Punching A Hole

I examine the hole in my wooden closet door. It's staring back at me, laughing at my sadness and anger and momentary lapse of judgement. It taunts me everyday in a way only damaged personal property can. I open that closet door everyday to grab the day's clothes and there it is, smirking. I open that closet door later in the day to retrieve a pen, and the hole chuckles. I examine this hole and it looks like a poorly executed scoop of ice cream.* The brown-colored wood is not dark enough to pass for chocolate ice cream. A thin horizontal crack runs over the top of the damaged area to further punctuate the sadness which led to this hole's creation. It's only been here for three days and I already cannot stand this fucking hole in my closet door. This hole is pissing me off more than what led me to put it there.

*Upon further review, the hole also resembles the outline of Hitchcock's face in the intro to Alfred Hitchcock Presents...

I've always prided myself on being a fair, level-headed sports fan. I don't let team tribalism affect my ability to enjoy other players or teams or the sport as a whole. I couldn't imagine taking shit-talking beyond some good-natured jabs, much less swinging on someone because they don't support the same team I do. I don't let the outcome of a game ruin my day. I'm barely even nervous or frustrated while watching because I'm doing just that, WATCHING. The teams I root for have been on the good and the bad side of the score plenty of times and neither outcome has changed anything about my life. My view goes: sports are a diversion. A beautiful, time-consuming diversion from things like work, bills, illness, taxes, and spirituality. When serious, non-diversions cross over into the sports realm, as they often do, I become bored quickly. I just want to see the ball cross the goal line or put through a hoop.

I struggle to maintain this calm and collected ideal while watching college sports. I don't know why this is, but I always manage to lose my shit while watching the University of Wisconsin play football or basketball. Maybe there's more of a connection there because I walked the same campus as the athletes. I have just as much right to take pride in the school's name as they do. Maybe it's the lower skill level or the absence of 5-year 50 million dollar deals. I don't know. I've though about this often and have never come to a satisfying conclusion. All I know is I'm more invested in the outcome of college games even though, if given the decision, I'd much rather see the pro teams I root for win championships. Which makes the way I acted during the Rose Bowl so puzzling. These are real thoughts, quotes and adamant beliefs I expressed during the game:

Oregon is cheating with those shiny helmets. The sun is reflecting off them and making it difficult for the Wisconsin players to see the ball.

"Oh, fuck you Musburger, you insinuating son of a bitch." In response to Brent Musburger pointing out Wisconsin's sideline was in the shade, while Oregon's was roasting in the Pasadena sun.

Sure, it's easy when you're only 800 fucking miles away from Pasadena.

"Phil Knight is buying a championship for Oregon. The program would be completely irrelevant without him. No players would want to go there."

"That's a hold!" After 95 percent of Oregon's plays from scrimmage.

These are just the ones I remember. Point being, I said and thought some stupid things in the middle of the game that I wholeheartedly believed at the time. Then I see Jared Abbrederis -- the most dependable player on the team, the player I would specifically put in the ball in the hands of if I wanted to make sure it would NOT be turned over -- fumble the ball with the game on the line. The football stopped and lay dead like a fumbled football is never supposed to do. It fell to the grass and did not even make an effort to squirm out of bounds. The football lay there for what seemed like 30 seconds for an Oregon play to come and swoop it up. An Oregon player did swoop it up. "HE DIDN'T HAVE CONTROL," I shouted as the replay clearly demonstrates that he did have control.

Wisconsin gets the ball back at their 13-yard line with all of 16 seconds and no timeouts. My faith is nonexistent. Russell Wilson completes a pass to Abbrederis to the 42-yard line. The clock stops until the ball is set. Wilson completes another pass, this time to Nick Toon, down to Oregon's 25. My faith skyrockets. Surely, they can do this. Only 25 measly yards. But the time, oh I forgot about the time. Only 2 seconds. Not enough time to spike it. They'll have to run to the line, snap it and hope Oregon's secondary is the more confused of the two units. There's Russell Wilson, and he's spiking the ball. Zero seconds are on the clock. "ONE SECOND," I yell at the TV. The replays show the ball is still in Wilson's hand when the clock runs out.  Even my dilapidated brain is processing the information correctly. Wisconsin just lost a second straight Rose Bowl.

I calmly got out of my chair walked over to the closet door and punched it harder than I've ever punched anything before. Then I walked out, no emotion or feeling whatsoever, like I used to do after punching the old time cards at work. I didn't notice the damage until a couple hours later. My first thought was how could this have happened? Me of twelve-year-old-girl strength is not capable of punching a hole in a wooden closet door. But apparently I was because I was staring right at the fucking thing. When that thought sunk in I became ashamed. I had let the game become more than a game. What if the closet door had been a small child wearing an Oregon jersey? If they could see this closet door now, my loved ones would surely be embarrassed for me, a sober 24-year old who reacted like someone half his age would to a stupid football game. Like Michigan State, like Ohio State, all I wanted was a proper last play. A final chance to keep the ideas of glory and shared athletic experience alive.

