The Monster Mash - The Madness Continues (Part 2)

Editor's Note: Because both of these teams decided to hang around for another round of the NCAA Tourney, let's run with J-Till's second contribution to the Monster Mash before this post becomes irrelevant. I was trying to wait up for the other contributions (you know who you are), but I can't chance either one of these teams going down in the meantime. Remember to check our Tillman's stylings at Fundamentally UnSound. It's all yours, Tillman-san...

Oh YEAH. Sorry to interrupt, but my Final Four picks are as such: Louisville, Memphis, Xavier, and Gonzaga. If you have a problem with that, COME SEE ME IN THE COMMENTS! Also, did anyone from Morgan State even bother to read my post about them from Monday? Geez. Todd Bozeman's guy almost killed a guy.

That's the last time the MEAC gets a #15 seed for a WHILE. At least it got the MEAC some negative press without Joseph Okoh's name in the byline. Yikes.

(I'm going to stop rambling now. Promise. J-Till, back to you...)

Zig-Zag-Zig

When I first started watching basketball with an analytical mind, it was around the time that Lute Olsen had the University of Arizona atop the college basketball mountain. I was particularly influenced by Jason Terry, because he is the influence behind me wearing the high socks and he has the same first and last initials…just like me. Today, he's still one of my favorite players to watch. I only give you that brief moment of nostalgia because looking back on me at that time; I understand now why I enjoyed watching them. To me, if there's one flaw in the spirit of college hoops is that it's so focused on making the coaches the stars. Instead of giving praise to the individual and the true ideal that players make coaches (see: Gillespie, Billy), they favor the false understanding that coaching is paramount. Arizona is one of the few schools that actually lets players be themselves and adjusts accordingly; instead of putting them in a box for the "greater good." It's the reason why they've churned out so many NBA and overseas players over the past decade or so; while other programs have enjoyed similar or greater success, yet have their best players be scrubs in the Association. Let me stop and take a rest break before this becomes a full-on rant about Coach K. Enjoy a random picture while I go calm down…

Okay, where was I? Oh, right. This year's U of A Wildcats. Sure, they underachieved for a good part of the season and down the stretch. And yeah, teams like Saint Mary's and Penn State have legit arguments about why they should be in over them. But if you look at it closely, you'll see that Arizona's better than both of those teams and have one of the ten most talented teams in the country. Chase Budinger has been a lottery pick at forward since he was a freshman, and big man Jordan Hill will go very high in next year's draft. Guard Nic Wise has filled in nicely at the point for a team that lost lottery pick Jerryd Bayless; and that #1 high school recruit Brandon Jennings jettisoned for the quick paycheck in Italy. The 'Cats underachieved so much that they squeaked in the tournament as a #12 seed, and have a first-round matchup against Utah (I see what you did there, NCAA Selection Committee). I look for Arizona to make a little ruckus and further destroy brackets around the globe.

On a lesser, still not-so-heralded plane, Mark Few has built a very sturdy program at Gonzaga. He has taken Lute Olsen's methodologies and tweaked them to get the higher-caliber West Cost players that the big schools (and certain coaches) pass upon. For example, I bet plenty of teams would love to have Stephen Gray and Austin Daye, 6'5" and 6'10" athletic scoring machines, respectively. They're like shorter and taller versions of Adam Morrison, only with more ability and less horrendous moustache. But the beauty of the 'Zags is that they don't have one guy with the ability to take over a game: they have five. Moving guard Matt Bouldin to the point has steadied the previously erratic Bulldogs' offense, and it allows Jeremy Pargo do the things that show that he's vastly better than his brother. Center Josh Heytvelt has his head on straight now, and with the addition of Kansas transfer and former HS All-American Micah Downs, and that's a starting five with tremendous size and length at their respective positions, coupled with outstanding shooting and scoring ability. Mark Few plays the uptempo style that gives his players the free reign to be themselves, and look to outscore their opponents at a frenetic pace.

