Part of the Action

Though I've been to Cameron Indoor Stadium previously, this Saturday was my first chance to attend a game at what is arguably college basketball's mots famous venue.  After more than two seasons of unsuccessfully trying to get to a Duke home game, I finally got my chance to see the Blue Devils take on current ACC rival (and future Big Ten afterthought) Maryland for a Saturday matinee.  Heading into the game, my expectations for the experience were sky high - there was seemingly no way that the contest could possibly live up to the lofty expectations that I had developed over the past few seasons of watching Duke basketball.  And yet, somehow, it did.  I can honestly say that my first experience at Cameron Indoor was one of the more memorable sports experiences of my lifetime - something I suggest that all sports fans put towards the top of their Bucket Lists.

When you get to an NBA arena about 30 minutes before tip-off, even if it's Miami at Los Angeles, the building is virtually guaranteed to be empty.  At Cameron Indoor, however, the energy level was high well before the game started.  The student section - or Cameron Crazies as they are affectionately known - were in full force from the moment we walked in, and remained engaged in the game throughout.  Even as Duke began to pull away in the second half, the fans never got bored.  No one left even a minute early, despite the fact that the Blue Devils built a 20-point second half lead and emptied the bench in the final minutes.  It was really quite different from the NBA and college basketball experiences that I'm used to, almost as if the fans were there for more than just a basketball game.

For one of the last times as a member of the ACC, Maryland visited Cameron Indoor Stadium.

If there was an overarching theme that emerged from my first Cameron experience, it was the sense that the Duke fans feel like they are truly part of each individual piece of the game.  Whereas the fans at an NBA contest are there to watch their favorite stars, the Cameron Crazies (and, by extention, the rest of the fans in attendance) are themselves part of the show, working hard to affect every single play.  From their in-game rituals to their clever signs and chants, the Crazies work hard to make an impact on the outcome of the game.  Combine the student section with the band and the mascot and you get a multi-sensory game experience that was unlike any basketball game I had ever been a part of.  As you can see from the picture above, I had a great seat - but even if you're sitting in the last row, I bet you'd feel connected to the rest of the fans such that it wouldn't really matter.  At a Duke game, it's more about feeling than it is about watching. 

View from my seat just beyond the outstretched arms of the Cameron Crazies.

Aside from a small pool of Maryland red located just beyond the Terps bench (see above), the entire arena was a sea of Duke blue and (unfortunately, for the uniform purist in me) black.  Perhaps it was the fact that I had a great view of the game, or maybe it was because the Dukies were coming off of a terrible road loss at Miami, but never before had I seen so much emotion from athletes playing in a regular season game.  After being there, though, it makes a ton of sense - the roar of the crowd, the tightness of the arena and the magnitude of the game (a CBS-televised weekend afternoon game against a conference rival) had clearly rubbed off on the Duke players, propelling them to a higher level.  Take a look at Duke's results this year and you'll notice that they lost convincingly to both NC State and Miami - both on the road.  When the Wolfpack and Hurricanes have to come to Cameron Indoor Stadium later this season, however, I'm betting it'll be a much different story.

Trouble with the Curve: A Review

Believe it or not, my favorite movie of all time is Major League.  I'm admittedly a sucker for cliched sports movies - from The Mighty Ducks to Rocky - and love a good underdog story (including Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story, of course, shameful Lance Armstrong cameo not withstanding).  There's something about the highly predictable David-over-Goliath climax that I can't get enough of, no matter how ridiculous the film is.  This only applies, however, to movies like the ones mentioned above that don't take themselves too seriously.  As long as the film doesn't try to be anything more than a fun sports movie, I'm all for it.  When a movie shifts over into For Love of the Game territory, however, I draw the line.  Thus begins my review of Clint Eastwood's Trouble with the Curve.

Let me start with the usual caveats.  I saw this movie on a United Airlines flight from New York to Miami, so I didn't get a full cinematic experience.  That being said, the best thing I can say about Eastwood's most recent film is that, at 111 minutes, it took up basically the entire flight.  The worst I can say?  Where should I begin? Let's start with a brief synopsis.  You can read more here, but the plot is essentially exactly what you'd expect it to be: Eastwood plays an old-school baseball scout for the Atlanta Braves whose health and eyesight are deteriorating as he travels around North Carolina following a high school baseball prospect.  His daughter (Amy Adams) joins him on the roadtrip to made sure he's doing OK, despite Eastwood's solitary style.  While on the trip, Adams gets close to a rival scout (Justin Timberlake), and they all learn a lot about baseball, love and family along the way.

