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(04/27/11 11:57pm)
I was sitting on my porch the other day, enjoying another beautiful spring morning and thinking about the copious amount of projects and finals looming in the near future. I was considering all of the stress I would be under to complete my work, and how I would combat that stress by not studying whatsoever and turning in my projects at the last possible moment (preferably late and by e-mail). My thought is that if I don’t study, then there is less pressure to do well. Like my sagely Grandpa always said, “Low expectations equals less disappointment.” My Grandpa consistently proved this to be true by having four failed marriages and never holding a meaningful form of employment—I always wondered what the secret to his happiness was, and other than his addiction to whiskey I’m sure it had to be this wise worldview.
My thoughts were interrupted by a commotion in front of my house and, thinking that there must a stray cat rummaging through my trash, I leaned over to get a better look and possibly scream an obscenity or two. I instead saw a toothless woman digging through my recycling bin, which is a virtual treasure trove of cans. This woman must weigh about 57 pounds and be in her fifties. I noticed that she was whistling a jaunty tune as she went about her work, tossing cans into her well-worn shopping cart. It warmed my heart to see someone enjoying a beautiful day and taking pleasure in her adventurous choice of vocation. She looked up and saw me watching her busy work, and I noticed a momentary look of perplexity wash over her face. “Is this okay?” she asked. “It’s fine,” I replied with a smile. “It’s a fine day,” she said with a toothless grin, and then began whistling some tune from an era that even my knowledgeable brain did not recognize.
I leaned back in my chair and attempted to imagine the reality of the lady digging through my trash. Not the reality of my view of her, but her reality. What does the world look like through her eyes, and how does she cope with it? I wondered if I could whistle my favorite song and enjoy a beautiful day if my only means of moneymaking was to walk around a neighborhood and pick through trash for aluminum cans that might fetch me five cents apiece. This caused me to contemplate everything I should be grateful for and all those who have sacrificed so that I could be where I am, especially when considering the holiday we are celebrating this weekend.
For athletes, many have received scholarships to pay for school and many others have the support of loved ones who do everything in their power to help them achieve success. I was once an athlete on a full scholarship and there is no question that I took it for granted, right up to the point when it was taken away from me. It’s always a crushing blow when something you think will always be there suddenly disappears. Since the loss of my scholarship I have had the help and support of countless people, including the players and coaches associated with Mercer men’s basketball, to help me continue my education. I quickly realized that my loss meant nothing when compared to others around me. No matter how stressful my life is, I must always remember the sacrifices of those who have helped me and the hardships of those around me.
As I think about Easter, the traditions of which include a day of contemplative mourning and a day of unbridled celebration, I want to appreciate what has been given to me. It’s a weekend, regardless of what I believe religiously, which forces me to consider ultimate sacrifice. There are so many people who have sacrificed much so that I can be successful. There are countless others, in other countries and throughout history, who have done the same without even knowing who I am. I cannot begin to comprehend the ramifications of what has been done for me. Easter is also a weekend that causes me to appreciate second chances and the celebration of life. I’ve been given many second chances—in fact, I’m probably into my seventh and eighth chances in many areas. It’s amazing how easy it is for me to still become bitter and not appreciate the life that I have or the people I love. How can I complain? When I feel this way I shamefully need something to pull me back to the reality of my fortunate life, like a woman tossing cans into a shopping cart as she contentedly whistles her favorite tune.
(04/13/11 3:11pm)
I was sitting on my porch the other day, enjoying another perfect middle Georgia spring afternoon, when a bumblebee pooped on my arm. I’m not a biology major, so I can’t tell you if bumblebees actually go “number two” or not, but I do know that I sat in some shock as I looked at the yellow substance which had been sprayed on my right forearm. Still in shock and a little enraged, I rose from my rocker and smashed the pollinator with my Margaritaville shoe.
When I told my computer nerd roommate what had happened, he informed me that I had been “pollinated.” I’m not sure what would possess a bee to pollinate my right forearm, but it seemed like a douche bag move, and he deserved what he got. He obviously had not thought through the future consequences of his actions.
This situation caused me to consider my general dislike for wildlife and coming into contact with unwanted bodily fluids. This reminded me of my buddy and star forward on the basketball team, Jake Gollon, and his superhuman ability to sweat out more fluids than he could ever possibly take in. That reminded me of the hard work that the basketball team is putting in right now during the “off-season.”
