Sampson Brought Wins, Lethargy

Hypothetically speaking, let’s create a resume' for a division one basketball coach on the major conference level. Let’s say he has…

9 straight 20-win seasons
25-win average over last 7 years
12 NCAA Tournament appearances
3 Conference Tournament titles
17-7 Conference Tournament record
161-22 (.880) record at home
Conference record 37-game home winning streak
An appearance in the Final Four with a No. 3 final AP ranking
Has won more conference games than any coach in that conference's history
Two time National Coach of the Year
An overall winning percentage of over 70%

Now, let’s say that all of those accomplishments are overlooked.

Now, let’s say they are all overlooked because spring football practice is about to start, and in that case, nothing else really matters.

Unfortunately for the University of Oklahoma, all of the above is not hypothetical. It’s the story behind the departure of head basketball coach Kelvin Sampson; quite possibly one of the most underappreciated coaches in all of college sports.

Sampson is taking the head job at the University of Indiana, a basketball Mecca, where Sampson’s role as second fiddle to OU football coach Bob Stoops will be reversed. How many people can even name the Indiana football coach?

No one will come out and say that Sampson is leaving Norman behind because the University and community never fully embraced him or his style of basketball. No one will come out and say that many people in Norman are feeling a bit relieved to see him go. And I’m quite sure Sampson himself will not come out and say that the incredible lack of passion and attention for the OU basketball program was a major factor in his departure. And they’d all be lying.

And down the road, OU fans may find out they didn’t know what they had until it was gone.

There’s nothing wrong with being know as a “football school.” OU has managed to thrive in many sports despite this (very accurate) label. Athletic Director Joe Castiglione has done a remarkable job rebuilding the football program while managing to raise the level of the school’s other programs at the same time. However, there is a fine line between competing on the fields and the courts, and competing for the hearts of the Oklahoma fan base. In Norman, there is ONE heartbeat. It can be heard loud and clear on Saturday’s in the fall. In the meantime, a wonderful basketball coach is out the door with barely a pat on the back. For over a decade, he not only raised, but sustained the success rate of a program that had never before seen such heights for that length of time.

Sampson’s teams weren’t always flashy. As a matter of fact, many of them were painfully boring, which no doubt contributes to the lack of disappointment amongst many fans. However, those fans may very well long for the “boring” days of 25 win seasons after their first encounter with a .500 season of “excitement.”

The OU basketball program has been taken for granted by OU fans for many years, and while Sampson has laid a foundation that a new coach could very well sustain, it’s hard to see the program improving from this point forward. Castiglione has proven to be a masterful decision-maker when it comes to hiring coaches. It’s just too bad that he is in position to conduct a search when the perfect candidate was already sitting on the bench.

Who knows, perhaps nothing could have kept Sampson in Norman once Indiana came calling. Coaching the Hoosiers is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But perhaps Oklahoma basketball would be viewed the same way if the community embraced it as they do in the Hoosier state?

Sampson gave OU almost fifteen years of excellence on the basketball court. He leaves behind a trail of victories--- and indifference. After all, opening kickoff is only 6 months away.

You don’t know what you got until it’s gone. Now it’s gone Sooner fans. You may soon find that you had it all along.

Rose Continues to Wilt

Pittsburgh had just killed me. As I watched the final seconds of the Panthers loss to Bradley in the second round of the NCAA Tournament, I felt frustrated and angry. Under normal circumstances this game would barely register on my radar screen. But these weren’t normal circumstances. I was at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, and along with what seemed like the entire congregation at the enormous sports book, I had rolled the dice that Pittsburgh would cover the spread against an undermanned Bradley squad. I should have warned those around me that I sealed their fate the instant I put my bucks down on Pitt. Bradley won the game outright. I lost my bet, and my pride when my wife returned from shopping and asked me how I’d done for the day.

