There are a couple of times every year when the entire sports world — fans, writers, teams, and players — drift into a depressing, somnolent stretch of days and weeks where the competitive wind is as silent as a snowflake hitting the water. The leviathan vessel that is the ship of sport, powered though it is by the relentless, tireless engine of the mass media, sits dead in the sea, as becalmed as the Ancient Mariner. Nothing seems to happen during this period. Sure, games are still played. Scores are reported every night. The Blackhawks beat Detroit. The Rockets lose in Utah. Somewhere, someone’s playing golf. The result’s placed in the space next to the name of a team. Another tiny notch, still counting toward the halfway marks of very long seasons. These bi-annual times, fortunately, are dead predictable. A fan can mark the dates on the calendar, planning ahead to remember to up the dosage on the anti-depressants. One is the day after the last shot clangs off the rim, signaling the end of the NBA playoffs. The heat and monotony of summer stretch ahead without end, far beyond my mental horizon. The other’s right now: those lonely, empty weeks after the Super Bowl. The post-partum, Super Bowl Blues. Even the best NBA teams are, by now, reeling from exhaustion. Ridiculous blow-outs commonly occur between even the elite units, as adrenaline alone can’t make the road-weary, injury-riddled engines run. Witness Chicago losing badly to L.A. and Utah, on the road, in three days. As even the great ones will admit, January and February is the toughest time. No matter who’s playing whom, there are no important mid-winter games in the NBA.
Hockey, tacitly admitting the obvious fact there are no important regular season games period, is shutting down for two weeks during the Olympics. An idea with merit on its own. Then here’s the Olympics. Chaps cavorting playfully in colorful tutus. Guys riding sleds down hills. Women hockey teams. Women’s hockey! Alas, this merely adds to my depression.
Unlike the real thing, I know this malaise will pass. Until then, some random thoughts:
— Every time I drive by the $100 million construction site around the football stadium, I want to vomit. Though UT is now the biggest university in the country, they haven’t built a dorm on campus since the Jester complex, back in the Sixties. Last week a regent was quoted as “having problems” with the cost of new dorms. Meanwhile, UT’s become a commuter school, all sense of campus — more and more — lost. And then we wonder why students — who can never live on campus — are apathetic to the school’s teams…
— There are two ways to be mediocre. You can be average and boring, or you can be middling and fun. This is the poorest record a Tom Penders Texas team has ever had this late in the season. Yet this team is fun to watch, much more so than the more successful but not as entertaining teams of the last few years. It’s not just me. Go to a game. The fans like this team. The Erwin Center’s energy is charged, and it’s not phony scoreboard cheering. It’s from the heart. (Written before the Oklahoma game. If all games were like this, no one would ever pay to see basketball.)…
— PGA commissioner Tim Finchem seemed like a pretty savvy guy. I’m surprised, even if he believes the stupid, petty position he’s taking on the Casey Martin case, that he’s allowing the sport to take the public relations clobbering it’s enduring. I’m embarrassed for Palmer and Nicklaus, trotted out for their sophomoric testimony — ominous foreboding, how a single cart will ruin the game. They sound like fraternity brothers singing the praises of pledge hazing. Add “ashamed” to that. If they lose — and they will — the PGA’s announced they’ll appeal, which sounds like George Wallace standing at the entrance of the University of Alabama…
— It’s been demonstrated repeatedly that the only sport where one player can make a bad team decent is basketball. Look no further than the Nets, where Keith Van Horn has made the joke in the swamp look half competent, and San Antonio, where Tim Duncan is making Will Perdue look good. The trick now is to build on their good fortune. More easily said than done. Ask Grant Hill…
— Mack Brown’s been in Austin only a few months now, but citizens are still buzzing about this guy. People believe in him. Of course, he hasn’t lost a game yet…
— For those who’ve asked, no, I never did sell my clubs. Golf’s a cunning seductress. It knows when you can’t take any more, and lets your sorry-ass game, for no real reason, come back. It will go south again, but not until you’re once again deeply hooked (no pun intended)…
— Perfect coach for the post- Jordan Bulls? Old #4, Jerry Sloan, whose jersey, incidentally, hangs from the rafters of the United Center. Sloan’s contract in Utah is up this year. His coaching credentials and pedigree are impeccable. Maybe Jordan would stay for a coach with his stature…
— Perfect team for Scottie Pippen to turn up on next season? The talented young Suns, who have $12 million in cap money to play with next year and a player-friendly reputation.
This article appears in February 13 • 1998 and February 13 • 1998 (Cover).