If you read my first Cluster article (and I’m sure everyone has, and by everyone I mean all five of you) you know that the “off-season” is just a myth made up by people who never played college athletics. The Mercer basketball players are required to do individual workouts five times a week for 24 minutes each session. They also lift three days per week with strength and conditioning specialist, Paul Bohr, and have “optional” open gym every weekday. I’m not too good with the new math, but that means Jake Gollon effuses approximately five thousand gallons of sweat each week. They do all this in hopes of success for the upcoming season, the first game of which will not be until sometime in November.
As I sit on my porch, considering all of the hard work the underclassmen are doing for next year and the bee that pollinated my arm, I’m hit by how quickly things change. Bees, much like basketball players, are only around for a short time. Seniors Brian Mills, Jeff Smith, Mark Hall and Brandon Moore will all be moving on next year. Mills is busy working out and talking to agents, attempting to get paid overseas to play basketball. Smith and Moore are working hard to recover from knee surgeries, with hopes of being able to do the same at some point in the future. Mark Hall is planning on moving back to California and putting his business degree to good use. Unlike bumblebees, it’s difficult for me to watch these guys move on, but like the bumblebee who ejaculated pollen all over my arm, they have all left an impression that will last for years to come.
Nobody can know exactly what the future will hold. What I do know is that next year there will be new faces wearing Mercer basketball jerseys running up and down the floor of the University Center. The freshmen from this year will be a year older and looking to continue the success that we had late last season. The upperclassmen who are returning will be looking to provide leadership for the younger guys and the newcomers, and Jake Gollon will be sweating a lot.
Those are the things I know; everything else is in some unknown territory. Albert Einstein once said, “I never think of the future. It comes soon enough.” That, however, seems like the ideology of a pothead and a terrible way to live. This is possibly the reason why every picture of Einstein looks like the person holding the camera jumped out from behind a curtain and yelled, “Surprise!!!” He didn’t see it coming. He might have had a good point, however, in that worrying too much about the future can be a very stressful waste of time. So I will do the best I can at this moment, and hope for the best in the future. I hope all of the work the players are putting in will pay off with huge success next year; I hope that the seniors from last year reach their goals as professionals; and finally, I hope that the bees who hang out in front of my house will have learned a lesson, and stick to pollinating my bushes and not my arm.
(04/13/11 3:05pm)
If polo is the sport of kings, then slow pitch softball is the sport of beer-bellied plumbers who love Miller Highlife and wife beaters and who, ironically, quite possibly touch their wives up on occasion. There is a common perception that anyone can play slow pitch softball. As one of my friends who I interviewed for this article put it, “Grandmas and old wrinkly men are capable of playing slow pitch softball at a high level.” I understand the reasons behind this theory, but the truth is that it takes a special athlete to excel at this sport. There are many intricacies to the sport that the average individual might not take into account. With the Mercer Intramural softball season in full swing, I thought I might give a few tips as to the imperatives of being an intramural softball athlete.
Trash-talking cannot be underestimated as a means of disrupting the chi of the opposing team, or as a motivational tool for your teammates. For instance, one of the players on my team, Kevin Canevari, could barely hit the ball at the beginning of the season until we started referring to him as “the beast.” This was obviously meant to be an ironic comment on his diminutive size, but he took it seriously and has been hitting lasers ever since. Everybody wins in this situation — we all get a good laugh at Kevin’s expense and in the meantime his confidence and batting average has sky rocketed. That is a perfect example of how trash-talking your own teammates can be extremely beneficial to the team. As far as trash-talking the opposing team’s players, the rule book (where is this rule book? Has anyone seen it?) states that speaking of any kind as the ball is pitched is against the rules. However, it is not clear what the penalty is for this infraction, and if there is one I have never seen it enforced. So it’s perfectly okay for the catcher to yell “Move in” toward the outfield, or “My balls are sweaty” to distract the batter as the ball is traveling towards home plate. Try this and watch the opposing team’s batting average plummet.
