Stupidity In Sports

WHAT: A sports-oriented talk radio station.

WHEN: Anytime during the past 12 months - not that it really matters.

WHERE: Anywhere in sports-minded America ...

(Theme music comes to an end. Cue host, and:)

PAUL GABA: Hell, and welcome to Sports Forum, with a look at what's going through the minds of listeners and athletes alike. I'm your host, Paul Gaba, and today we're discussing the topic of "Stupidity in Sports" with out guest, former major-league star Bucks Malone. Welcome to the show, Bucks.

BUCKS MALONE: Thanks, Paul, it's always a pleasure to be here.

GABA: "Stupidity in Sports" covers a wide variety of areas. It can be used to discuss the fans who paid $12 for a Willie Mays autograph at a card show over Thanksgiving, which was the case this past weekend in Detroit.

It can relate to the case of Dexter Manley, who was given the heave-ho out of the NFL last week for violating the league's drug policy.

It can be used in accordance with Pete Rose, who hocked baseball bats and other pieces of equipment on television the same day he was kicked out of baseball. Or the Ben Johnson steroid situation. Or the Steve Garvey "two kids, two women, marry a third" syndrome. Or the media overkill on the Wade Boggs-Margo Adams scenario. Am I on the right track?

BUCKS: You hit the nail right on the head, Paul. Take the Manley situation, for example.

Here's a guy who violated football's drug policy three times! Can you believe it? If you, or I, or anyone out there right now were caught doing drugs, would we get a third chance at redemption? I doubt it.

For most of us, if we got caught doing illegal substances, we probably wouldn't get a second chance. And you'd think after the Len Bias situation a few years back, people would get the message. He didn't get a second chance. He blew it the first time, and it cost him his life. But obviously the impact hasn't set in.

Three chances. God, I can't comprehend it at all.

GABA: But couldn't it be said that the NFL and the Washington Redskins are just as stupid, in this situation, as Manley? I mean, obviously they knew he had a problem, but they let him go on playing. And when he got caught for the third time, well, then he's let go.

BUCKS: This is true, Paul. Even as stupid as Manley, or anyone like him - Bob Probert and Roy Tarpley are two recent cases - are apt to be, it's hard to blame them completely. Their stupidity was tolerated by higher levels. And this is what really boggles my mind. No one wants to take responsibility for a situation gone bad. No one wants to crack down on a dangerous situation.

GABA: We're going to the phone lines now. Hello, you're on Sports Forum.

CALLER 1: Yeah, I have a question. With all these athletes doing drugs, do you think the "Just Say No" thing is working?

BUCKS: That's an interesting question. Personally, I think the "Just Say No" campaign is limited in what it can do. It's mostly a system of information for kids.

GABA: I have to agree with you to a point, Bucks.

A lot of kids are being told, "Drugs are bad. Drugs kill. Don't do drugs." And, in terms of information, it works. People are certainly more aware of what drugs can do. But it's hard to battle peer pressure, even if one of the kids' sports idols takes a fall - like, for example, Manley or Probert.

But you also have to remember, the number of athletes associated with drugs is in a state of hype, too. Not all athletes take illegal drugs, and many who used to have battled back from drug dependency. Dave Parker and Willie Wilson, just to name a few.

We have another caller. Talk to me.

CALLER 2: Hi, Paul. This is Mark, I'm a first-time caller.

GABA: Well, welcome to the Sports Forum family.

CALLER 2: Thanks, Paul. Listen, what about alcohol? It's a drug, and you always hear athletes complain when beer and that sort of stuff is not allowed in the locker room.

GABA: Good point, Mark. As a matter of fact, alcohol is the biggest-selling drug in the world, And, once again, you're hitting on a prime subject.

BUCKS: But the difference between alcohol and other drugs often mentioned - cocaine and steroids are the biggest - is that alcohol is legal. And because it's legal, the crackdown is not as harsh.

GABA: This is true.

BUCKS: It's hard to swallow something of the magnitude of a Bruce Kimball, or a Reggie Rogers, or the late Pelle Lindbergh - the former Philadelphia Flyers goalie who was intoxicated when he crashed his car into a tree.

Driving drunk is stupid. I doubt you'll find anyone who says the opposite.

GABA: And yet, drinking and driving seems to be tolerated when it comes to the sports world - as long as no one is injured or killed.

