Of Monsters and Men

Apologies to the Icelandic band of the same name, but I could not locate a more-appropriate title for this post than, well, the name of your estimable band. I apologize for any and all confusion.

It's brutal. Another sexual assault involving moneyed and privileged organizations was swept under the rug in service of their ongoing reputations and revenue streams.

I speak of the Chicago Blackhawks denial and cover-up of events dating from May, 2010, where a Blackhawks employee (Brad Aldrich) assaulted a young prospect (Kyle Beach) in the former's apartment.

We've seen this time and again. The victim's complaints are ignored and then buried in the hopes they will turn to dust and just blow away. Be it the Catholic church, Penn State University, Gymnastics USA or a billionaire Wall Street financier, the wealthy and the powerful are allowed to continue in their lives without reproach.

The victims, who rarely enjoy those luxuries, get crushed underfoot. How dare they intrude on these Important and Sacrosanct lives!

But there is a rabbit and the hare dynamic at work here. Yes, wealth draws the curtains very quickly and is expert at getting out in front of these scenarios. But the creaking wheels of justice thankfully catch up, and while not exactly swift, justice is nevertheless served.

And the entities that engaged in the cover-up are left shamed; attempting to pull-up their pants even as they stand on them.

While the Blackhawks have acted somewhat creditably in the wake of their internal investigation, let's not forget it took over a decade for them to do so. Let's also not forget that a code of silence was enacted and spread all the way up the chain of command—even after Aldrich wreaked sexual havoc on still-more victims.

Nope. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

It makes the recent resignations, terminations and the request to remove Aldrich's name from the 2010 Stanley Cup ring a bit hollow.

I'm not a hockey fan, and so can't withdrawal my fandom. Much less my season tickets. But the organization's shushing of this so that they might bask in the light of a championship without inhibition paints them as one with a very serious morality problem.

I only hope people don't forget. 

 

Crushing on Rahimi

Maybe it's because I'm a music nut. I enjoy it because I'm sensitive to sound, and the variety of sounds found in music push my buttons in a very pleasing and engaging way. So it follows that certain human voices would resonate with me as well.

This is reason number-one I'm crushing on Leila Rahimi. I love her voice.

On the surface, this appears to be a rather flimsy foundation on which to base a crush. Tradition requires that it be rooted in some aspect of their personality or physical appearance, and yet with no actual contact with Ms. Rahimi to speak of, I must content myself with the radio show she shares with Dan Bernstein.

And it is there that I am alternately delighted, enchanted and yes—seduced by the dulcet tones of her voice.

There's a trace of a rasp which connotes authenticity and genuineness. Inflections that suggest engagement and passion. Together, they are indicative of a buoyant personality deeply connected to the world (or at least the sports) around her.

Is this not someone you'd love to watch a Bulls' game with?

Which isn't to overlook her expansive vocabulary. It bespeaks a powerful and agile intellect able to articulate any thought passing through her cerebellum. For better or for worse, she is as opinionated as you are.

There's definitely some acuity going on here.

And finally there is the laugh. Ebullient. Hearty. All-in. It is a truly great laugh. It's the sort you can't hear without smiling.

Sigh.

Alas, I am a faceless listener. A number in a ratings report. And it must be said that to some extent, she is a performer, performing.

How does she sound calling in an order to her favorite pizzeria? Or reporting a cable outage to her provider? Or telling her (presumed) significant other to stop finishing-off the Cheetos? Or letting wet laundry to molder in the washing machine?

Ah, but real life doesn't intrude upon crushes, does it? Crushes exist in a theoretical world of romantic perfection. There are no fumbled words. No awkward silences. No missed cues. No disagreement.

All concerned get everything they want. And everything they need. All the time. Does it get any better than that?

No.

And yet, I long for the opportunity to find out. What fools we mortals be.

 

Truth Decay

I only wish the most detestable thing I ever had to do for a job was get a shot. Or share my vaccination status. Or get tested for COVID twice a week.

Apparently it is for Chicago police officers and many of the city's municipal employees. Even with their lavish pensions and hearty salaries, they are outraged by Mayor Lightfoot's COVID vaccine mandate and have filed suit against the city.

Gulp.

I had to take all manner of shit while employed as a cashier for Home Depot during the Great Recession. While the lowest-paid employees in the store, the position also featured its most-demanding metrics. They were a circular firing squad of contradictory and mutually-exclusive demands.