Willingness to give your body up for the team is also important, but limited to only a few situations. There is a time to sacrifice your body, like when you could settle for a single but decide to turn it into a double and pull your groin in the process. Diving and sliding, however, should be avoided at all costs. The only thing you will achieve by doing so is ripping the skin off whichever part of your body happens to hit the infield dirt. Let’s face it — if you think you need to slide, you probably don’t, because the last time the person throwing the ball played at a competitive level was coach-pitch in the third grade. If you happen to be in left field and a line drive is headed your way, but just out of reach and think you need to dive, don’t be stupid and think twice. You’re not going to catch the ball. So save yourself the pain, suffering and embarrassment of sliding or diving and stay on your feet. Or don’t, and everyone can have a good laugh as the ball flies by your glove or you face-plant two feet away from second base.
Lastly, a healthy fear of the ball should be a major point of emphasis in intramural softball. If you hit a grounder to the left side of the infield, do not look away from the person who infields the ball and wings it towards first base. If you decide to focus on the base and run as hard as you can, the chances of you getting nailed in the head are about the same as Rebecca Black having a drug addiction in the near future (I will refrain from bashing her hit song, “It’s Friday,” because everyone is doing it ... but that song is more abominable than genocide and if I hear it one more time I might take a scouring iron and burn my eardrums to a bloody pulp, because total silence for the remainder of my life is more appealing than even the slight chance that I might hear a passerby humming that terrible, terrible song. I’d like to add that she is probably a great person and a very talented singer, and I hope she does not become addicted to drugs. And also, genocide is not worse than her song, but I would be open to a debate on the subject). So block out the memory of your dad or little league coach yelling at you, “Don’t be scared of the ball!” They didn’t know what they were talking about. If you think I am lying to you, there are some people walking around campus with brand new teeth and short-term memory loss who would back me up.
You now know everything you need to know to have a successful intramural softball season. If you are not a slow pitch athlete but one of the plethora of intramural softball fanatics who fill the bleachers on a nightly basis, then hopefully you have a better understanding of the game. Next time a base runner for your favorite team misses first base because he ducked to avoid an errant missile coming from the other side of the field, you should applaud him for his acute awareness of what is going on around him. If you hear the catcher for your team yell something that effectively disrupts the batter’s concentration, a loud cheer should be the result. If your favorite softball athlete chooses to let a ground ball roll through to the outfield instead of risking his safety and self-respect by diving, don’t think any less of him — he obviously understands the fundamentals of the game and that should be appreciated.
(03/31/11 12:00am)
NOTE: AUTHOR ZACH WELLS
(Another year of intramural basketball went into the record books, but not without the humorous recap of the championship night from the keyboard of Zach Wells. His first/third person recollection of the night gives insight into the emotions, competition and highlights that dotted this year’s 2011 intramural basketball season at Mercer.)
It has been a busy spring at Mercer’s University Center. The A-Sun basketball championships were hosted by Mercer March 2-5, but most people in the Macon community had their sights set on a date twelve days later. March 17 would be the day of reckoning for all intramural basketball competitors. For days leading up to the event, there was a nearly audible buzz around campus (which I missed because I was at Panama City Beach for Spring Break). Who would take home the coveted intramural championship T-shirt for the 2011 spring season? Would Primetime continue to use their superior athletic ability and gargantuan front line to take the men’s league? Could there possibly be an upset by the Bear Outlaws and their wily veteran with bionic knees, Zach Wells? On the women’s side, could star guard Amy Jones continue her amazing run and lead the We STILL Got It team to glory?
These questions and others swirled around the Mercer campus right up until the night of the event. It truly was an event, as Todd Thomas estimated that at the end of the night there must have been upwards of 200 fans at the games (he may have been counting those on treadmills and lifting weights upstairs). When I walked into the gym I allowed the electricity in the air to wash over my entire body. “This is it,” I thought. “If you can’t get up for this, you must not like basketball.”
The women’s match-up was an interesting one. The We STILL Got It team, made up of more mature ladies who work within the athletic department, was matched up against the A-Sun Champs, who consisted of highly energized and scrappy women’s soccer players. As the game got underway, however, it became apparent that the We STILL Got Its had too much experience for the other youthful squad.
