Sunday, July 26, 2009

Dispatches from the Big Apple: Walking Uptown into the American Dream

The one thing that I wasn't prepared for in my visit to Manhattan was the sheer size of the place--both vertically and horizontally. On my first day in the city I walked for nearly four whole hours. I felt that in that time frame I had accomplished something great. I had explored a vast swath of New York. I had walked through the East Village and Soho, past Little Italy and Chinatown and all the way to Battery Park and then back. Later that night when I checked the map I was amazed not by how much I accomplished--which I had been bragging about off an on the whole evening to my friends--but by the amount that I hadn't seen. In my hours of wandering I had gone no farther north than 14th st.

In my travels I have seen a lot of the country. I have driven through the south, the southwest, the Rocky Mountains, the plains states, etc., and everything I have seen makes me believe that Manhattan is not, in fact, part of this country. It is a different mindset. We are a country of expansion. We build bigger houses, and we commute longer distances to them in our unnecessarily large SUV's. When compared to Detroit or Chicago, New York could just as well be somewhere in Europe, or maybe more appropriately, on the fucking moon. There is no "out" in New York, only "up". Buildings reach ever higher to take space away from the birds and convert it in to yet more lofts and office space. It is a city that spits in the face of population density statistics. Who needs an acre plot in the suburbs when you have a cramped 7x10 room in the East Village. As one of my friends said when we discussed this topic, "I don't need anymore space than this. I have a bed, a closet, and just enough room for a few necessary possessions. My apartment is for living--not entertainment--I have the city for that."

--

As I walked up 5th Ave with a friend from college who was also visiting, we talked about the city and our perceptions of it. He grew up in Chicago and had visited New York a handful of times before and was interested in how I saw everything through virgin eyes. We talked about the scale of the city, and how its enormous place in pop culture taints the city in the eyes of its visitors.

Then he said something that caught me quite off guard. "This is it. This is the American Dream." No stranger to the endless debate that accompanies grandiose topics like what really constitutes the American Dream I was intrigued by this idea. I initially agreed with him. Taken on face value he had a point. We generally perceive the Dream (as I will call it from here on out) as being the pursuit of not just money, but comfort and social standing as well. Perhaps no street in America drips with more of these three things than 5th avenue. High rise buildings create a huge chrome hedge maze filled with people trying to find their way through. There is no horizon, no distance, just crisscrossing streets and dizzying heights. The luckiest of the people on the street--or more aptly, the most successful people--get to retire to their high rise apartments and look down on the fray. They found their way out of the maze and have been blessed with a balcony seat to watch the rest of us toil away.

However, like all the best generalizations, this one was also doomed to failure; a seemingly obvious failure that speaks to both the disconnect between Manhattan and the rest of the country as well as the vast social and cultural changes that have affected what we want most out of life.

Sometimes when I talk politics with people I feel as if we come not from neighboring cities but from different dimensions where the rules of the debate are different. Thinking about the Dream being a high rise in Manhattan brought about the same feeling. I could walk around my hometown and ask what each person felt was the Dream, and I can guarantee two things. First, I wouldn't get the same answer twice; and second, not one person would ever consider living in Manhattan, period.

Why then was I immediately drawn to this theory of a 5th ave. high rise being the ultimate end to every one's version of the Dream? Part of it has to do with money, obviously, but that part really doesn't interest me. It doesn't say anything real about the individual other than, if given the chance, they would take a life of luxury if given the chance.

What does interest me is the subset of people who could very easily classify this as the Dream, or at least their version of it. I would imagine the vast majority of these people would be between 18 and 35, have a college education, and a love affair with pop culture. Young, upwardly mobile professionals, people who could, from some of their earliest memories remember being conscious of New York City. Perhaps no place on earth is more force fed to the US population than New York City. For a middle class white kid who grew up watching entirely too much TV I was destined to be drawn to it. It is the rough equivalent of how tourist traps out west draw in visitors. Mysterious billboards announce a must see attraction hundreds of miles in advance, and this constant barrage of advertising gets you thinking. What is "The Thing" (see footnote)? We see New York in much the same way, except the selling point isn't so obvious. No one has to ask "What is New York?" to pique our interest. The draw is in the limited view we get of the city. For a thirteen year old kid watching Seinfeld reruns in flyover country the existence of such a place provides enough allure to bring us in.

