Journalism is dead. Stripped of integrity, love and relevance, it has passed behind the curtain of pertinence. Does the blood of its death stain the hands of blogs, the internet or other interactive and immediate media? Does it tattoo the teeth of videogames, cable television and strangled attention spans? No....or yes, but not directly. These are merely symptoms of a larger disease. Greed, and the final destination of all things capitalism.
I'll try to refrain from making this an economic theory debate, but will instead try to sum up that part of my argument in just a few of lines.
In sport, and in just about every facet of life, the correct path lies not at the fringes of the extreme (in either direction), but rather in the gray, compromise laden middle. In my opinion, this holds true in socioeconomics as well. A population can not donate itself entirely to either true communism or true capitalism, as both fail to register the failings of the human ego. While one, communism, fails to properly reward achievement (when all are equal those that exceed expectation become passed over and forgotten, a sin which pride will not allow) while Capitalism does so with vast overcompensation (when currency is both the measure of success and suddenly a prelude to respect, both the id and the ego are fed...whether it be direct, or indirect).
Ok, enough of that. It's not really my point, but I felt it needed to be briefly addressed in order to present what is my argument. Journalism is dead, and greed is who stands over its carcass.
Major newspapers are failing, not because they are not profitable, but because they aren't profitable enough. The largest paper in a significant market is shutting down (or becoming solely an internet venture - which isn't a problem in itself as newspapers must adapt to the modern medium) not because it is losing money, but because it is only making ten million dollars a year. Journalist are being sent home to cut cost, again not because keeping them is putting the business in the red, but because it isn't as profitable as it could be....respect, cultural significance be damned.
Skeleton crews are kept to produce stories only meant for mass consumption. Their time railed away from where their instincts may take them, and herded into short term dollars and/or hits. These assembly line stories haven't the need for deep research or fact checking, thus the true explanation of "downsizing" in this field.
Information is no longer essential, unless it directly contributes to the numbers that can be presented to potential advertisers.
As corporations have taken over the American vistas, the accountability of products (as services are no longer services provided to and for the community, they are simply products) have been dismissed in favor of the bottom line. Who cares about inspiring change or the plight of the righteous when a picture of Paris Hilton or Britney Spears forgetting to wear panties can sell at least twice as many copies, or gather infinite more hits.
Where there was once a divide between true journalism and sensationalism, there is now a bond. After all, when the same company owns both and makes far more money from one, isn't it only an amount of time before that corporation sheds the lesser earner, especially if there is no societal responsibility felt. When the company that owns your paper/station/site is based in New York or any other place, do you think they honestly concern themselves with their effect on your environment? They are only hungry for what's in your wallet/purse, not in the quality of your life, because they know they don't have to be. You don't make them, and they know you won't.
Radio was the first to stab a thorn into the heart of journalism. Television soon pried that wound much wider and dug deeper. Now, the internet has gripped it's heart with hands too young to be calloused and set in motion the apocalypse of the well researched and meticulously planned written word. Even as I sit here typing this, I am a culprit. Speed and entertainment have trumped importance and accuracy.
Given where our attentions are thrown, we the consumer are as much to blame as anyone. When everything is a business, and every business is alive merely to earn money, everything is for sale and all is measured in the currency collected. Corporations are ruled by men and women who sold their morality to be where they are (not every one, but there are too many examples to deny this statement in its entirety), by those who view corruption not as a weakness but as a line in the standard rules. So, how can we expect the deities they control to be any different.
Again, when only money matters, it goes without saying that nothing else does.
As you peruse sites designed for immediate attraction by minimal staffs without the time or support to do their jobs accurately (thoroughly) remember why that is...because of you (and me). We ignore their greed because we don't believe we feel its effect, though it has come to completely shape this world around us. You feel it as you search for that next loan. You find it in the sites you visit, designed not to inform but to gather the ads that litter its face like scarring acne. You find it in the void left where true journalist once tread, where through the tedium of misguided sources stories died and rarely, when research and time did prove fruitful, they crept up to change the world around them and changed the lens you see the world through.
When you curse the blatant corruption rampant in our own government, or the distorted hierarchy of modern American life (where money overrides importance), try to remember how many stories you glanced by or skipped over about these facts to get to that most recent nipple slip, or Hollywood rumor. Try to remember how many people showed up to protest Enron leaders minimal punishments or a complete lack of government accountability, and then try to remember how many were there to denounce one of that very same group who slept with an intern or slipped with any other sexual misstep.
Where people once followed the outrage carried to light on the back of journalism and those in danger of being outed found fear, there are no more flies on the wall and the fear of being sought out is forgotten. And, why wouldn't it be? If you get caught, just act out the scenes your PR staff scripts and then keep quiet and we'll forget soon enough. You're only in trouble for as long we're interested.
Ok, I guess that's enough of a rant. I know this is somewhat convoluted and goes in too many directions at once, but hey....I'm not getting paid to fill out the flesh of the story.
Addendum:
A quick comment from me....
I am aware that there are some, if not many newspapers that are realistically in the "red" and that their cutbacks in staffing, and thus quality journalism, are out of necessity for survival.
However, I am also aware that maintaining a profit margin, not just a profit, is as rampant as necessity.
And, as long as we the consumer give only financial reward for these cutbacks and reversions toward sensationalism and away from information derived through time consuming investigation, why would they choose any other path?
Making one of my larger points very bluntly is this, we the consumer choose what we are sold, thus we haven't the right to be upset when we find that we are deceived and uncared for by the deities we choose to support with the money we've sold to them.
Don't wonder why no one told us we were being deceived, when we all but turned our back on the people and/or protectors once appointed to do so.
You complain about the press, yet you shape who and what they are.
So, I guess we stand hand in hand with greed as the coffin of true journalism is lowered into the ground.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Sad, Desperate, Angry, Apathetic?
Like most nights, I went into last night's Mavs game with quiet optimism. You know, that subtle hope that this team is better than it's given credit for. That they were the reincarnation of the Rockets on their second title run (another team I watched faithfully, and seemed to endlessly lead me on fruitless chases into disappointment....well, until the playoffs that is). That this team could sneak into the playoffs at something better than the 8th seed to avoid playing the Lakers in the first round, where they could then uncoil the strike they've been storing up all season to "shock the world".
That, like the Rockets, they have developed the habit of playing up to or down to their opponent.
Then came the second highly contested game against a young team with talent, but without most of that talent playing, in the team stolen from Seattle (the team that serves as a not so subtle sirens call that when all teams are for sale, any can be bought).
As a Mavs fan, this season hasn't been easy, beginning with the silence of what promised (honest, the promises came to us from the lips of our own Generic Masochist - isn't that what GM stands for) to be an active and eventful draft day, to the echoed promises of what was sure to be a frantic and rewarding trading deadline, to the current whispers of what could and should be this off-season or the next....and more to the point, to what we're seeing on the court.
Going into the year, we all wondered if Kidd had enough to be a valid contributor and dreamed of what could come back when we finally broke up the true core of the team that choked away the Finals and a Golden State series, and traded Josh Howard (or mini-Damp, as he is often prone to be). The dreams paved the way to a destination where hope wasn't being strangled away from its decaying grip by reality. Hope was as vibrant and gleeful as I was when watching the full-screen version of The Breakup (haven't actually seen it, but supposedly the scene with Anniston walking naked through the apartment includes her visibly topless - don't quote me on that however, as I have not been able to verify it myself, sadly).
Sorry, even the thoughts sidetracked me, but we've found that yes, Kidd can still be a very good player...and as clutch as anyone the Mavs have ever had (which makes you wonder even louder why Avery benched him at the end of that Spurs game). Sadly, we've also found the ineptitude of our front office knows no bounds. How many times must this core (Dirk, Terry, Howard - and whether you admit it or not, that was and is the core. Harris was only beginning to be a part of it, but was still only peripheral) fail before it is tweaked. Apparently, at least once more.
Dirk IS the kind of player a team can be built around, regardless of what countless unappreciative Dallas fans will say. A trip to the Finals alone proves this. Terry is the heart and soul of this team, and honestly, it's going to hurt whenever he does leave. You couldn't ask for a better guy to be a part of "your" team. That leaves Howard. The supposed second best player on this team for years. Yet, also a player that has never done anything when it mattered. The front office's overvaluing of him alone is what is attempting to destroy what was once a golden opportunity.
They say he's a top 20 player in this league, regardless of the fact that I could name at least 50 I'd rather have, and have refused to move him when his value was high. Hopefully we'll find out where his value is this summer, but I wouldn't be surprised to hear the company line cast again - never mind that the lake is dry and the suffocating fish are growing more and more uninterested in what this company has to say (need to check the TV ratings again).
The fact that Dampier is still in the NBA is a direct insult on the league itself. David Stern should be begging to buy out his contract yesterday, personally.
Anyway, I've digressed (another symptom of frustration and anger - it's too easy to pull those chords and want to trace that rail of rant)....then came the storm of the Thunder, and hell came with them. The hell of realizing this team has a very real chance of missing the playoffs. The hell of watching a bunch of millionaires that supposedly love this team and city give about 30% effort for three quarters before realizing they were even playing in a game that counted. The hell of seeing Dirk, Terry and Kidd trying to carry a team that just doesn't seem to care.
