Double Standards

There is a precarious double standard in our society in sports. It is obvious to virtually everyone who watches TV, listens to the radio or reads a newspaper.

The underlying reasoning behind acceptance of the double standard is because of ability. Athletic ability. Take, for example, someone of the stature of Bob Probert.

There is no need to discuss the antics of one of the finest and most physical hockey players to grace the ice for Detroit in the '80s. His saga is long, sober and depressing. For months, the Red Wings, their management, the media and fans put up with his troubles.

In many ways, his problems with alcohol were ignored. Oh, there were the drunk driving violations in both Canada and the U.S., and there was even alcohol rehabilitation.

There was the highlight, so to speak, of the Stanley Cup semifinals in Edmonton last May, when Probert, Petr Klima and several other Wings missed curfew while at a topless bar the night before Game 5. Despite breaking the rules - missing curfew is punishable by missing the next game - Coach Jacques Demers put Probert and Klima in the game.

Double standards.

The breakdown in authority led to the media placing a magnifying glass over the Red Wings situation. Why had any of the violators been allowed to play against Edmonton? And, if that, why only two - why not all the culprits?

Demers was one of the first to admit he had made a mistake. But the damage was done - to his and his team's credibility. Authority had succumbed to the win-at-all-costs notion. Screw the rules, it's the "W" that counts.

Grantland Rice would shake his head at this obsession. It was he who wrote those immortal words, "It's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game."

Sometimes the quest for a win becomes greater than the need for honesty. And when that happens - when the cancer spreads beyond the source and invades the entire group - the fallout can be felt for years. If the coach can't follow the rules, why should the players?

In February, University of Oklahoma quarterback Charles Thompson was arrested and charged with selling cocaine to an undercover police officer. Coach Barry Switzer is on the hot seat now - not only because of Thompson's problems, but because of a number of media-grabbing situations over the winter. A month earlier, Thompson's roommate, cornerback Jerry Parks, allegedly shot another football player in the chest after a late-night argument. Three other players were charged with allegedly gang-raping a woman a week later.

Meanwhile, in the February 27 issue of Sports Illustrated, Switzer was quoted as saying an important element in the Oklahoma success on the gridiron was his friendship with the players. "We don't inhibit, muzzle or restrict our players," he said. "You can't manage kids that way. I don't want to be managed that way."

The NCAA has already placed Oklahoma on three years of probation for "major violations" - and the judgement does not even include the student violence manifested by a benign management structure. Cash and cars were offered to recruits, and players were given airline tickets.

Double standards.

The cancer can spread among professional teams, too. A look at the 1969 Chicago Cubs proves that a good organization can fall apart when the ones running the show go AWOL.

Leo Durocher was the manager in '69, and the Cubs were taking charge in the National League East. But with the Cubs in first place in mid-June, Durocher took an unexpected leave to celebrate his upcoming marriage. teh upper brass, then under the direction of owner Phil Wrigley, excused his behavior.

About five weeks later, he became ill and took several days off. But Durocher wasn't really sick; he was visiting his son at a summer camp in Wisconsin.

At about the same time he was taking mid-season vacations, Durocher began to do commercials and radio shows. And the players, seeing that the boss was partaking in extracurricular activities, began to do the same - establishing a pot for extra funds from endowments and appearance fees, hiring an agent to keep them up to date on the monies rolling in, etc.

And then the team began losing. Durocher couldn't get the Cubs back on track, and the New York Mets won the division by eight games.

Double standards.

Billy Joel has a song called A Matter of Trust, where he lauds the value of believing in each other.

To believe in a structure, a team concept, one must have trust. And organization.

And while many teams, schools and organizations have a solid, honorable structure, there are those others. For example:

University of Kentucky, where basketball Coach Eddie Sutton resigned under allegations of recruiting violations;

Southern Methodist University, which received the so-called "death penalty" for an extraordinary number of NCAA violations;

University of Kansas, which won the 1988 NCAA basketball championship, then was put on probation for - you guessed it - recruiting violations.