People migrated to New York in the beginning because of the opportunities that were present there. This is where people flocked to from their home country to pursue their dreams, and its quite possible that the whole idea of an American Dream was built just like the city--slowly growing upwards to accommodate more and more people and ambition. Today the dreams of 19th century immigrants have been replaced by the ambition of young middle class professionals, bohemians, and repressed artists. The city is awash in money, culture, and art. It is a hub of endless activity. It is everything the rest of the country isn't.

This works for those eager to escape the confines of suburbia. But the Dream has changed. The promise of a better life that drew in so many people through Ellis Island still exists, but now it can be found elsewhere. Just as the rest of the country expanded, so has the Dream. Now it is a nice house with a yard, and enough money for a vacation or two every year. The comfort and opportunity can be found everywhere, but with the added benefit of space.

So where does that leave the Dream? Just as confused and muddled as the rest of this countries values and ambitions. The Dream used to be the opportunity to succeed, but the opportunities afforded to a good deal of the population over the past 60 years has splintered the dream. Now that the pathways to success are more open than ever before it is up to us to tailor the Dream to fit what we want. My dream may be that apartment in New York, while my neighbor's is a bigger house and a sports car. The specifics aren't important, whats important is that both me and my neighbor have the opportunity to build a life that is based more on wants than needs. We no longer dream simply of survival, we dream of surviving in style with a fully automatic dishwasher and a pool.

All this explains my reaction to my friend's theory of 5th ave being the center of the American Dream. My initial agreement was based more on my own dream than any bigger idea of what Americans strive for. But I soon realized that the American Dream as it has been known through this countries history is dead. We achieved the dream in 50's with the rise of the middle class. We killed the American Dream and opened up the landscape for millions of smaller dreams.

The American Dream is dead, long live the American Dream.

==

(Footnote: I had the pleasure of stopping at a tourist trap that went by this name somewhere along the freeway between New Mexico and California. Billboards displayed large question marks, and cryptic questions about "The Thing's" origins to build up suspense. Once you get to the truck stop that houses "The Thing" all you need to do is pay your dollar and wander the exhibit, which includes various machines and antiques before concluding over a skeleton encased in glass. For my dollar I got more questions than I had when I entered, as there was little explanation of anything contained in that fenced in area behind the truck stop.)

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Dispatches from the Big Apple: Coney Island Bound

Day one of my odyssey through New York started slow. It was a quiet tired early morning drive that got me to the airport. Barely able to keep my eyes open after a restless nights sleep I cruised down the interstate trying to keep my mind off the flight ahead.

I hate flying. I know it is a completely irrational fear, and that there are crates full of evidence to prove that I am safer flying than doing pretty much everything I do on a daily basis, but the fear isn't totally rooted in horrible thoughts of fiery plane crashes. I don't like ceding control to others. I don't even like being a passenger in cars, much less planes. Give me the wheel and let me take control, or watch me squirm uncomfortably in the passengers seat.

Despite my buildup of nerves, the flight went off without a hitch. There was very little turbulence and I quickly settled in to my seat and zoned out for the duration of the flight. After touchdown (and is there any better feeling than when an airplane's landing gear hits the ground? Not to to yours truly.) I caught a cab to Manhattan and began to soak up the city.

From my friends apartment in the East Village I made my way south along Broadway. It was hot and only the shade from the tall buildings that lined the streets gave any rest from the brutal sun. I walked slowly southward enjoying the hustle and bustle around me. Large groups of people flowed through the sidewalks like water down a river, constant motion past any obstacles (be them trash cans, light posts, or wide-eyed tourists).

I made it to the southern tip of the island and took a short rest in Battery Park. Ferries and tour boats moved through the water while the statue of liberty loomed large in the distance. Most pleasant was the smell of the ocean from where I sat. You could feel the breeze coming into the giant maze of waterways that carve up the city. As waves pounded the shore in front of me I felt the urge to jump headfirst into the surf (but my better judgement kept this slight urge in check).