Amy Jones continued her magical season, controlling every part of the game. It didn’t take long for Jones to lead her team to an early double-digit lead, which proved to be insurmountable for the A-Sun Champs. As the clock wound down, the We STILL Got Its had a twenty point lead and the victors finally let some of their emotions show. Some thought that it was a bad show of sportsmanship when they dog-piled at mid-court with 15 seconds still left on the clock, but it was simply a release of all the hard work and emotion that had gone into the grueling intramural season. “I’m proud of my girls,” Jones said to me after she had regained control of her emotions. “You know, you set your sights on the championship every year, but there are just so many intangibles that go into a season like this. It’s unbelievable. I have a great story to tell my future children.”
After the T-shirt ceremony, the women left the floor and the men’s teams began to warm up. On one side there was PrimeTime, who had once again made mincemeat of the entire league this year. Led by two front-line players, Johnta Tigner and Josiah Ojo, and a diminutive point guard (I think his name is Nick), this team had been virtually unstoppable all spring. On the other end, the Bear Outlaws were getting their sweat on, all of them (except for their oversized, well-seasoned point guard, Zach Wells, who had had class until 9:30 and didn’t show up until right before tip-off).
Wells had been a slight point of contention in recent weeks, because he had chosen to stay in PCB for an extra couple of days and had missed the semi-final game, which the Bear Outlaws lost. “I was just letting it ride out there on the beach and lost track of the days,” Wells was quoted as saying.
Through a stroke of luck the Big Subpoenas, to whom the Bear Outlaws had lost in the semi’s, had been unable to make it to the championship game. This gave Wells and his Outlaws an opportunity to play for the title in spite of Wells’ seemingly selfish act. Because Wells was late, he did not start the game and entered about five minutes in. He was lavishly heckled as he stepped onto the court by his former best friend, EJ Kusnyer. Kusnyer told me later, “I just can’t respect a guy who’s not there when his team needs him. He left them out to dry. He thinks he is better than them.” I asked Wells for a response, but all he gave me was, “No comment. That’s just EJ being EJ.”
The game itself was a seesaw battle played at the highest level. Wells seemingly willed his team to a slight advantage at halftime. It was clear, however, that he had not been working on his game while he was at the beach for Spring Break, and that would play a major role in the second half. The Outlaws held onto a five-point lead with less than two minutes to go, but that’s when Nick the point guard put his team on his slight shoulders. He made three consecutive shots, Wells helping them with a costly turnover and missed free throws. “I just ran out of gas. I thought playing Beersby on the beach would keep me in shape, but I’ll have to rethink that theory.”
Primetime had gained a four-point advantage with forty seconds left. Wells brought the ball up the floor, crossed over twice and drained a three-pointer from near-NBA range. The crowd went wild, drowning out Kusnyer’s desperate screams of, “LEAGUE BOUND!!!!” Primetime inbounded the ball and made an ill-advised attempt to throw the ball the length of the floor. The pass was picked off by a leaping Reggie Perry. Wells quickly gained control of the ball and called time-out with 14 seconds left. After the time-out, the ball was inbounded to Wells at half court, he made several moves that would make every YMCA men’s-league baller proud, got into the lane and drew the defense to him. At the last second he saw his teammate, Wole Ogundele, cutting to the basket. Wells deftly dished the ball for a wide open layup. Ogundele, surprised that an infamously selfish player like Wells would actually pass him the ball, bobbled the catch. The Outlaws did not get a good shot attempt, and the game was over. At 46-45, Primtime was victorious.
It was a night to remember on the University Center intramural courts. It was a double victory for the Primetime players, as they had teamed up with the Chi O sorority to take the Co-Rec title earlier in the day. The fans had watched a woman’s team so dominant that there were whispers that a closed scrimmage with UCONN might be in the works. After the final game, players and fans alike were breathless. Everyone knew that they had witnessed one of the greatest events of their lives.
“I gave it all I had. Unfortunately we needed one more play,” an obviously disappointed Wells said after the game. “Maybe if I hadn’t played so much Beersby over Spring Break...who knows.”
