Summer's here. Last day at work yesterday, and at noon picked up a friend who's in town and we went and wandered Willows Beach. No wind--which is not the norm around here, at least down at the beach.
We had a sucky spring. So far, though, summer's trying to make it up to us. Last night was amazing, again, no wind, warm--after supper we got our pool set up. Today and the next few days it's supposed to be into the low 80s.
Lots of jobs to do, now--but it's the stuff you put off until you have time, and now I have some. First summer in a while with no masters degree to worry about.
Thursday evening I took a bunch of my graduating theatre kids out for dinner. I may post a few pics from that. I had gotten changed in a hurry and headed off--it's probably a sign of how worn out I've been lately that I had misbuttoned my shirt and it stayed that way all evening. Funny that none of my young dinner companions would take the opportunity to mock my dressing skills. Must've been too dark in the restaurant--or so I can hope.
I'm off to go water the garden and finish prepping the pool. Enjoy your weekend, folks.
Oh, and an aside to Jenny: Maybe so, but how many different phone numbers does a monkey really have to learn, anyway? His bookie, a good pizza delivery place, and maybe the PETA donation line?
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Pavlov's got us figured
We are now in the transition phase of going from 7 digit phone numbers to having to use all 10 for local calls.
That means that for the next two months or so, every time you forget to dial the area code first, you'll still get your call through, but not before you listen to an incredibly loud and annoying recording telling you that soon you'll need to dial all 10 numbers--and it plays twice.
Needless to say, they'll have us all conditioned to make the change before the actual deadline when local calls won't work the old way.
I guess we've been spoiled; my home town has been doing this for at least five years.
When we were in New York in March we stayed in the Murray Hill area, and it made me think of all those old movies where someone wants to put a call through and gives a number with two words in front, like Murray Hill 48932 or something like that. I guess you used the MH letter equivalents on the old dial phones to get that particular neighborhood.
Growing up, we just had to dial 5 numbers. My home number was 5-5937. All the ones in our part of town began with 5, while those up where my grandmother lived began with 3. It was easy enough to learn all your friends' numbers.
Now our phones all have speed dial and contact lists and I realized the other day I still don't know my own kids' cell numbers--I have just been using the contacts list to call them.
Man, do I sound like a grumpy old codger in this post. Maybe I should do a rant about the good old days when I could fill up my gas tank for under 20 bucks.
That means that for the next two months or so, every time you forget to dial the area code first, you'll still get your call through, but not before you listen to an incredibly loud and annoying recording telling you that soon you'll need to dial all 10 numbers--and it plays twice.
Needless to say, they'll have us all conditioned to make the change before the actual deadline when local calls won't work the old way.
I guess we've been spoiled; my home town has been doing this for at least five years.
When we were in New York in March we stayed in the Murray Hill area, and it made me think of all those old movies where someone wants to put a call through and gives a number with two words in front, like Murray Hill 48932 or something like that. I guess you used the MH letter equivalents on the old dial phones to get that particular neighborhood.
Growing up, we just had to dial 5 numbers. My home number was 5-5937. All the ones in our part of town began with 5, while those up where my grandmother lived began with 3. It was easy enough to learn all your friends' numbers.
Now our phones all have speed dial and contact lists and I realized the other day I still don't know my own kids' cell numbers--I have just been using the contacts list to call them.
Man, do I sound like a grumpy old codger in this post. Maybe I should do a rant about the good old days when I could fill up my gas tank for under 20 bucks.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Poetry by Dythandra
Pomp and Circumstance
The parentals have that look again,
Wary of what is coming
Like all trainable mammals
They learn from experience.
The first salvo is fired by my mother:
"We have to make plans" she bleats.
Plans.
I have many of them
Some involve explosives.
Probably best not to share those just yet.
"What plans?" I ask sweetly.
She hesitates, then pent-up dreams of conformity
Pour forth.
Photos, my dress, my date, a dinner, relatives, limo...
She pauses, a far-off look in her eyes
No doubt remembering some moment of import--
Her first emptying of stomach contents inspired by cheap rum,
Or drunken libidinal fumblings in the back of borrowed car
The adolescent middle-class dream.