After a long walk up the west side of Manhattan I made it to Washington Square park for a much needed rest. The scene was picture perfect. People were strewn out all across the park and children played in the fountain. There was a man under the large roman-esque archway who played a tune on his tenor sax as a young lady looked longingly at him from the other side. Another man had a group of 5 gallon buckets arranged around him with a snare drum and played wild shifting beats that seemed to help drive the activity in the park. I only wish the two of them would have gotten together, maybe even found someone to pound out a few notes on an electric keyboard, it could have been magical.

(Ah, how my best laid plans have gone awry again. This post was meant to be quickly followed up by another post of my trip later that night to see Wilco play an outdoor show in Coney Island. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the time to write the piece while I was in New York, and that trip was immediately followed by 10 days spent in a cabin in northern Michigan getting drunk and stoned in front of campfires and enjoying a scene much the opposite of NYC. Consequently I have removed the "part 1" from the title, and will be moving forward with another post (as I no longer feel like rehashing the concert). Stay tuned for another Dispatch from the Big Apple)

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Dispatches from the Big Apple: The Buildup

A day before departure seems like as good a time to start a vacation narrative as any. I am sitting on my bed at home surrounded by piles of clothes and a suitcase. All that's left is the packing, then tomorrow morning I will be off to New York City for the week.

Vacations begin long before you step out the door to leave for the airport. Along with the physical tasks that accompany a trip--planning the trip, packing the suitcases, getting everything in the car--there exists a certain amount of mental prep work that needs to be done. In leaving our homes and the things with which we are familiar, we are opening ourselves up to the world. Vacations in American society today exist as our last grasp on geographic exploration. We are descended from thousands of years worth of explorers and wanderers. Our world is shaped by the inquisitive and adventurous nature of our ancestors. But the maps have all been made, and the corners of the globe have all been swept out in National Geographic articles and Discover Channel specials. So today we pack the kids in the car and drive to Disney World, or catch a trans-Atlantic flight to backpack across Europe for a couple weeks to wet our appetites. We long to chase the horizon as those before us did, to cover new ground. The new ground may be gone, but its spirit still lives.

Over the past few days I have begun the process of traveling, letting my mind wander off to New York City days before my body will arrive. There is probably no other city in the world that affords its potential visitors with such a wide range of imagined possibilities. The city looms real in my psyche, somewhere I've been hundreds of times, in the pages of books and on movie screens.

I try hard to keep my knowledge of the city in perspective. To me it exists as the ultimate pop cultural entity, housing stories of history, sports, music, and politics. In reality it is so much more, a living breathing place, like an organism run by millions of cells that work together to bring sentience. I know its face but not its body.

And so I am off tomorrow to experience a familiar place for the first time.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Everything Ends Badly, Or Else it Wouldn't End*

Jay Bennett, former guitarist for Wilco, died last week at age 45.

This news creates an intersection between two wildly unrelated trains of thought that Ive been having over the past week and a half.  First, with the new Wilco album due out in over a month, I had been eagerly awaiting a taste, and my wish was granted when the band put up a stream of the album on their website.  Ever since Ive been trying to get my thoughts together on the sound of the album and its relation to earlier albums, three of which involve major contributions from Jay Bennett.  Ive also been thinking about death.

Death and music.  Lets go back to the beginning.

Two Saturdays ago I got a disturbing phone call early in the morning, and a succinct voicemail.  "call me back, its important."

I made the call, and asked what had happened.

"Joe is dead."  Silence.  I don't hear it.  I ask him to repeat.  "Joe is dead" he responds "he was hit by a car last night, he was dead when they found him."

--

Ive never loved a band as much as I loved Wilco the summer before my senior year of college.  I was living in a hot cramped room in the third floor of an old seven person house in Ann Arbor.  There were four or five of us around that summer, and I was only working part time while the rest of the guys were just waiting until school started.  We got drunk on the porch, we smoked pot all day, and we listened to music, and the music that we listened to was Wilco.  Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.  Being There.  Summer Teeth.  We found every demo tape and b-side we could get our hands on.  We soaked up every bit of Wilco's music that we could.

