Officiating officially Sucks

This was written two years ago.  I kept it in the tank, as I thought the first time the Heat knocked us out, it was a bit on the weird side. I thought the piece may have been a bit bitter, over the top, and unrealistic, though. 

But this year, It was a little hard to comprehend the repetitiveness of consistently incredible play that normally doesn't appear suddenly exploding from a team that barely made the playoffs.  The Heat literally backed in.  Here they were though, looking untouchable while surging to knock my team who had once again achieved the best record in the league, out 4 games to 1. 

So here it is:

I fell in love with NBA basketball in the winter of 1983, the game introduced to me by my then best friend Jon.  Jon  spent most of his weekends at his aunt's house, which just happened to be next door to mine.  My hometown team was an excellent one, and as the year stretched into 1984, I was consumed with the sport.  Watching the Bucks at every given opportunity.  The shooting and driving prowess of Terry Cummings, the aggresive bulldog on offense and defense that was Sidney Moncrief, the man who created the postition of point forward, Paul Pressey, and the NBA's best sixth man, Ricky Pierce.  Coached by Don Nelson, they were a machine and a blast to watch.  

Frequenting the playoffs every year, they would always just fall short.  Sure, the names above were among the best in the league at what they did, but the bench talent, apart from Pierce, was not the type to shore up the starters.  Trying to go to war against the Celtics and Sixers every year with Paul Mokeski, Randy Breuer and Jerry Reynolds coming off the bench (God love their A for Effort) didn't measure up against the pummeling walls of those other Eastern Conference Juggernauts.  Even after they eventually added Sonics star Jack Sikma in 1985, and hall of famer Bob Lanier, It was a frustrating war of attrition. 

One thing always rubbed me the wrong way.  The Bucks were scrappers.  Fighters.  Going against teams of superior talent, they would often outplay, and Nelson would outcoach their opponents.  But, and it's a big but, there was always one thing evening the playing field.

Officiating.  Teams with superior talent don't need the help of the supposed non partisan enforcers of rules, but oh, did they get it.  And in spades.

But as the 80's grew into the 90's it became more and more the case.  It became so bad, that I stopped watching games that didn't involve the Bucks.  It grew tiresome, especially as the Bucks resurged in the late 90's, watching Ray Allen, Tim Thomas, and Glenn Robinson hacked to the floor with no recompense, as guys like Shaquille O'Neal, Allen Iverson, and Michael Jordan would go to the line when breathed or farted upon. 

Let's jump forward to the now, where Milwaukee's Giannis Antetekounmpo, is arguably the best player in the league. Still I have sat and watched as last years Khwai Leonard-led Raptors, and this year's Jimmy Butler-fronted Heat were field generals for a group that drew whistles, play stoppage, and shots from the line at one end, as if the damn referee is a Ringling Bros. big top leader pulling overtime.  Then I sit in stunned silence after seeing Giannis and his crew laying under the backboard after being clobbered (no mean feat with the 6'11 and monolithically built Antetekounmpo) while everyone else is headed back to the other end of the court. 

This years Eastern Conference semifinals played out almost exactly like last years. Two years in a row, the Bucks have lost to inferior opponents, with the officials playing a massive role in the mess.  Often, and this fits with the Milwaukee Brewers as well, (two years ago, the Brewers came within the width of a matchstick of knocking the league's darlings, Los Angeles, out of the tournament) politics feels like it may be a factor.  Milwaukee is, in comparison, a much smaller market team, more than likely to draw smaller viewing audiences for the networks in a championship situation.  That doesn't make it okay however, if there is some sort of interference involved to steer things.  Especially when you have the two time MVP on your squad, an all-star guard next to him, and the deepest bench in the league.  I don't believe they were outplayed two years in a row, and I sure as hell don't buy that they're over-rated. 

Call me a homer.  I grew up with the late 70's and 80's Packers who were awful.  I was spoiled the year I became a baseball fan because my Brewers went to the World Series, but it's been a slog since and 1982 was a long fucking time ago. But  I'm fine with that "homer" shit.  I will worship at the altar of franchises with all-time losing records because I grew up in their backyard all day long, instead of front-running with the League and marketing executive's darlings who glamourize big city players and broadcast all their games every week nationally.  My only exception there is the Green Bay Packers, perennial winners, but the NFC title game has been a nightmare for us going on 10 years now.  Heartbreaking.

It's just that sometimes Something smells funny.  That's all I'm saying. 

David Keith/Keith David Part Two

Many thanks to those who read about the wonderful (and weird) career of David Lemuel Keith.

Now what about Keith David?   Like David Keith, you know him.  Like David Keith, his face may not pop up into your head when hearing his name,

but when you hear his voice.....

God-tier vocal work.  A rich rumble-of-God excursion of rolling thunder that is unmistakable.

He's a classically trained actor, and it shows in his skilled work. 

But you know his face too....

The early part of his career he featured in John Carpenter roles, as Childs in The Thing and Frank in They Live.   Those are just the beginning.  Despite his intimidating stature (and voice), the man is capable of a broad type of performance.  Comedy?  Dude, he's the best thing about the overrated There's Something About Mary, and how about that looney performance in Emilio Estevez' underrated Men at Work?  High Drama?  That's what he's known for, as he debuted as King in Oliver Stone's Platoon, and his filmography includes An Eye for an Eye, The Riddick films, Transporter 2, Sam Raimi's western The Quick and the Dead, and  Michael Bay's Armageddon, among many, many others. 