Sigh.

I would have been more disappointed if I had paid anything to see this movie.

As much as I like predictable baseball movies, Trouble with the Curve was just awful - and this coming from one of the only people in America that genuinely liked Eastwood's Gran Torino.  Every character in this movie is way over-dramatized, from the cocky (and unintentionally hilarious) high school prospect to the Moneyball-types that populate the Atlanta GM's office.  In an obvious effort to create some memorable, non-traditional baseball characters, the movie goes way overboard - everyone in the film has way too much personality, to the point that the film quickly becomes exhausting and unrealistic.  Even if you can look past the fact that the Braves are supposedly employing a scout that can't see well enough to drive (which, frankly, I couldn't), there are dozens of other "what the . . .?" moments throughout the movie that I found incredibly distracting.  No offense to the daughters of any baseball scouts, but there's just no way that a woman could out-scout a bunch of pros after spending years away from the game to pursue law school and a career at a top-notch law firm.

Again, if Trouble with the Curve acknowledged how absurd its entire plot is, I'd have been OK with it.  I have no problem with Major League's plot, even when the Indians pulls an ex-convict out of prison, give him a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and turn him into Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn.  Eastwood's movie is so self-righteous, though - as if it's teaching you things about baseball and life that you never even imagined before - that it just drove me nuts.  Had I paid money to see this in the theaters - which I almost did, only to be talked off the ledge by a mediocre Metacritic score - I'd have been genuinely pissed.  As airplane movies go, I've seen worse - but this was still pretty bad.  In a sentence, I had a lot of Trouble with this Movie.

Me, Tobey and Leo

For me, the 2012-13 NBA season started out with a bang - if you recall, I sat just a few rows behind the court for the Knicks home opener versus the Miami Heat, just feet from Justin Tuck, Mary J. Blige and a host of other New York-area celebrities.  On Thursday evening I once again got to see LeBron James and Dwyane Wade play on the road, this time at Staples Center against the Los Angeles Lakers.  Much like my opening night experience at Madison Square Garden, Thursday night's game was filled with celebrity sightings and top-notch service - this time with an added dash of Hollywood flair.

My idea of "dinner" at a sporting event is grabbing a couple of hot dogs and sodas and eating them at your seats while you watch pregame warmups.  On Thursday night, however, I started my Lakers game experience with a full sit-down dinner at the Lexus Club, Staples Center's exclusive arena club featuring both a full buffet and an extensive menu of a la carte choices.  The sashimi and cocktails I ate were a far cry from the franks and Cokes that I've become accustomed to - sort of a welcome "when in Rome" situation that really got the evening off on the right foot.  From the Lexus Club I made my way to my seat in Row A in Section 111, just feet from the TNT broadcasters and the celebrities sitting courtside.  That's when the real excitement began.

When I got to my seat just after tip-off (normally not one to miss the official start of a game, the Lexus Club dinner ran just a bit long), the four chairs to my right were unoccupied.  Within minutes, a group of men came walking down the aisle approaching the seats.  I didn't recognize two of the four guys, but the other two just happened to be Tobey Maguire and Leonardo DiCaprio.  For the rest of the game, I sat inches from two of Hollywood's biggest stars, blatantly eavesdropping on their conversations and glancing at them out of the corner of my eye.  From my seat, I also had clear (albeit farther away) looks at Mark Wahlberg, Jack Nicholson (of course), Hillary Duff and Penny Marshall, among others.  The people-watching was so distracting that LeBron's final stat line of 39 points came as a shock to me - while spending so much time trying to take in my surroundings, I somehow lost sight of what was going on in the game.

Yours truly was sitting to the left of the guy in the Dodgers hat.

The other particularly cool part of the Lakers vs. Heat experience was the access to the Chairman's Room, a lounge located in the tunnels of the Staples Center where celebrities hang out during halftime and after the game.  Physically, the Chairman's Room is just a small room with a bar and a few bowls of nuts and popcorn lying around - one of the least spectacular places in the otherwise-impressive arena.  Given the fact that the Room is the place where the "Who's Who" of Lakers fans hangs out during games, there was something special about grabbing a postgame beer there.  During a night that was more about the people watching the game than the athletes playing in it, the Chairman's Room access was the perfect way to end an entertaining Heat victory.  