The music was my escape.  It fit every mood I had.  Sunny pop songs for listless lazy July days.  Boozy barroom rock for nights spent getting drunk on cheap beer.  Quiet folk ballads for evenings watching the day turn to night from the big porch.  The songs fit my life.  Love songs ached for lost love like I ached for my girlfriend who was spending the summer in Ireland.  Rock songs inspired us as we jammed away for hours at night in the basement.  Layered pop songs kept us occupied as we smoked pot and talked about whatever subject happened to be running through our heads.

It was summer, and we had nothing to do but listen to music.

--

The week after Joe's death I did my best to keep it out of my mind.  I kept busy with work and only had the occasional realization that he was in fact dead, and I wasn't ever going to see him again. 

I am a poor atheist.  I want an afterlife.  Death scares me.  Nothingness scares me.

I want answers to my questions about life, and I want there to exist some great purpose, even though everything I observe leads me to believe that human life is much like animal life.  We are born to survive, to mate, and to eventually die.  Humans are like an ant colony.  Cogs in a global biological wheel.

If that's the truth, you can have it.  I want rules.  I want the world to behave like I was brought up to believe it should, justice should be served, good things should happen to good people.  I don't want funerals for friends younger than I am.  

--

Jay Bennett was a rocker and a musician through and through.  He could play just about anything you put in front of him if it had strings or keys, and often did with Wilco.  His prowess on guitar helped Wilco tour after the departure of Brian Henneman, and Bennett's talents on keyboard would appear in the next album.

Being There was Bennetts entrance on to the Wilco scene, but Summer Teeth was his real crowning achievement.  The collaboration of Jeff Tweedy's dark and violent lyrics with Jay Bennett's sunny pop songs produced a fully realized pop album.  Bennett and Tweedy used flourishes of keyboards and other sounds to give the album a warm plush feel to contrast the dark mood of the lyrics.  The album opens up like a coffin, smooth crafted exterior driven by despair and pain.

--

I arrived at Joe's funeral early.  A few of my friends were gathered in the parking lot.  No one was talking much, just the occasional greeting to a passer-by or attempt at small talk.  We moved into the large lobby of the church.  Against the far wall sat the casket, surrounded by flowers, and people weeping.  I couldn't bring myself to get any closer than 10 feet.  I saw enough.  I didn't want to see him, laying there lifeless.  Too much.  Too real.

I took a seat for the funeral service and soon found myself numb.  I wasn't thinking about Joe, or death, or anything in particular.  I was just staring, my body hanging limp.  There was nothing to say, he was too young to be up there in a coffin.  He was cut down before he should have been.  He crosses the road at the wrong place early in the morning, and bam.  Nothing.  That's it folks, shows over.

As much as I wanted to believe that it was unfair, I could only conclude that ultimately, that's life, and fairness just doesn't have a lot to do with it.

So Joe is dead, cut down at 24.

And Jay Bennett is dead, sadly passing at 45.

What had Joe done?  Grown up, and went to college, but he was barely out of school.  He finally found a job in Chicago, but was only at it 5 months.  What had Jay done?  He had played in a bunch of bands, mastered a number of instruments, and left a large musical record behind him.

--

Two weeks ago I might have talked at length about Jay Bennett's death being tragic.  A musician dead before his time, his best music left unwritten, best songs unsung.

Is Bennett's death any less tragic in light of Joe's fate?  Not necessarily.  They were both taken too early in the eyes of those they left behind, both left unanswered questions about their legacy, what would they be known for.  They were both good people, and neither deserved the fate they were ultimately handed.

As a child I had a much different, albeit naive, view of the way the world worked:  

Bad things didn't happen to good people.

I have spent my entire life trying to come to terms with the reality that this statement is patently false.  Not only do bad things happen to good people, but the reason things happen is often much more a product of chance than karma.  There is no guarantee that things are going to work out how you imagine, and even the best laid plans are subject to the whims of chance.  While it is terrifying to think  that there is no justice (at least justice as imagined by an 8 year old, where everyone gets what they deserve) it is also strangely comforting to know that chance is just as blind as true justice.

