I Got 99 Problems But A Front-Runnin' B!#*% Ain't One.

As you know, since surely you've been following my last couple of posts with rapt attention, I've been doing my level best to divorce myself from animosity and moralistic interpretations when it comes to Butler's NCAA games. But then I clicked on a link to the Yahoo college basketball blog and see this -

Yep, that's Shawn Carter, stage name Jay-Z. hanging with the Wildcats after they punched their ticket to Houston. Emphasis on the AFTER.

Now, there are two possible explanations for this. Either Hova is visiting with Coach Cal's Little Urban Achievers because he, as a minority partner in an NBA team might be drafting one or more of them in the upcoming months. Or he is a sports fan similar to his pal LeBron, and simply runs with the squad that is most likely to win each year. Let's not forget that BronBron, native of Ohio, professes to be a Yankee and Cowboy fan.

So Jigga has either committed a flagrant NCAA violation in contacting college players regarding future professional employment in the NBA. Or he has chosen to throw his support behind a team with no geographic relationship to his Brooklyn origins, but who does have the most championships of the four teams left and has, arguably, the greatest wealth of talent.

Would I be as indignant if H-to-the-Izzo had chosen instead to visit the Bulldog's locker room after they defeated Flo-Rida? Probably not. However, Butler doesn't have a coach with a long history of questionable financial scruples. Nor is Butler the Vegas favorite to win the whole thing, as UK now is. Whether those two things smack of illegal contact and front-running, I'll let you decide.


But I do know this, teams from Indiana love it when other teams have New York celebrities sitting courtside, rooting against them.

Up the Beanstalk, Again

The David and Goliath analogies are played out, for several reasons, not the least of which is Butler's next opponent, VCU, is seeded even lower than they are. And while VCU made an impressive run a few years back, they have nowhere near the tournament pedigree that this Butler team has. No, in any standard Israelite v. Phillistine substitutional calculus, Butler is the big hairy giant and VCU has the stone and sling.

I don't think this imagery works though. Perhaps for the small cadre of actual VCU fans--students, faculty, alumni, etc.--Butler can play the role of old Golyat. But for the rest of the country, such a loaded template might be a little ponderous.

With King David's first act of heroism comes all of the historical and theological baggage that the story has carried throughout history. It has variously symbolized the triumph of the Jewish God, the triumph of Christianity in the Roman Empire, and at some point I'm sure, the triumph of tha glahrious Bahston Red Sawx ovah the harrible facking New Yark Yankees! YANKEES SACK! YANKEES SACK!

But the most obvious allegorical implications of the nebbish over the mighty is that of the eventual triumph of Good over Evil. And I'm just not willing to make a basketball game matter that much.

Indeed, small, modest David with his leather strap and pebble felling the oncoming Giant is clearly meant to symbolize the idea that virtue will win in the end, that the meek shall inherit the Earth and that big dudes are mean-ass bullies. Goliath's height, by the way, was probably more like six foot-nine. Not even taller than Andrew Smith.

Next Saturday, as Butler begins to warm-up, I will instead be thinking of Jack and his beanstalk. Yes, I know, there is a Giant who lives up there in the clouds. And in the original telling, the Giant killed Jack's dad and took his money. So the Giant is the antagonist, yada yada yada. But the moral of the tale and the morality within, as it has come to be told today, is far more fraught.

It is a tale especially fitting for the post-modern, sports-loving, capitalist society we live in today.
Jack, lazy and a bit dumb, living with his widowed mother and a skinny, dried-up, milk cow, is told to sell the cow for money so he and his mother can buy something to eat. Jack can't even get that right and instead, gets conned into taking five "magic" beans in exchange for the cow. Business deal gone bad. The bean bubble burst. Today, he could just go file for bankruptcy, right Mr. Trump? Jack's mom throws the beans out of the window and tells him he's lucky she's malnourished or she would beat that ass.

But, lo! The next morning a giant beanstalk has grown where his mother threw the beans! Isn't it great being white in America? Organic urban farming is just the coolest. Jack decides to climb up the beanstalk and see if there are any new media ventures he can get in on. Or maybe a green initiative. And whaddya know, there is a castle with a golden harp and a hen that lays goddamned golden eggs! Plastics, Ben. PLASTICS.

So Jack avoids the giant, steals the hen and descends back down the beanstalk to show his mother how awesome he is.
"We can eat gold omelets now, mom!"
"Or we can sell the gold, you friggin' numbskull. Thank GOD your father is dead."