Scott Skiles is still revered in his home state of Indiana, despite a drunk driving conviction. John Langeloh is still playing for Michigan State, despite his recent woes. Petr Klima and Probert - there's that name again - were allowed to play against Edmonton when the Red Wings were trying for a Stanley Cup berth, even though they had been out drinking past curfew the night before. The double standard goes on forever, and I doubt it will change.

BUCKS: It won't change, at least not while the average American tolerates it.

And the alcohol-athlete connection will be tolerated as long as the major breweries continue to have a stranglehold on sports television broadcasts. And on sports in general.

You know what's really sad? I'm no longer amazed by the amount of alcohol advertising that goes on during a sportscast. It's advanced to the point that announcers will salute a home run, touchdown or goal with an alcoholic salute. It's rather depressing.

GABA: I know what you mean. We only have time for one more caller. Hello, you're on.

CALLER 3: Yeah, I want to touch on something you mentioned earlier. I don't see anything stupid about paying money to get an autograph. We pay to watch the guys play, why not to talk to them, or get an autograph?

BUCKS: Hey it's your money. Stupidity has no price level.

GABA: I'm afraid that's all the time we have today on Sports Forum, but we'll be back soon with another edition.

(Closing theme music.)

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

Sacred Cows And The Swap Shop

It's time to wake up and smell the coffee, America.

No one is sacred in sports anymore.

The late-80s trend of mega-deals continued last week when the Red Wings received Jimmy Carson and Kevin McClelland from Edmonton for former Michigan State star Joe Murphy, Petr Klima, Jeff Sharples and Adam Graves.

The deal, which helped Detroit by giving center Steve Yzerman another hot stick-handler in Carson, came on the heels of the Minnesota Vikings-Dallas Cowboys trade which make Hershel Walker a Nordic.

Which, of course, followed two large summer swaps in major league baseball - the Mark Langston deal (Seattle and Montreal) and the Frank Viola deal (New York Mets and Minnesota).

And this latest trade comes 15 months after Edmonton's Wayne Gretzky was sent packing to Los Angeles for a ton of cash and Carson ... who, of course, is no longer with the Oilers.

Got it so far? Good. I hope I'm not going too fast.

All of this leads me to one conclusion: No one is sacred in sports anymore.

It used to be this wasn't the case. Before this wave of 5-for-1's and 6-for-2's (which, by the way, actually started with the Indianapolis-Los Angeles rams Eric Dickerson deal several years ago), star players had pretty secure jobs.

No one ever contended that Al Kaline or Ernie Banks were for sale at the height of their careers.

No trade rumors ever circulated around the names of Sandy Koufax or Walter Payton.

No mondo-swaps afflicted the Brooklyn Dodgers, St. Louis Browns or Chicago Cardinals.

The truth is, nowadays even the top dog is trade bait.

Alan Trammell. Ryne Sandberg. Isiah Thomas, Magic Johnson. And on, and on, and on.

None are sacred. None are exempt.

And that, my friends, is what scares me about Sports In The 90s the most.

I long for the days when I could look at a team roster and pick 10 or 12 players and say, "Yeah, those guys will be here five years from now."

But I can't.

Look, for example, at the 1984 Tigers. A team of destiny, they were called.

Who remains?

Trammell. Lou Whitaker. Jack Morris. Willie/Guillermo Hernandez (even he's not totally there, hence the name change). Chet Lemon.

Five years, five players.

No one is sacred. At all.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

The End of the Innocence

It was a year ago Saturday. The incredibly long, hot, rainless summer was reaching its peak.

It was a moment that changed my life.

My dad, Leonard, died.

Dad was a wealth of knowledge to everyone who met him. He was an osteopathic physician who took pride in what he was doing, the consummate professional both in and out of the office.

He was a worldly man, one who knew a lot about situations in far-away political hotbeds like El Salvador, Nicaragua, the Philippines and the Middle East. Much of my political upbringing and information came from him, but he would always make me go and dig up the complete story.

Dad wanted me to learn as much as possible. But he wanted me to do the research. If I was truly interested in the topic, he reasoned, I would want to find it on my own. Of course, he was right.

The mourning is over now. Life, so they say, goes on. And I no longer try to rationalize a situation which cannot be rationalized. But his life - and, ultimately, death - made a major impact on me, one which I cannot celebrate completely because he is not here to see my achievements.

One of the things that differed between me and my dad was sports. I was a sports junkie, waking up early to find the morning newspaper, eagerly digging through the sports section for stories, statistics, box scores, features and whatever else I could get my hands on. I lived, breathed and ate a continual sports diet.