--

Both deaths are tragic for what can't be said about the departed.  One cannot help but think about the music that Jay Bennett will never make, or the family that Joe will never raise.  While we mourn the losses, we have no choice to carry on with our own lives, trying our best to savor the things we love a little bit more.  Life isn't fair.  Death doesn't care how old you are or what you've done.

All you can do is live your life, do the best you can, and look both ways before you cross the street.

(I stole the quote in the title from a Bill Simmons article I read today.  He got it from the movie Cocktail)

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Learning To Be A Fan Again

Sometimes a moment seems so perfectly stacked against you that you can't help but laugh just to drive off the tears.

It was the first week of the 07 season, and Ann Arbor once again buzzed as students arrived and kickoff grew closer.  Michigan was entering the season ranked 5th in the nation, and was poised to make a monstrous run through the Big Ten.  A team that was one win away from a trip to the national championship game was returning its top 4 offensive players, and a large part of its highly touted defense from the previous season.  This was our year.  It was to be the icing on my final semester, the semester that I stayed around for in part for another season ticket package.  The last national championship happened when I was in 7th grade, I could remember only bits and pieces of it, but, oh baby, 2007 was going to change all of that.  We were finally going to put it all together again.

--

September 1st.  Halftime.  ASU 28, UM 17.  I stomp through the parking lot fuming.  I know this team has struggled against mobile QBs, but this is ridiculous.  We are being picked apart by a team we specifically scheduled to be a sure thing.  They are a Div. I-AA school for crying out loud.

I march steadily to my car.  I can't even go home I'm so upset.  This is the first game I have ever left early that hasn't been long decided and well into the 4th quarter.  Its not the players, the score, or even a belief we were going to lose that bothered me.  It was everyone else.  I have a hard time watching Michigan games around other people.  I want to yell.  I want to critique coaching decisions. Most of all, I don't want to hear what anyone else has to say.  Especially some of the things I heard from the people around me in the student section.  There was the drunk sorority girl standing behind me who's utter lack of football knowledge (especially her understanding of the pass interference penalty, which contrary to the vile expletive-laced suggestions she yelled to the officials, does not need to be called every time we throw an incomplete pass.  Its football for chrissake) didn't stop her from boo-ing every call that went against the Wolverines.  Then there were the two guys seated a couple rows ahead of me who were convinced that Chad Henne did not actually posses the skill to run our offense, and thus needed to be killed or beaten severely, and threatened to do so at several junctures in the first half.  

I was certainly not giving our team glowing reviews for their play in the first half, but I seemed to be the only one capable of maintaining my sanity in the vicinity.  People were shocked, pissed, depressed, and confused all at the same time.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I wanted to take in the rest of the game in peace.

As I reached my car I could still hear noise from the stadium in the distance.  I had parked back in an adjacent neighborhood so my driveway off of State St. could be rented out for parking.  The whole walk would have been wonderful had it not been for the scene that I had just left, the trees were swaying softly in the warm breeze and the sun was shining past the occasional wisp of cumulus cloud.  I started to drive and found the game on a crackling AM feed.

Let me make this clear.  At no point during all of this did I think it was a possibility that we were going to lose this game.  Not as ASU went up two TDs, not as I walked through the packed parking lot past the few stunned tailgaters who remained outside for the game, and not as I drove around.  We would come back.  David doesn't beat Goliath in real life.  I mean, they were a Div. I-AA school for chrissake.

I drove for a while, I stopped at a friends house to watch the end of the 3rd quarter, and I returned home to listen to the rest of the game in my empty apartment.  My lease was up and my landlord was letting me stay a couple days extra til I found a new place.  All I had in the apartment was a laundry basket full of clothes, an air mattress, and an clock radio.  I dialed up the game and sat with the doors and windows wide open.  My house was a stones throw from the stadium, just across the street from the practice facility.  I could hear the PA announcer over the roar of the crowd as it poured in through the front window.  I just sat and listened.

Things were better.  UofM had pushed back to within five points in the 3rd quarter, and had held them to only a field goal in the second half.  It was all playing out like it was supposed to, inch back in with defensive pressure and better production on offense, the tide turns, and the cupcake team always shrinks under the pressure of the Big House.

That's when we score.

Game over.  Thanks for coming.

