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.

A Letter To Russell Wilson

Dear Russell Mr. Wilson,

I don't usually do this. On an imagined level, I too know what it's like to be famous and great at what I do. The last thing I want is for a stranger to pen a long letter telling me what I already know: My life is infinitely better than theirs. Despite this, I feel compelled to ruminate on the effect you've had on me, and undoubtedly, thousands of your peers. Like I said, I don't do this sort of thing. I don't elevate athletes to hero-worship status, but I would bow in your presence. I really would.

I'm not going to pretend like I followed your career at NC State, I didn't. ACC football is as foreign to me as emollient-based products and Perfect 10 models. I just knew you were supposed to take my beloved Badgers to new heights and I was skeptical. I doubted the impact one man could have on a group of teammates he was unfamiliar with. I doubted one man's ability to basically reinvent the quarterback position in Madison, showcasing skills we've never seen here before, and capture the imagination of an entire campus -- an entire city. Critics will you say you haven't been challenged yet. Your non-conference schedule was a step below "Cream Puff." The Nebraska game was at home, their defense leaves something to be desired, and Taylor Martinez was forced to throw the ball 22 times. I watched you smoothly step to the side, as if you couldn't be bothered by a defensive lineman's pass rush. I watched as you turned a 10 yard loss into a 15 yard gain. As you rolled out of the pocket countless times to buy a few seconds, and found the open receiver every time. I remain in awe of the way you never take a big hit. You either absorb contact as if it was a natural geologic occurrence or run out bounds. You realize a crushing blow is not worth, in the worst case scenario, your team's season, or simply an extra yard you can easily pick up on second down.

Above all else, there never seems to be a point where you are not in control. I cannot understate this enough. Nothing rattles you. Your demeanor on the playing field is the type of assurance us regular people strive for in our everyday lives.

You probably wouldn't have guessed it, Russell Mr. Wilson, but I played football once, ages ago. I was 11 years old. My brief career was shaped by a set of circumstances largely beyond my control. Before the season started, many of the player's parents were bickering. I had no idea what they were bickering about, but you know how parents get when it comes to sports and their children. This bickering resulted in a mass exodus of most of the best players our town had to offer. They went on to play in an independent Pop Warner League, while my parents, who were as clueless as myself concerning the matter, signed me up for the Park District League. Being part of the Park District team was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing being I had an opportunity to play right away and despite my lack of experience, was already one of the better players on the team. The curse, so to speak, was a very poor team. Our team was composed of a few nominally good players, inexperienced players such as myself, and a bunch of younger kids who were too fat to play within their age group. We won our first game by six points. It was our only win all year.

I was a receiver for the Park District team. Now, I know what you're thinking: Wide receiver, that's a fine position which requires speed, agility, and good hand eye coordination. You should be proud of your ability to step in and play such a demanding position right away. While I appreciate the sentiment Russell Mr. Wilson, do you have any idea how many times we threw the ball per game? Zero. An 11 year-old receiver is nothing more than a glorified offensive lineman. Except where O-Lineman can develop some sort of camaraderie that stems from battling in the trenches side-by-side, I was alone on an island. I charged at defensive backs like a bull, exerting all I had with the knowledge that we were running the ball up the gut anyway. One time, I became so frustrated that I started to make growling noises in the middle of a block. The d-back laughed at me, and mockingly exclaimed, "Ooh, I'm so scared. Gems hit me." The joke was on him however, as I bypassed his hand in the middle of the postgame handshake line.

It was also during this time I began having trouble eating. I had choked on a piece of chicken some months earlier, which resulted in the scarring of the tissue lining my throat. I experienced sharp pains in the area that felt like my throat was swelling up and closing. I became afraid to eat. A meal that would take a normal kid 15 or 20 minutes to eat took me two hours. I grinded away at my food until it had practically dissolved because I was afraid to swallow it. I thought every swallow of food would result in my death. Thanksgiving was hell. Friend's birthdays were even worse. Having to answer questions about why you're breathing so deeply and touching your throat after every swallow were embarrassing. Meals are supposed to be some of the day's most enjoyable moments, but to me they were a reminder of my inability to live a normal life.

I made numerous doctor visits. They all said I was fine, my throat was fully healed. Any thoughts of choking or swelling were purely my mind's creation. The mind is a powerful thing, as you know. I had convinced myself every bite of food was a death wish. For this, I suffered, mostly mentally, but a bit physically. I lost some weight but continued to play football. I was 70 pounds, playing with 95-pounders and dealing with the inevitable: At this rate, there was no way I could play next year against better competition and a 125 pound weight limit.

While my time on offense amounted to little more than playing dress up, I found my calling on the defensive side of the ball. I played defensive back and was able to shed blocks from receivers who would rather be catching passes. Playing defensive back was great because teams rarely threw the ball, meaning I was given plenty of room to improvise. The moment I recognized the ball wasn't going to be thrown, I could play the run. I loved playing the run. There was something about challenging backs, especially ones who outweighed me by 25 pounds, that felt exhilarating. I knew they underestimated me, Russell Mr. Wilson, that was probably it. One game I made over 20 tackles, we lost, but the outcome wasn't so important as long as I was able to hit someone.

It took a year to finally get over my fear of swallowing food. I can't imagine how ridiculous it must be for someone else to read and try to comprehend that sentence. Turns out that even after eating regularly I couldn't put on weight, still can't. High metabolism. So my desire to be a hard-hitting enforcer on the football field was doomed from the start. I didn't sign up for football the next year because of another irrational fear -- I thought my weight disadvantage would be too much to overcome. You know as well as anyone that size doesn't matter. Do you hear the announcers? They're comparing you to Drew Brees. You're pulling off something remarkable.

When I think of my year playing football, I go back to a time when I seemingly had no control of my life. I fell into deep depressions over my inability to eat and grew frustrated over being phased out of the offense. I've watched Chicago Bears quarterbacks my entire life. When I think of football, I think of chaos. I think of a game that an individual could never impose his will on. You're slowly changing my perception of football, Russell Mr. Wilson. For that, I am eternally grateful.

My sincerest regards,

- Joe