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.

The GenericCorporateSponsor.com Bowl

Because I work in the sports world, go to a lot of games and am engaged to a sponsorship and marketing expert, I've become somewhat of an advertising snob.  In fact, my first true post on Caught Looking was about how Citi Field's outfield is completely plastered with ads, and how the Yellow Pages-esque view takes away from the ballpark's otherwise beautiful look and feel.  This isn't to say I'm some sort of old fashioned geezer who wants all corporate references removed from my sports - I understand that corporate affiliations are a vital part of each professional sports team's business, and find that in some instances sponsors can actually add value to the game experience.  All of the random sponsored college bowl games that have cropped up over the last several years, however, are not examples of sponsors adding value to the sporting events they attach their names and logos too.  In an effort to grow revenues, the NCAA has over expanded its bowl schedule and lessened the significance of making it to the college football postseason.

Last night I tuned in to ESPN for some of the Belk Bowl between Duke and Cincinnati, and I learned a couple of things.  First, I learned that Belk is more than the name of a random college bowl game played in Charlotte, NC - it's actually a chain of department stores with locations throughout the southeast.  Interestingly, I ddn't learn this from watching the Belk Bowl - not once did anyone mention what Belk was or why they were sponsoring one of the NCAA's 35 college bowl games.  In my Googling spree I also learned that while Belk does have over 50 locations in Duke's home state of North Carolina, they don't exist anywhere in Ohio and only have a few locations in border state Kentucky.  Why the Belk Bowl wouldn't include two teams from within Belk's regional footprint (the company has 16 states with stores to choose from), is beyond me.  Last, I looked up the Belk Bowl on Wikipedia and found out that  the game, which matches the ACC's #5 team against the Big East's #3 team, has changed names three times since its inception in 2002.  Originally founded as the Queen City Bowl, the game rotated through two other sponsors (Continental Tires and Meineke Car Care) before shifting to Belk for the first time last year.

A small crowd watched Cincinnati toak home the 2012 Belk Bowl title in Charlotte.

I'm picking on the Belk Bowl here because it's a game I actually watched, but a similar story is true for all of the NCAA's fringe bowl games.  They all feature random sponsors that are in no way integrated into the flow of the game, with no logical relationship to the teams playing or geographic regions represented.  There's zero fan recognition because the title sponsors change so often, the games are rarely memorable and there are too many of them to keep track of.  To top it all off, different bowls have sponsors that are arguably competitors - like Little Caesars and Chick-Fil-A, for example - that makes things particularly confusing.  The NCAA has created a college bowl landscape that is littered with random corporate tie-ins, which has made it very hard to create any sense of history or tradition.  Unlike NCAA basketball's post-season tournament, which is filled with memorable moments throughout its history, few of college football's bowls are thought of for more than their funny names.

What does it mean to win the Belk Bowl?  Is this something for Cincinnati to be proud of, or should they be disappointed that they're not playing in a bigger postseason game?  Should Duke be content with breaking the school's 18-year-long bowl-less streak thanks to the Belk Bowl invite?  Because of the inflated number of college bowl games and the inconsistency of the matchups from year to year, it's nearly impossible for players, coaches or fans to truly weigh the significance (if any) of a lower tier bowl game.  College football's current bowl structure leaves every bowl champion (except the national champion) with an unsatisfying feel of "what could have been," and despite the photo above I can't believe that Cincinnati is overjoyed with the way its season ended.  Unfortunately, if companies like Belk, AdvoCare and TaxSlayer.com keep putting up money for bowl title sponsorships, we won't be getting rid of these irrelevant postseason games in favor of a better system any time soon.