When she finishes, too much revealed, she waits;
Her fear of further disappointment
Springing from the one product of her loins--
Yours truly, a scratch-and-win ticket that proclaimed "Please try again"
But the lottery booth was already closed,
So she plays this losing hand once more.
I almost feel a pang of sympathy,
But recall my childhood mortification as a fourth-grader
When neighbor kids asked why my mother talked that way
And we had so many empty bottles in our trash.
I sigh. "I haven't given it much thought."
Not true--I just push it from the forefront of my mind
For self-indulgent differentness is a luxury of the young
And with this passage I shall face intolerance
For my admittedly pretentious misanthropy.
Metacognition it's called, by those dozens of parenting volumes
Populating my mother's bookcase of futility.
This "milestone" serves to inspire reflection,
Even in one so unrecalcitrant as myself.
A date? Probably not this troubled boy
I think I inspired his prescriptions.
The bus driver's too old,
(Plus I hear he got busted for dealing downtown)
My neighbor's mother will call the cops,
And were Danny suitable, there's that little problem
Of shared DNA.
I could defy the heterocentrist agenda,
But even if the objects of my affections were compliant
I've no desire to become the target
Of peurile Facebook photo tags.
So in a moment of weakness,
I solve another's fear of flying solo
On this evening that belongs to
The partnered and paired.
My outfit for the evening is another point of contention
My mother has a history of being disappointed in my attire
And seems relieved when I admit I'll wear a dress
--Decorated by an artistic print, I assure her--
(Did you know Dali liked to work with decomposing equines?)
My mother plans a family dinner, with all manner of kin
Joining on this awkward occasion.
They show up with ill-chosen gifts
(Grandmama never could shop for me)
But my favorite is my uncle's book of Irish saints
With an offer to bootleg refreshments for me and my date
Tucked neatly by a description of St. Faoileann.
I almost blush to admit I didn't go out with an explosion,
Though I did allow myself one little indulgence;
One of my two former disciples--the one with the less hysterical mother--
Has kept in touch.
Careful timing allowed her to replace the CD
Chosen for our triumphant recessional from the Graduation Hall
Certainly you'd agree--that annoying Vitamin C song is far less apropos
Than "Highway to Hell".
Alas, maturity awaits. I think I shall let it cool its heels
A little bit longer.
The parentals have that look again,
Wary of what is coming
Like all trainable mammals
They learn from experience.
The first salvo is fired by my mother:
"We have to make plans" she bleats.
Plans.
I have many of them
Some involve explosives.
Probably best not to share those just yet.
"What plans?" I ask sweetly.
She hesitates, then pent-up dreams of conformity
Pour forth.
Photos, my dress, my date, a dinner, relatives, limo...
She pauses, a far-off look in her eyes
No doubt remembering some moment of import--
Her first emptying of stomach contents inspired by cheap rum,
Or drunken libidinal fumblings in the back of borrowed car
The adolescent middle-class dream.
When she finishes, too much revealed, she waits;
Her fear of further disappointment
Springing from the one product of her loins--
Yours truly, a scratch-and-win ticket that proclaimed "Please try again"
But the lottery booth was already closed,
So she plays this losing hand once more.
I almost feel a pang of sympathy,
But recall my childhood mortification as a fourth-grader
When neighbor kids asked why my mother talked that way
And we had so many empty bottles in our trash.
I sigh. "I haven't given it much thought."
Not true--I just push it from the forefront of my mind
For self-indulgent differentness is a luxury of the young
And with this passage I shall face intolerance
For my admittedly pretentious misanthropy.
Metacognition it's called, by those dozens of parenting volumes
Populating my mother's bookcase of futility.
This "milestone" serves to inspire reflection,
Even in one so unrecalcitrant as myself.
A date? Probably not this troubled boy
I think I inspired his prescriptions.
The bus driver's too old,
(Plus I hear he got busted for dealing downtown)
My neighbor's mother will call the cops,
And were Danny suitable, there's that little problem
Of shared DNA.
I could defy the heterocentrist agenda,
But even if the objects of my affections were compliant
I've no desire to become the target
Of peurile Facebook photo tags.
So in a moment of weakness,
I solve another's fear of flying solo
On this evening that belongs to
The partnered and paired.