I would take the stats for the Tigers, dissect them into a million different modes and try to figure out meaningless items, like why Ron LeFlore was hitting .316 with runners in scoring position and one out.

Dad, on the other hand, was much less sports-minded. Unlike the stereotype which followed his profession, he did not play golf. He enjoyed watching sporting events, usually live, but never really got all bent out of shape if a player had an off-day. Among other things, he couldn't understand why professional athletes got paid the way they did.

While I have no answer to his question, I can appreciate his thoughts. It comes down to priorities.

As I have grown older, I have learned not to take sports as seriously as I used to. Sports, as entertainment, are not a live-and-die nature. Let's face it: If it comes down to Alan Trammell blasting a 1-2 pitch to Neptune to defeat the Red Sox, or the threat of a nuclear warhead being dropped on my house within the next 10 minutes, which is more important?

But Dad liked watching sports on occasion, especially when one of his kids was on the field. My brother, Charles, was involved in a youth soccer program for several years, and my sister, Miriam, took up gymnastics for a while.

For six years, I played Little League baseball, and - despite his hectic schedule - Dad would come to almost every game to watch me play.

I'm the first to admit I wasn't the next Ted Williams when it came to swinging a bat - I think I had around 15 career hits in those six seasons - but there he was, on the foul line, home or away, sitting in his lounge chair next to my mom, Adele, and talking with the other parents.

Dad never forced me to become a .400 hitter. He didn't stay up until all hours of the morning, trying to improve my swing. He never imposed that I play baseball. He knew it was something I liked to do, regardless of how I did, and stood by me all the time - no matter how I played.

And I appreciate that, probably more now than I did then.

When I was growing up, our family would head down to Tiger Stadium once or twice a year to catch a game. Dad would pack us up in the station wagon and we'd head south on I-75 to the corner of Michigan and Trumbull to catch some summertime action.

These were the days the Tigers couldn't buy a win, when the lineup included names like Duke Sims, Tom Veryzer, Ben Oglivie and Joe Coleman. Steve Kemp was still in the minors, and Ralph Houk was the manager.

We'd usually catch a Saturday afternoon game. For some reason, it always seemed like it was against Milwaukee or California. I'd always ask Dad to buy me a program when we entered the stadium, so I could keep track of the scoring line. He would, and I was happy.

It was a time of innocence, I suppose.

But times change, perceptions are altered, as we grow older. I'm still happy when I'm at the ballpark, and I still can't hit worth a lick. So I write instead, with every word, every thought, every paraphrase and quote reminding me just a little more of Dad.

When writing, I live by the motto, "I want to be perfect and get better every day." It's one my dad lived by, and one I want to achieve.

Thanks for the memories, Dad. I'll always love you.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

Be The Ball, Danny

August has never been one of my favorite months of the year. It's hot. It's long. It's boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. boring.

There are no holidays in August, except, perhaps, National Organic Beansprout Week or something. And a week does not constitute a valid holiday.

Baseball races heat up, but no one - not the '84 Tigers, not the '27 Yanks and most certainly not the '69 Cubs - ever clinched a title in August. Septembers to remember, that's what it's all about.

Pro football has practices and workouts. There are some exhibition games, but I've never been into exhibitionists, Especially male exhibitionists.

Basketball and hockey are on the horizon. But in August, there are often mirages on that same horizon. Kind of hazy. These sports are not factors right now.

Racing - cars or horses - also brings out the yawn in me this time of year. About all that's left is tennis, and who wants to be running around on hot clay in the middle of the summer? Unless you're getting paid a lot, that is.

But hold on a minute. For one of the worst months of the year, August is opening up with a lot of action in Marshall. And you won't find me complaining about that one bit.

There's the Connie Mack baseball regionals going on at the Marshall High School diamond through Sunday.

There's also football conditioning going on at the Redskin football field.

Girls basketball is due to begin tryouts in the next two weeks.

Don't forget about softball. Right now is when the City Recreation leagues are kicking into high gear for that stretch run to fame, fortune and first place.

Local softball is not the only softball going on, though. Saturday is the East-West Class B Senior All-Star softball game, which has Marshall's very own Min Johnston in the lineup.

And there are plenty of golf tournaments, too.

Golf is big in Marshall right now. Every day this month, it seems, there's a tournament going on.