I was feeling a bit down on my luck as we started strolling through this grand palace, on our way to grab some lunch. I kept replaying the game in my mind, focusing on the myriad of missed opportunities for Pittsburgh to win, and in turn, my missed opportunity to line my pockets. Just then, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. It seemed so out of place and improbable, that I had to do a double take. Sitting right there, five feet away from me, next to the talking statues at the Forum Shops inside Caesar’s Palace, was major league baseball’s all-time hit king, Pete Rose. The reason I did the double-take was because no one else even seemed to notice he was there, despite the fact that two large men were holding up signs and shouting his name in hopes of getting shoppers to stop by to purchase an autograph.

I was happy to have the distraction, and I was initially thrilled as a die-hard Cincinnati Reds fan to see Charlie Hustle in the flesh. But as I observed the scene, my initial excitement gave way to a profound sadness.

Rose sat at a table, looking entirely bored and a tad embarrassed. The gentlemen hocking for people to come into the store to buy an item and have it signed by Rose were swimming against a raging current of people who couldn’t care less. Not only wasn’t there anyone in line, there hardly seemed to be anyone who even took notice. I looked around, and observed that I was the only one even mildly intrigued to see Rose in person. The all-time hit king was being upstaged by talking statues and a sale at Victoria’s Secret.

This is the bed that Rose has made. First, came the accusations. Then, the denials. Then more denials in the face of overwhelming evidence. Rose was a gambler. He was a liar. He threw away his career. And he didn’t even have the dignity (or intelligence) to take his medicine and distance himself from the very scene that ended his baseball career. He has so saturated the market with Pete Rose autographs, appearances, and interviews that he has made more of mockery of himself in the post-suspension years, then he did during the actual suspension process. Slowly, he gave ground and admitted more and more of what he had done. But never did he seem contrite or ashamed. The first book he wrote claimed he never bet on baseball. The second book he wrote detailed how he bet on baseball. All the while, he claimed all he wanted was to get back into the game he loved.

And there he sat in Caesar’s Palace, just down the hall from one of the largest sports books in the world.

I did take the time to snap of photo of Rose. But when my wife asked if I wanted to meet him, I declined. I simply couldn’t bring myself to ask a man for which I have no respect to sign anything for me. I felt badly about it. I lingered around the area, trying to convince myself that I should go ahead and meet the man, shake his hand, and have my wife capture it on the video camera. If this was any other great athlete, I would have gladly waited my turn, and cherished my moment in the sun. But I just couldn’t bring myself to go up to that table.

I stood there, watching hundreds of other people walk by without even batting an eye at the man they were passing. The man with the most hits, most certainly can now also claim the most misses. I shook my head and walked away. I may have lost earlier that day, but at least I wasn’t a loser.

Friends in High (Speed) Places

Sometimes you want to go where everyone knows your name. And they’re always glad you came.

At 11:27 p.m. Central standard time on the evening of Saturday March 11th, there were over 700 people logged on to the Washington Redskins fan message board, http://www.extremeskins.com. The Redskins hadn’t played a game in almost two months. The NFL draft was still six weeks away and the start of the season didn’t kick off for another half year.

On the afternoon of Sunday, March 12th, over 600 people clicked on a message thread at http://www.redszone.com which detailed the specifics of that afternoon’s spring training game between the Cincinnati Reds and Philadelphia Phillies.

Welcome to the world of sports message boards, where the season never ends, and everyone knows your name. Or at least your email address.

The reason so many Redskins fans were lingering on the board that evening was because NFL free agency just got underway, and rumors were running wild about who the Redskins' brass may or may not be wooing. Internet reports came fast and furious, as members of the wildly popular Redskins internet-community frantically hit the “refresh” button in hopes of getting the scoop. One member posted a picture (all of about 1 hour old) of two current Redskins sitting courtside at a basketball game with two marquee free agents. Here is a paraphrased excerpt from three members:

Skins4eva: “Are we going to see any action tonight, or is it safe for me to go to bed?”

Goskins: “Funny, I ask my wife the same thing every night.”

Gibbsrulz: “If you’re sitting at your computer hitting the refresh button every ten seconds on a Saturday night, I don’t think you need to be worried about getting any action.”