Eventually, Jack wants to go up the beanstalk again. Probably because he got involved in an illegal cockfighting ring and the hen got killed. So, he heads back up and while the giant is sleeping, he steals his silver and gold. He gives it to his mother, hoping she won't notice the missing hen.
"Here Ma, look at all this scrilla!"
"Great, go put it in the bank."
"Actually, I'm going to invest half in a contruction company that builds over-sized mini-mansions on acres of nutrient-rich farmland. The other half is going straight into Collateralized Debt Obligations. They are asset-backed, so they CAN'T LOSE!"

Well, a few years down the line, Jack's broke and he has to head back up the beanstalk and steal the giant's gold harp. He does and in the only truly intelligent move he makes, he chops down the beanstalk and the giant falls to his death. Jack can no longer plunder the castle of its riches, but now must live within the means that he has on the ground. And he promises his mother he won't be such a douche anymore.

The End.

Now this is by no means a straightforward analogy between Butler and Jack. Nothing about Butler Basketball suggests indolence, hubris, rashness or immaturity. But the notion that in order to finally get somewhere, the goal as it were, we might have to travel down a bumpy road full of potholes and mudpuddles, with funhouse mirrors lining the shoulder, is apt. In this case, the idea that past success can breed new and more difficult challenges is particularly useful.

Jack tastes great success, but also finds himself a victim of his own cravings for more success. He has to finally realize who he is and live within those parameters. He is continuously tempted by the beanstalk and the riches that await him above, but only when he becomes content with life below is the story allowed to end happily.

Matt Howard, who could've gone to IU or Purdue, chose the place he felt most comfortable and did just about as well as anyone could on the floor and in the classroom. THE Academic All-American of 2010-2011. How's things in B-Town, fellers?

Shelvin Mack went to a school where he would be featured and get to play a lot, even if it wasn't quite in the national spotlight. And if he gets a chance to murder the Wildcats, I'm selling every CD I own, plus a few Star Wars figures and putting all them clams on the Dogs.

I'll let you fill in the comparisons between Butler's coaches of the past and one Brad Stevens. Perhaps Brad will end up like Jack, Barry, Thad, and Todd and decide that magic beans are pretty cool and that Beanstalkland sounds pretty bitchin'. But I hope, mainly as a selfish fan, that he cuts down the beanstalk.

The NCAA tourney itself is a lumbering giant. One that seems to favor the big-money conferences in the face of damning evidence that the overall caliber of mid-level college programs has improved. Jay Bilas believes that the top-level college teams have actually gotten worse this year. He's a respected analyst (Dickie V. *eardrumsbleed* thinks Mr. Bilas should be the Tourney "Commissioner") and I'm sure one could juggle statistics to show that he's right. Hey, not a single number one seed advanced to the Final Four! Doesn't that mean that the #1's weren't all that good?

I think this might be an Ockham's moment, where we all say, "No, everybody else has just gotten better."

Kids are bigger, faster, stronger, better-trained and coached, across the board. The elite players, though amazingly talented, still have a ceiling. But the decent players, the top quartile, have gotten immensely better. And on days when the elites aren't pitch-perfect, the teams right below them will cut the beanstalk right out from under them. It's time for somebody to prove that point. I hope that those Bulldogs over on 49th Street are the tricky little sons of bitches who do it.

Elite Hate - Bulter v. Florida 2011

This time it's personal. Third time is a charm. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera...

I'm going for something else, something more visceral and full of bile. I want a triumph that is merciless, a victory achieved by the letting of blood. As Dolph Lundgren once said about the former champ Apollo Creed, "If he dies, he dies." At the end of tonight's game, if Billy Donovan's bunch is weeping on the court, so be it. Matt Howard should come out steely-eyed and say, "I must break you." I want Florida to suffer.

Of course, Drago loses, and the Russkies wind up chanting "Rocky, Rocky,"  so using the villain from Rocky IV as an examplar is a wee bit flawed.

Indeed, this kind of unchecked hatred from a fan is hardly healthy or helpful. The most rabid and over-zealous fanbases are usually the ones who find themselves suffering at the end of the contest, victims of their own irrational vicarious experience. Think of fans in Philadelphia, only recently finding a salve in the Phillies world series triumph, Boston morons who still claim to be "tahrchared" despite having four of the best franchises in spahrts over the last decade, the Duke fans after Arizona came out and assassinated them on Friday.

The foam-at-the-mouth exuberance of these fans, so perturbing to the rest of us, is also the fuel for schadenfreude when their teams fail. 18-1 in 2007? Helmet catch? Sweet ambrosia to everyone not living in the Upper Northeast.

Likewise, I imagine that harboring such unabated animus for years is probably not healthy for a basketball program. Though many personnel in the Butler program were around for Butler's wrenching losses to Florida in 2000 and 2007, the institutional philosophy of Butler basketball would seem to suggest that using bloodthirsty revenge as motivation to win is not exactly part of the Hinkle tradition. And while my gut tells me that "The Butler Way" is just a little bit prissy and ivory towerish, my brain tells my guts, "Just look at the scoreboard, dumbass."