Last year we thought this lack of effort was a team giving up on its coach. So, what's the problem this year?
If this team can sneak into (how long has it been put that way - "sneak") the playoffs and avoid the Lakers and Utah, I still think they can put up a good fight, but that sneaking is going to have to come behind a fist. We'll see, and then we'll ultimately see what they do this summer. We are approaching the last chance ride with Dirk, and we print the tickets this summer.
That, like the Rockets, they have developed the habit of playing up to or down to their opponent.
Then came the second highly contested game against a young team with talent, but without most of that talent playing, in the team stolen from Seattle (the team that serves as a not so subtle sirens call that when all teams are for sale, any can be bought).
As a Mavs fan, this season hasn't been easy, beginning with the silence of what promised (honest, the promises came to us from the lips of our own Generic Masochist - isn't that what GM stands for) to be an active and eventful draft day, to the echoed promises of what was sure to be a frantic and rewarding trading deadline, to the current whispers of what could and should be this off-season or the next....and more to the point, to what we're seeing on the court.
Going into the year, we all wondered if Kidd had enough to be a valid contributor and dreamed of what could come back when we finally broke up the true core of the team that choked away the Finals and a Golden State series, and traded Josh Howard (or mini-Damp, as he is often prone to be). The dreams paved the way to a destination where hope wasn't being strangled away from its decaying grip by reality. Hope was as vibrant and gleeful as I was when watching the full-screen version of The Breakup (haven't actually seen it, but supposedly the scene with Anniston walking naked through the apartment includes her visibly topless - don't quote me on that however, as I have not been able to verify it myself, sadly).
Sorry, even the thoughts sidetracked me, but we've found that yes, Kidd can still be a very good player...and as clutch as anyone the Mavs have ever had (which makes you wonder even louder why Avery benched him at the end of that Spurs game). Sadly, we've also found the ineptitude of our front office knows no bounds. How many times must this core (Dirk, Terry, Howard - and whether you admit it or not, that was and is the core. Harris was only beginning to be a part of it, but was still only peripheral) fail before it is tweaked. Apparently, at least once more.
Dirk IS the kind of player a team can be built around, regardless of what countless unappreciative Dallas fans will say. A trip to the Finals alone proves this. Terry is the heart and soul of this team, and honestly, it's going to hurt whenever he does leave. You couldn't ask for a better guy to be a part of "your" team. That leaves Howard. The supposed second best player on this team for years. Yet, also a player that has never done anything when it mattered. The front office's overvaluing of him alone is what is attempting to destroy what was once a golden opportunity.
They say he's a top 20 player in this league, regardless of the fact that I could name at least 50 I'd rather have, and have refused to move him when his value was high. Hopefully we'll find out where his value is this summer, but I wouldn't be surprised to hear the company line cast again - never mind that the lake is dry and the suffocating fish are growing more and more uninterested in what this company has to say (need to check the TV ratings again).
The fact that Dampier is still in the NBA is a direct insult on the league itself. David Stern should be begging to buy out his contract yesterday, personally.
Anyway, I've digressed (another symptom of frustration and anger - it's too easy to pull those chords and want to trace that rail of rant)....then came the storm of the Thunder, and hell came with them. The hell of realizing this team has a very real chance of missing the playoffs. The hell of watching a bunch of millionaires that supposedly love this team and city give about 30% effort for three quarters before realizing they were even playing in a game that counted. The hell of seeing Dirk, Terry and Kidd trying to carry a team that just doesn't seem to care.
Last year we thought this lack of effort was a team giving up on its coach. So, what's the problem this year?
If this team can sneak into (how long has it been put that way - "sneak") the playoffs and avoid the Lakers and Utah, I still think they can put up a good fight, but that sneaking is going to have to come behind a fist. We'll see, and then we'll ultimately see what they do this summer. We are approaching the last chance ride with Dirk, and we print the tickets this summer.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The Wanderer (short story- non-sports)
The Wanderer
I once met a man, who wasn’t a man. He stood about six-two, and weighed in at about an even deuce. Two hundred pounds, that is. Wasn’t really wearing anything that would set him apart from anyone else, other than the small white flower peaking from his left breast pocket. Around these parts, that is a rather strange thing in itself, but the contrast created by the canvass of solid black, that was his entire dress, seemed to paint a spotlight on an already glaring abnormality. Other than that, though, nothing set him apart from any other man. I mean, other than the fact that he was not a man.
He did breathe, did sleep, did think and feel, did abide by what he called the seasons of life, birth to death to birth and so on. By death he did not infer the definition you or I would recite, if asked, but would prefer to label it a door. Nothing but a link from this face to the next. After describing this last line he was sure to make clear that, unlike a man, his face remained always as it was. As if to explain why I may or may not have found him vaguely familiar.
Of course, you have to understand that, unlike you and I, memory did not rust and die for him. It lived on door after door. How he craved the amnesia that promises to cleanse us of us when the day comes, when that door opens. On this jealousy, I am not speculating, for he told me himself. He did. Right out there. Just beyond the pumps, where the gravel starts to eat at the pavement. Perhaps I’ll invite my wife to convince you. No, I couldn’t deprive myself of the story. It is mine to tell, after all. Hers is all together different.
He stood, this pseudo man, and told me of his envy. I don’t know if that was the strangest day of my life, but if it wasn’t, it was close. It’s certainly not everyday you meet a man who is just not a man. Though he seemed bound by the same sorrow in a strange way, he was left hollow of the happiness that can be everyday life, of change. Rather, held eternally by the confines of a single day. Left without variation, save the faces he came across as he wandered not quite aimlessly.
--------
It was a Thursday, if I recall correct. Maybe a little after two in the A.M.. So, you could call it Friday morning if you chose. I had stayed at the store with Jim and a small black and white television. It only got three channels, but that’s enough for me. Background noise was all it truly was anyway, a wall between me and the emptiness of silence. That’s not right, now is it? Silence isn’t empty. Not for me. Crowded by memory it whispered in a constant drain that night.
Jim sat on the counter, I was sitting on a stool behind the main counter of my small store (Oz’s Map is the name of my store, if you were wondering- No, my name isn’t Oz. Again, if you were wondering, it’s James.), with the television concealing the silence in front of me. Having spilled half its belly, I reached out and unscrewed Jim’s crown again to fill my glass, now barren, shimmering ice resting instead of floating.
A quarter of an inch from the rim of the glass I stopped pouring and put the Jim Beam back on the counter, added a splash of water from the sink behind me (a sink built only to wash gas or oil coated hands and to top off my many drinks) and took a big sip. Nothing’s like that first sip from a fresh drink, quality alcohol or not. There’s nothing like it except, perhaps, a first kiss. Should you be so lucky.
My wife passed nearly twenty years before that night and a kiss was something I hadn’t known between. You’d think I’d of missed it more. Sex, I mean. Don’t get me wrong. I missed it. Sometimes immensely, but I think after a certain period of time, once memory loses its texture, some things can quietly slide away. I’ll leave it at that, or I’ll melt your ear on the subject. Perhaps it was missed more than I’ll admit, but that said, I missed her far more. Just a single mental glimpse of her sent a wish to be gone from this place pulsing through me.
Again I must digress, before I regress, as someone once said to me.
That night, the night I met a man who failed to be a man, I was drunk, but that’s not to say I was too drunk. It was a state I had grown accustomed to. I only say, because there is no need to lose trust in my words. What happened, happened. There is no changing that. No explaining it away, or dismissing it.
Such an easy way out that would be. To say it was all Jim’s fault. Easy, but not true. Right or wrong who’s to say? Do true and false mirror right and wrong? I’d say it was wrong, but true. Everything about that night was somehow wrong, at first, a shadow where nothing lies.
In hindsight it was right and false.
--------
I was sitting behind the counter on my small bar stool when something caught my attention, a small glint at the extreme of my peripheral. Before I even saw him everything fell away, like the air had settled beneath the floor and failed its climb to me, leaving a vacuum which swallowed all sound and life. Space became empty, almost two dimensional. Slight, yet overwhelming.
Most nights will pass with the crossing of a possum, raccoon or deer as the only traffic. So, when I saw what had grabbed my eye appeared to be a man, my first thought was of either a wreck or an empty, someone that’s run dry of gas, not far up the road. Empty seemed more plausible, lack of traffic and all, but the man’s gate was that of one left dazed and incoherent. He didn’t quite sway, but rather leaked along with brutal slowness.
Noticing the vacant feel of the world around me, I wandered out the unlocked front door of Oz’s Map towards the man. Forgive me for calling him such, but I think it’s of no concern to him. Though my suspicions were already raised, there was nothing to define them.
Once outside, the feel of being in a vacuum became complete as the very air pulled at my skin, threatening to tear me in all directions at once. The normal squeak for oil of the front door pulling closed behind me came wet and muddled, as if buried deep in a dense liquid. My footsteps and the clinking ice from the glass in my hand were ghosts whose cries went unnoticed.
