up stating, “This field should not contain a naughty word”. This is how she learned that ‘Gay’ is one of the 1,159 words considered objectionable by the NFL. Site employees lifted the block on the word just long enough for the professor to place her order, then immediately reinstated it. As result, when Barry Gay of Raleigh, NC attempted to purchase a personalized jersey with his own last name, he too was rejected. Since it turns out that he is a homosexual, Barry was doubly insulted. If he happens to have a gay friend by the name of Susan Lesbian who supports her local team through the apparel she wears, she will also be disappointed and dismayed. At least she can take solace in the fact that ‘Gay’ has now been permanently removed from the lis.

As for me, a diehard New York Jets fan, I can’t believe I do not have the option of purchasing a Reggie Tongue jersey. Apparently ‘Tongue’ is a naughty word, along with other such peculiar selections as Athletes Foot, Barf, Black Out, Dome, Hostage, Primetime, Sweetness, Showtime, and Tang. Fans wanting to honor Jesus Christ will be rejected. Those who opt to worship Satan will receive the same treatment. Anybody choosing to give props to a murderer such as Raw Carruth will be turned down. O.J. Simpson remains up for grabs though.

Rather than rejecting a name outright because it appears on their list, you would think the NFL could install a system that would alert a buyer that a certain jersey name might not meet their criteria, but giving this person a chance to explain the choice via email. Now that the list has become public knowledge and a seemingly irresistible topic for late night talk show comedy material, perhaps the NFL will get around to taking such action. They have certainly shown themselves to be responsive in recent days, banning names such as the ever popular ‘Bin Laden” now that everybody with an internet connection who has been alerted to this Public Relations nightmare can respond to it by trying to see what insane profanity they can come up with that will bypass the filter.

Lucky for me, ‘Pickering’ has not been deemed an offensive name. Yet I can’t help but ponder the fact that it was somebody’s job to come up with the list of 1,159 (continuously expanding and diminishing simultaneously) banned words. Is it my imagination, or does pretty much everybody have a more interesting day job than mine?

Dear Evander

 

Dear Evander,

I am a great admirer of your boxing career. Even though there were a couple nights throughout the years when I found myself rooting against you, typically you were this fan's favorite. I have always considered you to be an exceptional pugilist and a class act. Your boxing career is a unique one, seemingly scripted by Sylvester Stallone in Rocky-like fashion. You frequently seemed to be facing insurmountable odds, yet more often than not, you would find a way to prevail. When you came up short, your efforts were so heroic that even in defeat you epitomized the essence of a champion.

I have never idealized you. Your flaws are as apparent as your strengths. To the former, there are various babies mamas who will attest. But as an athlete, you have been a consistent source of inspiration and worthy subject of admiration. At your natural size in your original Cruiserweight division, you were the best there has ever been. Yet rather than relaxing atop a perch that you could not be removed from, you moved on to bigger and greater challenges, both figuratively and literally. Your goal was to become Heavyweight champion of the world, and although you were often the smaller man in the ring, you usually displayed the bigger heart. As result, you accomplished your objective no less than four times over.

Unlike many pro boxers, fans never got the impression that you took your success for granted or took any opponent lightly. You always entered the ring in top shape, were always aggressive from the opening bell, and always continued to fight hard round after round until there was no more fighting to be done. When setbacks came, you did not succumb to them. Even when your health appeared to be the one foe you could not vanquish, you managed to defy the prognosis that your heart was not up to any more challenges. Your three fight series of battles versus Riddick Bowe forever defined you, even though Riddick twice emerged victorious, as one of boxing's all-time great warriors. When you defeated the Big Bad Wolf known as Mike Tyson back when he was still able to huff and puff and blow his adversaries away, your legacy was set in stone. And although you were able to accomplish no more than a draw against Lennox Lewis, it was apparent to everyone that you were the one perpetually moving in for the kill while he used his considerable height and reach advantage to keep you at bay. He got to keep his belts, but you were never shortchanged the respect that you earned from us.

Winning your fourth Heavyweight championship belt against John Ruiz should have been enough to satisfy your great ambition, just as beating Leon Spinks should have been enough to make Muhammad Ali retire for good way back when. At 42 years of age, with millions of dollars in your bank account rather than mostly diverted into Don King's, you ought to be content looking back on what was a remarkable career. They say it is difficult for many boxers, even those fortunate few with financial security, to leave the sport gracefully. Lennox Lewis proved to be the exception to this rule by going out on top even as challengers called him out daily. There was nothing left for him to prove, just a life of leisure outside the ring that he was anxious to move on to. But for every Lennox Lewis, there are far more boxers who fight well beyond the day that their reflexes have considerably dulled.