Skins4eva: “I can always count on you for a good laugh, Gibbsrulz!”

Within that juvenile conversation lies the key to the success of the message board. Beyond sharing information and opinions about a team or sport in general, it connects people with similar interests. Over time, those interests get blurred and genuine (although usually faceless) friendships develop. People share personal stories and recollections. They exchange jokes, barbs, and come to each other’s defense when a “troll” infringes their territory (a “troll,” of course is a fan of another team who logs on to the board to cause trouble). For example, all Dallas Cowboys fan can safely consider themselves "trolls."

After wins, the board members pat each other on the back and share virtual champagne glasses. After losses, the board becomes a place to mourn and vent. In the world of sports message boards, misery certainly loves company. If you are a fan of the Cincinnati Reds, you can have your share of both via redszone.com.


One of the reasons the Reds board was so densely populated for a meaningless spring training game was because the board is filled to the brim with fanatical baseball fans. People who can dissect the most detailed minutia of the game 365 days a year. Another reason the board was getting so much traffic was because many members were checking up an old friend. One of the boards senior members, and most positive and humorous contributors, recently lost everything in a devastating house fire. Luckily, he and his entire family escaped unharmed, but all their worldly possessions were reduced to ashes. In the days following the fire, the members of redszone banded together to help their mutual friend, who most of them would not recognize if he knocked on their front door.

Two message threads were started to update members on how he and his family were doing and to collect donations. Those two threads generated almost 5,000 views and over 200 written responses. Many members sent Reds-related items or simply cash. The member who lost it all was floored by the outpouring. A few members even contacted the Reds, who quickly sent out a care package to help him replenish his collection of baseball memorabilia. Redszone is the best baseball site on the internet. But sometimes, it has nothing to do with baseball.

The Reds probably won’t be very good again this year. And you can hear all of the moaning and groaning from the fans on the nightly game thread, which regularly generates over 1,000 page views. But amidst the complaints and mutual sighs of disappointment, you will always read some of the wittiest, most intelligent, most informed material you can find anywhere on the web.

Back at extremeskins, the board almost exceeded it’s bandwidth as board members gathered to hear the juiciest rumors about who may be donning the burgundy and gold in 2006. By midnight, one player was already in the fold, and other players were being tracked (almost frighteningly so) on a minute to minute basis by doctors, lawyers, students, construction workers, senior citizens, men and women from as far away as Japan and Australia. I spent much of the evening clicking back and forth between extremeskins and redszone, chatting with friends, arguing with others, checking up on our buddy who had the fire. But mostly, I just observed.

I started thinking about all of the “internet freaks,” as my wife calls them, and wonder how desperately in need of a life they all must be. At just that moment, my wife walks into the room and sees me in my underwear, sitting in a dark room, lit only by the computer screen. She says, “It’s midnight, are you coming to bed?” I tell her I’ll be right there, but deep down I’m concerned I might miss something, and spend another 30 minutes hitting “refresh.”

Just before I’m about to pack it in for the night, I get a private message from one of my oldest buddies on extremeskins. It’s a brief note on the Redskins latest signing. I reply immediately, returning the Internet version of a high-five. After all, I’ve been through a lot of losing seasons with this guy; it’s nice to occasionally share in some delight.

One reason sports fans love message boards is because fans, by nature, love teams. A team works best when everyone knows their role. At redszone and extremeskins, the best members are the ones that fully understand that role. You have leaders and followers. Old wise sages, and eager young bucks. Those with talent, who don’t know how to use it, and others with no talent, but hearts of gold. Informants and comedians. Optimists and curmudgeons. But all fans. And most friends.

The World Wide Web lends itself to some pretty bad things. There are disgusting websites, on-line predators, and more scams than you would ever believe. But the web is also a glorious way to connect people without the usual stereotypes or first impressions. I have been a member at both of these message boards for over five years. Along the way, I’ve “met” some incredibly engaging people, and many of those relationships will probably last as long as the Internet does.