My outfit for the evening is another point of contention
My mother has a history of being disappointed in my attire
And seems relieved when I admit I'll wear a dress
--Decorated by an artistic print, I assure her--
(Did you know Dali liked to work with decomposing equines?)
My mother plans a family dinner, with all manner of kin
Joining on this awkward occasion.
They show up with ill-chosen gifts
(Grandmama never could shop for me)
But my favorite is my uncle's book of Irish saints
With an offer to bootleg refreshments for me and my date
Tucked neatly by a description of St. Faoileann.
I almost blush to admit I didn't go out with an explosion,
Though I did allow myself one little indulgence;
One of my two former disciples--the one with the less hysterical mother--
Has kept in touch.
Careful timing allowed her to replace the CD
Chosen for our triumphant recessional from the Graduation Hall
Certainly you'd agree--that annoying Vitamin C song is far less apropos
Than "Highway to Hell".
Alas, maturity awaits. I think I shall let it cool its heels
A little bit longer.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Another day, another one found
This is since that last post. Gina Marie put a link to an article in her comment on the last post, and here's another link to info about the sixth foot which was found today.
I'll actually find other stuff to post about, but for now, I'm just following up on earlier posts about this topic.
It may be there's been a serial killer or some other multiple murder who weights down the bodies and throws them in the ocean. Natural processes mean that the feet, protected by buoyant running shoes, would eventually come to the surface and wash ashore.
Still very creepy. The fact that there has been no success in identifying any of the victims makes me wonder if it is something to do with a human smuggling operation gone awry. We had problems about ten years ago with ships coming from China with illegal immigrants stowed away--people who'd paid their life savings to organized crime groups to get them here, which was seen by many as a way to more easily get into the U.S.
9/11 changed that with increased border security, to some extent.
This is getting to the point it's going to make people think twice about coming here for a fishing/seaside holiday.
I'll actually find other stuff to post about, but for now, I'm just following up on earlier posts about this topic.
It may be there's been a serial killer or some other multiple murder who weights down the bodies and throws them in the ocean. Natural processes mean that the feet, protected by buoyant running shoes, would eventually come to the surface and wash ashore.
Still very creepy. The fact that there has been no success in identifying any of the victims makes me wonder if it is something to do with a human smuggling operation gone awry. We had problems about ten years ago with ships coming from China with illegal immigrants stowed away--people who'd paid their life savings to organized crime groups to get them here, which was seen by many as a way to more easily get into the U.S.
9/11 changed that with increased border security, to some extent.
This is getting to the point it's going to make people think twice about coming here for a fishing/seaside holiday.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as an
NBA Referee
Hi kid. NBA? Nobody’s ever made it from here and I’ve seen some... What? Oh, a referee. Well, that’s not an easy gig to break into either, but if you’re lucky, it might go something like this:
You’ll take weekend workshops so you can do more than call the freshman girls games and by next fall you’ll be that graduate who didn’t go to college but took a job in the video store so he could be available to referee as many high school games as possible.
You’ll get used to working that two man tandem, and you’ll develop the ability to tune out all the catcalls and abuse hurled your way from the stands yet at the same time you’ll remain exceptionally sensitive to disrespect from players. Face it, it’s a chance for someone who’s not all that tall or athletic to make a bunch of jocks do what you say.
Game after game you’ll run up and down the court, and unlike the players, when you twist an ankle nobody cares--you’re lucky if one of the team trainers deigns to even look at your injuries. The cute girls who come to see the players will pay even less attention to you--so get used to being invisible except when you make a call against the home team and everyone screams for your blood.
You’ll eventually tire of making less per game than the cost of the gas to drive out to the high schools in the boonies, and you’ll head to college, where you’ll take a smattering of unchallenging arts and business courses while spending most of your time sucking up to those in charge of picking the referees for the varsity games.
Even in this lower-tier collegiate athletic program you have to pay your dues, so you do a few junior varsity games just before the season ends.
You’re frustrated after your first year, and all you’ve got to show for the tuition money you spent is a mediocre GPA and a couple of scoresheets with your name on them. You come back here where your stories of college life exaggerate your involvement in the athletics program until one of the benchwarmers on the JV team comes home as well and tells the real story of your insignificance.