We did it, we took the lead and now after a quick stop and turnover we get the ball back and everyone forgets about how close the season came to disaster in a couple weeks.  I had kept an unwavering confidence in the team's ability to win up to this point.  But then something funny happened to shake that confidence.  ASU didn't die.

As the drive unfolded I became more and more concerned.  This was all to familiar, too much like 2005 vs. Ohio State.  The defense played too far off and gave up too many yards underneath. The prevent defense was too soft and ASU exploited it.  As their field goal sailed through the uprights it finally occurred to me.  We could lose.

Henne's 46 yard pass to Manningham briefly restored my faith.  We still had some life, but it was going to take a big kick in crunch time.  Something didn't quite feel right.  We had a new kicker who was making what would probably be one of the most important kicks of his life.  The whole thing just felt scripted.  Huge underdog wins after botched FG.  It felt too much like the end of a Disney movie.

--

Fast-foward to the fall of 2008.

Its easy to get caught up in the pursuit of championships, perfect seasons, and Big Ten titles.  These become the goals of we the fans.  We want greatness and we want to beat our rivals for bragging rights at school or work, we want to win National Championships, and we are ultimately disappointed when these things don't happen.  

Last season was very hard to stomach.  Losses piled up and soon we were just fighting to finish .500.  But something happened after a few games, when it became completely obvious that this team was woefully young and unprepared to play against some talented Big Ten teams.  I started watching each game differently.  I was appreciating the little things more and more.  A big run gain on first down or a third down conversion became reasons to celebrate.  I looked for improvement in individual players.  I cheered extra hard when Stevie Brown executed a technically sound tackle.  I looked for the way Threet or Sheridan responded after a turnover.  I got pumped up when the defense came out after a short rest because of a turnover and played their asses off to get the stop on a short field.  My focus on the season shifted.  I was excited by the little joys of football again, the ones that can get overlooked when you focus too much on the nearly unattainable goal of a national championship.  I got past the disappointment of not winning every time.  I was a kid again.  I just cheered my team on in the present with no regard for the standings, bowl committee, or BCS.

--

Laying there in my empty apartment, staring up at the ceiling from my air mattress, I was inconsolable.  The worst had happened.  We were a laughingstock, no one ranked 5th in the nation loses to a D I-AA team.  The calls and text messages came in slowly, sympathy from Michigan fans, laughter and joy from Michigan haters.   I called one of my closest friends, but had trouble finding words to describe what happened, a game that was all but a sure thing had turned into a nightmare.  My father, who hadn't been able to watch the game because it was on cable, asked me how I felt.  I told him that I felt like the cards were stacked against us from the beginning.  The perfect storm had happened: we came out cocky but played unfocused.  They gave us a couple quick shots to the head and knocked us down.  By the time we realized it was going to be a fight, we were too far down and feeling too mortal.

"It almost feels like destiny was working against us the whole time," I said to my dad.  I couldn't help but chuckle a little as I said it.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

In defense of the trade(salary dump) of the season

A quick side note in the interest of full disclosure.  I am writing this without investing significant time in watching the first round series between the Pistons and the Cavs, I've caught a few minutes of the games here and there, but not a whole game.  Fortunately, I don't have have to watch the action firsthand to understand that this series rings out across the NBA as the first step of LeBron James towards his place at the top of the NBA.  We will doubtlessly see him win his first MVP trophy next round, and smart money has him collecting a couple more important trophies before the playoffs are over.

This isn't about LeBron dismantling this version of the Pistons.

This is about LeBron doing the same for the next 10 years, and how to stop it.

Grumblings abound across Detroit these days as Chauncey Billups leads the Nuggets toward the second round while Allen Iverson has been hidden away like nuclear waste after what many called a failed experiment.  Iverson was supposed to shake things up, give us the crunch time scorer that we always missed in the playoffs--the guy who can put the team on his back when it is necessary.  Now that back is hurt and 'stones fans everywhere long for Chauncey.

My defense of the decision of this controversial trade lies not in its affect on this season, but on the need to do something for the future of this team.  I dont claim to have a wholly new viewpoint on the matter, the salary dump angle has been worn out like an old shoe.  Yet this series tells us all we needed to know about why the trade makes the Pistons better in the long run.

