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.