(03/30/11 11:29pm)
I love big porches with columns. In fact, I would say that, other than giant mutant cockroaches and no liquor sales on Sunday, porches are my favorite thing about Georgia. This is my first spring season having a porch, and I’m not sure anyone or anything has had such a major impact on my life (and yes, I do know Jesus). I have a special appreciation for porches, because we don’t really utilize them in my home state of Oklahoma. A nice porch is as useless as a poopy-flavored lollipop where I’m from, because gale-force winds are not uncommon—I might as well sit on the toilet with a blow dryer in my face. In Oklahoma, it’s not that we don’t want to “porch it.” It seems like a great thing to do, but it’s just not reasonable. So if I really get down to it, it’s actually the amazing Georgia spring weather that allows me to enjoy my porch in front of my dilapidated house. The weather is totally outside of our control, but the place we live is not. In my opinion, when it comes to “porch-ing” (or learning that NASCAR events are actually broadcast on the radio), there is no better place to be than in Georgia.
When it comes to basketball, there is no team I’d rather be involved with than the Mercer Bears. I love these guys almost as much as Lil Wayne loves objectifying women in his songs. I’ve been around college athletes my entire life, and I can honestly say that this group is special. After losing two of our top three scorers to major knee injuries, this team came together like Waffle House and drunk people at 3:00 a.m. The difference between the first and second half of the year was not unlike the difference in personal hygiene levels between the Phi Mu sorority house and the SAE frat house (drastic, and I’ll let you guess which is which).
Brian Mills went from being one of my favorite guys (no homo) to being one of my favorite players to watch. I have honestly never seen, in person, a player dominate games from the mid-range like “Millsy.” Mark Hall, who had come off the bench his entire career at Mercer and had never shown an ounce of discontent, took more charges than Paris Hilton’s credit card this year after being put in the starting lineup. “Sweets” also managed to shoot nearly 40 percent from the three-point line and, when needed, showed the ability to take over a game. Jake Gollon, who has been very nearly physically lame throughout his first two years at Mercer, made huge plays and game-winning shots during the second half of the season. Langston Hall was one of the best point guards in the conference as a freshman. Chris Smith, Bud Thomas, Monty Brown, Justin Cecil, Paul Larsen and Kevin Canevari all stepped up and made what must seem like a very mediocre year to those outside the program a very special year for me.
Every time I thought the season was in ruins, someone else did something that I did not expect. Coaches from other teams would ask me, “How are you guys doing this?” to which I would confidently reply, “I have no earthly idea.” The truth is, however, that we had a bunch of guys who knew their role, genuinely cared about each other, played extremely hard and wanted to do the right thing. The best thing about these guys off the court is that they genuinely care about each other and, for the most part, want to do the right thing. This is why there is no other college team I would rather be “a part” of. This is also why “porch-ing it” in Georgia has become my favorite pastime—the weather is great, but being in the company of my boys is better.
Unfortunately, our season ended much like the Oklahoma porch-ing experience. Like an unexpected calm, we made a run with young players and some great coaching. We enjoyed a few serene moments, with only a slight breeze easing the heat on a warm spring day. We then played Belmont in the A-Sun tournament, a veritable twister of basketball skills (real talk), and had a nice dose of Oklahoma red dirt blown all up in our faces. Much like porch-ing it in Oklahoma, the experience gave us some sweet moments but a bitter taste in our mouths and tears in our eyes. So right now I’m thanking God I’m in Georgia, because there are no gusting winds and there is nothing I’d rather be doing than porch-ing it with some of my favorite guys, reliving some great memories from an unforgettable year.
(03/02/11 4:56am)
When my mother told me that I was going to have a little brother as a four year-old, I shrugged and said, “good for you.” I was home educated through high school, and when Emoly West (the only home schooled girl in Oklahoma who did not have unsightly moles or a clubbed foot) asked me to go to the home school prom with her, I pursed my lips and said, “if that’s what you really want.”
When I received a full scholarship to play college basketball, my father beamed with pride, my mother cried for joy, and I took a nap. I’m not one to get overly excited about anything. This run that the 2010-11 Mercer Men’s Basketball Team is on, however, has me jumping into walls, crying tears of joy, and running down busy streets screaming at the top of my lungs. What the heck is going on with this team?
If you didn’t already know, the Bears have won nine of their last eleven games and are now 10-7 in the ASUN conference. This means that at one time we had a dismal one win and five losses in conference. There was a time this season when it appeared doubtful whether we would make our own conference tournament, which will be held here in Macon. This would have been the equivalent of planning a house party, inviting all of your friends, paying for the food and entertainment, getting a flat tire on your way home from work, arriving late to your own party, none of your friends having shown up, and all of your enemies having come uninvited and ate all of your food while tearing your house apart. Demoralizing is the word. We were demoralized at one point this season. But then something happened, something changed.