Had the earth quit to rest from its endless, dizzy spin? Had the moon claimed the day for its own? Was I trapped in a dying bubble left in the ocean’s belly, left unsettled from the continents swallowed? It was surreal in its haunting awkwardness, that night. Not dreamlike, but rather a painting gone awry.
“You alright?” I finally mustered with failing courage. Why didn’t I just turn and run, leave my spilled drink to accompany this that was clearly not a man.
No response. He only leaked a little farther along.
Regretting it as I did, I asked again. “You alright there?”
Like barely warmed wax his head dripped towards me and his eyes stopped me mid-stride. His left eye, the one farther from me as I approached from his right, was a shiny almost bright gray or silver, like a cat’s eye reflecting bright light in the darkest throes of night.
While the right eye, closer to me, was still gray, it appeared lifeless and faded, long dead. Along with the small white flower against his complete black attire, his eyes made two complete contrasts within his features.
I stood frozen under his gaze, blazing and dead eye alike, having forgotten that a question had been asked.
“I am fine.” he said, leaving me oddly confused. “Is this your trading post?”
“My what? Ah, yes. I own and run Oz’s Map.”
“I have no cartomobile in need of sustenance, but could I barter for a beer. Flavor or ferment matters not.” He reminded me of a gunslinger entering a new town without fear, but tired of the fight none the same.
“I’m actually closed to trading for the night, but I don’t mind parting with a bottle if you’ll wait here for a second.” I was truly asking permission to leave, for a moment to breathe outside the vacuum.
“I’ll do so gratefully.”
It’s funny how things seem to work sometimes. I barely remember the walk back into the store and the thin walk in cooler. Time simply leapt forward leaving me feeble and dreading the walk back out, where it slowed down again. Enter the vacuum, but breathe deep before going because there’s no breath to find there.
Maybe a hundred years later, so it seemed, I was once again standing before the not quite man. He took the bottle from my hand, opened it and took a sip with a slow bleeding grace.
“Thank you for your kindness.” he said while looking at the bottle with an eerie smile, as if he hadn’t had a beer in ages and hadn’t seen a bottle in much longer, if ever.
“Not a problem.” I wanted to ask his name, or what he was doing here, or comment on his eyes and their extreme polarity but the words would not come, instead taken back to sleep before their conception.
“You do well out here? Haven’t crossed any other travelers in awhile, and seen even less as far as homes go.”
“Enough to get by. I’m too old to try to get rich, and the seclusion of this place was half of its draw. Just a place to feed my time.”
“Aye, it does you well.” His voice was quiet, but not small or meek.
“It does.” I couldn’t find where the will resided that was moving my vocal chords, but as the words themselves escaped, they did so without strain. However, I couldn’t have screamed had I wanted to. Not if my life and the lives of all those important to me depended on it. It was like his questions freed me to respond, but the emptiness took everything else.
There were no crickets. No isolated bird calls. No frogs or coyote in the distance. Nothing at all, but me and this near man. Nothing but his two opposing eyes with the balance held therein and our voices.
“Do you refer to your feeding of time, your structured leaving from this place, with your map?”
“What?” It took me a second, but I followed his dual gaze to the sign atop the storefront.
“The name? No, it…” I was still a little confused by the question.
“Your map, does it symbolize or refer to your plan with this storefront, your route for this last leg of your life. Does it chart the path to the land on the other side of the hill?” he said and took another long sip of beer.
“No. Well, no. In a way, I guess it does, but not how you mean. Though that definitely fits, I just hadn’t thought of it that way before. My name’s not Oz. I actually came up with that name because of the desolate location. It feels misplaced and what could you use more than a map to or from Oz when you’re lost, misplaced?”
“I understand. I’ve heard of this, Oz. Why not Map to Oz then?” His question came without malice or sarcasm.
“I didn’t want to specify the coming or going part, with home being at the other end of the path.”
“I see. I am not sure that I would have chosen such a name, but it is strong, none the less.” He said and took another sip from his more than half empty bottle.
I still couldn’t muster an unsolicited word.
We stood there in complete silence for a moment, and I noticed something strange. Though there was not a cloud in the sky, not a single star. Only an unmarked seal of black wrapped us in.
“What name do you go by?”
“James, but you can call me Jimmy. Most people do.” I smiled but it didn’t fit, and quickly faded.
“Are you married, James? Jimmy if you prefer.”
“Doesn’t matter to me, and yes or at least I was.”
“Passed on, has she, over the next hill and on? Do you think of Sandy often?” He spoke slow and paused between every sentence.
I’d not mentioned her name. I’m sure of it. Hadn’t spoke it aloud in over a decade, in fact. Yet, there it was.
“She is without pain, if it suits you to know.” he continued.
“It does. Thank you for saying.” My mind had stalled. I was aware of how things felt, was aware of the small oddities, such as the hiding stars and the complete silence, other than our words: Our feet did not scuff the ground, drinks did not whisper a sound and clothes ruffling was unfound. It was like being in a sound booth with only our heads enclosed, and only our words caught. But, having something as solid as her name said right out loud sent the weight of the situation crashing down.
This wasn’t a man. No matter the costume, this was not a man.
Again, I wanted to turn and run until my lungs burst and my legs fell strained and broken as my heart popped, but the connection between what I wanted and my legs was lost. I stood, probably with my jaw agape, but unable to do anything about it. He must have noticed my silence for his eyes turned from the horizon to me, and I nearly did run, or at least faint.
“Sandy is in fact a happier version of you. She waits for you as you wait for her. You are merely caught in different seasons. Her in spring, and you in deep winter, but it won’t be long now. I can already see the door, the coming break of winter, but we’ll talk a little longer. You’ve impressed me, Jimmy, so far.”
“Thank you.” I said without really understanding why. I tried to take a sip of my Beam with a splash of water, found that steadying my hand was not a manageable task, and lowered the glass without touching it to my lips.
As I watched, the world around the road, which we were on the edge of where the gravel still struggled to cover my paved lot, began to gray and dry. It was like watching a cigarette burn with a time motion camera, like they use to show a flower bloom in only a couple of seconds. One moment there is a full cigarette and within five seconds a small ring of glowing heat devours the white and leaves only a stick of dry, wilted ash.
It was slower than this, but the world seemed to burn away as I watched. Long lines of confined flame swept in from the horizon, like a digital scan, leaving gray lifeless things behind. Before me Oz’s Map developed a glowing horizontal line at its top that slowly began to descend its walls. Moments later there was a lifeless ash husk in its place.
The glowing line did not stop at the base of my store. Instead, in crept on towards where I stood, swallowing all in its path. Up and over the two pumps it came. From all directions this fiery line crept forward, in a giant ring around where I stood beside the stranger with a quarter of his beer left, broken only by the road to my right (away from where the almost stranger had approached).
It stopped at the other side of the road, but cut the road off several feet to my left, behind the one wearing the costume of a man. Ash took all, up to about three feet from where I’d approached and all to the right except the road, which it left untouched to stretch into the horizon.
I was beginning to understand. I raised my glass in an attempt at another sip, but once again gave up before doing so.
We stood a moment in complete silence. There was no smell of burning or truly, there was no smell at all. Like sound it had been abandoned.
“Do you know the seasons? Do they change here, or are we too far south?” He said, his quiet voice a scream in the complete silence.
“I know them. Know them very well. Come to dread some of the changes for what they do to my joints.” I said.
“What I wouldn’t give for such pain. Nothing changes where I am. I adhere to the same seasons of life and death as you, but am left forever un-cleansed. Memory does not reset. I am forever in the winter of my tasks.”
I wanted to say something, to ask something. Anything, but my lips and tongue were limp and without will.
“Forgive my self loathing, if that is what it is. We are all born to a task, and I fulfill mine same as anyone else. Same as you, but I’m just so tired.” He took a small sip of his beer, now maybe only an eighth full. “Why can’t my past wash away?” As he said this he waved his arm and the ash skeletons of the world I’d known fell away. This only completed the feeling of being trapped in a vacuum. Now there was only the road, and only in one direction.
I stood unable to speak, and unsure of what I could have said anyway.
“Your door is close now, from this face to the next. Unlike me, you will soon find another place. Another version of you, but fear not. For this is an easy change. You merely shed your skin, and little else. Your time of reward is near, and Sandy waits.”
I felt her name surge through me, along with his words. Could she be so near?
“As for me, my door is also close, but there is no reward. Only another to hold a door open for. I’m so tired. Thank you for not fighting, for not running. That only makes the inevitable that much harder on me. You’ve lived a good life Jimmy and I’m sure your time of reward will not be short. Are you ready?” He said and finished his beer. The bottle top glowed red and then slowly fell away in ash that left no dust.
I tried once more to take a sip of my drink, this time easily enough. That done, the weight of my glass fell away and slipped like all else to ash. On the horizon in a world of dark gray, broken only by the road, there came a glint of light, and a small laugh. Sandy’s laugh. My heart leapt.
“I am.” I said.
“Let us begin our short walk together, then.” He then turned and began to walk down the road, slowly. I caught up easily enough. Thoughts of her filled my head, though I still dared not speak her name, for fear of jinxing myself and waking from the dream. The glint at the horizon was still far off, but now I could almost smell her. The vacuum was breaking.
I found myself once again in control of my faculties.