You run out of the party where you’ve been revealed as a pathetic liar and head down to a sketchy bar that doesn’t ask for I.D. before it serves you watery beer out of dirty glasses. A few drinks and you’re crying at the bar--telling your sad tale to a bartender who isn’t interested. Just as the bouncer comes to escort you out, he’s stopped by a quiet, dark-eyed man who slips him a banknote and then invites you to join him at his table.
You stop sobbing and try to pull yourself together. Over the next hour this man stares quietly into your soul as he listens to you explain your dream, nodding as if he understands your passion and shares your anger at the injustice of your situation. Then he motions to you to be quiet and speaks:
“How badly do you want this?” he challenges you. You explain you’d sell your soul for a chance to make it to the big leagues, and he smiles--and something freezes deep inside you for just a moment.
“You will place your future in my hands, completely?” You agree, and he stands up, shakes your hand and tells you the large man standing nearby will drive you home.
The next day you receive a call instructing you to go to a summer inter-college varsity league meeting. Your plane ticket arrives by courier and before you have a chance to question your good fortune, you’re sitting with men all at least a decade older who will share the officiating duties of what is essentially a summer all-star development league. You’re given a nice room at a decent hotel and told you’re not to worry about actually reffing--you’re just a backup.
You watch for two days, marveling at the pace of the games compared to what you’d experienced at your few JV matchups. Still, you’re just watching, and begin to wonder why you’d bothered to come when on the third day you arrive to find the head of officiating waiting for you with a uniform and a whistle. Seems an unfortunate traffic accident had put one of the regular refs out of commission and you were needed.
You ref three games daily for the next two weeks, and at the end of the final playoff you’re approached by a PAC-10 college representative and told you’re getting a full-ride scholarship in their sports management program and will be part of their regular officiating rotation. You’ll travel to other colleges in the conference, all expenses paid, and earn a fee for each game as well.
You’re thrilled, and the next few months fly by. Then, late in the season, you’re getting into a cab to head to a game between UC Berkeley and Stanford and your benefactor from that life-changing encounter at the bar slips into the seat beside you. He hands the driver a 50, tells him to take the long route to the stadium, and slides the privacy window closed.
“Now it’s time to begin to pay the piper,” the man, whose name you don’t know, breathes softly. “Number 18 for Stanford is going to foul out in the first half tonight. If anyone complains they’re going to get a technical. Berkeley will be shooting in bonus by the six minute mark of the second half. Got it?”
You’re shocked at the arrogance of the man. “I can’t just make up fouls,” you protest.
“You will see fouls and you will call them.” Something in his eyes terrifies you and you just nod slowly. He taps the cab window again and gets out a few blocks from the stadium. You ride the rest of the way alone and are shaking as you walk onto the court. Something in the way the other referee looks at you makes you realize he knows what’s going on--maybe he’s in on it too, you decide.
It’s all Stanford for the first 10 minutes, and you have trouble finding any fouls to call on #18, but you make a questionable charging call and another for an illegal pick. You happen to glance into the stands during a television commercial timeout and see your cab companion sitting just behind the Stanford bench. His eyes bore into yours and he looks pissed.
The rest of the first half is fairly even, and you simply can’t find any justifiable reason to blow the whistle on your target. Still, you can’t help but glance over behind the Stanford bench a few times, and with two minutes left and only three fouls on #18, you see the man make a subtle gun motion with his fingers pointed towards you.
Right after the whistle you make a completely indefensible call on the big Stanford forward and the Palo Alto crowd goes nuts--some throw things at you. The player himself begins swearing at you and you hit him with two quick technical fouls--getting him out of the game.
You’re scared--it seems like the stadium might erupt in a riot, and during the ensuing timeout your refereeing partner walks over to you and mutters “nice and subtle, my friend”. His sarcasm makes it clear to you he knows what’s going on, and then a moment later he whispers “They don’t have to win; they just have to cover the point spread--Stanford can’t win by more than six--got it?”
Suddenly it’s all clear to you. Both you and the other referee are in the pocket of the same guy--and he clearly represents gambling interests who have made your mercurial rise possible.
That night you nearly don’t make it out of the stadium without being attacked, but fortunately the fact Stanford squeaked out a three-point victory takes some of the energy out of the home crowd’s vindictiveness. You go to your hotel room and consider chucking everything and going home, but then there’s a knock on your door, and the large man who drove you home that night at the bar simply smiles at you and hands you an envelope.