Right around the middle of January, this team came together in ways that I couldn’t have predicted. Suddenly, everyone had everyone else’s back. All the negativity disappeared. A team who’s defense had been porous all season, became stingy, regularly holding teams to under 65 total points. A team who had trouble doing the little things, like boxing out for rebounds and not turning the ball over, began taking care of the ball as if it was a dollar bill in Brian Mills wallet. A team that lacked for leadership suddenly recognized Brian Mills as THE MAN, and began going through him on every offensive possession. A team that had been described as “soft” and “not tough enough,” suddenly became more leathery than Charlie Sheen’s liver. What could have caused such a drastic change for this team?
I have given this more thought over the past couple of weeks than Einstein gave to the theory of relativity, and I believe I’ve reached a similar result. Some might say that Coach Hoffman deserves all of the credit, which is a valid point. But I have been at nearly every practice this year and coach Hoffman has been coaching the same way over the past four weeks as he has all season. Some might say that our team chaplain, Jon Howard, has prayed some of his best prayers of the season over the last few weeks, securing God’s providential good-will and giving us wins. I strongly believe, however, that God cares very little about who wins or loses a basketball game (there are Christians on the other team who also pray). Some say the players deserve all of the credit, but these are the same players (with a few exceptions) who have been playing all year--something motivated them to change their approach.
There is only one man who can be given full credit for the turnaround of the Mercer Bears season. There has been one, and only one, major change within the Mercer Basketball program over the last few weeks. In fact, I can point to a single date, which took this season and turned it on its head.
On January 13th, Ernest John Kusnyer came back to Macon, GA. “I was doing well overseas in Holland, making loads of untaxed cash. But money means nothing to me. When I saw my Mercer Bears were struggling I had to come back and help.” Kusnyer, the Mercer three point legend, was speaking to me as we sat in the cafeteria on campus. He was stuffing his face with his third chocolate chip cookie in less than five minutes. “Yeah I’ve helped the team come together and make a great run, but I don’t see myself as some kind of hero. I just did what needed to be done and the results are what they are. I just let it ride, that’s what I do.”
When I asked “Kush” what he had actually done to help the team, bringing up that some questioned whether or not he really did anything at all (other than mooch of the Mercer athletics program), he got a little bit defensive. “Of course you’re going to have people say those kind of things. When you bring this type of success to a program, people are going to be jealous and try to bring you down.” Yes, but what does E.J. actually do for the Mercer Bears? “My methods aren’t what’s important. I have the ASUN record for threes in a season, this team obviously respects that fact. They don’t want to let me down.”
Not everyone agrees with this theory. When I texted John Howard about E.J.’s part in the Bears success, he texted me this message back, “E.J. is always thinking about E.J., there are other people who should be getting the credit.” When I asked Brian Mills how E.J. had helped him since he’s been back, Mills replied, “Is he helping out with the team? I thought he was just taking classes and working for the U.C.”
The results, however, cannot be argued with. Since E.J. Kusnyer has arrived back in Macon, the Mercer Bears have been hotter than the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. Nine out of eleven speaks for itself, and if you don’t want to listen to that, you can listen to E.J. “Sometimes you just have to do something selfless. I love these guys, I just had to come help them out. You know what their three-point percentage was before I came back?” I shook my head. “Yeah, you don’t want to know.”
(02/09/11 11:30pm)
[caption id="attachment_618" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="(photo courtesy of MercerBears.com) Guard Jeff Smith was lost for the season after a knee injury following the overtime win against Jacksonville."]
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I’ve had a stressful couple of weeks, which is why on Tuesday I popped in the greatest movie of all time, “The Lion King”, poured a glass of red wine, and attempted to relax. As I sat on my disgusting couch that has been shredded by my roommate’s retarded dog (Jake, which is ironic because I have a retarded brother with the same name), I let the lyrics of the opening scene wash over me. “Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba, Sithi uhm ingonyama,” over and over again. Then Elton John comes in with “The Circle of Life”, and I, naturally, burst into tears because of the gravity of the moment. In fact, when the Medicine Man Monkey with the blue ass held up little Simba, I joined the other animals, stomping around on the couch and making weird noises (i.e. Tom Cruise on Oprah). After I settled down, I began to think about life’s circles in relation to my Mercer Bears this season and eventually came to this conclusion: I hate knees.