“Where did you get that flower, or does it signify something that I missed?” I asked.
“This,” he said and lightly stroked the flower, “This was a gift. Long ago it was given to me as a token of appreciation for the tasks I must complete. It is immune to my touch. It never dies. I love it with all that is me. It is the antithesis of me.”
She was all around me now. I could smell her. Hear her. Almost feel her.
And then this not quite man touched my wrist and she was there with arms and smile wide.
The End -
written by md
Author's Note:
Spoiler - if you care to not ruin the story, read this last....
I wrote this story shortly after my father passed away, and I suppose it was at least partially my way of making death not seem so bad. I also liked the idea of life being like the flame put to the end of a cigarette. Some cigarettes allow the flame to trace it's way to the filter, while others are put out a drag or two in. In the end, what lies behind falls to ash, and we can only move on down the only road remaining.
That's all. I hope you enjoyed it...and, don't worry (for all 2 to 3 of my readers), I will usually stick to sports. I think I just didn't want that "What WE want as Fans" to remain my most current post, as I don't think it's very good.
Also, this was written in Word and imported with Works- so, please forgive any formatting issues. I think I caught them all, but I did it quickly.
I once met a man, who wasn’t a man. He stood about six-two, and weighed in at about an even deuce. Two hundred pounds, that is. Wasn’t really wearing anything that would set him apart from anyone else, other than the small white flower peaking from his left breast pocket. Around these parts, that is a rather strange thing in itself, but the contrast created by the canvass of solid black, that was his entire dress, seemed to paint a spotlight on an already glaring abnormality. Other than that, though, nothing set him apart from any other man. I mean, other than the fact that he was not a man.
He did breathe, did sleep, did think and feel, did abide by what he called the seasons of life, birth to death to birth and so on. By death he did not infer the definition you or I would recite, if asked, but would prefer to label it a door. Nothing but a link from this face to the next. After describing this last line he was sure to make clear that, unlike a man, his face remained always as it was. As if to explain why I may or may not have found him vaguely familiar.
Of course, you have to understand that, unlike you and I, memory did not rust and die for him. It lived on door after door. How he craved the amnesia that promises to cleanse us of us when the day comes, when that door opens. On this jealousy, I am not speculating, for he told me himself. He did. Right out there. Just beyond the pumps, where the gravel starts to eat at the pavement. Perhaps I’ll invite my wife to convince you. No, I couldn’t deprive myself of the story. It is mine to tell, after all. Hers is all together different.
He stood, this pseudo man, and told me of his envy. I don’t know if that was the strangest day of my life, but if it wasn’t, it was close. It’s certainly not everyday you meet a man who is just not a man. Though he seemed bound by the same sorrow in a strange way, he was left hollow of the happiness that can be everyday life, of change. Rather, held eternally by the confines of a single day. Left without variation, save the faces he came across as he wandered not quite aimlessly.
--------
It was a Thursday, if I recall correct. Maybe a little after two in the A.M.. So, you could call it Friday morning if you chose. I had stayed at the store with Jim and a small black and white television. It only got three channels, but that’s enough for me. Background noise was all it truly was anyway, a wall between me and the emptiness of silence. That’s not right, now is it? Silence isn’t empty. Not for me. Crowded by memory it whispered in a constant drain that night.
Jim sat on the counter, I was sitting on a stool behind the main counter of my small store (Oz’s Map is the name of my store, if you were wondering- No, my name isn’t Oz. Again, if you were wondering, it’s James.), with the television concealing the silence in front of me. Having spilled half its belly, I reached out and unscrewed Jim’s crown again to fill my glass, now barren, shimmering ice resting instead of floating.
A quarter of an inch from the rim of the glass I stopped pouring and put the Jim Beam back on the counter, added a splash of water from the sink behind me (a sink built only to wash gas or oil coated hands and to top off my many drinks) and took a big sip. Nothing’s like that first sip from a fresh drink, quality alcohol or not. There’s nothing like it except, perhaps, a first kiss. Should you be so lucky.
My wife passed nearly twenty years before that night and a kiss was something I hadn’t known between. You’d think I’d of missed it more. Sex, I mean. Don’t get me wrong. I missed it. Sometimes immensely, but I think after a certain period of time, once memory loses its texture, some things can quietly slide away. I’ll leave it at that, or I’ll melt your ear on the subject. Perhaps it was missed more than I’ll admit, but that said, I missed her far more. Just a single mental glimpse of her sent a wish to be gone from this place pulsing through me.
Again I must digress, before I regress, as someone once said to me.
That night, the night I met a man who failed to be a man, I was drunk, but that’s not to say I was too drunk. It was a state I had grown accustomed to. I only say, because there is no need to lose trust in my words. What happened, happened. There is no changing that. No explaining it away, or dismissing it.
Such an easy way out that would be. To say it was all Jim’s fault. Easy, but not true. Right or wrong who’s to say? Do true and false mirror right and wrong? I’d say it was wrong, but true. Everything about that night was somehow wrong, at first, a shadow where nothing lies.
In hindsight it was right and false.
--------
I was sitting behind the counter on my small bar stool when something caught my attention, a small glint at the extreme of my peripheral. Before I even saw him everything fell away, like the air had settled beneath the floor and failed its climb to me, leaving a vacuum which swallowed all sound and life. Space became empty, almost two dimensional. Slight, yet overwhelming.
Most nights will pass with the crossing of a possum, raccoon or deer as the only traffic. So, when I saw what had grabbed my eye appeared to be a man, my first thought was of either a wreck or an empty, someone that’s run dry of gas, not far up the road. Empty seemed more plausible, lack of traffic and all, but the man’s gate was that of one left dazed and incoherent. He didn’t quite sway, but rather leaked along with brutal slowness.
Noticing the vacant feel of the world around me, I wandered out the unlocked front door of Oz’s Map towards the man. Forgive me for calling him such, but I think it’s of no concern to him. Though my suspicions were already raised, there was nothing to define them.
Once outside, the feel of being in a vacuum became complete as the very air pulled at my skin, threatening to tear me in all directions at once. The normal squeak for oil of the front door pulling closed behind me came wet and muddled, as if buried deep in a dense liquid. My footsteps and the clinking ice from the glass in my hand were ghosts whose cries went unnoticed.
Had the earth quit to rest from its endless, dizzy spin? Had the moon claimed the day for its own? Was I trapped in a dying bubble left in the ocean’s belly, left unsettled from the continents swallowed? It was surreal in its haunting awkwardness, that night. Not dreamlike, but rather a painting gone awry.
“You alright?” I finally mustered with failing courage. Why didn’t I just turn and run, leave my spilled drink to accompany this that was clearly not a man.
No response. He only leaked a little farther along.
Regretting it as I did, I asked again. “You alright there?”
Like barely warmed wax his head dripped towards me and his eyes stopped me mid-stride. His left eye, the one farther from me as I approached from his right, was a shiny almost bright gray or silver, like a cat’s eye reflecting bright light in the darkest throes of night.
While the right eye, closer to me, was still gray, it appeared lifeless and faded, long dead. Along with the small white flower against his complete black attire, his eyes made two complete contrasts within his features.
I stood frozen under his gaze, blazing and dead eye alike, having forgotten that a question had been asked.
“I am fine.” he said, leaving me oddly confused. “Is this your trading post?”
“My what? Ah, yes. I own and run Oz’s Map.”
“I have no cartomobile in need of sustenance, but could I barter for a beer. Flavor or ferment matters not.” He reminded me of a gunslinger entering a new town without fear, but tired of the fight none the same.
“I’m actually closed to trading for the night, but I don’t mind parting with a bottle if you’ll wait here for a second.” I was truly asking permission to leave, for a moment to breathe outside the vacuum.
“I’ll do so gratefully.”
It’s funny how things seem to work sometimes. I barely remember the walk back into the store and the thin walk in cooler. Time simply leapt forward leaving me feeble and dreading the walk back out, where it slowed down again. Enter the vacuum, but breathe deep before going because there’s no breath to find there.
Maybe a hundred years later, so it seemed, I was once again standing before the not quite man. He took the bottle from my hand, opened it and took a sip with a slow bleeding grace.
“Thank you for your kindness.” he said while looking at the bottle with an eerie smile, as if he hadn’t had a beer in ages and hadn’t seen a bottle in much longer, if ever.
“Not a problem.” I wanted to ask his name, or what he was doing here, or comment on his eyes and their extreme polarity but the words would not come, instead taken back to sleep before their conception.
“You do well out here? Haven’t crossed any other travelers in awhile, and seen even less as far as homes go.”
“Enough to get by. I’m too old to try to get rich, and the seclusion of this place was half of its draw. Just a place to feed my time.”
“Aye, it does you well.” His voice was quiet, but not small or meek.
“It does.” I couldn’t find where the will resided that was moving my vocal chords, but as the words themselves escaped, they did so without strain. However, I couldn’t have screamed had I wanted to. Not if my life and the lives of all those important to me depended on it. It was like his questions freed me to respond, but the emptiness took everything else.
There were no crickets. No isolated bird calls. No frogs or coyote in the distance. Nothing at all, but me and this near man. Nothing but his two opposing eyes with the balance held therein and our voices.