The Great Hall of Fame Debate

Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire will forever be linked by the 1998 homerun chase that brought Major League Baseball back after the 1994 strike and resulted in Big Mac breaking Roger Maris' single season homerun record.  Now, the two former sluggers are also going to be linked by another common bond - guys who aren't getting into the Baseball Hall of Fame any time soon.  For only the eighth time ever, the the Baseball Writers Association of America didn't vote anyone in to the Hall of Fame this past Wednesday, leaving guys who once looked like shoe-ins - Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens and Sosa included - on the outside looking in.  Like many current Hall of Famers, including Goose Gossage, I applaud the decision - these guys cheated, and they should never be rewarded for breaking their sport's rules.

I do think there is an interesting Hall of Fame debate brewing that doesn't feature names like Bonds, Clemens or McGwire, though.  There are a number of steroids-era players with excellent career numbers that will be fringe Hall of Famers in the coming years - some of whom have never (or at least rarely) been even accused of using PEDs.  From Craig Biggio to Fred McGriff to Edgar Martinez, there are a number of supposedly-clean guys that I grew up watching with credentials that are borderline worthy of the Hall of Fame.  Will we get to listen to a Biggio or a McGriff make a Cooperstown induction speech some time down the road?  This is where an interesting debate is beginning to crop up.

On one hand, if the Hall of Fame is supposed to be reserved for the best players of a given era, then someone like the Crime Dog probably comes up short.  As impressive as his career totals are, and as badly as I want to argue otherwise because I loved him when he played for Atlanta from 1993-1997, I wouldn't say that McGriff was ever really among baseball's best.  On the other hand, the guys who were the best during McGriff's prime were being powered by bovine hormones - it's not really fair that the Crime Dog played first base at the same time at McGwire, Rafael Palmiero and Jeff Bagwell.  So what are the Hall of Fame voters to do?  Even if we agree that the steroid users shouldn't get in, does that necessarily mean that we should reclassify McGriff as the best first baseman of the 1990s?

The other issue with McGriff's candidacy is even more unfortunate.  Even though no one has ever really accused McGriff of any wrongdoing, just the fact that he played at the same time as McGwire, Sosa and Clemens casts a huge shadow of a doubt over the legitimacy of his career.  The same can be said for Griffey Jr. and even Derek Jeter - we'll just never really know who was clean and who wasn't, and baseball's steroids era was so significant that most players are treated as guilty until proven innocent.  I know the Hall of Fame would absolutely hate to induct a guy like McGriff only later to discover than he was using PEDs during his career.  As a result, will the BBWAA play it safe and leave all 1990s-era power hitters off of their ballots?

The last time the BBWAA didn't elect anyone (1996), the top three vote-getters were elected within a few years (Phil Niekro in 1997, Don Sutton in 1998 and Tony Perez in 2000) - clearly there's still hope for this year's top vote-getters Biggio, Jack Morris, Bagwell and Mike Piazza.  As the accused in this group continue to fade away, though, will spots open for guys like McGriff and Martinez, currently further down on the 2013 list with less than 40% of the vote?  Or will the votes for any steroids-era player continue to drop until we're all forced to pretend like the 1990s and early 2000s never happened?  Let the debate continue in the comments below.

In Can Only Get Better

Last night, with Notre Dame trailing 28-0 at halftime of the BCS National Championship game, I flipped over to the Knicks versus Celtics game on MSG and never flipped back.  Granted, I'm a big Knicks fan and try to watch as many games as I can - especially big Eastern Conference matchups against rivals like Boston - but the fact that I completely lost interest in the second half of what should have been the most exciting game of the college football season says a lot more about the current NCAA postseason system than it does about my growing obsession with New York basketball.  Without a doubt, last night's championship game was a total embarassment for the NCAA, for ESPN and for the schools involved.

Most people seem to be placing the blame on Notre Dame for its admittedly pathetic showing against a vastly superior Alabama team.  I, however, refuse to blame the Fighting Irish.  Sure, they could have played a lot better, and their much-talked-about defense - which was compared constantly to Alabama's during the weeks leading up to last night's game - didn't come close to living up to its reputation.  The blame, however, lies with the BCS system that allowed a Notre Dame vs. Alabama national championship game in the first place.  Clearly, hindsight is 20/20, and it's now easy to say that Notre Dame wasn't the second best team in the country this year despite its previously unblemished record.  But the fact that Notre Dame never really had to be tested on its road to Miami (minus a home game versus Stanford where the outcome was very much in question) is just another glaring failure of the pre-playoff BCS system.