Inside are 20 one hundred dollar bills, and a note with two words printed neatly: “Well Done.”
You feel something die inside you when you spend some of the money the next day at the J Crew outlet and are glad when you don’t get rotated into the playoffs--your shocking performance in the Stanford game keeps you out of the tournament of 64.
The next year, though, all seems to be forgotten and you’re just as busy--even getting loaned out to other conferences for some tournaments. This time you make it through the regular season without being given any special instructions, and you’re picked to do playoff games all the way to the sweet 16.
You’re once again getting into a cab--this time to go to a matchup between fifth ranked UCLA and the 12th seed, Ohio, when you again are joined by an unwelcome traveling companion. This time he gives you more detailed instructions, which will also allow you to be a little more subtle in their execution. You also are not surprised to find the referee you’re paired with--from Ohio’s Mid-American conference--also has received instructions similar to your own. You guess that your gambling friends wait until they find that two of their dirty refs are officiating the same game before they bet most heavily, sure of their ability to influence the outcome of the game.
Your partner is almost artistic in his ability to manage the game to the foreordained conclusion, and he invites you to join him for a late supper after the game, where you are finally able to confide your shame to someone who truly understands. Unlike you, he was already working NCAA ball before being corrupted, but his brother’s legal troubles stemming from a large cocaine bust convinced him to listen to the gamblers who’d make sure his brother got the best legal help money could buy. Once that first step was taken, he could never go back.
While you’re at the restaurant, you get a visit from a different thug who quietly gives you each an envelope containing eight thousand dollars. You and your newfound friend loosen up and order some really good champagne--two bottles, in fact--and get a little tipsy.
You’re walking back to your hotel when a car pulls up and a young woman gets out. She waves the car away and hurries over to you. “Mind if I walk along?” she asks.
She’s way out of your league, you think, but you’re feeling confident with several thousand dollars in your pocket and some good champagne clouding your judgment. It’s only when she’s safely inside your hotel room she reveals herself to be a reporter and pulls out a few grainy photos of you in the cab with your gambler contact, and another receiving the payoff at the restaurant.
“I know what’s going on,” she tells you. “I won’t go to the cops if you give me your story--I’ll protect you as a confidential source.” You’re suddenly terrified, but something about the way her hand rests familiarly on your arm convinces you to go along--you don't often get attention from girls as pretty as her and besides, you don’t feel you have much choice.
Just as quickly as you acquiesced to the gambler’s instructions you go along with the reporter’s demands to tell her everything. She spends the next several hours grilling you, recording everything. At the end she falls asleep on the couch while you lie in your hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to doze off.
The next morning she is gone but before you get on the train to head home for the summer, she shows up at the station and gives you a copy of her story to read. She wants you to check it for accuracy. Your eyes blur with hot tears and you can barely make out the words which describe in unforgiving detail your corruption. You know there will be little doubt on the gamblers' part as to who gave her the story, and you beg her not to print it. She gives you a wry smile and shakes her head. She turns and walks away quickly, leaving a copy of the story in your hand.
You panic and realize you can’t go home, so you go to the ticket booth and buy passage to Milwaukee, where you have an aunt.
What? Oh, I pulled that up on your file as an emergency contact. Don’t interrupt when I’m on a roll, okay?
So you go to your aunt’s and wait for the story to break. After a week you hear nothing, and then another week passes. You wonder if you dare hope that the reporter had a change of heart. Then one Wednesday morning, when you’re alone in the house, a boy comes to the door and hands you an envelope he says he was told to deliver by some guy who gave him 50 bucks. In it is a key and directions to a storage locker in the bus depot.
You are terrified--how could they find you, you wonder--but you force yourself to go check it nonetheless. You stifle a scream and rush to vomit in the washroom when you see the contents of the locker--it’s the head of the reporter.
You stumble out of the bus depot, desperately frightened, and look over your shoulder to see the large henchman of your gambler friend; he and another man are rushing towards you. Your fear keeps you from looking the opposite direction before you step out into the street, and a Greyhound to Topeka will deliver its passengers late that day because the driver will have to give a statement about the crazy guy who ran in front of his bus.
