Defense Is Overrated; Suits Are Not

When did basketball coaches stop wearing suits? I think it was last year, during the height of the coronavirus pandemic. The NBA resumed the season that had been suspended in March, but the teams all played in what came to be known as “The Bubble”: a state of the art athletic facility in Disney World. While the playoffs progressed, players remained sequestered in Orlando, away from friends and family, but relatively safe from Covid. Still, one can’t help but wonder how many players made half-assed efforts during the playoffs so as to get booted earlier from the Bubble. That would go a long way toward explaining how the Miami Heat made it to the finals.

Anyway, when the season resumed, coaches seemed to decide that the Bubble called for a more casual approach to fashion. Team-logoed fleeces replaced the Armani’s and Hugo Bosses to which we’d become accustomed since the days of Pat Riley. And this year, even with the resumption of relatively normal games, complete with fans on the stands, the coaches are still rocking the casual Friday look every day of the week.

Next thing you know, they’re gonna take a page from baseball and start dressing in uniforms like the players. I hope it doesn’t come to that. Nobody needs to see Tom Thibodeau in a pair of baggy shorts.

Speaking of Tom Thibodeau, the New York Knicks got bounced out of the playoffs yesterday. I’m not overly disappointed—I save my disappointment for the Mets. And the Knicks had a pretty good season, anyway.

It goes to show, though, that the old sports adage about defense winning championships doesn’t always hold true. Tom Thibodeau is universally acknowledged as a defensive-minded coach, and the Knicks did practice spectacular defense throughout the season. But in basketball, the better offensive team will almost always win.

You might respond, “Well, ultimately, doesn’t the better offensive team ALWAYS win in any sport?” Well, no. I mean, in other sports, you could have a team that, in general, is great offensively but that gets shut down by a superior defensive team—a defensive team that manages to eke out just enough offense to win. The key idea here is that, in other sports, the defense can shut down the opposition. Think about a pitcher throwing a shutout, or a football defense blanking their opponents.

In basketball, even a terrific defense is going to give up 90 points or so. So a great defense by itself won’t win you any championships if you can’t score enough. It’ll just cause you to lose by two points instead of 20.

*****

Amazon update: The price of the book today? $5.61. Nice try, Bezos!

In Which We Mark Our Calendars for Next Year

I really can't be too upset.

If someone had told me in March--or, heck, July--that the Mets would be in contention for a playoff spot in late September, I'd have been pretty happy.  If someone had told me they would win the National League East outright, I'd have been thrilled.  If someone had told me they would play in the World Series. . . well, I would have run as fast and as far as I could because I would clearly have been speaking with a dangerous lunatic, completely out of touch with reality.

Ultimately, the Mets overachieved this year.  While no one can argue with the almost unfathomable excellence of their starting pitchers, the team overall didn't have much going for it: an unpredictable offense, a mediocre defense, and, aside from Jeurys Familia, a shaky bullpen.  And yet the Mets got just hot enough at just the right time to make it all the way to the World Series.  Where, yes, they were hopelessly overmatched.

I must congratulate the Kansas City Royals.  I don't think I've ever seen a team that played so. . . right.  They were relentless, and they made no mistakes.  For Mets fans, watching these games was like the proverbial death by a thousand cuts.  Royals hitters, for the most part, never hit the ball particularly hard, and yet they never seemed to make an out.  It seemed every time I looked up Eric Hosmer was hitting another soft grounder just out of the reach of Wilmer Flores to drive in two more runs.  I'll bet if I turned the TV on now I'd see Mike Moustakas hitting another check-swing liner just over the head of David Wright, somehow driving in six runners, all from first base.

The play last night that tied the game was emblematic of everything the Royals did well:  Hosmer at third, one out.  Familia gets Moustakas to do exactly what Familia wants him to do: hit a little nothing grounder that's easily fielded by David Wright.  Wright grabs the ball, looks Hosmer back at third, and throws to first for the out--and as soon as he throws, Hosmer charges home.  First baseman Lucas Duda throws home, wildly, the ball sails away from the catcher, and Hosmer slides in with the tying run.  People blame Duda, but that's unfair: Even with an absolutely perfect throw, I'm not sure he gets Hosmer.  It was an insane play.  Hosmer should never have attempted it.  And yet it worked.