“Do you refer to your feeding of time, your structured leaving from this place, with your map?”
“What?” It took me a second, but I followed his dual gaze to the sign atop the storefront.
“The name? No, it…” I was still a little confused by the question.
“Your map, does it symbolize or refer to your plan with this storefront, your route for this last leg of your life. Does it chart the path to the land on the other side of the hill?” he said and took another long sip of beer.
“No. Well, no. In a way, I guess it does, but not how you mean. Though that definitely fits, I just hadn’t thought of it that way before. My name’s not Oz. I actually came up with that name because of the desolate location. It feels misplaced and what could you use more than a map to or from Oz when you’re lost, misplaced?”
“I understand. I’ve heard of this, Oz. Why not Map to Oz then?” His question came without malice or sarcasm.
“I didn’t want to specify the coming or going part, with home being at the other end of the path.”
“I see. I am not sure that I would have chosen such a name, but it is strong, none the less.” He said and took another sip from his more than half empty bottle.
I still couldn’t muster an unsolicited word.
We stood there in complete silence for a moment, and I noticed something strange. Though there was not a cloud in the sky, not a single star. Only an unmarked seal of black wrapped us in.
“What name do you go by?”
“James, but you can call me Jimmy. Most people do.” I smiled but it didn’t fit, and quickly faded.
“Are you married, James? Jimmy if you prefer.”
“Doesn’t matter to me, and yes or at least I was.”
“Passed on, has she, over the next hill and on? Do you think of Sandy often?” He spoke slow and paused between every sentence.
I’d not mentioned her name. I’m sure of it. Hadn’t spoke it aloud in over a decade, in fact. Yet, there it was.
“She is without pain, if it suits you to know.” he continued.
“It does. Thank you for saying.” My mind had stalled. I was aware of how things felt, was aware of the small oddities, such as the hiding stars and the complete silence, other than our words: Our feet did not scuff the ground, drinks did not whisper a sound and clothes ruffling was unfound. It was like being in a sound booth with only our heads enclosed, and only our words caught. But, having something as solid as her name said right out loud sent the weight of the situation crashing down.
This wasn’t a man. No matter the costume, this was not a man.
Again, I wanted to turn and run until my lungs burst and my legs fell strained and broken as my heart popped, but the connection between what I wanted and my legs was lost. I stood, probably with my jaw agape, but unable to do anything about it. He must have noticed my silence for his eyes turned from the horizon to me, and I nearly did run, or at least faint.
“Sandy is in fact a happier version of you. She waits for you as you wait for her. You are merely caught in different seasons. Her in spring, and you in deep winter, but it won’t be long now. I can already see the door, the coming break of winter, but we’ll talk a little longer. You’ve impressed me, Jimmy, so far.”
“Thank you.” I said without really understanding why. I tried to take a sip of my Beam with a splash of water, found that steadying my hand was not a manageable task, and lowered the glass without touching it to my lips.
As I watched, the world around the road, which we were on the edge of where the gravel still struggled to cover my paved lot, began to gray and dry. It was like watching a cigarette burn with a time motion camera, like they use to show a flower bloom in only a couple of seconds. One moment there is a full cigarette and within five seconds a small ring of glowing heat devours the white and leaves only a stick of dry, wilted ash.
It was slower than this, but the world seemed to burn away as I watched. Long lines of confined flame swept in from the horizon, like a digital scan, leaving gray lifeless things behind. Before me Oz’s Map developed a glowing horizontal line at its top that slowly began to descend its walls. Moments later there was a lifeless ash husk in its place.
The glowing line did not stop at the base of my store. Instead, in crept on towards where I stood, swallowing all in its path. Up and over the two pumps it came. From all directions this fiery line crept forward, in a giant ring around where I stood beside the stranger with a quarter of his beer left, broken only by the road to my right (away from where the almost stranger had approached).
It stopped at the other side of the road, but cut the road off several feet to my left, behind the one wearing the costume of a man. Ash took all, up to about three feet from where I’d approached and all to the right except the road, which it left untouched to stretch into the horizon.
I was beginning to understand. I raised my glass in an attempt at another sip, but once again gave up before doing so.
We stood a moment in complete silence. There was no smell of burning or truly, there was no smell at all. Like sound it had been abandoned.
“Do you know the seasons? Do they change here, or are we too far south?” He said, his quiet voice a scream in the complete silence.
“I know them. Know them very well. Come to dread some of the changes for what they do to my joints.” I said.
“What I wouldn’t give for such pain. Nothing changes where I am. I adhere to the same seasons of life and death as you, but am left forever un-cleansed. Memory does not reset. I am forever in the winter of my tasks.”
I wanted to say something, to ask something. Anything, but my lips and tongue were limp and without will.
“Forgive my self loathing, if that is what it is. We are all born to a task, and I fulfill mine same as anyone else. Same as you, but I’m just so tired.” He took a small sip of his beer, now maybe only an eighth full. “Why can’t my past wash away?” As he said this he waved his arm and the ash skeletons of the world I’d known fell away. This only completed the feeling of being trapped in a vacuum. Now there was only the road, and only in one direction.
I stood unable to speak, and unsure of what I could have said anyway.
“Your door is close now, from this face to the next. Unlike me, you will soon find another place. Another version of you, but fear not. For this is an easy change. You merely shed your skin, and little else. Your time of reward is near, and Sandy waits.”
I felt her name surge through me, along with his words. Could she be so near?
“As for me, my door is also close, but there is no reward. Only another to hold a door open for. I’m so tired. Thank you for not fighting, for not running. That only makes the inevitable that much harder on me. You’ve lived a good life Jimmy and I’m sure your time of reward will not be short. Are you ready?” He said and finished his beer. The bottle top glowed red and then slowly fell away in ash that left no dust.
I tried once more to take a sip of my drink, this time easily enough. That done, the weight of my glass fell away and slipped like all else to ash. On the horizon in a world of dark gray, broken only by the road, there came a glint of light, and a small laugh. Sandy’s laugh. My heart leapt.
“I am.” I said.
“Let us begin our short walk together, then.” He then turned and began to walk down the road, slowly. I caught up easily enough. Thoughts of her filled my head, though I still dared not speak her name, for fear of jinxing myself and waking from the dream. The glint at the horizon was still far off, but now I could almost smell her. The vacuum was breaking.
I found myself once again in control of my faculties.
“Where did you get that flower, or does it signify something that I missed?” I asked.
“This,” he said and lightly stroked the flower, “This was a gift. Long ago it was given to me as a token of appreciation for the tasks I must complete. It is immune to my touch. It never dies. I love it with all that is me. It is the antithesis of me.”
She was all around me now. I could smell her. Hear her. Almost feel her.
And then this not quite man touched my wrist and she was there with arms and smile wide.
The End -
written by md
Author's Note:
Spoiler - if you care to not ruin the story, read this last....
I wrote this story shortly after my father passed away, and I suppose it was at least partially my way of making death not seem so bad. I also liked the idea of life being like the flame put to the end of a cigarette. Some cigarettes allow the flame to trace it's way to the filter, while others are put out a drag or two in. In the end, what lies behind falls to ash, and we can only move on down the only road remaining.
That's all. I hope you enjoyed it...and, don't worry (for all 2 to 3 of my readers), I will usually stick to sports. I think I just didn't want that "What WE want as Fans" to remain my most current post, as I don't think it's very good.
Also, this was written in Word and imported with Works- so, please forgive any formatting issues. I think I caught them all, but I did it quickly.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
What WE Seem to Want as Fans
Being a fan of the current Mavs (a team many see as in the decline, with their window of chance securely closed) has brought me into a realm that once was foreign.
Cheering when Michael Irvin lay seriously injured on the field. Throwing snowballs and batteries at Santa. Throwing a drink on Artest as he lay defenseless on the scorers table. Once, these actions were from fans in far away fairy tale lands (especially the classlessness of Philly fans - still booing the best QB in their history)
Today, they post on almost every Mavs related site and fill the seats at the AAC. So, when do expectations unfulfilled turn hearts once full of hope to stone? And, once at that point, why do so many take joy from casting hate at all who would still attempt to reign in a "sunny" disposition? Is optimism, or hope for those you held some version of love, truly that dreadful of a sin?
I suppose these fans could argue that they are only upset at the fans who continue to support the team, as their support hinders the march towards change, and in their eyes, resurgance.
Could you also argue that this is a sign of a much larger problem within our society, a society that takes as much pleasure in the destruction of the idols built as in first constructing them?
Or, is it somewhere in between and of little significance?
First, let's look at some of the possible reasons "fans" may sew beneath their vibrant disdain towards a team:
1. Is it a Defense Mechanism?
Are we essentially scorned lovers who fain hate for the one who left us scorned? Are the emotional scars so deep from our team's failures that we can't allow ourselves to remain outwardly attached, and thus vulnerable, and we'll attack anyone who has the audacity to continue on in faithful support as an affront to our stance?
Sounds very melodramatic to me, like cursing out my PS3 for cheating after losing a game of Madden and holding a lasting grudge. I've never walked by a week after a loss caused by the system's clear cheating (you know they cheat sometimes), and sneered in anger at it...the scars just shouldn't be that deep.