You should pull up a chair and check us out. Freaks and geeks to be sure, but I guarantee you’ll crack a smile. You might even learn a thing a two. Not only about sports, but about communication, diversity, and oddly enough, genuine friendship.

After all, don’t you want to go where everyone knows your name—and they’re always glad you came? Unless of course, you’re a “troll.”

In Memory of Kirby

“And we’ll see you tomorrow night!”

--Jack Buck calling Kirby Puckett’s game-winning home run in Game 6 of the 1991 World Series

The moment Jack Buck said those words across the television airwaves, the Minnesota Twins forced a game seven in what would become arguably the greatest world series ever played. More importantly for me, that singular moment started a love affair with baseball that will last a lifetime. All thanks to Kirby.

Growing up, baseball was always a distant third place finisher in my heart behind football and basketball. I rooted for the Cincinnati Reds, but not with the same passion that I cheered for my favorite teams in the other sports. Baseball just didn’t engage me when I was a youngster. I didn’t fully understand the game, and I wasn’t sure if baseball was capable of eliciting the same emotion from me as football and basketball did. The Reds won the World Series in 1990, and I enjoyed it. But something was missing.

Then along comes Kirby Puckett in October of 1991.

Puckett was short and squatty, built like a brick outhouse. When his gigantic, but very short legs got moving as he ran the bases, it reminded me of those old Keystone Cops movies where everything seemed to be in fast-forward, all parties looking ridiculous. If you glanced at Puckett in pre-game warm-ups, you’d be hard pressed to believe that this man would someday grace Cooperstown as a Hall of Famer.

The Braves led the series 3-2, and appeared to have the title in their sights as the games shifted back to the Metrodome in Minneapolis. Game six was a whirlwind of emotions, each inning bringing more drama, and planting the seed of love for the game deeper in my heart and mind. Then Kirby sealed the deal. He blasted a shot to deep left center field. For a moment, it appeared as if the Braves outfielder may have had a chance to catch it, but the ball soared into the stands, lost amidst the white sea of Twins fans waving towels, and then Buck made that glorious homerun call, signifying all that is right with America’s game. Not only had we just witnessed a three-hour emotional roller coaster, but we got to do it all again tomorrow night!

The next night was even better, as fingernails dwindled, and the score remained 0-0 headed into the late innings. The Twins eventually won 1-0, capturing their second championship in five years. Pitcher Jack Morris was the hero of game seven, but Kirby Puckett was the hero of the city, the face of a franchise, and will always hold a special place with me as the man who opened the doors of passion for a game I didn’t quite understand until I watched this little fireplug of man light up my television screen.

Puckett was not only always smiling, he was always out-right lauging. He gave new meaning to the term infectious personality. The only problem with his personality, was that it consumed you so much that you sometimes forgot that he was an incredible baseball player. His clutch moments over the years are what’s embedded in our heads, but Puckett delivered consistently for twelve season in Minnesota, earning his spot in Cooperstown both statistically and emotionally. I think I would have enjoyed watching Puckett file taxes, take a nap, or talk on the phone—that’s how engaging and gregarious he was.

Now, in the blink of an eye, at age 45, he is gone. Dead of a stroke suffered at his Arizona home.

Things crumbled somewhat for Puckett after his playing days. His career ended when he was hit in the head with a ball and lost sight in one eye. His weight raged out of control, and there were reports that Puckett had a volatile temper away from the diamond. A Sports Illustrated article a few years ago painted a picture that wasn’t quite as sunny as the one he left on the field. While I don’t excuse any bad behavior, I choose not to dwell on those reports because I neither know about their accuracy, nor care to hold a man in such regard that I view him as flawless.

What I do know is that Puckett fueled a passion for baseball that lives inside of me today. One that I hope to pass on to my children. And when that day comes, I will show them a tape of Game six of the 1991 World Series, point out Kirby Puckett and tell them that’s how you play the game.

Thanks for the memories Kirby. In my mind, I’ll always be seeing you tomorrow night.