At any rate, we can look back on an unexpectedly rewarding season with an admittedly disappointing ending.  But with the group of young pitchers and with, hopefully, the addition of some offensive help, the future is bright.  Just wait 'til next year.  Let's go Mets!

Meet the Mets...Later

Does it make sense to record sporting events? I ask this question as I sit here, typing, with the Mets game on--a Mets game that I assume ended several hours ago. I recorded the game because I like the Mets and, living in the Bay Area, I don't get to see them with any regularity. So, on those occasions when they ARE on national TV, I feel almost obligated to watch them--which generally means recording the games, as the games usually start (or in the case of day games like today's, start and end) while I'm at work. But does it make sense?

I mean, I fast forward through the commercials. But when I do that, I think, y'know, I could also fast forward to move more quickly from one batter to the next.  But if I'm going to do that, I could pretty much just skip to "interesting" moments: Maybe I could keep speeding through until I see runners on base.  But if I do that, why not just skip to the end to see who wins? Or just go to Nymets.com and check the score?  Because if I watch the whole game and they actually lost, am I not just setting myself up for disappointment? Leaving aside for the moment the reasonable question of whether being a Mets fan is, by definition, setting myself up for disappointment?  Is watching a recorded sporting event really nothing more than a sort of magical thinking?

Olympic Musings.

Every Olympics brings new events.  Often, these are merely old events with the addition of a new gender category, e.g., men's rhythmic gymnastics, or with an added element of synchronicity, e.g., synchronized pole-vaulting.  I'm kidding about that last one.  I think.  OK, maybe not.

Anyway, this year's Sochi Olympics feature the debut of women's ski-jumping.  To which I must ask, Why wasn't this a thing already?  Were women somehow more susceptible to the effects of gravity--or would it be "less"--I'm not even sure where the concern would lie.  I can't imagine that women would have any greater or lesser difficulty in hurtling through the air than men.  What took so long?

And then, there is also the question of why some sports need to be divided by gender.  Sure, I can understand why women don't compete directly against men in sports like hockey or wrestling--not that that wouldn't be fun.  But do we really need to have separate men's and women's teams for curling?  Couldn't we just get the best men and the best women to compete together in what is, after all, a truly idiotic sport?

If They Ever Discover Real Football, It's Over

Brazilians, according to a feature article in today's Times, are fanatical about soccer.  I, for one, am grateful.  Why?  Because with one of the world's fastest-growing economies, an appealing climate, and a population of beautiful people who, if popular imagery is any guide, like to run around largely naked for no good reason, Brazil is almost inconceivably awesome.  I imagine that only its people's devotion to this lamest of sports keeps the nation from floating off into some heavenly realm, inhabited only by seraphim and cherubim.  Thank you, Brazil.

Elephants--and Apparently Tiger--Never Forget.

In case you were wondering, golfers on average have the ability to remember more than other professional athletes.  Great news for golfers?  Maybe.  Honestly, I suspect the truth is not so much that golfers' memories are significantly stronger, but that the memories of other athletes are significantly impaired: A running back who spends Sundays being tackled by the human equivalent of monster trucks is unlikely to retain a superior level of mental acuity.  And how much would he want to remember anyway?  Sure, touchdowns would be pleasant enough, but those will be vastly outnumbered by reminiscences of one's face being driven into the Astroturf.  And even for the golfers, isn't this damning with faint praise?  Basketball players can revel in their abilities to leap higher than mere mortal; football players possess near superhuman strength; baseball players boast of uncanny hand-eye coordination and the capacity to masticate great quantities of tobacco.  Golfers?  They can remember that the 13th hole curves to the left. 

To The Victors Go the Spoils

Did you know that the winner of the America's Cup gets to set the rules for the competition the next time it takes place?  Well, of course you didn't!  Why would you?  My guess is that no more than about, say, one percent of the population follows yachting's premiere event.  And leave it to a "sport" tailor-made for the richest of the rich to embrace a rule whereby the rich, in effect, get richer.  Still, when they heard about this, the champions in other major sports--who, let's face it, are also members of the ultra-rich--thought it was a great idea, and they have all proposed certain rules changes of their own.

The San Francisco Giants have introduced the following adjustments to the standard baseball rules for this season.  For their home games, Giants players will have the option to use either standard wood bats or bats made out of aluminum.  Visiting teams will be required to bat with whatever loose chunks of concrete and rebar may be found around AT&T Park.  Additionally, the Giants will play all 162 games at home.