Gonzaga, like Pitt, has been one of those teams that build bandwagon and true fans up to break them down with early tournament exits. If there's one hindrance to them is that they're not a physical as some of the elite teams and wouldn't stand up to 40 minutes of high-level defensive pressure. Plus, with all that talent they have, they were placed in the region with the team with the most talent, the team with the best player in the nation, and the team with all the momentum as higher seeds. A possible Sweet 16 duel with UNC is over the weekend's horizon, and that will probably be one the tourney's most entertaining games. This is where I see Gonzaga bowing out, but it won't be do to anything they could've avoided. It'll just be because North Carolina is better than them—their kindred spirit on the East Coast. The Tar Heels are like a sensei that has mastered the art of the uptempo game and teaching his pupil the Way of the Samurai, and the 'Zags haven't quite harnessed their full potential.

Peace.

Talentless Actors, The Horror of "Hulk", and HBO's Greatness!

Editor's Note: A few Facebook "notes" ago, I stated that I'd be "sporadically writing about certain memories that have influenced and encouraged my writing career". However, I decided against spending my next few Facebook "notes" writing about those influencial writing moments for two main reasons. First, who really wants to spend ten to fifteen minutes reading about my life? As we English majors discuss at length in our classes, Americans lack patience. Nowadays, when people attend events that contain pockets of time completely devoid of action (baseball games, church sermons), we immediately start getting antsy, sigh, and send a mass text on our cell phones to maximize entertainment value. ESPN's Bill Simmons would call this phenomenon the 150 Minute Rule (scroll to Number #1). To ask you, my faithful readers, to listen to my diatribes about writing would be an arduous task. At this moment, people are constantly vying for your attention. While you sit here to read this paragraph, I guarantee that you've received a text message, gained another Facebook friend, and hunted for the nearest dictionary/thesaurus to look up the word "diatribe" to see if I used it correctly. Honestly, I'd have an easier time asking Keanu Reeves to take classes at Juillard to become a better actor than convincing you guys to sit and read these postings. (Plus, I need to save those writing stories for dates and my future autobiography "The Audacity of Hope (Remix): A Barack Obama Michael Benjamin Story.")

Since I'm starting to get wistful about my time at college, I've decided to take some time to get nostalgic about the university experience in general. Since I waxed poetic about the 5th floor of Howard University's Drew Hall a few weeks back, I'll begin today by talking about the greatness of the Home Box Office channel. Enjoy.

Things I'll Miss About College #2: HBO
When a new movie comes out and hits the box office, I pride myself in being the last possible person to see the flick. My propensity for laziness in regards to watching movies stems from a terrible experience that occured back in the summer of 2003 that can be summarized in three words: The. Incredible. Hulk.

Honestly, I should have done my research before agreeing to venture to the movie theater with my friends that summer. First off, when a movie is headlined by a guy with no real acting experience other than a show that bears his name (Eric Bana) and can be tossed around in discussions as the "unknown actor" or the "I've never heard of that guy" actor, you can immediately color me nervous. I believe that every actor/actress has to go through the gauntlet of accompanying roles and TV appearances before landing a leading role in any feature-length film. This allows the actor/actress an opportunity to foster their acting potential, experiment with a bevy of different styles (due to the variety of storylines within a sitcom), which helps them to gain necessary experience and curry favor with the viewing audience. Most importantly, the actor doesn't get overexposed. Allowing an actor/actress to get overexposed before they've honed their acting talent is like allowing an one-dimensional basketball player to become the face of your NBA franchise. That's just a recipe for disaster. (Yes, I'm talking to you, Gilbert Arenas (owner of an egregiously large salary) and the ownership group of the Washington Wizards.)

Let's look at Cuba Gooding's acting career, for example. In the meaning-making 1991 film Boys N the Hood, John Singleton did a great job of surrounding the talented but raw Cuba Gooding, Jr., an actor fresh off of a minor role in the classic Eddie Murphy comedy "Coming to America" with a solid foundation of actors to learn from (Lawrence Fishburne and Angela Bassett), other young emerging actors (Nia Long, Morris Chestnut) and characters that were destined to become typecast as soon as the movie hit the cineplex (Regina King). In many ways, this movie was dually a life-training course for young Tre in the 'hood of Compton, LA and an opportunity for young Cuba Gooding to experience the Hollywood limelight in a significant role. After nailing the role of Rod Tidwell in the chick flick (ahem, sports film) Jerry Maguire, Cuba Gooding expanded his motion picture catalogue (Men of Honor, Boat Trip, Radio) with the understanding that he can act in any movie without concern for his reputation because the audience has already embraced his abilities and acting candor.