Saturday is the "Dube and Katie Open" at the Alwyn Downs Golf Course. The charity event donates monies to a trust fund for the children of the late Bruce Dubendorf and the family of the late Katie Line.

On the 19th is the annual RedskinOpen, which helps out the Redskin Booster Club and Marshall High School sports.

And Tuesday was, of course, the Marshall Chamber of Commerce golf tournament. I, along with my camera, was on hand for the second leg of the event.

Let me make one thing perfectly clear before telling you my experiences on the greens. Before Tuesday, I had never set foot on a golf course. Oh, I'd done putt-putt a couple hundred times (Gabaverage: 103), but never had I played a hole on real grass. Managers of Detroit-area golf courses and country clubs were much too smart for my own good, constantly pulling out cattle prods and other instruments of deflection to keep me off their property.

But the Marshall Country Club was a different experience altogether. Obviously, i haven't been in town long enough to cause the directors of the MCC worry.

Tournament co-chair Bob Hutchings was the first person I met upon my invasion. He greeted me with a big, cheery smile and suggested I go to the holes at the end of the course, as far away from the clubhouse as possible, to take my pictures.

Maybe he knows too much about my golf style, or lack thereof, I thought. After all, his wife Sue works at the Chronicle.

Nothing like having reliable inside information, I suppose.

He then gave me a key to one of the gas-powered golf carts. I figure he gave me a gas-guzzler instead of an electric one because there were no Ford Pintos on the course for me to rear-end.

I thanked him and headed off to the carts, choosing one with air bags and a sturdy wraparound safety belt. After all, there are some crazy people on the roads, and you have to be careful.

There I ran into a major discovery, which was that a golf cart is not exactly like a car. I looked all over for the ignition. I looked on the dashboard, where two drink holders were. No such luck.

I searched the steering column. Nope.

I got out of the card and looked behind me, where the golf clubs are usually stored. I figured this might be one of those Japanese-built vehicles, where they put the keyhole in some obscure place. Once again, I was wrong.

It was then a passerby noticed my dilemma and suggested the correct answer. The ignition was under the seat. Obviously, this guy was a pro.

So, I ignited the cart, and suddenly I was HELL ON WHEELS.

There I was, cruising along the paths. Hutchings had also mentioned to me to stay off the greens. He said, "Paul, stay off the greens!"

I took the paths which looked used to scurry around to the end of the front nine - as far away (so i was told) from the country club offices as possible. During my travels, I found out a few things about golfing:

Golfers are not too receptive of novices who drive the wrong way on golf courses;

They also frown on people who boogie up to the edge of the green with their cart while in the process of attempting a crucial putt. It's worse if the offending carter (not Jimmie, Nell or Joe) is screaming, "Miss it! Miss it! Psyche!" at the top of his lungs;

An iron is different than a wood. Irons are used to press clothes; woods are for hitting baseballs. Or for hitting golf balls into, which can cause golfers to use language which is not appropriate for newspaper reporting;

Several people yelled "fore" when I was in their vicinity. Those people are the ones with lousy aim; they're supposed to hit the hole, not the guy from the newspaper. Sure glad I had my Nuprin with me;

Don't sing Kenny Loggins' Caddyshack theme, "I'm Alright," when a golfer is trying to make par. Especially within earshot. Especially if you've been blessed with the singing voice I haven't got;

Quoting Caddyshack, however, is a required part of the game. But it has to be the original, not the god-awful sequel;

Golf carts are a lot like go-carts. They sound powerful, move swiftly and can bounce off trees and other moving carts without causing a dent. Or whiplash;

Don't wear plaid slacks with an olive-green shirt. It messes up the scenic view; and

Golfers don't approve of media photographers urging them to "hit one in the bunker, so I can get a good picture."

In any case, when I was finished with the round - much to the relief of the other golfers - Hutchings was waiting for me with open arms. And an insurance policy to fill out.

This guy catches on fast.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

Pay To Play, And Other Tales

Yo, Marshall! Wake Up! We've got some serious priority problems here, and it's got me going up the wall.

Tuesday, we had a school board meeting at Marshall Middle School, which included the presentation and discussion of how some $400,000 in budget cuts for the 1898-90 school year will be handled. Roughly $123,000 of these cuts is in the form of the K-12 busing for all Marshall students; $24,000 was in cuts of the athletic department. That's a 5:1 ratio (give or take a few thousand duckaroos).