I hate knees. If not for the extreme inconvenience it would be to tie my shoes or pull up my socks, I would have my knees removed and walk around like I was on a pair of stilts. Knees have ruined my life. They have caused me insufferable pain and a chance at playing in the NBA (my mother, who was nothing if not objective, happened to be the only person who believed that last part). I have spent more than three years of my life recovering from knee surgery. So I can sympathize a little bit with Jeff “Swagg-rite” Smith and Brandon “Nasty Mane” Moore. Over the last couple of weeks both of them have gone down with severe knee injuries—or as Swagg-rite so poignantly put it on his Facebook status, the Bears have lost two “fallen soldiers.” Swagg-rite, who was our leading scorer, tore his ACL during a huge home victory versus Jacksonville. Nasty Mane tore his ACL, and nearly everything else in his knee, against ETSU eleven days later.
It is not uncommon for a team to suffer some major injuries during a season, but two senior starters going down within two weeks of each other would be the equivalent of Bill O’Reilly and Glenn Beck resigning from Fox News within the same period of time. We would all obviously be shocked and deeply depressed if that happened, and this is exactly how the Mercer basketball family felt about their fallen soldiers. Brian Mills texted me, “why does this have to happen now,” the night Brandon was injured. I drew on my vast amount of life experiences and wisdom. I painstakingly typed out several paragraphs of thoughtful insights on my phone, which if I broke it down basically said, “life sucks.”
Life obviously does not always suck for everybody, but it always sucks for somebody. The situation with Mercer basketball is no different. As Nasty Mane and Swagg-rite watch from the bench, the team will be forced to move on without them. Players who previously have seen little or no playing time will suddenly have an opportunity to play major minutes for a team who is still in the hunt for the conference tournament. It’s not fair, but life goes on—in circles.
This is why the opening scene of “The Lion King” simultaneously brings me to tears and causes me to jump around on my couch. It’s difficult to give up the old, but I have to be excited about the new. I hate Swagg-rite’s and Nasty Mane’s knees almost as much as I hate my own, but torn-up knees are just part of the circle. So as I listened, through tears, to Elton John belting, “through despair and hope, through faith and love, til we find our place, it’s the circle,” I could only think of Swagg-rite’s most recent Facebook status: “THRU ALL DA PAIN AND DA STRUGGLIN I STILL SMILIN.” It’s all the same thing; life sucks, but we have to keep moving on. I hope my Bears can win a few games as the young guys learn how to play. I hope that the two senior “soldiers” who are left (Mills and Mark Hall) can lead us to some huge victories. But the one thing I know for certain, other than “only da strong will survive believe dat” (and I actually do believe “dat”), is that the circle of life will continue on, regardless of what I want.
(02/09/11 8:22pm)
[caption id="attachment_549" align="aligncenter" width="200" caption="(Alex Lockwood / Cluster Staff) Brian Mills seemed to be possessed by the Greek storm god Poseidon, raining down thirty points on the USC-Upstate Spartans' heads. "]
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Coach Hoffman (and pretty much every coach) preaches that every minute of every day is important in terms of winning games. Every sprint during practice, every free throw and every possession of every game matters. Sometimes this seems to be an obvious truth, but at other times I’m not so sure. There are innumerable ways in which people try to explain the happenings of the universe and not all of them make room for preparation: some people subscribe to the philosophy of the chaos theory, which basically states that future events are impossible to predict. Others believe in an all-knowing, all-powerful creator who organizes each and every event that takes place on this earth. Still others place the weight of their good fortune on a lucky pair of underwear. I have to believe in all three, because I am a college basketball fan—more specifically, a Mercer Bears basketball fan.
The Mercer men’s basketball team’s Christmas Break was about as jolly as a kick to the crotch. We lost to Georgia, Charlotte and ETSU by a total of five points and gave up a nine-point second half lead to Georgia Tech—all within a twelve-day period. This would lead me to believe that the whole “every possession matters” theory is true, considering the outcome of each of those games could have been changed by one more stop (or one more score). It’s difficult to explain the effect those games have on a basketball team—it’s almost like falling in love with a beautiful woman (“Winning” would be her name) and then finding out she’s in a relationship and was just jerking you around the whole time (which has never happened to me). It just crushes you physically, mentally and emotionally (like I said, totally metaphorical).