To me, putting together a spectacular movie cast is similar to the process of creating a solid basketball team. You need your franchise guys to bring the pain (Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce) and your supporting, one-dimensional guys to compliment your superstars and fill your team's needs (Ray Allen, James Posey, Kendrick Perkins). That's why last year's Kevin Garnett trade to Boston was so pivotal. The Celtics lacked an inspiring superstar, and KG lacked a solid supporting cast, because, well...a superstar can't do everything.

When Crash came out and won the Academy Award for Best Picture in 2004, it laid out the ultimate blueprint for success in Hollywood. If a group of talented actors can merge their skills (a la Captain Planet and the Planeteers) and agree to put aside top billing in order to forward a common goal (money and an overarching message), then ultimate success can be achieved. The 2003-2004 Los Angeles Lakers tried this strategy, which ultimately backfired. Gary Payton lacked the maturity to concede his superstar status to Kobe and Shaq (and the understanding to realize that his best days were behind him), Shaquille's earning potential was in doubt (Kobe Bryant had just resigned for a huge deal) and hung over the team throughout the entire season, Kobe didn't fully buy into the system (as he was trying to stay out of jail), and Karl Malone was injured and couldn't fulfill his obligatory one-dimensional duty - court toughness. To win a championship, players must set aside their individual concerns for the benefit of the team, which, in the case of the 2003-2004 Los Angeles Lakers, wasn't possible.

That's why the Wilson Brothers, Vince Vaughn, Will Ferrell, Ben Stiller, and Jack Black are the hottest collection of comedy actors in the movies right now. These guys (along with director/writer Judd Apatow) hold the components and understand the formula for on-screen success. Plus, all of these guys (minus Luke Wilson) are living in their prime, but don't overexpose themselves too much. The "Frat Pack" all act in one another's movies, bring the perfect amount of physical/sarcastic/slapstick humor to the table, and incorporate other pieces (Seth Rogen) to their team in order to reciprocate their talents. The reason guys like Robin Williams eventually fell out of favor with America was because we saw Robin in every movie with a comedic twist for a 4 to 6 year stretch (Mrs. Doubtfire, Jumaji, Jack). Plus, Robin's attempt at true acting (see: the Final Cut) rather than the "comedic faciliator" role that most SNL frontmen enjoy probably slid his career from A-list to B-list. Sure, he's still putting out quality films (Night at the Museum), but the "Frat Pack" has officially usurped his status as comedy film king.

Of course, as a 16 year-old kid, I payed cursory attention to detail. I felt (Mistake #1) that "Hulk" HAD to be good, only thinking about the simple equation of (cartoon hero + action + accompanying girls = awesome). Without considering the proper research, my companions and I hustled to the movie theater and waited for three hours to see Hollywood's first attempt at "The Incredible Hulk". If you haven't seen it, don't even consider putting yourself through this inhumane torture. You'll probably start sobbing uncontrollably and yelling "WHY!!!!" by the end of the third scene.

Nowadays, I always wait for some stooge (usually a buddy trying to hook up with a girl) to spend his cash on a half-decent movie and report back his findings. If the movie's bad, I can save my cash (or buy a rack of Nabisco's Nutter Butter cookies), chill out, and commence to beating the crap out of Glass Joe in Mike Tyson's Punch Out!. If the movie's good, I then stroll in the following weekend at my convenience (right before the trailers begin), own up the best possible seat (middle-top, mid row), stretch my body across the entire row, and laugh aloud to my heart's content.

After receiving the HBO network after our school decided to upgrade our network package in 2007 - an underrated but spectacular move by HU's administration, by the way - was dually a blessing and a curse. Although the student body's GPA was destined to free fall like Tom Petty, HBO gave me an opportunity to see all the movies that I deemed unworthy to receive my movie dollar. Last week, I watched "My Super Ex-Girlfriend" twice and laughed equally hard both times as Wanda Sykes stated her insignificant lines. Plus, I caught a replay of "Transformers" (with Louis from "Even Stevens") and decided to add Shia LeBeouf next to Deon Richmond to my mental canon of "actors I must watch an episode of Dragonball Z with someday". (By the way, does anybody know what the heck happened to Ren?) The only problem with HBO's programming is their unprecedented bad timing in regards to the "Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel" broadcast. This show is an awesome sports program, but needs to be couched in a back-to-back time slot with "Costas Now" to assuage the pain and call it a day. HBO executives, when I expect to see a mediocre movie in the middle of a dull weekday afternoon, there's no worse feeling than flipping to your channel and seeing reruns of a "Real Sports" episode from mid-July. If you're going to call your channel the Home Box Office network, let's stick to the script and show some movies. Or, at least an Entourage marathon. Now, the ball's in your court. Do the right thing. Thanks.