So, why is it that only two concerned citizens opted to speak up at the public forum about the loss of transportation to the entire district while a much larger number voiced their opinions about the proposed loss of swimming, golf and soccer?

Why were so many people outspoken about their kids' performance in athletic activities and seemed to take virtually no notice of how their kids will get to school ... which, it seems to me, should be emphasized just a tad more.

This doesn't mean I'm anti-sports. Not by any length. I think it's wrong that sports have to suffer when the budget faces Paul Bunyan. I know how much it hurts, and I realize that scholarships, competitive spirit and pure fun - not necessarily in that order, either - are affected.

But where are the priorities?

A push to have another millage vote before the school year is under way. If Marshall is really serious about saving its sports programs - and its busing, its Gifted and Talented program, its textbooks, and much, much more - then the citizens have to go beyond merely signing a petition. They have to vote for it, too.

End of this portion of the lecture. Next up ...

This is another brain-provoking idea I had thrust upon me at the board meeting, although I actually considered it a few days before. The meeting merely confirmed it.

I have a hard time believing the board decided - should pay-to-play be instituted - it would cost $50 for high schoolers and $25 at the middle school level. It's not that I like to go around spending other people's money (although, if the opportunity arose, i suppose, I'd struggle through it somehow), but these figures seem absurdly low.

A few weeks ago, I interviewed Bill Desjardins, the athletic director of the Lapeer School District. Lapeer enforced pay-to-play for the 1988-89 year after a millage increase proposal failed - $275 for the high schools, $175 for the junior highs - along with cutting two sports. (One schools' booster club helped out by footing 30 percent of the bill, while the other schools' boosters paid for new equipment.)

Last month, after a year of pay-to-play, the voters of Lapeer approved the millage. Pay-to-play will not exist in Lapeer, and the sports will be back in full swing.

On a more local level, Hastings had a $150 pay-to-play fee instituted when its millage failed. And the athletic department seems to be chugging along at a decent level.

So - why only $50 in Marshall? This figure seems grossly low. If Marshall had wanted to be seen as serious about keeping all teams intact, go for a higher figure.

I think the people of Marshall, given a choice, would gladly pay more for their athletes to participate if that team was still able to perform on the field.

Finally ...

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he were sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to.
- Joseph Heller, Catch-22

I like Rich Hulkow. When he speaks, you can't help but pay attention to what he says. His voice is commanding and his reasoning is sound. I look forward to talking football with him this fall.

But with all this budget-crunching that has happened, it was left up to him to ultimately decide the fate of the Marshall High School sports programs. This is not an enviable position to be in.

At the meeting, several disgusted people spoke out against Hulkow, questioning everything from his authority to make the decisions to his views on the integrity of the Twin Valley Conference to "why us, not not someone else?"

Well, I suppose his status as athletic director would ultimately give him the right - the opportunity - to make those decisions. And I think - I know - Hulkow was thrust into a precarious Catch-22.

Hulkow rationalized the loss of soccer and swimming by saying they are not Twin Valley sports. (Golf is a low-participation sport, he added.)

But the thing which may have been overlooked was while six varsity teams were being vaporized, three freshman teams were still on the slate.

The freshmen can be melded into the junior varsity, as is the case with girls' basketball, softball and, perhaps, volleyball. The competition would be greater, but the varsity sports would remain.

I don't want to start telling Hulkow what to do, because I'm sure he knows the Marshall sports situation far better than I. But logic seems to tell me varsity sports, no matter what they cover, have priority over freshman sports. After all, freshmen have three more years to compete, while many varsity sports include a surplus of seniors and juniors who are at the end of their high school sports careers.

Just a thought, coach.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

The Circle Game

All my life's a circle
But I can't tell you why
The seasons' spinning round again
The years keep rolling by ...
- Harry Chapin, "Circle"

Another year has rolled on by with the upcoming commencement of Marshall High School's Class of 1989. The year has been one of joy and sorrow, of goals achieved and opportunities missed.

And my, how the year has spun around so very quickly.

Time passes us by, like tears in the rain. It seems like only a breath ago Rich Hulkow's football team was preparing for its opener; only a blink since Dan Stulberg was deciding who would make the girls' varsity basketball team and who would have to wait another year.

And the memories are still with us.

Can anyone forget the ultimate feeling of satisfaction when Stulberg accepted the trophy for the Redskins after defeating Buchanan in the Class B regional finals?