Chauncey or not, the Pistons were never going to beat the Cavs in the playoffs this year, or next year, or the year after that with this roster.  LeBron is about to enter his prime years, and will be in the front of the pack every year until he hangs up his sneakers.  This means that the Pistons will be fighting for a conference title against a player who could redefine greatness in the NBA, the most complete package of physical prowess, competitive instinct, and basketball sense that we have seen since Jordan retired (in '98, not quite Jordan circa the Wizards).

Chauncey this year doesn't solve that, nor for that matter does Iverson, but the outlook for the next ten years is better. The Pistons have a good mix of young talent and role players who could develop into a championship caliber supporting cast.  What they need now is someone to lead the show.  The fact that Iverson's contract comes off the books this summer makes this an easier task.

Like I said before, this isn't a big revelation.  However, in light of what we know about the future of LeBron's NBA tenure, rebuilding the Pistons to compete for the next few years is much more important than saving face this year and perhaps losing another conference final.  If Detroit wants the same level of basketball success that it has enjoyed over the past 7 years it will have to deal with some hard times.

Coaches and GM's are often derided for the moves that they make, but the alternative--not making any moves--can be even more damaging.  Trading Chauncey, and essentially the season, for Iverson and financial flexibility may be a bitter pill to swallow now, but its going to take a lot of preparation to build a team that can compete with the LeBron juggernaut for the next few years.  Things may not work out in the long run, but at least the Pistons know that something needs to be done, and aren't afraid to do what is necessary.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Destiny

If you are a mid-Michigan resident and have any inclination to follow sports than you were probably witness to the "Michigan State Spartans as Heroes to inspire Michigan's working class" theme that nearly every media outlet picked up on as soon as the final whistle blew Saturday evening and the Spartans claimed their place in the national championship game.

This was not a team that many expected to make it to the final game. They outlasted a scrappy USC squad that dripped with psuedo-cinderalla potential. There was a scare against last years champs, a very strong Kansas team. Followed by the upset of the team, Louisville, that most thought would be cutting down the nets in early April. This improbable road to the final 4 even went so far as to diminish the underdog status that MSU still held on to as it faced #1 seeded Uconn. Again, the team played strong and the media was aghast at yet another victory for sparty.

Believe me, I dont fault the news stations for picking up on the significance of a team from an economically collapsing state playing for the national championship in the fading remains of the car capitol of the world. The team even embodies the characteristics which the blue-collar residents of our great state like to see in themselves. No flash, all fundementals. This is a team that plays tough defense, fights for every rebound and loose ball, and grinds down opponents with physical play and mental toughness. If ever there was a team for this state to identify with, this would be it.

All this adds up to a perfect mixture of feel-good story and fate.

Michigan does need something to feel good about, but a National Championship would be akin to reattaching an arm with a few band-aids; simply a distraction from a bigger problem. I do not begrudge the Spartans anything in their run to the title game. Even though I hold an allegiance to the other university in Michigan I still found a lot to like about this team. They played well as a group, were led by some tough and talented players, and supported by a capable slew of role players and spark-plugs off the bench.

Perhaps this post should have been titled "Hype" (as I had originally planned). All the talk of destiny and all the adulation thrown at this team made a hard task that much harder. It already seemed like they would need a miricle to beat the team that had previously run them off the very same court in December. Pile on the weight of an entire state's worries and you have a recipie for disaster.

That seemed to be just what we witnessed last night. UNC played weightless, effortless, and focused on the task at hand. Their scorching offense looked unstoppable and their shots seemed to fall from any angle or distance. They forced miscues on defense and converted them into points at a blazing pace. Any talk of destiny had died 5 minutes into the game when UNC had pushed its lead past double digits. Unfortunately for MSU, the game was long from over.

The Spartans never looked comfortable. Shots that were normally automatic would fall short, a defense that was usually tenacious looked to be backed up on its heels, and even with three-quarters of Ford Field decked out in Spartan green the energy and momentum clearly donned baby blue from the opening tip.