That said, if we are to take joy and bliss from our team's winning is it not appropriate to feel the antithesis of this when losing. Tasting the sour makes the sweet that much sweeter (unless you're a fan of Memphis - and then you better just learn to love sour).
2. Are the malcontents primarily Displaced Fans?
This would be all the people that may have recently moved to Dallas (or wherever your team is) and still hold tight their allegience of their hometown team.
For some reason, this one just doesn't ring true for me. In modern society, the number of people living in towns or cities that they would not name when asked, "Where are you from?" has grown tremendously. I suppose it would be natural for someone from New York who now lives in Dallas to hate the Dallas teams, and thus the Dallas fans.
I don't have a problem with that part, but are the number of fans that relocate enough to form more than half of an areas fan population? Possible, but of those displaced fans, are enough of them bound to either their former loyalties or current fan disapproval with enough force to maintain them?
Again, logic says it's possible, but for reasons I can't explain this doesn't ring true. Having lived in a few cities, including two large markets with multiple teams (Houston and Dallas) I've found it hard not to begin to follow the local teams, although I still prefer the Texans to the Cowboys I have no trouble rooting for a Cowboy team I never followed closely before living here.
Of course, those are both in Texas, which removes the chance for interstate rivalries. I do know that if I moved to San Antonio, I would hate Spurs fans and never be able to adopt them as a team. Growing up a fan of the Rockets, who (like the Mavs) were rivals with the Spurs, I could never justify that to myself. Once the league stole an MVP trophy from Hakeem for David Robinson (just before Hakeem dominated him in the playoffs) I just couldn't do it.
3. People like to see others Fail
Another way of stating this could be that some people take joy from dislike, and even more joy from seeing those they dislike fail. There are two ways of looking at this as well, depending on who the disenfranchised chose to envelope with their dislike: the team or the other "poser" fans.
Of course, to those tethered by logic or reason, these are the most disgraceful of fans...the Band Wagon Fans. These are the very essence of a "poser" fan.
They hate the team when they either aren't very good or don't live up to expectations, and they love them when they are great. Of course, they claim to have always loved and remained loyal to the team...meanwhile they keep both a tattoo artist and laser tattoo removal center on retainer and have had the team's logo drawn on and burned off more times than you or I have sneezed in a lifetime within a pepper factory(what, they exist...somewhere).
To me, these are the people that make up the majority of the people now posting (2009) at Dallas Maverick websites. They are the ultimate pretenders. They've decided they hate an organization or something specific within that organization (Dirk, Cuban?) and take great joy in trying to force this hate on others.
They root against the team, and ridicule those with the nerve to hold out faith, no matter how small.
To me, one movie character pretty much sums up these fans. Bill Paxton as Hudson in Aliens. You know of, "That's it man, game over man, game over! What the fuck are we gonna do now? " fame.
And the classic response to Sigourney Weaver's, "Hudson! This little girl survived longer than that with no weapons and no training."
Which was, "Why don't you put her in charge."
Classic.
Hudson in Aliens is the movie character equivalent of these true poser fans. No, he doesn't have to paint his former ally fans as enemies, but he is the first to panic and lose faith at the approaching of adversity...or crazy aliens with two mouths that can punch through a human skull like a hammer through a watermelon.
In short, these are the people that deserve to be gone before the good times come back around. They're the coke fiend that loves you when you're rich, and hates you when you're not.
I will freely admit that there are many other roots feeding these "fans" that are currently dissatisfied with the Mavs. That doesn't change the fact that I find these insanely negative fans, pretending to be without hope, cursing out and insulting those who remain supporters, to be annoying and unworthy of taking joy whenever things do get turned around.
Very quickly, because I am never wordy and always make my points very quickly, let me expound upon the above paragraph.
I say, "pretending to be without hope", as many of these fans spew rhetoric about the hopelessness of this team. They are the one's screaming to trade Dirk and start over. These fans are a joke, because they can't even be honest with themselves. They placate themselves with fained hopelessness...yet, I bet they still check the game score and will proclaim their everlasting support as soon as something goes right.
True hopelessness grants separation. Once you have absolutely no hope that your ex will take you back, you don't keep following her/him or keeping up with them. As long as you do, you hold some kernel of hope.
It would be absolutely no detriment if these fans quit posting, attending, watching, listening, or talking about the Mavs. We aren't the Grizzlies or some small market team that has about as much chance of getting good as you or I of winning the lottery.
Look at the Lakers or Celtics before last year for how quickly things can change. Things tend to change as the wave we never saw building breaks (all at once), and hate or disdain do not affect the seas of change. Your efforts would be far better served with indifference.
It's ok to get upset, but to turn your anger towards the fans who deal with their frustration without the pretend hate is ridiculous and shallow. We all feel the hurt of losses, bad management moves or horrible efforts. This doesn't grant you the right to childishly throw your tantrums at those who would remain civil. Our dedication, loyalty and emotional bond is no weaker than yours.
We feel the hurt and have undoubtedly hurled our insults at the tv, and we too can feel the need for change when change is warranted. There is no sin and wearing our hope on our sleeves.
It's not "game over, man" until the team moves, shuts down or the league fails.
Cheering when Michael Irvin lay seriously injured on the field. Throwing snowballs and batteries at Santa. Throwing a drink on Artest as he lay defenseless on the scorers table. Once, these actions were from fans in far away fairy tale lands (especially the classlessness of Philly fans - still booing the best QB in their history)
Today, they post on almost every Mavs related site and fill the seats at the AAC. So, when do expectations unfulfilled turn hearts once full of hope to stone? And, once at that point, why do so many take joy from casting hate at all who would still attempt to reign in a "sunny" disposition? Is optimism, or hope for those you held some version of love, truly that dreadful of a sin?
I suppose these fans could argue that they are only upset at the fans who continue to support the team, as their support hinders the march towards change, and in their eyes, resurgance.
Could you also argue that this is a sign of a much larger problem within our society, a society that takes as much pleasure in the destruction of the idols built as in first constructing them?
Or, is it somewhere in between and of little significance?
First, let's look at some of the possible reasons "fans" may sew beneath their vibrant disdain towards a team:
1. Is it a Defense Mechanism?
Are we essentially scorned lovers who fain hate for the one who left us scorned? Are the emotional scars so deep from our team's failures that we can't allow ourselves to remain outwardly attached, and thus vulnerable, and we'll attack anyone who has the audacity to continue on in faithful support as an affront to our stance?
Sounds very melodramatic to me, like cursing out my PS3 for cheating after losing a game of Madden and holding a lasting grudge. I've never walked by a week after a loss caused by the system's clear cheating (you know they cheat sometimes), and sneered in anger at it...the scars just shouldn't be that deep.
That said, if we are to take joy and bliss from our team's winning is it not appropriate to feel the antithesis of this when losing. Tasting the sour makes the sweet that much sweeter (unless you're a fan of Memphis - and then you better just learn to love sour).
2. Are the malcontents primarily Displaced Fans?
This would be all the people that may have recently moved to Dallas (or wherever your team is) and still hold tight their allegience of their hometown team.
For some reason, this one just doesn't ring true for me. In modern society, the number of people living in towns or cities that they would not name when asked, "Where are you from?" has grown tremendously. I suppose it would be natural for someone from New York who now lives in Dallas to hate the Dallas teams, and thus the Dallas fans.
I don't have a problem with that part, but are the number of fans that relocate enough to form more than half of an areas fan population? Possible, but of those displaced fans, are enough of them bound to either their former loyalties or current fan disapproval with enough force to maintain them?
Again, logic says it's possible, but for reasons I can't explain this doesn't ring true. Having lived in a few cities, including two large markets with multiple teams (Houston and Dallas) I've found it hard not to begin to follow the local teams, although I still prefer the Texans to the Cowboys I have no trouble rooting for a Cowboy team I never followed closely before living here.
Of course, those are both in Texas, which removes the chance for interstate rivalries. I do know that if I moved to San Antonio, I would hate Spurs fans and never be able to adopt them as a team. Growing up a fan of the Rockets, who (like the Mavs) were rivals with the Spurs, I could never justify that to myself. Once the league stole an MVP trophy from Hakeem for David Robinson (just before Hakeem dominated him in the playoffs) I just couldn't do it.
3. People like to see others Fail
Another way of stating this could be that some people take joy from dislike, and even more joy from seeing those they dislike fail. There are two ways of looking at this as well, depending on who the disenfranchised chose to envelope with their dislike: the team or the other "poser" fans.
Of course, to those tethered by logic or reason, these are the most disgraceful of fans...the Band Wagon Fans. These are the very essence of a "poser" fan.
They hate the team when they either aren't very good or don't live up to expectations, and they love them when they are great. Of course, they claim to have always loved and remained loyal to the team...meanwhile they keep both a tattoo artist and laser tattoo removal center on retainer and have had the team's logo drawn on and burned off more times than you or I have sneezed in a lifetime within a pepper factory(what, they exist...somewhere).
To me, these are the people that make up the majority of the people now posting (2009) at Dallas Maverick websites. They are the ultimate pretenders. They've decided they hate an organization or something specific within that organization (Dirk, Cuban?) and take great joy in trying to force this hate on others.