Since I'll probably just start a Netflix account once I get my own pad, this will be the last time in my life that I watch this heavy of a dose of HBO before graduating. I love the channel, but not enough to warrant tossing down that $10-a-month subscription fee.

Well, unless HBO starts showing films that fall under my earlier characteristics. Then...we'll see.

Michael Benjamin, II

For the Love of the Game...

I absolutely love sports.

Sure, I had my doubts. From a distance I saw Big Ben Roethlisberger tossing touchdown passes in Pittsburgh while the pimple-faced Eli Manning was slinging interceptions for scores at an unbelievable rate (see: Minnesota Vikings, Week 12). I, like most New Yorkers, wondered aloud about the draft-day decision the Giants brass had made that faithful day and believed that we had chosen the wrong quarterback. Our gap-toothed Hall of Fame pass rusher skipped the entire training camp fighting a long divorce battle and our coach was on pace to break every blood vessels in his scalp during the off-season press conferences. The franchise’s record-holding running back was busy dissecting the team for his national television audience while the team frantically searched for a replacement back, trading for a respectable guy from Cleveland (Reuben Droughns) and drafting some young kid from Marshall (Ahmad Bradshaw). With a rejuvenated T.O. and a loaded Redskins squad, the chances for Big Blue to come crawling out of the NFC East looked slim.

But Sunday – in front of a record-breaking 90 million viewers – our defense manhandles the greatest offense since the beginning of the salary cap era, our snot-nosed QB becomes a legend, and New York defeats Boston on the biggest of stages – Super Bowl XLII.

Man, it’s great being king. Now I know how Simba feels.

As most displaced New Yorkers, I woke up Monday morning dazed and confused. Did that just happen? Did someone spike the punch without my notice? Was this all a part of some diabolical plot similar to Tonya Harding's planned hit on American teammate Nancy Kerrigan? Forgetting that I had elevated my bed, I plunged headlong onto my area rug. After licking my wounds, I powered up the TV and flicked to the morning’s SportsCenter loop. Yup, the Giants had won.

As I sat in my dorm room and reflect on the excitement that enveloped the Super Bowl, I began to think about THAT question. I hear it when I walk through the campus, or climb up the hill to class, or drag my garbage to the trash chute. I’ve never known exactly how to answer it…and honestly, as I type this sentence into Microsoft Word, I’m still puzzled.

“TTK, why are you so infatuated with sports? Why do you love them so much?”

To answer, I usually counter by inquiring about their lack of love for sport, or ramble about the thunderous dunks that Shawn Kemp deposited on his victims during his career, or smile and tell them to watch another game. However, that’s never the real reason why I love sports. I just supply my textbook answer, understanding that time is short, that no one has twenty minutes to spare, and that a simple gesture or phrase would suffice. Since my definition will never give the feeling behind true love of sports justice, I’ll instead give a quick story.

I first started playing organized basketball in seventh grade on our neighborhood’s CYO team. My head coach was a tall Irish guy that always had a scowl adorning his face. During practice we would run suicides and wind sprints until our lungs felt like they’d collapse, like the ceiling was ready to bear down on our timid souls. On that team, I bought my minutes because of my tenacity and hustle. I loved when the coach roared with delight when I dove out of bounds in pursuit of a loose ball. I enjoyed glancing over to the bench and catching a grin curl across Coach’s face after I powered to the offensive glass for put-backs and garbage lay-ups. I knew my role, and embraced it for the benefit of the team.

During the course of the season, we had become recognized as one of the better teams in the league and gathered new rivals at other schools around Queens. On this day, we were playing at home against another basketball factory school, and needed a quick basket to keep pace with this team late in the fourth quarter. Our coach couldn’t make the game due to some extenuating circumstances and we were left with the assistant, an honorable gentleman, the late Coach George. When we came to the huddle after the timeout, Coach George pointed to me and made a simple statement.

“We need a basket right now. TTK, are you ready to make the shot?”