The only bright spot during that period was when USC Upstate came to town. It was like a cleansing rain storm. Brian Mills seemed to be possessed by the Greek storm god Poseidon, raining down thirty points on the Spartans' heads. It’s difficult to say whether we beat Upstate because (a) they suck, (b) “B Mills” was possessed by the aforementioned Greek storm god, (c) the managers all drank Yoo-Hoos right before the game (mine was warm and disgusting) or (d) I purposely mismatched my pants and blazer. I’m pretty sure it was (b), because we have already lost to some not-so-good teams this year, we tried the Yoo-Hoos for our next game and it didn’t work, I am extremely unlucky, and I’d like to believe Mills was possessed by the Greek storm god as we played a team whose mascot was the Spartans because I’m a glutton for irony. Regardless, the feeling was relief when the final buzzer sounded. Finally something that made sense: we played well and won.
Just when things seemed to be gaining some order and I was beginning to think there might be a gracious all-knowing creator directing the Bears' season, the Campbell road trip happened and things got weirder than a First Friday at the Synergy night club. It began with our bus driver, Charlie, telling everyone over the bus microphone that we were not allowed to have “colored” drinks on the bus. I took a sip of my Coke as I turned to the players behind me with a look on my face that said, “Who the heck says ‘colored drink?’” Luckily, Bus Driver Charles was just a lot of talk and didn’t even try to make us give up our drinks.
The actual game at Campbell was horrible for about 33 minutes. We were down by fifteen points for almost the entire game. Somehow, through a slew of substitutions, presses, steals, an inordinate amount of swear words said under my breath and two free throws with .1 second left on the clock by Mills, we tied the game and went into overtime. Unfortunately, that whorish “Winning” was just jerking us around again and we lost in OT. After getting punched in the gut, we had to spend an extra night in North Carolina because a snowstorm had hit and Bus Driver Charles didn’t think it was safe to drive. From what I could tell the next morning, North Carolina had been hammered by a devastating half-inch of sleet and snow during the night. Needless to say, we made it back to Macon later that day, and Bus Driver Charles will not be used again by the Mercer men’s basketball team.
Our next trip was to Stetson, and nothing about it made any sense whatsoever. I feel like I’m entering the Twilight Zone every time I walk into their gym, which I believe has actually been around longer than the Stetson hat. We played terribly—we let a 6’2” power forward score all over us, a man with only one eye out hustle us, and let a center with boobs that would make Pam Anderson blush get every rebound. We lost by seven points to a bad team. The world does not make much sense.
We continued our Florida road trip two days later at Florida Gulf Coast University. FGCU is like the Kenny Powers of the A-Sun—a lot of talk and good looks, but no real results. We desperately needed that road victory. It was one of the hardest played games I’ve seen all year and it was also the worst played game I’ve seen all year. We shot 30 percent from the field for the game, while FGCU shot a scorching 34 percent but had twenty turnovers. As time wound down I thought it would be proper for the game to end in a tie, or possibly both teams could just take a loss. But no, something even more outlandish took place. We were down by two points with 11 seconds left, when Jeff Smith barreled down the lane with the ball, jumped in the air and hung for what seemed like five seconds, looking for an open man. Jeff found Justin Cecil in the deep corner; Cecil, who was in the game only because Mark Hall had missed all seven of his shot attempts, caught the ball and didn’t even hesitate as he launched it toward the basket. I sat in my chair, leaning back with my arms crossed, and watched in amazement as the ball ripped through the net. A 14 percent three-point shooter had just won the game for us.
I couldn’t even move from my seat for the shock. Coach Hoffman let out a “Praise the Lord!!” The players were all jumping up and down, ecstatic that something had actually gone our way. I could only sit there shaking my head with an ironic half-grin on my face. Everything I thought I knew about college basketball was wrong. There is no way that anyone (other than Justin Cecil and his mom) could have predicted that outcome. So while everyone else was jumping around acting like a bunch of crazies, I just sat there with these thoughts running repeatedly through my head: “Preparation is useless, the whole world is chaos, God does not care about basketball, and I’m wearing this same pair of underwear until we lose again.”