It's not just the National Championship where the NCAA and the BCS failed college football fans, however.  Take a look at the other BCS games this season, and you'll see a recurring pattern.  The Stanford victory over Wisconsin was at least close, even though anyone who watched the game will tell you that the Cardinal manhandled the Badgers - and the 3-0 second half lacked the big moments you hope for from the Rose Bowl. For some reason the BCS felt compelled to get a non-BCS conference school into a BCS game again - even though there wasn't a Boise State-type of mid-major team this year - and as a result Northern Illinois got smacked by Florida State in the Orange Bowl.  The Fiesta Bowl between Oregon and Kansas State wasn't much better, as a Wildcats team that slowed down the stretch ran into the buzzsaw that is Oregon's offense.  The Sugar Bowl was admittedly somewhat exciting, with underdog Louisville topping SEC powerhouse Florida, but even that game wasn't as close as the 33-23 final score suggests.

If there was a playoff this season, all of these games could have been first round matchups.  Rather than ending the season on the uninspired note that was last night's 42-12 Alabama win, we could have been headed for a semifinal round featuring some combination of Florida State, Stanford, Oregon, Alabama and Louisville (maybe).  While the BCS's inadequacies have been much talked about, this season's BCS bowl season was perhaps the best illustration of the system's many weaknesses.  When the NCAA moves to a playoff system in two years, fans and analysts will undoubtedly start complaining about the new system's shortcomings - just like people complain when the March Madness brackets emerge each Selection Sunday.  While airing these future complaints, though, don't lose sight of how bad this year's BCS bowls were.  Going forward, it can only get better.  

Time For A Change

For those of you that know me, you've probably already heard what you're about to read at least half a dozen times - if you want to go back to reading TMZ or something, I won't blame you.  After Tuesday's Rose Bowl game, though, its time to finally get it down on paper.  So, here it goes: I HATE the Stanford band.  At this point, the reasons as to why I hate the Stanford band aren't really that important, though they include - but are hardly limited to - a) the fact that all of the "musicians" are absolutely terrible at playing musical instruments, b) the group's annoying and tired anti-establishment, "we're too good to organize ourselves" style and c) the way the percussion section substitutes sinks, trash can lids and just about anything else made of metal for drums.  We get it - you can hit pretty much anything with drumsticks and it will make a sound.

I mean . . . What the hell is this?

There's nothing wrong with being weird.  Ask anyone close to me and they'll likely tell you that, at times, I can be as weird people come.  If the kids in the Stanford band want to get together and put on bizarre outfits while jamming on their saxophones, tubas and, yes, garbage can covers, that's fine with me.  After spending two years in Palo Alto, I can say with confidence that there are tons of weird people doing tons of weird things pretty much all the time at Stanford, and I have absolutely no problem with it.  So what's my beef with the Stanford band, you ask?  Well, unlike the underwater hockey squad, the juggling association or the quiddich team, the band gets a completely unearned national audience in front of which to unveil its collective weirdness.  As a result, the Stanford band consistently damages the Stanford brand, and it's really starting to drive me nuts.

All of this comes at a time when Stanford University is seeking to add "football powerhouse" to a list of collegiate accolades that includes top-notch academics, beautiful campus and near perfect weather.  After weathering the losses of coach John Harbaugh and later quarterback Andrew Luck to return to a third consecutive BCS bowl game - Tuesday's 20-14 victory over B1G champion Wisconsin - you'd be crazy not to consider Stanford a top-ten college football program.  Unless, however, you watched the Stanford band perform during halftime or after the end of the Rose Bowl.  In that case, you're probably wondering "how can I take a football program seriously when its band looks like, well, that?"  And you know what?  I don't have an answer for you.  Watching Stanford's band perform on the same field as Wisconsin's was like watching Colorado play football against Stanford this year - it was mostly embarrassing, with a little bit of sadness sprinkled in for good measure.

I have some thoughts about what Stanford should do about the band situation.  My top option consists of blowing up the band (not literally, of course, though I'd be willing to consider that too) and replacing it with a giant walking DJ robot.  It might sound dumb at first, but I challenge you to argue that a technologically-advanced, Gangnam Style-blasting robot would do Stanford University less justice then the current monstrosity that calls itself the Leland Stanford Junior University Marching Band.  No matter that Stanford decides to do instead, it's time to stop trotting the band out onto the field for another nationally televised performance.  The Stanford players, coaches and - most importantly - fans deserve much better.