And truly, I should know better. Because though I grew up watching an endless number of IU games, and the 1987 NCAA championship is still one of the more lasting memories of my childhood, I have seen far more Butler games in person. And over the last decade I have watched and listened to fivefold more Butler games than IU. I loved IU's 1992 & 2002 NCAA runs, tournament runs that ended in heartbreak of their own, but Butler's two losses to Florida were even more anguishing. Those losses, the first on a last second shot by Mike Miller, the second in a game defined by the referees' refusal to call a foul on the Florida big men, left a taste in my mouth that was even more acrid and full of lasting bitterness than last year's Duke game. At least in the Duke game, Butler had a chance. They were inches away from winning on a last-second prayer; they didn't get jobbed by the refs or stomach-punched by lady luck like in the Florida games.

Despite real or perceived imbalances in officiating and weighted scales of fate, Butler trudged on, racking up wins, playing full-throttle defense, and doing it despite lacking the bloated coffers of BCS schools. And the progress of the Butler program has not been predicated on quick-fixes or pandering to fans and alumni with glamorous recruits.

Instead, it has been achieved by hiring people and coaches who are exceptional basketball strategists, able to create situations that allow good players to achieve great things. "The Butler Way," however dorky and corporate-sales-goal-oriented it may sound, works. It gets players to know and understand their roles and to value team success above all. A.J. Graves and Mike Green graduated and took with them a wealth of experience and a truckload of moxy. Butler just got better. They lost Gordon Hayward to the down-side of high achievement. Still, they continued to win. Without bluster, without spouting the bullshit platitudes of athletes worldwide-- "Nobody believed in us," "We just wanted it more"-- and the other mindless palaver that issues from the mouths of big-time sports stars.

So I will find moderation in my anger. I will not hate. I will cheer for Butler's success and that alone. The opponent does not matter. The only thing I will think of is my hope that the team from down the street gets to play next weekend. In the end, the scoreboard will be the ultimate arbiter and none of my rancor and enmity will do the slightest bit of good...

Al Horford though, and pardon my French, he can fuck off.

Butler v. Florida 2007 - Horford "backs down" Crone.

Winning or Not Losing

Butler won. In spite of, or as a result of my Swiftian exhortations? I don't know. All I know is that my son, keen little pitcher with big ears that he is, when I asked what he thought about Butler winning, said, "I'm speechless. I don't know what to say." He heard this phrase from someone at my parents' house, either my mother or Bob Proctor. Nevertheless, he knew that we were all hooting and hollering about something rather unexpected and unprecedented and he brought out the line on cue. I almost swerved off the road.

In five days, Butler will play a semi-final game against Michigan State in Lucas Oil Stadium, Indianapolis, Indiana. And here, in the seemingly wonderful serendipity of the location, lies the only impediment to their winning the whole dang thing. It is not their lack of relative size compared to other teams. It is not that MSU and West Virginia are spectacular rebounding teams, or that Duke has three NBA players in its starting lineup. The home city advantage is actually a very sharp, double-edged sword for these Bulldogs, because no matter what the result this weekend, these Bulldogs cannot lose.

They may get beaten by twenty-points on the scoreboard, but in the end they are winners. Gordon Hayward, Shelvin Mack, Ron Nored, Matt Howard, Willie Veasly, and all their teammates will be conquering heroes whether they win or lose. In the eyes of Indiana residents and the country at-large, they are the underdogs who made it to the Final Four. Everything else is gravy on the taters. So Brad Stevens' lone challenge is not game-planning for the Spartans and crazy-good coach Tom Izzo, rather it is to get his team to fear contentedness and satisfaction.

Even the most competitive sumbiches could get pretty swelled up and slow if they came back home at 4 in the morning to screaming, delirious crowds. And if they are anything, these Bulldogs are competitive. But fighting against the insidious mindset that they have "already won" has to be tough for player and coach alike.

Forgive me, I could ramble on about these less-than-concrete ideas for too long. My hope is this, Butler goes out looking for blood. Elbows to the neck, heel-kicks when defending in the low blocks, rabbit punches to the kidneys. No holds barred. Use every flipping foul they give you and get ready to take a punch and shoot the technical afterwords. Butler may be a feel-good story but their opponents will give them no quarter. They should be ready to do the same.

Go out and try to win, because they already can't lose.