I don't remember a single thing about last year's Rose Bowl. I remember the Badgers lost to TCU and the final score was 21-19. That's it. I very likely repressed the memory of that game. This year's Rose Bowl will not be so easy, mainly because it was such an amazing game. Oregon's speed and athleticism countering Wisconsin's bruising runs. De'Anthony Thomas. Montee Ball. Kiko Alonso. Russell Wilson. LaMichael James. A dizzying pace, two great offenses waiting for the other to have a letdown, an improbable fumble and last second spike that incredibly was even an option. I don't think I'll forget this game. If I do, there's a hole to remind me.           

Palate Cleanser

I've watched this Hail Mary exactly one hundred times since it happened two weeks ago. I told myself I would stop at one hundred, as the cleansing should be sufficient by then. Watch any video -- spectacular, brutal, harrowing, inspirational -- enough times and it will become ordinary. Desensitization is the name of the game. This Michigan State Hail Mary, as improbable and synchronically beautiful as it once seemed, is just another game-winner to me now, no different than a first down completion or kneel down in the victory formation. But enough about the Michigan State game. This post is about the Ohio State game and the moment of redemption that was set up perfectly for Wisconsin, and never happened.

Unconsciously and sometimes consciously we try to make sense of things through comparison. Much of today's sports writing is is predicated on comparing last night's game to The Wire or The Shawshank Redemption. Or trying to find a historical comparison for a certain player, or a game in a similar ilk to the one that just occurred. This type of thinking can be lazy, and prevent us from forming any kind of original thought. But comparisons can also help in providing a larger context for sports and a more developed paradigm from which to work. I guess it all depends on perspective.

Comparisons are especially useful to shape a narrative. Take the last two Wisconsin games. Wisconsin lost on a last second Hail Mary and now found themselves on the other end of it against Ohio State. After letting their three-point lead slip away, Wisconsin received the ball on the 40-yard line, down four points with 18 seconds left. Looking to get the Badgers within a more manageable Hail Mary distance, Russell Wilson's first throw was an incompletion to Nick Toon. The second, again to Toon, bounced off his hands. But wait...a penalty! And not just any penalty, but a 15-yard personal foul on Ohio State safety Christian Bryant for grabbing the face mask. The clock had ran out, so Wisconsin had one play left from Ohio State's 45-yard line, the manageable Hail Mary distance they were looking for.

This was now venturing far beyond the realm of half-baked comparison. Michigan State's Hail Mary came from Wisconsin's 43-yard line. Cousins released the ball at his own 45. Russell released the ball at his own 44. Both quarterbacks faced a three-man rush and rolled out to their right. The only difference: where Wisconsin dropped back eight, Ohio State linebacker Andrew Sweat lingered around midfield until the pocket collapsed. He sensed his opportunity, blew past the Kevin Zeitler practically untouched and got just enough of Wilson's arm to prevent a throw of any consequence (4:22 in the video below).




What I sensed, even in real time, was a perfect narrative, a Hail Mary destined to redeem the Badgers from last week's gaff/bad luck. Except Andrew Sweat showed up to the table with a compass handy and attempted to draw perfect circles by hand. They of course came out misshapen and ugly. Fuck you Andrew Sweat for having the gall to change the course of something much bigger than you.

With two straight losses comes crazy consequences, like looking up a little bit higher at Penn State in the standings. The same Penn State that needed almost forty minutes to push across a field goal against Illinois, and for Illinois to miss a 42-yard field goal as time expired to come away with a 10-7 win at home. The same Penn State whose coach, 84-year-old Joe Paterno, sits up in the booth and does God knows what. Does he call plays, watch film, or do anything 21st century coaches do? I don't know. His recruiting pitch has been reduced to, "Come to Penn Staaaaaaaaaaaaaaate," as he clutches his coat pockets, bravely withstanding the ever-present chills of 80 degree weather. "It's either here or the Temple Owls," his recruits respond. "Sure. I'll come to Penn State coach." JoePa recently accepted a nice plaque to commemorate his Division I leading 409th win, to which he thanked the room for the thoughtful birthday gift. They didn't have to get him anything.