Now, then - where does this lead to on the high school font? Let me hypothesize:

If a high school coach opts to ignore a suspension and put in a star-quality player in order to win, how do the other players respond? Do the benchwarmers appreciate winning over effort?

If a high school athlete realizes there is an aura of invincibility around him, will he turn to drugs as an additional source of income or pleasure?

If a manager or coach decides to slack off, what incentive does the team have to strive for perfection?

If management tries to get around the law in order to win, how does the player feel?

How does the player cope with society, when all the personnel who are supposed to follow the rules get caught with their hands in the wrong places?

And so on, and so on, and so on. We, the average people, put up with all of this for sake of the mighty "W."

What price glory?

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

Youthful Splendor

My friend Randy phoned me from Fort Lauderdale a few days ago.

He claimed it was to wish me a happy birthday. I believed him - until he casually mentioned it was around 80 degrees or so outside.

Thanks, Randy.

The two of us go back a long time - something like 12 years. And in 12 years, you get to know someone pretty well - especially in sports and sport-type events.

And we did a lot of sports and sport-type events.

There were those sled rides at 100 miles an hour down the dreaded Demon Mountain, twisting and turning around encumbering pines and other foreign objects - people dogs, rocks, etc. And although there's a difference in the mountain size (and speed, for that matter) now that we're older, supposedly more mature and a bit taller, the memories of those exciting winter days remain. As well as the facial expressions of the people we nearly undercut.

Then there were those nights sitting at the largest comedy club in the world, the Pontiac Silverdome, when the Detroit Lions played someone. (It didn't matter who ... these were the Lions.) No further explanation is needed ... I hope.

The camping trips with the Rambo knife, propane stove and other luxuries of home (boombox, etc.) were always a great time. (Actually, camping is not so much a sport, but a case of survival.)

One time, I nearly ripped off my finger with a makeshift hacksaw stored in the handle of the Rambo knife. Talk about grace under pressure - that's about all I could do, because I certainly didn't show any.

During the summer of 1977, Randy and I went to a summer camp. There, the legendary saga of "Sailing with Randy and Paul" became a way of life.

One day, we're out on the lake in our Sunfish, and the wind switched directions. Randy yelled, "Heads up!" as the boom swung toward me.

I, of course, was not paying attention. So I looked up and yelled, "What?"

Suddenly, I was in the water with a boom bruise on my noggin. And Randy was in hysterics.

As he reached over to pull me back in the boat, the boom caught him. Score this battle, "Boom 2, Noggins 0."

During the past few summers, Randy, his girlfriend Amy, another guy named Paul and I would go cruising on Orchard Lake. The trio tried to teach me how to go boarding, but I was more adept at staying inside the boat.

There were also futile attempts to get me on the jet ski. If you don't know what one is, take it from me - this is not a toy for the squeamish.

One year, randy got a new fishing pole. And we would be in front of his house, practicing the art of reeling and baiting. One lucky day, we finally went out proudly with our fishing gear, and ended up catching ... a passing Cadillac. (Sorry about the paint job, sir!)

Darts were another of Randy's favorites. Our success with pointed objects probably explained our standard line of dialogue: "Hey, my head!" "Watch the aim!" "Where's the safety glasses!"

And, of course, there was the day Randy tried to teach me how to ride a quad.

I'm the first to admit, I wasn't too keen on the idea at first - bopping around on a funky-looking dirtbike. But Randy - being Randy - twisted my arm, and I approved of the new experiment just before my arm really began to hurt.

Hey, I'm no pushover.

Looking back, everything would have been fine if that ditch hadn't been in the way at 30 miles an hour. It's not my fault my foot slid off the pedal and got run over.

Randy moved to Florida the day after Christmas, and although we don't talk on as regular a basis as before, we still keep in touch.

And he told me about the new sport he's fallen in love with. Scuba diving.

Randy is now taking scuba lessons off the Florida coast. And last weekend, he put his schooling to good use.

He went scuba Easter egg hunting.