The Super-Bowl champion Baltimore Ravens have required all opposing players, in the interest of safety, to encase themselves in large blocks of memory foam.  Furthermore, Raven field goals will be worth seven points, and, in order to earn seven points for a touchdown, players on visiting teams must, after reaching the end-zone, recite from memory a Shakespearean sonnet (of Joe Flacco's choosing) in Maori.

The Miami Heat have declared that, for the finals, the San Antonio Spurs must field a team composed only of native-born American citizens, thus disqualifying Tim Duncan, Manu Ginobili, and Tony Parker.  Duncan may receive dispensation to play, however, if and only if he agrees to wear wooden shoes, in keeping with the traditions of the Virgin Islands' colonial history.

Speaking of beating up on the Dutch, the 2010 World Cup champions, Spain, have decided that they will just use their hands from now on, 'cause, let's face it, that was always a stupid rule anyway.

Finally, in defense of his 2012 US Open golf championship, Webb Simpson has declared that only players with stupid first names be allowed to compete.  Many commentators feel this was a flawed strategy, as either "Tiger" or "Eldrick" certainly qualify.

Ask Two Jews, Get Three Spellings

Have you heard about the controversy over the winner of the Scripps National Spelling Bee?  Not the fact that the winner was juicing.  I mean, he was, but it was with, y'know, juice; the kid's thirteen years old, for Pete's sake! No, I'm talking about the controversy over the fact that Arvind Mahankali was declared the winner after "correctly" spelling the word 'knaidel.'  Turns out that the proper spelling of this delicious Judaic treat is a matter of some dispute.

Well, what do you expect?  We Jews are a classically disputatious bunch.  And, in fairness, 'knaidel,' being derived from a language (Yiddish) that does not use the Roman alphabet, really has no "standard" spelling.  Thus, reasonable people--or, for that matter, people who bicker over the results of spelling bees--can disagree over whether the proper spelling is 'knaidel,' 'kneidel,' 'knaydl,' or 'jysnofsky'--the spelling is whatever enough people agree it is.  Or, for the purposes of Scripps, whatever Webster's Third New International Dictionary--the tournament's official arbiter of all things orthographical--says it is.

I've never really understood what someone proves by doing well on a spelling bee.  Some folks associate good spelling with intelligence, but, truly, all Mahankali proved is that he has a freakishly good memory.  Still, I guess this could lead to a lucrative career debugging spell-checkers.  I guess someone's got to do it.

I do have one request: Could SportsCenter please stop covering the spelling bee?  I mean, whether you consider the contest a charming throwback to a simpler era or just a moment in the sun for the nerdiest among us--or both--I think we can all agree that spelling is not a sport!  What's next?  ESPN will start covering soccer?

Why Am I Bothering?

With the New York Knicks back in the playoffs--in more than just a token appearance--for the first time in ages, and with most of the East Coast games occurring--or at least starting--before I get home from work, I've taken to recording these contests.  Recording provides me with any number of advantages, including the ability to watch the game at my convenience and to fast forward through commercials.  But when I watch these recording after the games have already ended, I find myself wrestling with a philosophical quandary: Why, exactly, am I even bothering?  I mean, never, mind zipping through commercials, I could just fast forward to the end of the game--or, better yet, look up the result online.  There's something utterly pointless in rooting for a team to win a game that is already in the books at the moment of my rooting.  Of course, many of my friends would point out that rooting for a sports team is, in general, pointless.  But why subject myself to pointlessness squared?

Monday Miscellany

Kudos to Jason Collins, the NBA player who made history today by becoming the first active player in a major American team sport (no, hockey does not count) to come out as gay.  Frankly, I'm guessing he just wanted to beat Colin Kaepernick to the punch, but good for Collins nonetheless.

Pistorius Off

The other day, star South African athlete Oscar Pistorius shot and killed his girlfriend, Reeva Steenkamp.  Born without fibulas, Pistorius inspired his nation and the world, as he ascended to the highest levels of sport, competing in the Olympics and Paralympics on prosthetic limbs.  He claims that the shooting of Steenkamp was a tragic mistake: that he thought she was an intruder breaking into his home.  That's his defense.  You believe him?  Personally, I don't think he has a leg to stand on.