Evander, you are stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the obvious and concede that your best days are behind you. You have set out to once again become the undisputed Heavyweight champion of the world. Your opponents know this will not be happening. You have ceased to strike fear into them. Your most avid fans have accepted that a new era in the heavyweight division has dawned, and you are not part of that picture. They are not being disloyal, merely realistic. Two of your previous trainers have said that they wish you would retire. They have only your best interests at heart. Critics state both plainly and eloquently that the time has come for you to hang up your mitts. They're merely calling things as they see them. As we have come to learn about you over the years however, the more vocally people proclaim that a task is beyond your ability to achieve, the more passionately you strive to prove them wrong. The strength of your conviction has become your greatest weakness, because there is no convincing you that on any given night in the ring, you cannot summon the skills from your younger days and deliver another performance for the ages. The same belief in self that allowed you to become a champion is now the danger you are unable to protect yourself from.

Boxing is a young man's game, yet it has had its share of late bloomers. You are three years younger than George Foreman was in 1994 when he regained the world heavyweight title. Archie Moore was competitive at a ripe age, as is Bernard Hopkins currently. Perhaps this motivates you. If so, please consider looking elsewhere for inspiration. After James Toney came up in weight and gave you a boxing clinic, I thought that would be the last time I ever saw you in the ring. I thought your body would rebound, but your pride had been damaged beyond repair. I was wrong about that, just as you are wrong not to see that you are not the fighter you used to be. Last weekend you fought 37 year old journeyman, Larry Donald. Although a credible fighter, he has been dominated every time he's tried to move up in class against a quality opponent. There was a time when you would have considered him barely worthy to be one of your sparring partners. Yet you were thoroughly dominated by an average fighter whose best days are behind him. The scorecards had you winning no more than a single round. Ringside stats credited Larry Donald with landing 216 punches, compared with only 78 landed by you. You looked old and uncoordinated and slower than molasses running uphill. You have won only twice in your last nine fights. Yet when the inevitable question was asked, you once again insisted that you will not call it quits until regaining the heavyweight title.

There is nothing left for your fans to do but fear for the worst. They know what happened to Greg Page, a former champion who now views the world from his wheelchair. Eventually a younger, bigger, quicker, stronger man will make a name for himself at your expense, and you will be carried out of the ring not on your shield, but on a stretcher. If lucky, the damage inflicted on you will be short term. But luck is very fickle, particularly in boxing, and perhaps you've already used up your share.

Consider becoming a boxing commentator. One of the television or cable networks may be interested in creating a reality TV show about your exploits after boxing - The Real Deal World. If Ron Artest is qualified to record a rap album, then surely you're qualified to record a gospel album. It's never too late to take acting lessons and go knocking on Hollywood's door. Charitable work can keep a person quite busy, plus make you feel great about yourself in the process. There are innumerable opportunities for you to pursue. You have fame, wealth, and your health. That is definitely a winning combination. If you can't think of anything at this moment more rewarding than fighting, instead of signing another contract with Don King or Bob Arum or Satan, try thinking a little longer until something occurs to you. You still have many years ahead of you. Do you wish to spend them in an incoherent state, being attended to by a full time nurse wiping drool from your chin?

Evander, you appreciate nothing as much as a challenge, the more difficult the better, so I pose this one to you. Show us that you possess the mental, spiritual, and intellectual strength to walk away from the ring now. Prove to us that you are not just another stereotypical fighter determined to have a punch drunk future because you cannot let go of your glorious past. We'll always remember you as one of the great ones. We are already suitably impressed by your accomplishments. Your résumé will reserve a place for you in boxing's Hall of Fame. So please exercise some wisdom rather than muscle and show us that you truly are the Real Deal, not merely another real tragedy.

Casualties of Sports - RIP Beethavean Scottland and Korey Stringer

On June 26th of 2001 several boxing matches were staged on the Intrepid, a retired aircraft carrier moored on the Hudson River. The evening of fisticuffs was televised by ESPN 2, and I happened to catch what was expected to be a routine roundup of Tuesday night fights. Instead, I witnessed a tragedy of the sort that no dramatized screenplay or reality television program can truly replicate.