Can anyone ignore the intense, competitive stare in Eric LaFleur's eyes when he took his place on the mats, preparing to add another win to his wrestling record?

Can anyone shrug off the final moments of the second Marshall-Albion basketball game, when the Redskins came within one stunning play of an upset over the state-ranked Wildcats?

Forget? Ignore? Shrug off? I have my doubts.

This past year brought us wunderkinds like Jim Clement, Christina Pratt, Shasta Mace and LaFleur. It gave us up-and-coming achievers like Kevin Gushiken, Kim Hudspeth, Brent Tucker, Lori Edinger and Kara Brazas.

It brought us seniors who worked and sweat and fought for everything they could - athletes like Michelle Patton, David Kiessling, Min Johnston, Nick Young, Yvonne Hookway, Eric Midlam or Brad Bennett - but never seemed to achieve the recognition they deserved.

Thought they did not always stand in the limelight, they - and almost everyone else who participated in sports this past year - earned the respect and personal pride which comes with striving to do your best at what you do.

And that, after all, is what the essence, the flavor, the spirit of competition is supposed to be.

Another wonderful spirit of Marshall High is the internal support teammates give their fellow players. Girls' soccer huddling together before taking on state-ranked Gull Lake, chanting, "One-two-three-four, M-H-S score!" The baseball team supporting Nito Ramos at the plate in a back-and-forth cadence from the dugout: "Sweet! Neat! Sweet! Neat!"

Then there is the softball dugout, which makes all the other changing, cheering and sideline support sound like a whisper. The girls really know how to show enthusiasm for one another with a constant barrage of opponent razzing, moral support and emotions.

All of this makes my high school cheering look lethargic. The most excitement I could muster while in high school went something like this (although I am making it more local): "Go, 'Skins, go! Do your best! Remember who you're fighting for, it's M-H-S!"

Sometimes overlooked during the course of a season is how the coach works with the athlete. I spoke to several of the Redskin coaching staff to find out what they expect most from their players. The answers may surprise you:

Stulberg: "I would expect them to try their hardest. I think it's unrealistic for players to always do their best, but I don't think it's unfair to ask them to always try their hardest."

John Hamlin, boys' and girls' swimming: "I expect dedication for the season. Some of the seasons run together ... if they play football and then go out for the swim team, I don't want them until after football. I want them to be committed to that sport."

Tom Duffey, boys' basketball: "I expect them to do the best they can - to go out and try hard and be proud of what they've done, of who they are and who they represent."

Jon Morris, volleyball: "Improvement and giving me 100 percent. If they give me that, I guess they're giving me their all, and that's all you can ask for."

Dave Graveline, girls' soccer: "Just that they try, that they give it their best shot. That's all you can ask for, and that's all that I've asked of them. I don't think it's unreasonable."

Lori Carr, JV volleyball: "I expect to see them progress in their skill level, and to see a continual growth (in the sport) over the course of the year. I also expect them to have positive attitudes. I don't like negative attitudes, or 'We just want to win' attitudes."

Jerry Triece, baseball: "All I really stress ... is to try their best, and that's all I can ever ask of them"

Jim Dorosh, girls' track: "Just a fair shake on both sides - a good attitude, a good solid effort, and to show up for practice. Those three, and you're on the right track, so to speak."

Effort? Dedication? Growth? Attitude? The MHS athletes have some very special mentors in charge of the teams. People who care a great deal about the students' post-high school life. Wrestling coach Gary Gilbert probably sums it up best: "I've always told my kids, 'If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right.' I'm pleased with the positive comments other coaches and parents have said about us ... (about) our athletes being a positive representation of Marshall High School. You can talk about wins and losses all you want, but I think my biggest priority is to teach them a sense of priority, to prepare them for the future."

That future awaits the Class of 1989. But memories are what we hold in our minds, in our hearts.

What was it Jim Croce sang so many years ago? "Photographs and memories, Christmas cards you sent to me. All that I have are these to remember you."

And so it goes, with the summer upon us, pictures and thoughts are what we have to remember. Yearbooks are signed, graduation parties held, and seniors - or, soon-to-be former seniors - take three months off before heading into "the real world." Joy and sorrow; so far, so close. Take care, my friends, for tomorrow's events will simply add to the memories we store in our brain's all-encompassing data bank.

The year is over, the equipment is stored away for another time, another group of athletes. Some will return; some will go on to college; others will decide classwork or a part-time job are more important or more necessary.

And the circle comes around again.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

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.