Oh, like you weren't thinking it!

(And before you condemn me, may I point out that MOS's initial comment was, "I don't think his defense has legs."  So you see where I get it from.)

Just Another Day at Solipsist Central--Super Bowl Edition

WOS: Do you have work to do today?

SOL: A little.  I want to get it done soon.  It is Super Bowl Sunday, you know.

WOS: Oh, really?  Cool!

SOL: "Cool"?  Do you even know who's playing?

WOS: Yes! Yes, I do, Mr. Smartass.  The 49'ers and. . . uh. . . Wait, I know this. . . . Um. . .  (SOL begins flapping his arms.)  Um. . . Hm.

SOL: (Still flapping arms) SCRA-AAA-AAA-AWK!

WOS: The Chickens?

SOL: The Chi--  SCRA-AAA-AAA-AWK!!!!

WOS: The Roosters?!?

SOL: (Making a menacing face as he flaps his arms) SCRAA-AAAAAAAAAA-AWWWWWK!!! SCRAAA-AAAAAAAAA-AWWWWK!!!!

WOS: Um. . .The. . . Hawks?

SOL: (Croaking) NE-VER-MOOOORRRE!

WOS: The. . .Crows?

SOL: WHAT?!?

WOS: Oh, I mean, the Ravens!

SOL: "Quoth the CROW, 'Nevermore'"?!?

WOS: Shut up! Leave me alone! I just woke up!  Just for that, we're watching the Puppy Bowl on the bigscreen! You can go watch the game in your mancave!

SOL: (Muttering) Yeah, like that wasn't going to happen anyway.

WOS: What?

SOL: Nothing.

**************************
I don't really have a dog in this year's fight.  I live in the Bay Area, so I guess I'm nominally rooting for the 49'ers.  If I had to bet, though, I think I might actually go with Baltimore.  Here's the interesting thing, though: In a game featuring San Francisco and Baltimore, if you had to guess which team has gotten tons of press for recent anti-gay sentiment, and which has become known for its players' support of gay rights and marriage equality. . .  Well, let's just say, you'd be wrong.

Still, go Niners.

All Hail the Weekend Warrior

Today was "Championship Sunday" in the NFL--the day the conference championships would decide which two teams will compete in the Super Bowl in two weeks.  Across the country, millions of people sat largely motionless, not counting occasional trips to stock up on greasy, fat laden snacks and/or frosty adult beverages.  I found it ironic, therefore, that the lead article in the sports section of today's Times was a feature taking a critical view of men participating in--as opposed to passively absorbing--football.

"Alumni football" games are becoming increasingly popular.  As the name implies, these games allow former high-school players of all ages to relive their glory days (or not, as the case may be).  Under the auspices of such organizers as Alumni Football USA, games between old high school rivals can be organized.  Often times, these games raise money for local chairities, in addition to providing aging athletes the opportunity to "have some fun and hit people."  Today's article, however, dwelt primarily on the injury risks incurred by weekend warriors who may too hastily throw themselves into full-contact games.

Now, I will acknowledge that a middle-aged man in typical middle-aged-man shape might be taking a foolhardy risk trying to tackle someone half his age--to say nothing of being tackled by same.  On the other hand, COME ON!

Look, we're not talking about pee-wee football players exposed to concussions because of overachieving parents trying to live vicariously through their offspring.  These are grown men who obviously love playing football and are more than aware of the risks involved.  Sure, they could get hurt.  One especially unlucky participant suffered a (non-fatal) heart attack; but he could have suffered a heart attack mowing the lawn, too--or choked on a Cheez Doodle while watching the games on TV!  Which do you suppose he preferred?

There are plenty of things to fear in the world today, and sensible precautions should always be taken.  But if a personal cost-benefit analysis leads people to take a small personal risk in the pursuit of a greater personal pleasure, more power to them.  And for those who took today to relive the glory of their high-school playing days, may I just say: It's the Niners against Baltimore in the Super Bowl.

Mens Perversa in Corpore Sano

Sunday mornings are for The New York Times, but it's a bit jarring when the first stories one reads feature a steady stream of murder, rape, drug abuse, and robbery sprees.  Even more jarring is the fact that I always begin with the sports section.