I immediately stared at my laces and tried not to make eye contact with the other guys in the huddle. I couldn’t believe it. Coach was asking me to not only take, but MAKE the jumpshot.

“I-I-I-I guess so,” I stammered.

The ref motioned to our bench, and the team knew that I was going to be the guy to take the shot and tie the game up. As I slowly make my return to our basket, Coach grabbed me and grinned. This is nothing for you TTK, he said. Once you make the jumpshot, just get back on D.

The rest of the story pretty much writes itself, but I’ll continue. My teammate "Jimmy" fed me a beautiful inbounds pass, and without hesitation I squared my shoulders, rose above the defender, and canned the jumper. As I sprinted back down court to play defense, I only remember touching the trail of tears that rolled down my face, dishing out high fives to the rest of my team, and hearing the din of an electric gymnasium crowd.

People love sports because of the feeling one gets after swishing that game-tying jimmy in front of a packed school gym. Or after snatching that catch in traffic across the middle of the football field while playing with your friends. Or after spiking that volleyball into the dirt during a friendly match at the family reunion against your loud mouthed relative who still thinks that they’ve got game. Those feelings explain why collegiate athletes lift weights during the heat of summer, why your kid brother smells like funk when he hugs your knees after a day at the YMCA, and why your dad still owns the pair of orange Chuck Taylor's he wore every day during high school.

While most people are fearful about the real world after college, the saddest part of college for most guys (and some girls too) is realizing that those dreams of hearing your name called on draft day are starting to fade fast. Sure, we know that we can yam a basketball through the net, but understand that there are thousands of guys in Division I, II, or III hoops that can do it a lot better than we can. Most of us shrug off that feeling of inadequacy and move on, but some don’t. That’s why you’ll always find “that guy” pumping extreme amounts of iron in the Bally’s weight room, buying cartons of protein shakes at your area supermarket, and fighting an addiction to those nutritional supplements sold at the local GNC. Sure, he’s glad that you noticed his tree trunk sized arms when he carried your groceries and hopes that he’ll cash in on a date, but he’s still hoping and believing that a conditioning coach will call his room phone and invite him out to Redskins training camp next summer, so he remains on alert.

Once we accept that the major leagues are out of reach, most folks latch onto professional athletics hoping that those figures on the television screen provide the same exhilaration that we once felt as competitors in sport. Becoming a die-hard fan glues that team’s passion to his/hers, allowing the fan to revel in their team’s victories and wallow in their defeats. As my friend "The Doc" once mentioned, sports are our soap operas. Sport is the straw that stirs our emotional drink. The fan wants to recreate those dramatic scenes in his/her mind, to appreciate and share with the members of future generations.

I realize that I’ve left out the casual fan in my assessment on our love for sports. Well, the casual fan joins the collection of sports fans in this instance. To the majority of its viewers, sporting events are one of those things in life – like great movies, TV shows, or special songs – that provide us with brief moments of time to experience unbridled joy. I’ll always remember David Tyree’s sensational catch in Super Bowl XLII not solely for Eli Manning’s flair for the dramatic and the Giants inevitable touchdown seconds later, but primarily because in that moment I jumped around the house like a unruly toddler, bearhugged my sister in front of a group of friends and strangers, and had a big smile plastered on my face for the rest of the game.

The casual fan has those same memories, like the time that a high school boyfriend rested his track letter jacket gently on his date’s delicate shoulders, or when daddy’s girl enjoyed her first ever father/daughter date at the ballpark, or that electricity in the air at grade school on the day that the Yankees made the playoffs for the first time. The casual fan may not watch every single regular season game or bother to fact check Wikipedia to make sure that I spelled Roethlisberger’s name correctly in the beginning of this “note”, but will always watch the biggest of games. Why? The casual fan wants to create a myriad of great new memories to attach to the old ones, and understands that on the biggest of stages – such as the Super Bowl, World Series, the Masters, or Olympics – the chance to experience a lasting moment of joy has a greater chance of occurring.

For me, besides that feeling of “greater love” (thanks, Fred Hammond!) that comes through a relationship with Jesus, a God that continually shows his unconditional love for his creation, sports – like marriage or new birth – is one of the tangible earthly elements that provides moments of unbridled joy in our lives.

That’s why I absolutely love sports.

-TTK