Light heavyweight George Khalid Jones had been scheduled to do battle against David Telesco. When Telesco was forced to pull out due to a broken nose suffered during training camp, the search for a replacement opponent turned up 26 year old Beethavean Scottland. Scottland had been in training to fight Glen Burnie on June 21, but Burnie was injured three days before he was to step into the ring. And so it came to be that George Jones faced off against Beethavean Scottland. Jones weighed in the day before at four pounds heavier than his opponent, but the weight disparity appeared more like ten pounds on fight night according to ringside observers. Being the bigger and stronger man, Jones dominated the action in a brutal contest. Referee Arthur Mercante seemed on the verge of stopping the contest on two or three occasions, but whenever it looked like Jones was doing little more than pounding away on a barely animated punching bag, Scottland would retaliate with a flurry of his own to show that he was still a game competitor with a puncher's chance to turn the tide of the fight. Each round mirrored its predecessor. The undefeated Jones demonstrating his superior ring skills in a merciless manner, the 20-6-1 Scottland showing if nothing else - his great will, pride, and heart. Unfortunately the attributes displayed by Scottland can sometimes result in far more harm than good. An overmatched warrior subjects himself to considerable harm where a more cowardly nature will caution one to run away in order to fight another day.

Scottland's tenacity enabled him to have his best moments towards the end of the fight. By continuing to come forward in the face of Jones' barrages, Beethaeven managed to win the eighth and ninth rounds on the scorecards of all three judges. His chances at victory were quite obviously slim to none, but no one would dare say that this was due to lack of effort. Then in the tenth and final round with a scant 37 seconds left to fight, Jones caught Scottland flush with a vicious, short right. Scottland crumpled and dropped to the mat. By the time he reached a count of three, Mercante saw that there was no need to continue. The courageous Scottland would not be rising to finish on his feet.

Initially he was conscious and attempted gamely to get up. But after a few seconds of flailing about, he became disturbingly still. He had fallen into a coma. He was put on a stretcher and rushed to a hospital where two operations were performed to relieve pressure on his brain. But it was too little too late. Six days later Scottland died in Bellevue hospital, leaving behind his wife Denise, a daughter Chanelle, 8, and a son, Beethavean Jr., 2, earning $7,000 plus expenses for his trouble.

Boxers being killed by the practice of their trade is not something you see everyday. But it is a little too common an occurrence for comfort. Since 1970, more than 50 professional fighters have died from boxing related injuries. The Jones-Scottland fight is but the latest sad piece of evidence that much work remains to be done in order to fully legitimize boxing, whose participants do not yet have a mandatory retirement fund or guaranteed medical coverage. People like Senator John McCain urge the formation of a national commission to regulate boxing. Two pieces of legislation spearheaded by McCain that aim at protecting boxers and cleaning up the sport have passed in recent years. Perhaps the time is soon to come when boxing will more closely resemble the structure of the NBA, NFL, NHL, MLB, etc., and come off less as a merciless opportunity for the few to make millions at the expense of the many who routinely shed sweat, blood, and sometimes their very lives. But even if this time had already come to pass, would the events of June 26th have turned out any differently? Would Beethavean Scottland still be alive? Probably not. As long as boxing remains a sport where men throw punches at one another with bad intentions, there will always be the chance of someone going down for the count.

Boxing is not the only sport that contains the risk of serious injury or worse. Twenty-seven year old Korey Stringer, an offensive lineman for the Minnesota Vikings, recently suffered heatstroke and died during training camp, leaving behind his wife Kelci, and three year old son, Kodie. That a man went from being a Pro Bowl football player to a nationally known casualty of sport is seen mostly as an aberration instead of a call to arms, being that it was the very first incident of its kind in the NFL. It is actually more common on the high school level than in the pro ranks for athletes to pay a grave price for training to be in peak shape. Long gone are the days when pro football players practiced for a couple of hard hours before being given permission to take a water break. It's no longer considered unmanly for a player to listen to the distress signals being sent out by his body. Sure, there are those who are outraged and cry out for radical changes to be made. They want the players to be better protected from their own desire to excel so that they may earn playing time. But the fact is that all of the proper precautions were taken that should have prevented Stringer from meeting such an early demise for so frivolous a reason. Does the existence of the multiple safeguards that were in place but made no difference make this tragedy more senseless or less? Does the seeming lack of people to blame make Stringer's death easier or more difficult to swallow? These are questions without answers. The only thing definitive at the end of these queries is a corpse that was once a young man with most of his promising life ahead of him.

In a sport where huge men ram into each other at full speed; where they prepare for the rigors of a full contact winter season by pushing themselves to the limit beneath the blazing summer sun; it is inevitable that on certain unexpected but fully comprehensible occasions, somebody will go down for the count. And so it goes.