The logic behind this is, of course, the standard hunt with a twist. You have to do it under water (hence, the name).

Each egg is numbered, and each number corresponds to a prize. So, find the egg, get a gift. Only in America.

Turns out Randy now owns a bundle of merchandise - all for finding eggs.

And I ain't got none. Eggs or otherwise.

Thanks, Randy.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

Gaba's Guide To The Super Bowl

Unless the Sam Kinison-Jessica Hahn video treat called Wild Thing has warped your brain beyond an intellectual nightmare, you're probably ready to indulge in a different type of pleasure principle.

Pleasure of the pigskin.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. After (shudder) two weeks without football - which, for you addicts, is a different sort of nightmare - yet another of the decade's "Battle of the Century" takes place. Super Bowl XXIII, January 22, on a television near you.

Sunday, people who are considered "sane" the rest of the year will be transformed into football-frenzied couch potatoes. Fans near and far will paint their faces black and orange, dress up like gold miners, and invent creative ways to cheer for their favorite team. (Or is it against the other team? Is this like a presidential election, or what?)

High school and college students across the nation will follow the action while mulling over math questions, book reports, biology assignments and other extracurricular activities - like, for example, breathing.

The following is much more than simply the Gabaman shooting off his mouth, It is, perhaps, the most important literary achievement you will ever lay your hands on.

Welcome, my friends, to GABA'S GUIDE TO THE SUPER BOWL.

To understand this incredible event, you must first learn vital information about the participants. After all, this isn't Nintendo - it's the real thing. Trust me.

The NFC is represented by San Francisco's "Ain't nothing finer than to be a Forty-Niner" football team. Joe Montana, the quarterback, has sung backup vocals (along with some of his teammates) on a few songs by pop musician Huey Lewis. He is the only quarterback who has a state named after him. I understand Jim McMahon is considering changing his name to "Jim Nebraska."

Jerry Rice-a-Roni (hey, who am I - ESPN's Chris Berman?) is the 49ers' dangerous wide receiver. How dangerous? If touchdown receptions were nuclear missiles, the Soviet Union would be in trouble.

San Francisco has a running back named Roger Craig. In the off-season, he's the manager of the other San Francisco team, the Giants. Take that, Bo Jackson!

On defense, the 49ers are led by Ronnie Lott. Many Bears got to meet Lott a lot last weekend. In fact, most opponents meet Lott a lot. I think he should change his name ... to Lance.

San Francisco will be facing the AFC champions - Cincinnati's "Who dey - who dey - who dey think's gonna beat them Bengals?" Who dey think? For starters, San Francisco beat them - in the Pontiac Silverdome, the "Showdown in Motown" - seven years ago.

Cincinnati is led by a group of guys named Boomer, Krumrie and Ickey. All teams should have players with such unique and interesting names. Think about it - "Boomer Long." "Krumrie James." "Ickey Fontes."

Maybe not.

Boomer Esiason, leader of the "Jungle Brigade," likes handing off to Ickey "Dance Master" Woods almost as often as he likes to heave the football in the air. Which he likes to do quite a bit.

Krumrie - as in All-Pro nose tackle Tim Krumrie - spends more time in the opponents' backfield than the opponent. It's like watching The Twilight Zone all over again. Can you hear Rod Serling in the press box? "A place between here and there, where no running back can escape a tackle ... welcome to The Krumrie Zone."

Ickey likes to run the ball. See Ickey run. Run, Ickey, run. See Ickey score. See Ickey do his dance. It's called "The Ickey Shuffle." Dance, Ickey, dance. Dance in the end zone, for all of us to see.

Hey, you gotta have soul.

So much for the participants. Now, then - what are you going to do Sunday? Fear not - this guide covers all the angles.

Eats: When you shop for Super Bowl chowables this weekend, don't look for a 20-ounce porterhouse. A turkey won't do the job, either - after all, this isn't Thanksgiving, and William (Refrigerator) Perry isn't watching the game at your house, now, is he?

