Sunday, April 13, 2008
Sports, "Hunt's Grunts"
Baby steps of fools
The beginning of last week saw a few folks both rightly and wrongly call me out on some things...
By Hunt Archbold
The beginning of last week saw a few folks both rightly and wrongly call me out on some things. It forced me to take a step back, take a deep breath and access the situations and how best to handle them. Don’t you know the Memphis Tiger basketball team wishes it had done something similar in the waning moments of the national title game?
Nonetheless, the work week began with me feeling a touch namby-pamby. I was sort of like Freddy Brown the Real Down Clown wearing a frown for you. I could tell by the pollen caked on my outside ping-pong table that spring had sprung, but for me, it was mostly about Summer’s Eve—I just didn’t feel fresh. I had that aura of sadness about me, as if I had awakened one morning to discover that I’d had drunken sex with a dwarf.
Surly not to that kind of depressing level, but Mike Hampton had to be big-time bummed to have injured himself only minutes before making what would be his first big league appearance in more than two seasons. When the Thrashers’ sad season came to a merciful end, the franchise face, Ilya Kovalchuk, hardly sounded like a happy Bluelander. And if Billy Knight smiled and no one saw it, then did it really happen?
And then there’s just sad. Former Alabama star linebacker Keith McCants, the No. 4 overall pick in the 1990 NFL draft, was recently arrested for the third time in a month’s time. In February he was discovered doing drugs in an abandoned house in Mobile, Ala. Recently, police found him panhandling with a pair of prostitutes, trying to flag down motorists on a major city street. He ultimately had to be Tasered after throwing a crack pipe, screwdriver and a pair of pliers at an officer. Now that’s sad.
Believe me, I wasn’t nearly so downtrodden. All in all, I knew all be good in the neighborhood. Yet not feeling particularly too inspired, I asked a couple of friends what I might write about this week.
Before offering me several lewd suggestions, my semi-retired friend Frank did mention the name of Tiger Woods. And right then, at that moment, and mostly likely due in part to the fact that I’d recently viewed Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park, I wondered: Which has happened more—the number of times Gene Simmons has said the word “Kiss’’ in his life, or the number of the times world’s population uttered the word “Tiger’’ during the first two weeks of April? Think about that. On second thought, don’t. And no, I didn’t want to write about Tiger, even though I did enjoy a splendid afternoon last week at Augusta National, where the egg salad sandwiches are still only a buck fifty!
When queried, Miss Seasonal Jane quickly e-mailed back: “Write a column about how kids can’t get into a decent school these days, so they end up lost in the public school system, where more emphasis is placed on sports rather than learning.” Hmmm, it seems the city’s private schools just sent out their 2007-08 application confirmation, denial and waiting list letters.
Once upon a time, talented Atlanta actress Amanda Cucher was a standout softball shortstop at a local private institution, Pace Academy, batting well over .400 her senior year. She’s currently prominently featured in a pair of plays penned by ever-busy local playright Topher Payne. “Above the Fold” and “Perfect Arrangement” are part of the Three by Topher Play Festival, which began a month-long run last week at Whole World Theatre’s Third Space. Also regularly featured in Payne’s weekly column in the local gay publication David Magazine, “Mandy’’ ain’t afraid to tell you like it is, and she did so last week in an e-mail describing my previous weekend behavior among friends.
“I’m all for being silly and a bit eccentric, but there is a far cry between that and just acting a fool … unfortunately you fell into the latter category,’’ she wrote. Ouch. No one wants to act the fool, and that includes me. Seriously. I’m serious! Mandy’s tersely delivered harsh truth hurt, but a lesson was learned. Still, I couldn’t help writing back telling her she was like a lava lamp; fun to look at, but not all that bright.
Actually, I didn’t write that. I’m not that dumb. I instead gave her a proper response wrapped in an apology. I was soon forgiven, and by the time I was soaking up the Masters sunshine and suds a few days later, I felt a fool no more. But it got me thinking about the so-called foolish sports fan. It’s been theorized that being a fan isn’t much to be proud of, because it’s not much of an achievement and gives you only minimal advantages (bragging rights, inconsequential office pool winnings). Basically, it’s foolish to be proud of your favorite team’s accomplishments.
In theory, that may be true. But what depressing, analytical stiff came up with that sad sack of sorrow? I’m all about keeping things in perspective, but have they not ever experienced the variety of simple joys that come with a trip to the old ballgame? Probably not. But I believe those temporary moments of happiness and camaraderie cannot be discredited. It takes something like a gazillion more facial muscles to frown than to smile, and I simply don’t have time to be sad right now. I did too much of that last week. Now come on Hawks, make the playoffs.
Happy times...and I Saw the Light, and not just because Todd Rundgren’s coming to town. SP