Sorry--I guess you never will quite make the NBA, at least that’s my guess if I were a betting man.
Hi kid. NBA? Nobody’s ever made it from here and I’ve seen some... What? Oh, a referee. Well, that’s not an easy gig to break into either, but if you’re lucky, it might go something like this:
You’ll take weekend workshops so you can do more than call the freshman girls games and by next fall you’ll be that graduate who didn’t go to college but took a job in the video store so he could be available to referee as many high school games as possible.
You’ll get used to working that two man tandem, and you’ll develop the ability to tune out all the catcalls and abuse hurled your way from the stands yet at the same time you’ll remain exceptionally sensitive to disrespect from players. Face it, it’s a chance for someone who’s not all that tall or athletic to make a bunch of jocks do what you say.
Game after game you’ll run up and down the court, and unlike the players, when you twist an ankle nobody cares--you’re lucky if one of the team trainers deigns to even look at your injuries. The cute girls who come to see the players will pay even less attention to you--so get used to being invisible except when you make a call against the home team and everyone screams for your blood.
You’ll eventually tire of making less per game than the cost of the gas to drive out to the high schools in the boonies, and you’ll head to college, where you’ll take a smattering of unchallenging arts and business courses while spending most of your time sucking up to those in charge of picking the referees for the varsity games.
Even in this lower-tier collegiate athletic program you have to pay your dues, so you do a few junior varsity games just before the season ends.
You’re frustrated after your first year, and all you’ve got to show for the tuition money you spent is a mediocre GPA and a couple of scoresheets with your name on them. You come back here where your stories of college life exaggerate your involvement in the athletics program until one of the benchwarmers on the JV team comes home as well and tells the real story of your insignificance.
You run out of the party where you’ve been revealed as a pathetic liar and head down to a sketchy bar that doesn’t ask for I.D. before it serves you watery beer out of dirty glasses. A few drinks and you’re crying at the bar--telling your sad tale to a bartender who isn’t interested. Just as the bouncer comes to escort you out, he’s stopped by a quiet, dark-eyed man who slips him a banknote and then invites you to join him at his table.
You stop sobbing and try to pull yourself together. Over the next hour this man stares quietly into your soul as he listens to you explain your dream, nodding as if he understands your passion and shares your anger at the injustice of your situation. Then he motions to you to be quiet and speaks:
“How badly do you want this?” he challenges you. You explain you’d sell your soul for a chance to make it to the big leagues, and he smiles--and something freezes deep inside you for just a moment.
“You will place your future in my hands, completely?” You agree, and he stands up, shakes your hand and tells you the large man standing nearby will drive you home.
The next day you receive a call instructing you to go to a summer inter-college varsity league meeting. Your plane ticket arrives by courier and before you have a chance to question your good fortune, you’re sitting with men all at least a decade older who will share the officiating duties of what is essentially a summer all-star development league. You’re given a nice room at a decent hotel and told you’re not to worry about actually reffing--you’re just a backup.
You watch for two days, marveling at the pace of the games compared to what you’d experienced at your few JV matchups. Still, you’re just watching, and begin to wonder why you’d bothered to come when on the third day you arrive to find the head of officiating waiting for you with a uniform and a whistle. Seems an unfortunate traffic accident had put one of the regular refs out of commission and you were needed.
You ref three games daily for the next two weeks, and at the end of the final playoff you’re approached by a PAC-10 college representative and told you’re getting a full-ride scholarship in their sports management program and will be part of their regular officiating rotation. You’ll travel to other colleges in the conference, all expenses paid, and earn a fee for each game as well.
You’re thrilled, and the next few months fly by. Then, late in the season, you’re getting into a cab to head to a game between UC Berkeley and Stanford and your benefactor from that life-changing encounter at the bar slips into the seat beside you. He hands the driver a 50, tells him to take the long route to the stadium, and slides the privacy window closed.
“Now it’s time to begin to pay the piper,” the man, whose name you don’t know, breathes softly. “Number 18 for Stanford is going to foul out in the first half tonight. If anyone complains they’re going to get a technical. Berkeley will be shooting in bonus by the six minute mark of the second half. Got it?”