Destiny is an oft used word in sports. Teams overcome great odds to win championships and our only explanation is destiny. Athletes conquer personal tragedy to accomplish great things against all odds and we write it off as fate. Whether destiny plays any role in sports or life doesnt seem to be important in the end. Many teams or players brave insurmountable odds and fail. Is that their destiny? If there is a feel good story to be found you can bet someone at ESPN will dig it up, no matter what team is playing.

The important thing is not to let destiny interfere with your pursuit of a goal. To believe you are owed a reward is to grow complacent, and complacency doesnt win championships. This years national championship game provides a good lesson to all the future "teams of destiny" out there. Dont believe too strongly in your own destiny, or you may realize that your destiny is different from what you expected.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Ode to the Lions Fan

If you are a sports fan, chances are that there was one team from your childhood that really got you started on your lifelong journey of fandom. It is that team that oftentimes colors your perception of sports for the rest of your life. If you spent your formative years watching your favorite team constantly compete for titles, like the Cowboys or Lakers, you will always expect your team to compete. If, like many generations of Red Sox and Cubs fans, your team suffers from a long title drought and a mysterious curse, you are likely to be pessimistic in nature, always waiting for the worst to happen.

Then there is the special breed of fan, which I can say whole-heartedly that I am: The Detroit Lions fan.

Before you pour out your condolences at my misfortune of living anywhere near a Lions TV broadcast in my youth, you need to remember back to the 90's and get past the utter disgrace that the Millen era Lions have been.

The 90's were a time of great hope and the continual failure to build a winner. This was a team that was usually competitive enough to fight for a playoff spot, but not competitive enough to ever do anything with it when they got there. It seemed like the team was in a rut for my entire childhood, each year squandering the talents of the electric Barry Sanders (who deserves his own post, and might eventually get one, for the impact he had on my childhood) with a .500 season or first round playoff exit.

My first real memories of the Lions didn't start until I was 8 or 9, which would place them past the NFC championship run of the 91-92 season. Every Sunday afternoon was devoted to the Lions games, consumed either on TV or the radio. And through the years as the failures built up, I learned how to be a sports critic. Never happy with the failure of the franchise to surround Sanders with the players that would help him reach a championship. Optimistic Augusts gave way to a creeping sensation that the team would come up short once again, which it always did. I hoped for the best but expected the worst, and I resigned myself that my favorite team might flounder in mediocrity forever.

Fast forward to 2009. The Lions have just emerged from what might be the single worst era endured by a professional sports team. Draft picks squandered on too many WR's (4 in 7 years) and too many busts (Charles Rodgers and Mike Williams), an abysmal record or 31-81, and the utter abortion that was the 2008 season.

This should be a time of hope for Lions fans. We finally have new management, albeit 4 years too late, and an elite wide receiver who may be capable of carrying the offense. To top it all off we even have the first pick in the draft.

Maybe its all those years as a Lions fan that have jaded me, but I'm not convinced. Some management from the old regime actually got promotions, and we still don't have anyone worth a damn to throw the ball to Calvin Johnson.

The first pick in the draft should ideally fix that last problem. But, this is still the Lions we are talking about. Management failed to turn the pick into a proven QB, Jay Cutler, because of the egregious contract that is guaranteed to a #1 pick by the NFL's CBA. Furthermore the Lion's history of taking QB's in the first round picks isn't exactly inspiring. Think Andre Ware and Joey "don't call me Joe" Harrington. Add this to Mel Kiper's claim that Matt Stafford is a can't miss prospect, as well as Football Outsiders troubling point that Stafford's collegiate completion percentage and number of games started are strikingly similar to some legendary early round picks such as Shaun King, J.P. Losman, and Jake Plummer, and you can see why I'm not exactly optimistic.

Time will tell how the Lion's franchise will recover from the Millen era, but one thing is for sure, I won't be surprised if things stay the same. I will still give in to the hype that builds around training camp as coaches and players speak of a new attitude, a renewed commitment to blue collar football, or growing excitement in the locker room. But, come the end of the season, I will most likely be feeling the same ache of hopelessness that I get yearly. I want my team to win, but it'll take sustained success to rid Lions fans everywhere of their defeatist attitudes.

Don't blame me, blame the team I grew up watching.