Underrated H - Hinkle Huskers

Please, whatever you do, you faithful readers out there in the interlands, do NOT root for Butler. If you are not a Butler Alum or a resident of the Butler-Tarkington/MKNA neighborhoods of Indianapolis, do not make this team the spunky underdog you are going to pull for. If you have never been to Hinkle Fieldhouse to see a game, don't know who Barry Collier is, haven't heard of A.J. Graves, Mike Green, Rylan Hainje, Joel Cornette, Darnell Archey, Jon Neuhouser, Jermaine Guice, or Darin Archbold, STAY THE EFF AWAY FROM THIS TEAM BECAUSE YOU WILL RUIN THEM.

I say this only kind of jokingly, because for the last twenty years Butler has defined the rise of the Mid-Major in college basketball, and they've done so, in part, by always being slightly underrated. In the early 90's, I went to way too many Butler games when I should have been doing Chemistry homework or trying to get dates with girls. However, this wasn't foolish escapism. The fact was that Butler was putting high-caliber basketball on display every time they hit the floor of hallowed Hinkle. It wasn't until 1997 that they finally made an NCAA tournament for the first time since old man Hinkle was at the helm; they were a casualty of an exceptionally competitive conference and conference tourney in the MCC and Horizon. However, I remember the level of play exhibited from 1991-1996 and it was indistinguishable from some of the middle rung Big Ten and Big East schools. And of course, within a few years of their first NCAA shot, Butler made a run at knocking off highly-ranked Florida, a feat they would repeat in 2007 when they nearly derailed the Gators who were on their way to a second consecutive championship.

Despite this success, Butler still doesn't sell out every home game. And they play their home games in the stadium where Hoosiers was filmed for jeebus' sake. Somehow this all helps them. Butler rosters are usually composed of a bunch of kids who wouldn't start on ACC, SEC or Big Ten teams because they aren't quite selfish or flashy enough. AJ Graves would've gotten clean-up minutes at IU. Mike Green transferred from a small Philadelphia school and when he got to Butler played like he was trying destroy every "big-time" program who passed on him. He made every player on Butler's team better and played harder and stronger than guys a foot taller than him. Darnell Archey came to Butler and showed everyone else in basketball what consistency and dedication really was. He hit 85 free-throws in a row at one point in the season. And still, the bleachers in the top of the Fieldhouse aren't always full.

During a heated game against the Evansville Aces in 1991, I was sitting above the Butler goal watching the action unfold. The game was close and the star players, Parrish Casebier for Evansville and Darin Archbold for Butler, were going at it, hammer and tongs. On this particular play, Casebier, wearing the metaphorical black hat, wound up guarding Archbold. Archbold had a killer jumper and a nose for the open space where shots develop--a skill best honed, not through practice with coaches and teammates, but by spending hour upon hour in open gyms with aggressive middle-aged guys who hip-check you every time you try to curl around a screen. You don't call fouls because they'll just call you a pussy under their breath and hit you with a sweaty hamboned elbow in the chest the next time down. Instead, you find the space and you stick the jumper right in their face and then swat the shit out of their lay-up when they attempt to exact some ill-advised revenge.

But I digress. Casebier saved his best stuff for Butler. He was a slick kid, with a bowling ball physique and a nasty attitude. He would talk trash all game and light up anybody who gave him too much room. He would also defend with his beer-belly, which worked because he was still faster than everyone else, despite his layer of insulation. The memory I have of this moment is short and sweet and quintessential Butler basketball. Archbold took a pass and dribbled around a high screen, Casebier switched to him and stuck his tummy into Archbold's hip. Archbold drove toward the baseline and elevated about eight feet from the hoop, with Casebier riding him the whole time, and cooly called out "backboard" as he banked in his shot off the glass while the ref blew his whistle.


In that "backboard," I heard the voice of every kid who I ever played against in my backyard. And Butler has always been made up of the best backyard players. The guys who throw no-look bounce passes, not because it makes them look good, but because their teammates wouldn't dare miss the lay-up after such a great pass. The guys who learned how to bank it from eighteen feet because the rim was just tight enough that a slightly off-center shot would thunk off the iron, as opposed to trickling through as the shot would on a more forgiving, professional rim.

Butler has always been in my backyard. And I feel guilty for not going to enough games, even though I've been to quite a few. So I know the rest of my friends, neighbors, and peers, particularly those who profess to be Hoosiers and basketball fans, must feel extra dopey every March when the Bulldogs make their annual stand against the Goliaths of the basketball world. And therefore, I once again plead with you: do not make this Saturday the night you turn Butler into your prize pony instead of your rented mule. They have been underrated for going on twenty years now. And it works for them. They thrive on it. The minute all us yahoos who didn't really pay attention to which one was Howard and which one was Hayward start cheering and dipping chips in Butler's honor, they lose that advantage. So go cut your grass or plant your tomatoes. But don't play pretend Butler fan.



Save that for next Saturday...