Like his name reversal counterpart, he had the ability to be the epitome of kindness, gentle in motion and voice.  And with the same tools, be intimidating as hell.

Thusly, big and small screen have enjoyed his presence as well as the stage for decades, as he has been nominated for and won more than one Emmy and a Tony. 

And the man possesses what may be the best voice in animation working for the last 25 years.  Just see the video above.  It speaks (literally) for itself.

The world needs more Keith Davids, because there aren't many.

The Bose Elementary School Card Market

We huddled in bunches on the the playground at recess. A large group of 6th graders turning in a slow circle.  This was of multiple benefits.  Wisconsin falls and winters during the school year are, of course, cold.  The body temperatures contributed to a group warmth. 

Also, we needed to see each other's cards. 

No, we weren't cheating at poker.  

Stacks of cardboard, scented by pink dusty gum, bonded together by rubber bands (a no-no today), less often in clear sheets of nine, enveloped in binders for protection, were on display.  We were a mini-stock market, gathered around in circles, trading in baseball, football, less often basketball.  

Bubble gum cards.

It seems an obviously difficult task, all these cards changing hands for trade evaluation, without some ending up in the wrong paws before returning to their original holders.

It was an honor system.  We trusted each other (for the most part).

It wasn't perfect, however.  Once my stack came back missing a 1973 Pete Rose.  Then, a serious card. My 1981 Fleer Sixto Lezcano suddenly had a wrinkle in it that it didn't have before.  (Luckily I had doubles of ol' Sixto).   For the most part the system worked.

Now, mind you, we paid attention to dollar values back then to a certain degree.  A few Beckett magazines or an annually published priced guide could be found floating about.  But it wasn't the be all/end all of a potential deal.  The "Homer Factor" sometimes led to the un-even deal.  I was known to trade a card worth far more than the one being offered by my trade partner, because the player I was trading for played for the Milwaukee Brewers, Green Bay Packers, or Milwaukee Bucks.  I took grief from several friends in that arena. 

"Rob, don't just try to get Brewers, GET GREAT PLAYERS!!"

 But I had just started this business within the last year, and there were decades of Topps going back, and a couple of years of Donruss and Fleer.  

An ocean of possible home team players for me to acquire.

Sometimes you'd get the coup de grace.  A current Brewer/Packer on a card with a former team. I almost had a stroke when a friend willingly dealt me a 1978 Ben Oglivie (with the Detroit Tigers) for what I thought was a card far less steeped in value (perhaps just in sentimentality to me) not in cash.  I'm sure in that regard, I was taken to the cleaners.

Below is the actual card.  In pretty damn good shape since the trade of 1982 that resulted in me clicking my heels like July Garland after getting off the bus that day.

There was the crown jewel that I wanted to get amongst our swirling of card traders.  Our Bose Elementary traders.  One had a 1975 George Scott.  He was the Brewers all-star first-baseman who had played for the Crew long before I began watching the team. 

But to me at that time, 1975 may as well have been the Paleozoic Era.  And what a great image of The Boomer the card featured!  (However the 1977 card of George featured a far more detailed shot highlighting the "shark's teeth" around his neck).

Alas, I was never able to convince this chap to let loose in a deal.  I would acquire this card via eBay in 2008. Many eons later.  I won't forget the feeling I had when I opened the envelope it came in, for a card I paid .75 for.  

I felt like that kid again, peeling open a wax pack, but this time knowing the gem was coming. 

That boy on that freezing playground who had gotten that Ben Oglivie so many years earlier.  That's how I felt. 

I have written on this blog before about how baseball at this time was a religion.

How I was a student of its seminary.

Baseball cards were rosary beads.  They were prayer candles. 

And yes, these players, with their image emblazoned in cardboard.

These were saints.

(Not the New Orleans ones)

Others that read this blog know my main sports hero of the time (and to a degree, today) was Green Bay Packers besieged quarterback Lynn Dickey. I elaborated years ago here.  It wasn't until we had moved to Waco, TX in 1985 and my friend Bill slyly and with pomp and circumstance pulled out of his deck a 1975 Topps card of Dickey (with the Houston Oilers) that I saw what I felt was the Holy Grail. 

Its light shone on me and beheld me in its trance. I dropped to my knees, dipping down my head in reverence.  However, I was both jealous and happy for Bill. He was also a former Wisconsin resident (as our worship of Lynn was on an equal level).  

Although in all fairness, he being originally from Maine, was a grand admirer of New England Patriots' veteran signal caller Steve Grogan, and collected his many cards when possible. So, when it came to Clifford Lynn Dickey, I had the edge in fanhood, in my opinion. 

I did eventually buy that 1975 card at a card show years later, but right next to it on display?  A 1974 Lynn Dickey (also known as his rookie card). 

Begin church choir music here.

I bought the Holy Grail and the Ark of the Covenant both for a total of $2.75.  

Again, ....  HOMER.