They root against the team, and ridicule those with the nerve to hold out faith, no matter how small.
To me, one movie character pretty much sums up these fans. Bill Paxton as Hudson in Aliens. You know of, "That's it man, game over man, game over! What the fuck are we gonna do now? " fame.
And the classic response to Sigourney Weaver's, "Hudson! This little girl survived longer than that with no weapons and no training."
Which was, "Why don't you put her in charge."
Classic.
Hudson in Aliens is the movie character equivalent of these true poser fans. No, he doesn't have to paint his former ally fans as enemies, but he is the first to panic and lose faith at the approaching of adversity...or crazy aliens with two mouths that can punch through a human skull like a hammer through a watermelon.
In short, these are the people that deserve to be gone before the good times come back around. They're the coke fiend that loves you when you're rich, and hates you when you're not.
I will freely admit that there are many other roots feeding these "fans" that are currently dissatisfied with the Mavs. That doesn't change the fact that I find these insanely negative fans, pretending to be without hope, cursing out and insulting those who remain supporters, to be annoying and unworthy of taking joy whenever things do get turned around.
Very quickly, because I am never wordy and always make my points very quickly, let me expound upon the above paragraph.
I say, "pretending to be without hope", as many of these fans spew rhetoric about the hopelessness of this team. They are the one's screaming to trade Dirk and start over. These fans are a joke, because they can't even be honest with themselves. They placate themselves with fained hopelessness...yet, I bet they still check the game score and will proclaim their everlasting support as soon as something goes right.
True hopelessness grants separation. Once you have absolutely no hope that your ex will take you back, you don't keep following her/him or keeping up with them. As long as you do, you hold some kernel of hope.
It would be absolutely no detriment if these fans quit posting, attending, watching, listening, or talking about the Mavs. We aren't the Grizzlies or some small market team that has about as much chance of getting good as you or I of winning the lottery.
Look at the Lakers or Celtics before last year for how quickly things can change. Things tend to change as the wave we never saw building breaks (all at once), and hate or disdain do not affect the seas of change. Your efforts would be far better served with indifference.
It's ok to get upset, but to turn your anger towards the fans who deal with their frustration without the pretend hate is ridiculous and shallow. We all feel the hurt of losses, bad management moves or horrible efforts. This doesn't grant you the right to childishly throw your tantrums at those who would remain civil. Our dedication, loyalty and emotional bond is no weaker than yours.
We feel the hurt and have undoubtedly hurled our insults at the tv, and we too can feel the need for change when change is warranted. There is no sin and wearing our hope on our sleeves.
It's not "game over, man" until the team moves, shuts down or the league fails.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Is Dirk a Superstar?
Alright, I actually broke out a tiny bit of research to help my argument that Dirk is in fact a Superstar. Some of you may be saying, "No kidding, jackass." But, surprisingly, here in Dallas and around the fandom of the NBA, this seems up for debate.
People seem to hold the fact that Dirk hasn't won a championship, combined with the fact that his TEAM choked in the finals (with the obvious help from some terrible officiating - this is not an excuse and not up for debate to anyone who can see without bias - It wasn't the officiating alone, but it certainly played a part) and against the Warriors the following year.
To counter this, I'd have to point out the supporting cast, or complete lack there of, surrounding Dirk. So, let's start there:
Going back to when Dirk first became a factor on the floor in the 2000 or 2001 season, how many All-Stars has he shared the court with. Here's the list:
2000- Finley
2001- Finley
2002- Nash
2003- Nash
2004- NONE
2005- NONE
2006- NONE
2007- Howard
2008- NONE
Let's look at some of those. The two years Finley was an All-Star he was the leader of that team. Dirk was just coming into his own and was considered a supporting player to Finley. Also, the Mavs were yet to become a playoff team.
2002-03 - Nash comes into form as Dirk does. They were both very young and made the playoffs for the first time. Sadly, until today (1/18/09) this was probably the best supporting cast for a young Dirk with an All-Star in Nash and a still viable but fading Finley. If you hold these playoff failures (which weren't considered failures at all by the franchise at the time) then you must hold someone like Chris Paul and David West to the same standard.
2004-2005-2006 - Including the year the Mavs played themselves to the Finals, Dirk was without a single All Star worthy teammate. If you want a comparison, how many Finals did Garnett get to without Pierce and Allen (or for that matter, Pierce or Allen without the others)? How many Finals did Kobe get to without Shaq until last year when Pau came on board along with what is considered one of the deepest benches of all time?
In fact, since 2000 only two teams have won a Finals with only one player playing in the All Star game. They were the '03 Spurs and '04 Pistons...and these are both very misleading facts. The Spurs' only All Star was Duncan on a team with David Robinson (his final season- with the motivation of that announcement prior to the season), Tony Parker (in his 2nd season), a blossoming Ginobli, and a clutch Stephen Jackson.
The Pistons' only All Star was Ben Wallace. Yet, that team consisted of All Star talent much like the Spurs of the year before and included Billups, Rasheed Wallace, Prince and Rip Hamilton.
Back to Dirk's support - in 2007 the Mavs finally had an All Star not named Dirk in Josh Howard. Yet, Howard was an injury replacement and was widely considered to have only made the team due to the Mavs holding the best record in the league. A worthy All Star, perhaps. Rightfully so (for the regular season), this was the year Dirk took home the MVP trophy.
2008, the Mavs acquired Jason Kidd, who made the All Star team, but Kidd was not yet a Mav and it would be hard to argue that he played at an All Star level once joining the Mavs (for reasons that are highly debatable).
Based on the above, you could very easily argue that Dirk has done as much and possibly more than anyone in the modern era (2000 to current) to carry his team to success.
For one quick final argument, I'll let a few players career numbers make the case for Dirk being a great player:
Dirk Nowitzki: 22.6 pts, 8.6 Reb., 2.7 assists, 1.0 blk, 0.9 stl, 1.0 TO, 48%FG,
38% 3pt
Kobe Bryant: 25.1 pts, 5.3 Reb., 4.6 assists, 0.6 blk, 1.5 stl, 2.9 TO, 48%FG,
34% 3pt
Kevin Garnett: 20.3 pts, 11.1 Reb, 4.3 assists, 1.3 blk, 1.4 stl, 2.5 TO, 49.5%FG,
28.2% 3pt
Tim Duncan: 21.5 pts, 11.8 Reb, 3.2 assists, 2.4 blk, 0.8 stl, 2.8 TO, 50.8%FG,
18.9% 3pt
I was going to include Jordan, but it's not really fair to compare anyone to him. As you can see from the above stats, Dirk compares nicely with some of the widely acknowledged best players of the current generation (at least, until Lebron reaches his potential)...including someone (Duncan) who many will argue is the best PF of all time.
Dirk may not be as graceful as we'd like our superstars to be and may not show the pure displays of athleticism of a Jordan or Kobe (unless you count the ability to simply put the ball through the net). In fact, he may often appear to be clumsy and out of control (until the ball once again goes through the net), but to argue that he is not a true superstar is either ignorance, naivety, or unadulterated bias.
People seem to hold the fact that Dirk hasn't won a championship, combined with the fact that his TEAM choked in the finals (with the obvious help from some terrible officiating - this is not an excuse and not up for debate to anyone who can see without bias - It wasn't the officiating alone, but it certainly played a part) and against the Warriors the following year.
To counter this, I'd have to point out the supporting cast, or complete lack there of, surrounding Dirk. So, let's start there:
Going back to when Dirk first became a factor on the floor in the 2000 or 2001 season, how many All-Stars has he shared the court with. Here's the list:
2000- Finley
2001- Finley
2002- Nash
2003- Nash
2004- NONE
2005- NONE
2006- NONE
2007- Howard
2008- NONE
Let's look at some of those. The two years Finley was an All-Star he was the leader of that team. Dirk was just coming into his own and was considered a supporting player to Finley. Also, the Mavs were yet to become a playoff team.
2002-03 - Nash comes into form as Dirk does. They were both very young and made the playoffs for the first time. Sadly, until today (1/18/09) this was probably the best supporting cast for a young Dirk with an All-Star in Nash and a still viable but fading Finley. If you hold these playoff failures (which weren't considered failures at all by the franchise at the time) then you must hold someone like Chris Paul and David West to the same standard.
2004-2005-2006 - Including the year the Mavs played themselves to the Finals, Dirk was without a single All Star worthy teammate. If you want a comparison, how many Finals did Garnett get to without Pierce and Allen (or for that matter, Pierce or Allen without the others)? How many Finals did Kobe get to without Shaq until last year when Pau came on board along with what is considered one of the deepest benches of all time?
In fact, since 2000 only two teams have won a Finals with only one player playing in the All Star game. They were the '03 Spurs and '04 Pistons...and these are both very misleading facts. The Spurs' only All Star was Duncan on a team with David Robinson (his final season- with the motivation of that announcement prior to the season), Tony Parker (in his 2nd season), a blossoming Ginobli, and a clutch Stephen Jackson.