I am constantly justifying my enthusiasm for sports, unshared by many in my extended circle of friends and family, many of whom are musical-theatre snobs or pseudo-intellectuals or both.  They look down on sports as the preserve of insufficiently evolved alpha males (and a few alpha females), undeserving of the attention (and certainly the money) lavished upon it.  I counter with an argument that sports (and maybe politics) provide the only dependable sources of actual narrative excitement.  Each game provides a classic plot: beginning, middle, and end.  And whereas movies and television shows, no matter how well done, are fundamentally predictable--except "Breaking Bad," but I digress--sports constantly surprise.  No matter how heavily favored one team is, the games still must be played, and the underdogs occasionally triumph.

So it's depressing when the front page of the Sunday sports pages are dominated by stories of a Kansas City Chiefs linebacker killing himself after shooting his girlfriend to death; of the prevalence of Adderall as a new performance-enhancer of choice among NFL players; of a quartet of Rugers University basketball players busted for a series of dormitory robberies.  In what passes for an "uplifting" story, Kathy Redmond, has devoted her life to combating the culture of sexual abuse that exists among collegiate athletes--a commitment she developed in response to her own rape at the hands of a Nebraska football player in the early 90's.

I'm not likely to abandon an enthusiasm for sports any time soon.  But the constant drumbeat of crime and depravity is disheartening.  True, I'm not a child, and I have no need of athletic heroes to look up to, but wouldn't it be nice to know that at least a FEW of these guys were worthy of such admiration?  That some are blessed with gifts of character to match their obvious physical gifts?

I'm sure some are.  It's sad, though, when reading about, say, Robert Griffin III--by all accounts a delightful human being as well as a spectacular athlete--to find oneself wondering how long it'll be before we discover he's running a child-prostitution ring in Malaysia.  Many times bitten, many times shy.

Yeah, I Know: Too Soon

In a bit of storm-induced clarity, officials have cancelled the. . .let's say 986th. . . running of the New York City Marathon, which was to have occured this Sunday.  No doubt Mayor Bloomberg and advisers envisioned the Verrazano Bridge starting line--thousands of carbo-loaded ectomorphs fleeing the Sandy-devastated Isle of Staten, escorted by police cars and camera trucks--and considered the optics less than, well, optimal.

Honestly, I'm disappointed.  Not only could the race have infused much-needed cash into the city's economy, but the timing would have been perfect!  Think about it.  With clocks set back an hour early Sunday morning, the runners would be well-rested.  And consider the TV ratings!

I know, I know: Nobody watches the New York City Marathon--or any marathon, for that matter, unless it has something like "Twilight Zone" in front of it.  (You know I'm right.)  But this year?  With runners navigating flooded streets, downed powerlines, and decimated neighborhoods filled with angry New Yorkers? We're not talking about a bunch of people on a two-plus hour jog.  We're talking a potential grand guignol worthy of Stephen King!  We're talking Olympics meets X-Games meets "The Walking Dead"!

And you want hometown drama?  This could be the year that an American reclaims the marathon title! Sure, East Africans have mastered the art of long-distance running.  But throw in an obstacle course of waterlogged tree carcasses cannibalistic East Villagers, and a 70% chance of crocodiles, and I would say the playing field has been leveled.

Mayor Bloomberg, there's still time.  I hope you will reconsider.

A Day Off

Between the New York Giants and the San Francisco Giants, I have neither the time nor focus to do much right now in the way of writing.  Instead, here's an article from Times columnist Thomas L. Friedman, who took the week off from pontificating about all-things-globalized to offer some relevant points on the seemingly endless stream of GOP outrages to common sense and decency.  Worth a read.  Go Giants!

One Not for the Record Books

If a tree falls in a forest, with no one around to hear it, it may or may not make a sound.  But there will certainly be one less tree standing in that forest.

Yesterday, the Penn State Nittany Lions football team played their first game since the death of their legendary coach Joe Paterno and the conviction of longtime assistant coach Jerry Sandusky for sexual abuse of numerous children.  They lost.  Paterno's replacement, Bill O'Brien, thus begins his coaching career with a record of 0-1.  He has a long way to go to catch up with his predecessor: Joe Paterno's final won-loss record stands at 409-136, making him the all-time winningest (let's just say that's a real word) coach in college football history.

Except he isn't.

