From the courtrooms: I believed I’d lost the capacity to be shocked by anything. Contrary evidence might be viewed as a good thing; a demonstration of the heart’s resiliency. That beneath a stony exterior lies the heart of Mary Poppins, open to all the goodness in the world. It’s possible you haven’t heard about the Greensboro, NC, jury who awarded Duke graduate Heather Mercer $2 million dollars — they believed she was the victim of gender discrimination because she didn’t make the Duke football team as a placekicker. Originally a state court tossed this suit out in a summary judgement, meaning it was viewed as so ridiculous as to have no legal merit at all. On appeal it was decided a jury should hear this after all.
Despite extensive testimony that Heather was a shitty kicker, the mostly female jury sided with Ms. Mercer. My head shakes at the wonder of it all. Anybody with even the most casual knowledge of football knows that Division I football coaches will suit up a chimpanzee (regardless of gender) if they believe the animal can kick seven out of 10 field goals from outside the 30. But this is beside the point in a nation where the limits of political correctness long ago ran amuck. As always in these things, the plaintiff claims it’s not about the money; she only wants vindication. Ms Mercer says the two mil will go to “finance a scholarship for female kickers.” A fairly amusing notion if you ponder it. A bit like setting up a trust for qualified cocker spaniels interested in admission to Yale…
I’m now convinced that if Marty McSorley had killed Martin Brashear, the NHL establishment and their sycophant stooges would — and will when it does happen — claim it’s indeed a horrible thing, but an accident; we should let the league take care of “its own house.” When that argument fails, they’ll make the same defense in a courtroom, adding that the accused is a sweetheart off the ice, visits orphanages in his spare time, and goes to church each Sunday. They’ll claim, as they did in the McSorley trial, that this “accident” is a part of the hockey culture. Do we really want to imprison this nice guy and kill the game in the process? Many media types will parrot this utterly absurd argument, so stupid in its content it makes me marvel these guys can find their studios. “So now what?” the talk show argument goes, “every time a little league pitcher hits a batter are we gonna toss him in juvie home?”
Good lord, McSorley easily could’ve killed Brashear. His guilty verdict was absolutely correct. He got off easy with no jail time. Taking a long, heavy piece of wood and intentionally hitting someone in the head with it is aggravated assault. The only culture this is a part of is a prison culture. If your little leaguer walks up to the first baseman and whacks him on the head with a titanium Louisville Slugger, then send the psychotic little shit away. I’m good with that. I’m confident most creatures not barking or mooing can make the distinction between a check — even an unnecessarily vicious one — and a premeditated assault with a deadly weapon.
To the voting booth: Over the years this column has been happy — and not at all reluctant — to dispense unsolicited advice to Phil Jackson, Paul Tagliabue, Scottie Pippen, Bud Selig, David Stern, John Mackovic, Major Applewhite, Kirk Watson, Master P, the Chicago Cubs, Ray Lewis, Craig Way, my mom, and Mike Tyson. But in fact, aside from my mother, I know nothing about these people. I just read sports sections and watch too much television. With these same criteria at work, I offer this to Al Gore: I forced myself to watch the great debate last week, and you’re getting some bad advice. The GOP National Committee has to love this genteel, gentlemanly deal you and G.W. have about keeping the discourse on a “high level.” It’s the perfect strategy for Bush. By avoiding the whole revolting Republican religious social agenda, you allow George to escape defending the very issues most inclined to alienate people who can think. Fight back. He has the audacity to accuse you of “having had your chance and you couldn’t get anything done,” and you blink like a lobotomized deer and take it. Hard to get much done when all his Republican pals spend every day and hour — not worrying about education and social security — but sniffing around in the president’s underwear drawer. “I’m sorry, Governor … I’ll try to do better next time, Governor.” Get off your back and stop being such a pussy! By not forcing him to defend those fanatic, wacko religious positions, not to mention his record here in Texas, you allow him to look like the agreeable, affable uncle he wants people to think he is.
Look Al, I’m voting for you even if tomorrow’s Washington Post runs color pictures of you wearing Tipper’s panties and red pumps around the house, next to a plausible Bush plan for world peace. I’m one polarized anti-Republican. But you look like a weenie up there Al … and I’m on your side. People don’t know who you are. If you’re going to go down, at least go down with your guns (registered, of course) blazing.
This article appears in October 20 • 2000.