You’re shocked at the arrogance of the man. “I can’t just make up fouls,” you protest.
“You will see fouls and you will call them.” Something in his eyes terrifies you and you just nod slowly. He taps the cab window again and gets out a few blocks from the stadium. You ride the rest of the way alone and are shaking as you walk onto the court. Something in the way the other referee looks at you makes you realize he knows what’s going on--maybe he’s in on it too, you decide.
It’s all Stanford for the first 10 minutes, and you have trouble finding any fouls to call on #18, but you make a questionable charging call and another for an illegal pick. You happen to glance into the stands during a television commercial timeout and see your cab companion sitting just behind the Stanford bench. His eyes bore into yours and he looks pissed.
The rest of the first half is fairly even, and you simply can’t find any justifiable reason to blow the whistle on your target. Still, you can’t help but glance over behind the Stanford bench a few times, and with two minutes left and only three fouls on #18, you see the man make a subtle gun motion with his fingers pointed towards you.
Right after the whistle you make a completely indefensible call on the big Stanford forward and the Palo Alto crowd goes nuts--some throw things at you. The player himself begins swearing at you and you hit him with two quick technical fouls--getting him out of the game.
You’re scared--it seems like the stadium might erupt in a riot, and during the ensuing timeout your refereeing partner walks over to you and mutters “nice and subtle, my friend”. His sarcasm makes it clear to you he knows what’s going on, and then a moment later he whispers “They don’t have to win; they just have to cover the point spread--Stanford can’t win by more than six--got it?”
Suddenly it’s all clear to you. Both you and the other referee are in the pocket of the same guy--and he clearly represents gambling interests who have made your mercurial rise possible.
That night you nearly don’t make it out of the stadium without being attacked, but fortunately the fact Stanford squeaked out a three-point victory takes some of the energy out of the home crowd’s vindictiveness. You go to your hotel room and consider chucking everything and going home, but then there’s a knock on your door, and the large man who drove you home that night at the bar simply smiles at you and hands you an envelope.
Inside are 20 one hundred dollar bills, and a note with two words printed neatly: “Well Done.”
You feel something die inside you when you spend some of the money the next day at the J Crew outlet and are glad when you don’t get rotated into the playoffs--your shocking performance in the Stanford game keeps you out of the tournament of 64.
The next year, though, all seems to be forgotten and you’re just as busy--even getting loaned out to other conferences for some tournaments. This time you make it through the regular season without being given any special instructions, and you’re picked to do playoff games all the way to the sweet 16.
You’re once again getting into a cab--this time to go to a matchup between fifth ranked UCLA and the 12th seed, Ohio, when you again are joined by an unwelcome traveling companion. This time he gives you more detailed instructions, which will also allow you to be a little more subtle in their execution. You also are not surprised to find the referee you’re paired with--from Ohio’s Mid-American conference--also has received instructions similar to your own. You guess that your gambling friends wait until they find that two of their dirty refs are officiating the same game before they bet most heavily, sure of their ability to influence the outcome of the game.
Your partner is almost artistic in his ability to manage the game to the foreordained conclusion, and he invites you to join him for a late supper after the game, where you are finally able to confide your shame to someone who truly understands. Unlike you, he was already working NCAA ball before being corrupted, but his brother’s legal troubles stemming from a large cocaine bust convinced him to listen to the gamblers who’d make sure his brother got the best legal help money could buy. Once that first step was taken, he could never go back.
While you’re at the restaurant, you get a visit from a different thug who quietly gives you each an envelope containing eight thousand dollars. You and your newfound friend loosen up and order some really good champagne--two bottles, in fact--and get a little tipsy.
You’re walking back to your hotel when a car pulls up and a young woman gets out. She waves the car away and hurries over to you. “Mind if I walk along?” she asks.
She’s way out of your league, you think, but you’re feeling confident with several thousand dollars in your pocket and some good champagne clouding your judgment. It’s only when she’s safely inside your hotel room she reveals herself to be a reporter and pulls out a few grainy photos of you in the cab with your gambler contact, and another receiving the payoff at the restaurant.
“I know what’s going on,” she tells you. “I won’t go to the cops if you give me your story--I’ll protect you as a confidential source.” You’re suddenly terrified, but something about the way her hand rests familiarly on your arm convinces you to go along--you don't often get attention from girls as pretty as her and besides, you don’t feel you have much choice.