You want something a little more ... well ... footbalish.

Go to the store and get real football food. Potato chips. Cheese puffs. Pretzel sticks. Nachos.

Don't forget the French onion dip, either.

Drinks: Now that we've put the eats in our grocery cart, it's time for something to help ease the starches down the throat. Trust me on this one - nothing, I mean nothing, beats a case of the finest (root) beet for a man-sized thirst. (I hope that wasn't taken as a sexist comment - "person-sized thirst" just doesn't sound right.)

Now we're rockin'!

Enjoy: The pre-game show begins at 3 p.m. Sunday, while the main event starts two hours later. So, when 2 p.m. rolls around, it's showtime!

(Yes, I know you have an hour. But you never know. Some fanatical Arabic country might try to gun down a couple of our fighters. True, it's a stupid concept. But the whole country might be at war by the kick-off.)

The television is on. It's always a good idea to check out the set before the game. How's the vertical hold? The color bars? The station? That's right - are you tuned to the right station? Remember, HBO airs First and 10, not the Super Bowl. This is NBC's baby.

The comfy chair is ready. Every football fan should has his or her chair, and the comfy chair is the choice nine out of 10 doctors recommend. (Sorry, wrong commercial.)

The comfy chair can be your best friend. Always there for you. Of course, the comfy chair doesn't have to be a chair/ It can be a bed, a sofa, a jacuzzi - whatever.

The munchies should be within easy reach of the comfy chair.

The VCR. Wake up! This is America - Land of the Free, Home of the Instant Replay. Slide a blank tape in the machine and tape the game. Then you can watch it at your leisure, or at family gatherings - like when cousin Seymour and his son Myron come over. Go ahead - rub the loss in their faces. They're family. They can handle it.

I hope this guide has filled you in on some of the finer points of Super Bowl watching. And remember what Spuds McGaba always says - "Know when to say that's enough!"

As in, turning off the game is your team is being blown away in the second quarter.

Oops, I forgot. Denver's not playing this year. So much for the Charlie Brown Syndrome.

Oh, one more thing. San Francisco 24, Cincinnati 13. Trust me.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

The New Kid In Town

Let's begin with a memory.

Almost six years ago - a February afternoon in Mt. Pleasant - I became part of a sports conspiracy.

It involved a basketball game, the Central Michigan University police department and some toilet paper.

The CMU basketball team was, at the time, not among the squads most likely to be invited to the NCAA tournament. During the 70s, the Chippewa home court - Rose Arena - was known as the "Snake Pit," a place opposing teams dreaded to visit, because of the intensity and quality of CMU.

But hard times had come across the Snake Pit by 1983. "Bad" cannot begin to describe the way the Chippewas tried to play the game. Attendance at the home games was rather sparse. Rose was barely filling 1,000 of the 6,000 available seats.

We, the concerned students, were determined to bring some life back to the ailing Chips.

So a plan was devised. Perhaps the greatest plan ever formulated for showing team spirit. When the first Central basket fall, we would throw toilet paper from the stands.

What better way to get the crowd and team fired up?

Central was playing Kent State that fateful day. As soon as Central scored its first basket, the court became an instant sea of white. We threw something like 400 roles of the stuff. It was, indeed, an impressive sight.

Unfortunately, the police were watching.

Guess who got kicked out of the game for "inciting a riot"?

Memories and sports go together - always have, always will.

The players are not the only people affected by the event. They are the centerpiece, the actors on stage, performing for all to see and critique.

Just as with dramatic performances, there are critics. In the sports world, they are known as fans. Every mover every moment of a game is scrutinized and diagnosed. Favor or dissatisfaction can be felt as the game progresses.

Then there's me. I'm the person who tries to be as objective as possible in reporting the event.

One of the stereotypes of the sports genre is the concept of the "big game." There are winners and losers (and a lot of ties in hockey). My job is to bring these challenges, heartbreaks and thrills to you, as openly and honestly as possible.

That's what this job is all about. Challenges.

Starting a new job is a challenge, too.