The Pistons' only All Star was Ben Wallace. Yet, that team consisted of All Star talent much like the Spurs of the year before and included Billups, Rasheed Wallace, Prince and Rip Hamilton.
Back to Dirk's support - in 2007 the Mavs finally had an All Star not named Dirk in Josh Howard. Yet, Howard was an injury replacement and was widely considered to have only made the team due to the Mavs holding the best record in the league. A worthy All Star, perhaps. Rightfully so (for the regular season), this was the year Dirk took home the MVP trophy.
2008, the Mavs acquired Jason Kidd, who made the All Star team, but Kidd was not yet a Mav and it would be hard to argue that he played at an All Star level once joining the Mavs (for reasons that are highly debatable).
Based on the above, you could very easily argue that Dirk has done as much and possibly more than anyone in the modern era (2000 to current) to carry his team to success.
For one quick final argument, I'll let a few players career numbers make the case for Dirk being a great player:
Dirk Nowitzki: 22.6 pts, 8.6 Reb., 2.7 assists, 1.0 blk, 0.9 stl, 1.0 TO, 48%FG,
38% 3pt
Kobe Bryant: 25.1 pts, 5.3 Reb., 4.6 assists, 0.6 blk, 1.5 stl, 2.9 TO, 48%FG,
34% 3pt
Kevin Garnett: 20.3 pts, 11.1 Reb, 4.3 assists, 1.3 blk, 1.4 stl, 2.5 TO, 49.5%FG,
28.2% 3pt
Tim Duncan: 21.5 pts, 11.8 Reb, 3.2 assists, 2.4 blk, 0.8 stl, 2.8 TO, 50.8%FG,
18.9% 3pt
I was going to include Jordan, but it's not really fair to compare anyone to him. As you can see from the above stats, Dirk compares nicely with some of the widely acknowledged best players of the current generation (at least, until Lebron reaches his potential)...including someone (Duncan) who many will argue is the best PF of all time.
Dirk may not be as graceful as we'd like our superstars to be and may not show the pure displays of athleticism of a Jordan or Kobe (unless you count the ability to simply put the ball through the net). In fact, he may often appear to be clumsy and out of control (until the ball once again goes through the net), but to argue that he is not a true superstar is either ignorance, naivety, or unadulterated bias.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Trade Dirk?
From several comments on another blog (mavsblog.dallasnews.com) and both local sports radio stations (The Ticket and ESPNs GAC show) I have heard people arguing that it is time to trade Dirk Nowitzki and start rebuilding the Mavs.
To these people I have one thing to say, you're idiots. Seriously, complete idiots. And, here is why I say that you are indeed complete, helpless and unappreciative idiots.
1. The most common comment is to trade Dirk for a bunch of draft picks. So, you're basically saying send Dirk away for several first round picks and a decent player (you hope). Just how is this in anyway a good thing? Wherever you send Dirk is probably going to be a team that is already decent and at best (for the Mavs) an edge of the lottery team. Now, after getting Dirk they are probably going to get better and (especially if he goes to the East) slip out of the lottery and into the playoffs.
This means you are willing to part with a genuine superstar (more on this in a moment for the people who don't think Dirk is a superstar), for a few late first round draft picks spread out over a few years.
Without drafting in the first few picks in the NBA the odds of getting a superstar becomes very risky. Sure, there is a chance that you find the next Arenas, Granger or even Dirk, but the odds are not in your favor. The risk is that you get rid of Dirk and get a handful of average players. There is absolutely no guarantee that you find a superstar....even if you somehow manage to get into the first few picks. For every Lebron there is a Darko.
People are always quick to say rebuild when they haven't had to do it in awhile. Once you're there it's not a fun place to be, and there is no guarantee on the timetable to become legitimate again. For all we know (especially if you take into account the fact that we have what many consider to be a lame duck GM) we could go ten years and all the picks or players we get for Dirk without making the playoffs or even having the hope of making the playoffs.
Is that risk really worth getting rid of a guy that still has at least 4-5 years left of being highly productive?
2. Trade Dirk for another superstar. Ok, which ones do you think may truly be available, even for Dirk. Lebron, Wade, Kobe, Garnett, Dwight Howard, Paul...you're living in a dream world if you think you return any of those players.
I see two possibly viable options, and both remain highly unlikely. Chris Bosh (less likely) and Amare Stoudamire (not likely, but makes sense for both teams right now), and neither of these players have carried a team deep into the playoffs. Say what you want about Dirk, but he's been to the Finals with subpar talent around him. I'd go as far as saying Bosh has as much talent around him now than Dirk ever has, and what is their record?
Amare has been on some truly great, and highly talented teams that have won...but, did they win primarily due to him? I'd say two MVP trophies would disagree with you. The Suns now and then have always had more talent than the Mavs. I don't remember Amare putting up 50 against us for a win in the playoffs.
Of all possible choices, only Amare would seem to fit and I doubt strongly the Suns would even consider this. I say it fits, because Dirk would be the perfect compliment to Shaq and the tempo offense they are now trying to run in Phoenix. Plus, he gets to be reunited with Nash - and I would love to see them win a title together.
On the other side of that, it fits in Dallas because it gives us a younger player to build around (you know, kind of like we should have and should now build around Dirk). Of course, given Amare's knee issues, is this something that is going to cause him to wear down quicker than his age? Very possible.
3. And I hear or read this much more often than you think (a testament to the clear idiocy of many)...Trade Dirk just to do it and start over. Who cares what you get.
Seriously? I mean, seriously? You don't dump Jennifer Aniston unless you got Jolie already lined up. These people are basically saying, I'm tired of being either relevant or at the doorstep of being relevant. I'd like to suck for as many years to come as possible - Now, you may want to hear Jolie or Aniston say that, but not a player or management member of your sports team (unless you're watching female beach volleyball).
This is now too long, but I will return to argue why Dirk is indeed a superstar...and address any comments...should there be any.
To these people I have one thing to say, you're idiots. Seriously, complete idiots. And, here is why I say that you are indeed complete, helpless and unappreciative idiots.
1. The most common comment is to trade Dirk for a bunch of draft picks. So, you're basically saying send Dirk away for several first round picks and a decent player (you hope). Just how is this in anyway a good thing? Wherever you send Dirk is probably going to be a team that is already decent and at best (for the Mavs) an edge of the lottery team. Now, after getting Dirk they are probably going to get better and (especially if he goes to the East) slip out of the lottery and into the playoffs.
This means you are willing to part with a genuine superstar (more on this in a moment for the people who don't think Dirk is a superstar), for a few late first round draft picks spread out over a few years.
Without drafting in the first few picks in the NBA the odds of getting a superstar becomes very risky. Sure, there is a chance that you find the next Arenas, Granger or even Dirk, but the odds are not in your favor. The risk is that you get rid of Dirk and get a handful of average players. There is absolutely no guarantee that you find a superstar....even if you somehow manage to get into the first few picks. For every Lebron there is a Darko.
People are always quick to say rebuild when they haven't had to do it in awhile. Once you're there it's not a fun place to be, and there is no guarantee on the timetable to become legitimate again. For all we know (especially if you take into account the fact that we have what many consider to be a lame duck GM) we could go ten years and all the picks or players we get for Dirk without making the playoffs or even having the hope of making the playoffs.
Is that risk really worth getting rid of a guy that still has at least 4-5 years left of being highly productive?
2. Trade Dirk for another superstar. Ok, which ones do you think may truly be available, even for Dirk. Lebron, Wade, Kobe, Garnett, Dwight Howard, Paul...you're living in a dream world if you think you return any of those players.
I see two possibly viable options, and both remain highly unlikely. Chris Bosh (less likely) and Amare Stoudamire (not likely, but makes sense for both teams right now), and neither of these players have carried a team deep into the playoffs. Say what you want about Dirk, but he's been to the Finals with subpar talent around him. I'd go as far as saying Bosh has as much talent around him now than Dirk ever has, and what is their record?
Amare has been on some truly great, and highly talented teams that have won...but, did they win primarily due to him? I'd say two MVP trophies would disagree with you. The Suns now and then have always had more talent than the Mavs. I don't remember Amare putting up 50 against us for a win in the playoffs.
Of all possible choices, only Amare would seem to fit and I doubt strongly the Suns would even consider this. I say it fits, because Dirk would be the perfect compliment to Shaq and the tempo offense they are now trying to run in Phoenix. Plus, he gets to be reunited with Nash - and I would love to see them win a title together.
On the other side of that, it fits in Dallas because it gives us a younger player to build around (you know, kind of like we should have and should now build around Dirk). Of course, given Amare's knee issues, is this something that is going to cause him to wear down quicker than his age? Very possible.
3. And I hear or read this much more often than you think (a testament to the clear idiocy of many)...Trade Dirk just to do it and start over. Who cares what you get.
Seriously? I mean, seriously? You don't dump Jennifer Aniston unless you got Jolie already lined up. These people are basically saying, I'm tired of being either relevant or at the doorstep of being relevant. I'd like to suck for as many years to come as possible - Now, you may want to hear Jolie or Aniston say that, but not a player or management member of your sports team (unless you're watching female beach volleyball).
This is now too long, but I will return to argue why Dirk is indeed a superstar...and address any comments...should there be any.
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