Just as quickly as you acquiesced to the gambler’s instructions you go along with the reporter’s demands to tell her everything. She spends the next several hours grilling you, recording everything. At the end she falls asleep on the couch while you lie in your hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to doze off.
The next morning she is gone but before you get on the train to head home for the summer, she shows up at the station and gives you a copy of her story to read. She wants you to check it for accuracy. Your eyes blur with hot tears and you can barely make out the words which describe in unforgiving detail your corruption. You know there will be little doubt on the gamblers' part as to who gave her the story, and you beg her not to print it. She gives you a wry smile and shakes her head. She turns and walks away quickly, leaving a copy of the story in your hand.
You panic and realize you can’t go home, so you go to the ticket booth and buy passage to Milwaukee, where you have an aunt.
What? Oh, I pulled that up on your file as an emergency contact. Don’t interrupt when I’m on a roll, okay?
So you go to your aunt’s and wait for the story to break. After a week you hear nothing, and then another week passes. You wonder if you dare hope that the reporter had a change of heart. Then one Wednesday morning, when you’re alone in the house, a boy comes to the door and hands you an envelope he says he was told to deliver by some guy who gave him 50 bucks. In it is a key and directions to a storage locker in the bus depot.
You are terrified--how could they find you, you wonder--but you force yourself to go check it nonetheless. You stifle a scream and rush to vomit in the washroom when you see the contents of the locker--it’s the head of the reporter.
You stumble out of the bus depot, desperately frightened, and look over your shoulder to see the large henchman of your gambler friend; he and another man are rushing towards you. Your fear keeps you from looking the opposite direction before you step out into the street, and a Greyhound to Topeka will deliver its passengers late that day because the driver will have to give a statement about the crazy guy who ran in front of his bus.
Sorry--I guess you never will quite make the NBA, at least that’s my guess if I were a betting man.
Monday, June 09, 2008
When next you're in New York
...you have to go to the Strand bookstore in Greenwich Village. It's truly wonderful:
I'm definitely going to plan to allow myself about five hours there next time. Of course, then I'll need to ship a box of books home since I won't be able to get them all on the plane.
They've been there since 1927. Here's a link to their website.
Sorry for the lack of any sort of decent posts. I'll have more time soon, I hope, and that should change things. Hopefully some rest and a little spare time will get me more interested in writing something a bit more creative as well.
I'm definitely going to plan to allow myself about five hours there next time. Of course, then I'll need to ship a box of books home since I won't be able to get them all on the plane.
They've been there since 1927. Here's a link to their website.
Sorry for the lack of any sort of decent posts. I'll have more time soon, I hope, and that should change things. Hopefully some rest and a little spare time will get me more interested in writing something a bit more creative as well.
Monday, June 02, 2008
A lone tumbleweed drifts past...
Nobody's blogging anymore. Well, pretty much nobody. Here are some most recent posts:
Milly: May 27, but that was only a haiku
Camila: Recent, but the last one, perhaps
Katie H: May 16
Ella: April 11
Berkeley: May 25, but that was the first after a two-month hiatus
RS: March 16 (her birthday)
AD: May 28
RH: May 12
"Genevieve": May 4
Plus both Nylon and Patrick (Blue Moon Dementia) deleted their blogs.
However, on the bright side, I just rediscovered "Overheard in New York" so I've got something else to procrastinate with.
Also, kudos to neuroticmom who is still posting more than some of you. I just like to kill time by blogwandering, and you're all letting me down.
:P
Milly: May 27, but that was only a haiku
Camila: Recent, but the last one, perhaps
Katie H: May 16
Ella: April 11
Berkeley: May 25, but that was the first after a two-month hiatus
RS: March 16 (her birthday)
AD: May 28
RH: May 12
"Genevieve": May 4
Plus both Nylon and Patrick (Blue Moon Dementia) deleted their blogs.
However, on the bright side, I just rediscovered "Overheard in New York" so I've got something else to procrastinate with.
Also, kudos to neuroticmom who is still posting more than some of you. I just like to kill time by blogwandering, and you're all letting me down.
:P
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