Reaching out to a new audience can test your nerves, your sense of security.

I don't know you. But I know sports. And so do you.

With the world of sports becoming even more encompassing, we already have quite a bit in common.

I know you have questions. Let me try to answer some.

What can you expect from me? I'll be talking to the players and coaches, to bring you the stories which affect you.

But I'll be adding my own thoughts and opinions in columns such as this. It's my chance to give you a different perspective of sports. I'll take a look at the emotions and feelings which control or decide the games, and try to put them in a different light.

I'll touch base with the people behind the scene. After all, sports - no matter what level of play - involves much more than merely stats and scores. There's game plans, strategy and other factors to be dealt with.

I'll try to be honest. This is the major theme in writing. And sports.

Now, then ... what do I expect from you?

Only one thing: to read.

The stories I write cover Marshall and the surrounding communities.

The columns I write may be about a topic you find fascinating or depressing. I will bring my own experiences and opinions to these columns.

Whether you agree with what I write - or, indeed, how I write - is beside the point.

What is important is taking the time to read what I write. For it will be about games, matches and meets affecting people you know.

Memories. Sports is filled with them.

Let's have some good ones.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

People Should Appreciate Their Parents

The holidays are a time for families to get together and share memories of the year gone by. Often, it seems the year was much too short; time passed us by.

The holiday season is also a time for hope. A new year approaches. Perhaps this year, time won't be so quick to escape our grasp.

Time.

There's never enough time.

This column is dedicated to a man named Leonard. A man who used time to the best of his ability. A man who shared time with his family, friends and profession. He often appeared to stretch his talents, yet had time to participate in everything he believed in.

For Leonard, there was never enough time to do everything he wanted to do.

Time ran out too soon.

Leonard was a wealth of knowledge to anyone who took the time to know him, both up-close and from a distance. Even those people who hardly knew him were aware of his accomplishments in the medical field.

He earned a degree in osteopathic medicine in 1966, and operated a private medical practice for over 20 years. He was on the executive board of a Detroit-area hospital. Leonard was also chosen to be president of the Oakland County Osteopathic Association.

He didn't brag about his accomplishments. Even some of his closest colleagues were unaware of Leonard's pre-medical career.

Prior to becoming a physician, Leonard had been a civil engineer for the Wayne County Road Commission. He quit this job to attend medical school because he wasn't happy with what he was doing with his life.

We students are often told our careers should be something we enjoy. Not many people would have the courage to quit a profession - no matter what the pay - to return to school for the sake of starting over.

Leonard did.

He was a political man, too - not a rebel or activist, but someone who believed in what was morally right. He was open and honest with his feelings.

During the Vietnam era, he accompanied the American flag with a peace-sign flag, because he felt the war was wrong.

In January 1973, he went to Washington as part of a mass protest against the war. Held the same day as President Nixon's re-inauguration, it stemmed from the famous "Christmas bombings" over Cambodia.

He also read countless articles and books on political hotbeds such as the Middle East, Nicaragua, Argentina, Chile, Haiti and The Philippines.

Leonard was a man who cared about life. As a physician, he tried to assist those who needed his help.
He was so conscious of cancer-causing products, he refused to use pesticides on his lawn, theorizing the chemicals would get into the water supply.

When it came to his family, Leonard was there for love, comfort and support. He tried to guide his children with his knowledge to the best of his abilities. To open his children's minds to new vistas, new opportunities. To not suffer from tunnel-vision when looking at the future.

To guide and teach.

Leonard tried to use his time wisely. But time caught up to him this past August.

Four months ago today.

He was a good man. An honest man.

As I prepare to graduate, I hope to pass to you some of the knowledge, love and trust Leonard gave me.

Time.

Use your time wisely, for time is precious.

Take time with your families this holiday season. Tell them how much you care for them. How much you love them. Because you never know when your first holiday without a father will come up.

Leonard H. Gaba.

Happy holidays, dad. I love you.

This article originally appeared in Central Michigan Life.