Penn State controls their destiny in the Big Ten, but the real test starts now. They have a bye next week, and follow that up with a home tilt with Nebraska, and back-to-back away games at Ohio State and Wisconsin. Wisconsin needs them to lose at least one of those games before their match-up to close out the Big Ten season. Should this happen, and as long as the losing stops, Wisconsin can still miraculously end up in the Big Ten title game. Two weeks ago it was the National Championship, this week it's, "Gee willikers, I hope the Nittany Lions slip up so we at least have a shot at playing for the BIG TEN title." How the mighty have fallen. Apologies to Purdue and Minnesota for what's going to happen in the next two weeks.

November 5th marks the start of a cleansing period for the Badgers. They've experienced the turbulence and can see clear skies ahead (fingers crossed). There's now officially no room for error, but don't worry, Bret Bielema gets off to that sort of thing. I expect a much more focused football team. Or a team that appears more focused but is really just beating up on shitty competition. I'm fine with either.

Nick Toon (No Nickelodeon)

Perusing Twitter a few weeks ago, I came across Wisconsin Senior wideout Nick Toon's Twitter handle -- @TOOOOOOOOOOON -- a tip of the cap to the fans who bellow his name after every catch. It's not the funniest or most clever, but it's my new favorite Twitter handle. My first thought was to count the number of "O"s because why not? I was pleased to count 11 "O"s. Solid. Eleven is an arbitrary, clunky number. Ten is nice and clean. The 11 tells me Toon typed a "T," placed his right index finger on the "O" key and held it there for a few seconds, and followed up with an "N." Had he been concerned with aesthetics or practicality, he would have made it an even ten. I immediately thought of situations in which his Twitter handle may be problematic:

UW-MADISON STUDENT: I'll hit you on Twitter about this Agricultural Journalism project. What's your handle?

TOON: It's TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON.

UW-MADISON STUDENT: Uhh, how many "O"s is that?

TOON: Jesus, I have no idea. Just type my name in the search box and my account should pop up on the right side.

UW-MADISON: So you want me to type your name into Twitter? Is this some kind of lame attempt to show me how many people are talking about you?

TOON: I have over five thousand followers.

And so on.

I've often wondered if athletes seriously consider why the crowd chants their name. They're fan favorites or good players, those seem like the obvious answers. Sometimes familiarity with a player -- he's played most or all of his career for the same team, or even tradition -- we chant his name because we've always done it, play a part. During pregame introductions in the 1990s, roars of LUUUUUUUUUUUUUC would fill the United Center when Luc Longley was introduced. Nowadays, Luc has been replaced with LUUUUUUUUUUUU for Luol Deng. For Bulls fans, tradition meets appreciation in the form of pregame introductions. Each time Packers fullback John Kuhn touches the ball, Lambeau is engulfed in KUUUUUUUUUUUUHN chants. Kuhn is a short and stout white guy who does all the dirty work. His primary role is that of lead blocker, but he will occasionally be asked to pick up short yardage or catch a checkdown out of the backfield and take on a linebacker head on. Kuhn's look and style of play appeal to the blue-collar sensibilities of the Green Bay fans. He could be and probably is the guy sitting next to you at Joe's Texas Barbecue, wolfing down the hefty pulled pork sandwich.

TOOOOOOOOOOON is a combination of all of these elements. Former walk-on Luke Swan preceded Toon at Wisconsin and became a fan favorite. Camp Randall shouted LUUUUUUUUUUUUUKE after every catch and held their right arms at 90 degree angles, rotating their hand to resemble a swan's head. Aided by his father's impressive NFL and UW resume, Toon endeared himself to the crowd with his athleticism and knack for making the spectacular catch. Now a Senior, Toon has developed into the consistent Number One receiver the team envisioned him as two years ago. Chants of his name are as much an appreciation for his development as a player as they are an adherence to tradition and nepotism.

As nice as it is to talk of tradition and performance, we cannot ignore the obvious. There are many great players, iconic players, all-time great players who have never heard their name chanted in a stadium. This isn't because they are overlooked or their home fans are shitty. They simply do not have names as aurally pleasing or compatible with a sustained chant. Peyton Manning, Brian Urlacher, James Harrison, Adrian Peterson -- great players, but names that need to be broken down to multiple syllables in order to chant. They just wouldn't sound as good.

Not to take anything away from the Nick Toons of the world, but he clearly is the beneficiary of a perfect name. The special sign of appreciation Camp Randall shows to him is as arbitrary as the number of "O"s in his Twitter handle. The fans mostly scream his name because the close back rounded vowel sound in "Toon" is nice to listen to for 5-10 seconds at a time. And this is why @TOOOOOOOOOOON is my new favorite Twitter handle. It caused me to contemplate an otherwise glossed-over subtlety of fan behavior, and I now know what a close back rounded vowel sound is. 

Neither of these pieces of information are useful in any way.