In the wake of the Sandusky scandal, the NCAA imposed numerous appropriate sanctions on Penn State: The college paid significant financial penalties, and the team was barred from post-season play for several years.  As a further punishment--one particularly targeted at Paterno--the university's wins since 1998 were "vacated"; thus, Paterno's official career victory total stands at 298.

Penn State deserves punishment for its role in facilitating Sandusky's heinous behavior.  As far as I'm concerned, the football program could be eliminated entirely.  Joe Paterno, who took insufficient steps to protect children from the predations of his longtime friend and assistant coach, deserves a fair amount of condemnation.  The university has rightly removed a statue of the coach from its place of honor, and I think any time Paterno's name is mentioned, it should be followed by, "co-conspirator in numerous acts of child molestation."

I have a problem, though, with the idea of "vacating" Penn State's victories.  Just because facts come to light that reveal Paterno (co-conspirator in numerous acts of child molestation) to be less of a moral paragon than previously believed does not erase the fact--the fact--that the teams he coached racked up 409 victories.  (I think the fact that the NCAA did not vacate the losses suffered during that time indicates the logical bankruptcy of the whole proceeding.)  I have a similar problem with the decision to strip Lance Armstrong of his Tour de France titles in the wake of his refusal to continue cooperating with anti-doping investigations--but that at least makes a certain amount of sense: One could argue that Armstrong would not have won those races had he not been using illegal performance enhancing drugs.  Of course, since it seems like everybody else was using the same or similar drugs, any advantage Armstrong gained was probably negligible.

There is something more than a little Stalinist in the actions of sports officials rewriting history, airbrushing away accomplishments of those who are later found to have bent the rules in one way or another.  Like it or not, Lance Armstrong won seven Tours de France.  Pete Rose has more base hits than anyone else in baseball, and he belongs in the Hall of Fame--as does Barry Bonds.  As people of my political persuasion have long complained when faced with the distortions or Fox News and its ilk, people are entitled to their own opinions, but they are not entitled to their own facts.  Sports history--like all history--depends on scrupulous maintenance of factual records.  And the factual record shows that the record for most wins by a college football coach belongs to Mr. Joe Paterno. Co-conspirator in numerous acts of child molestation.

Sports Notes

I am sitting here, keeping my fingers crossed that I will soon be watching the Mets play the Yankees.  This is another one of those rare nights when, despite the fact that I live in the SF Bay Area, I have access to my team (the Mets) on national television.  I am under no illusions: I realize the primary--if not only--reason I am receiving this treat is that the Mets are playing the Yankees, America's team!, the most popular franchise in all of sports! blah-di-blah-di-blah-di-blah I am so sick of all the Yankee SUCK-UPS in this country. . . .

Anyway, I plan to enjoy tonight's game regardless of whatever the outcome.  Now I just have to hope that MLB network doesn't decide to cut away to Boston.

****************************************

All right, also: Congratulations to LeBron James on his first championship.  I still think he acted kind of like a jerk a couple of years ago--not so much for leaving Cleveland as for holding a primetime infotainment special to make the announcement.  Still seems like an unnecessarily sadistic thing to have done to his hometown team.  But, whatever: He's clearly the best player in the game right now, so, good for him.  But just wait 'til next year!  Knicks 2013!

A boy can dream, right?

In Praise of the Stepfather

Those of you who read this column regularly know that virtually no one ever leaves comments.  Rest assured, I will have my vengeance on you all eventually.  One of the few (well, TWO) regular commenters, though, is a fellow named "Anonymous."  Beknownst to some of you, the mystery person behind most--though not all--of Anonymous's comments is none other than DOS--Dad of Solipsist.  To whom I would like to wish a Happy Father's Day.

***************************************************
Growing up, I actually had two fathers.  Now, before I alienate my overwhelmingly right-wing, homophobic readership, let me hasten to add that the second father was in no way a threat to traditional marriage, being the stepfather whom my mother married after my parents divorced.  Take THAT, Focus on the Family! 

My parents divorced when I was about four, and Stepfather of Solipsist (SFOS) came along about three years after that.  He and my Mom got married when I was eight.  Born and raised in Brooklyn, SFOS was a good a gentle man; in the dictionary, under the word "Mensch" should be his picture.  He worked for New York's somewhat euphemistically named "Human Resources Administration"--better known as the Welfare Bureau, first as a case-worker then later as a supervisor.  His job, though, was just that: his job.  While he worked diligently and conscientiously, his job was basically just a source of income and camaraderie--not a real source of passion.

Passion was reserved for sports.  SFOS loved sports, basketball especially.  He played for the City University of New York at a time when that meant something more impressive than it does now--back when CUNY had no open admissions policy and basketball was actually played by Jews (no, honest!).  In high school SFOS played against none other than the future two-time NBA Hall of Famer (player and coach) Lenny Wilkens.  SFOS pointed out that Wilkens could never go to his left.  When asked, then, why SFOS couldn't just overplay him to his right, SFOS replied that he always did.  And?  "Didn't matter."

At the time SFOS and my mother got married, I was, as I mentioned, eight-years-old.  I had not been raised a sports fan.  I liked the Mets--because we lived in Queens--and my favorite player was Tom Seaver--because I had heard of him.  (Later, my favorite player was Mookie Wilson because, come on, "Mookie"!)  Sports, in fact, were something of a pain in my juvenile ass because invariably Sunday football games would go on past 7:00, interrupting the beginning of "Wonderful World of Disney."  (Yes, the nerdiness started young.)

As I grew older, I started to pay more attention to the sporting scene.  In the mid-80's, of course, the Mets got good.  SFOS and I could both thrill to the exploits of the young and godlike Dwight (not yet "Doc") Gooden.  SFOS, having grown up in Brooklyn, had been a Dodgers fan, so his National League allegiances transferred readily to the boys at Shea--as did my mother's Giants' allegiance.  One shudders to think what domestic strife would have ensued had both teams remained in New York.  Anyway, the three of us suffered together through the final agonizing days of the 1985 season, as the Mets fell just short of the Cardinals, and enjoyed the ride to the 1986 World Series title.

By the time the Mets won that title, however, I was away at college.  And while I was no longer around SFOS on a daily basis, his influence continued to be felt.  I started watching football regularly--what else was there to do on Sundays in Syracuse?  And I knew I had arrived at SFOS's level of enthusiasm when, during a Jets playoff loss, I expostulated on the coach's idiotic decision not to take a delay of game penalty late in the fourth quarter that would have set up a better punting situation and probably sealed a victory.  What had I become?!?

SFOS died in 1998--a heart attack.  At his funeral, I told a story about a day when I had gone in to work with SFOS.  This must have been in the late 1970s--possibly pre-"Kramer vs. Kramer"--when "step" families were not as common as they have since become.  At his office, SFOS had introduced me to a couple of people, explaining in agonizing detail exactly how I was related to him.  Later that day, when we went to lunch, SFOS asked if it would be all right if he simply introduced me as his son.  Sure, why not.

In the end, it was true, right?

Next Up: 7 Hour Frenzy

This summer in London, it's a safe bet that several world records will fall.  Every time I hear about one of these milestones, though, it makes me wonder: What are the limits of human achievement?

For example: According to Wikipedia, the current world record time for running a mile is three minutes, and 43.13 seconds.  Of course, according to Wikipedia, this time was turned in by an octopus named Claude, so I'm not sure about the report's accuracy.

But seriously, folks, let's take Wikipedia at face value here, and assume that the world-record time is correct.  We've certainly come a long way from the days when people speculated as to whether anyone could break the four-minute mile barrier.  Since Roger Bannister first accomplished that feat in 1954, the record has been broken 18 times.  And even though the current mark has held since 1999, there is no logical reason to think that the record will never be broken again.  After all, if the mile can be run in 3:43.13, we would not find it completely shocking if someone managed the feat in 3:43.12, right?

But at what point is the record physically impossible to break?  After all, if people keep breaking the record, even by one one-hundredth of a second at a time, they would at some point get the speed down under three minutes.  Or two minutes.  Or one.  Or one second.  Obviously, a one-second mile is ludicrous, but at what point does the potential for a record-breaking performance cross from the realm of intriguing possibility to science-fiction fantasy?

I thought of this the other day, when I went to my local convenience store to stock up on Cheetos and lottery tickets.  There, at the counter, right underneath the display for 5-Hour Energy was another display for 6-Hour Power.

Where will this artificial-stimulant arms race end?  How much temporary exhilaration can a juice drink provide before it crosses the line into methamphetamine?  Not that there's anything wrong with that--except perhaps from a legal and health perspective--but I think we need to explore this further.