For instance, the 'Security' metric required me to root through a contractor's flatbed cart to search for saw blades and silver solder hidden between bags of cement mix and boxes of shingles while simultaneously delighting them with radiant customer service.

Oh, and this needed to be done very quickly. Because beyond meeting the 'Friendly and courteous' metric I needed to fulfill the 'Speed of checkout' one, too. Since they were already put-off by the assumption of theft we certainly didn't want them hanging around any longer than necessary, did we?

“Thank you for shopping at Home Depot and have a great day!”

One example of the surly gentlemen who frequented our store were the pair who commented “Wish I could stand around with my hands in my pockets all day” as they passed my register.

First off, my hands weren't in my pockets. And secondly, store policy required me to stand at the head of the aisle when I wasn't actively processing a customer and could theoretically flag down anyone ready to check-out.

As an inveterate customer service professional and an endlessly helpful soul, I couldn't let this customer's wish go unfulfilled. Which is why I responded “You can! At Home Depot dot com slash jobs!”

My insouciance wasn't taken in the spirit in which it was offered and the toxic twins leveled a complaint about me to persons unknown. Not only did I hear from my department manager but the store manager as well.

After listening to their spiels about the importance of our customers, I told them I didn't care who the complainants were—I wasn't going to be a punching bag for our customers merely because I had a Home Depot apron on.

Mystifyingly, I neglected to thank them for their support.

The memory smolders, still.

You'll excuse me if I can't quite recall the details of my pension and other benefits because there weren't any. I did mention I earned $8.40 an hour, right? And that my hours were strictly limited to spare Home Depot the ruinous financials presented by full-time employees?

Yeah.

But at least I wasn't required to get a shot.

So yes, my heart bleeds for Chicago's cops and the scores of municipal employees being made to bear the outrage of having to inoculate oneself during a pandemic. It's like being made to exit a burning building, is it not?

Lead Fraternal Order of Police troll John Catanzara, whose sole talent in life is intransigence, is threatening a massive call-in by Chicago's finest should Mayor Lightfoot follow through on the expectations outlined in her mandate.

Catanzara's mental acuity is on display when, after his predecessor's death from COVID last week, he refused to acknowledge the existence of the virus or the threat it presents to the members of his union.

(It is interesting to note that despite his public anti-vaxxer stance, Catanzara is vaccinated. And exactly what do the chumps who elected him think of that?)

It is again on display when the fact is made public that more cops have died from COVID than from all Black Lives Matter protests combined. (It isn't even close.) But is COVID a threat? Should cops vaccinate? Nope.

I'm reminded of Monty Python's Argument Clinic, wherein Terry Jones attempts to explain to John Cleese that “...an argument is a connected series of statements to establish a definite proposition”, to which Cleese answers “Not it isn't.”

Exasperated, Jones goes on to complain that this isn't an argument—it's contradiction. Cleese's response? “No it isn't.”

But in the end this isn't really about masks and vaccines, is it?

Nope. It's the same dynamic playing out between President Biden and Mitch McConnell in Washington DC. It's about control. Republicans created this power-at-all-costs dynamic and it's about nothing more than resisting Democrats.

Slit your throat. Or the public's. We don't care. But don't ever accede to a Democrat!

With things like the greater good and public health thrown under the bus for a prolonged sibling rivalry more appropriate for the sandbox than our halls of government, it's tempting to feel the looming global warming cataclysm couldn't have come at a better time.

Sorry for the misanthropic streak, but there you go.

Consider Ass Kicked!

Wow. I don't know where to begin. I'm overwhelmed. Overstimulated. I. Am. Buzzed. (Which is probably why I set a personal-best on my morning constitutional today.) Like some other people I could name, I am feeling it.

So. The Chicago Sky concluded their playoff run yesterday afternoon. It was one which culminated in a stirring 80 – 74 victory over the Phoenix Mercury and a WNBA championship.

But it didn't go according to script.

The team I saw through the first the three quarters was one I haven't seen in a while. Perhaps a dozen missed lay-ups and point-blank shots. Threes lofted early in the shot clock with no one underneath to rebound. 

And considering they were shooting just eighteen-percent, there were lots of them.

Errant passes. Rushed passes. Sluggish defensive rotations. It was not pretty. But considering how fast the Sky had gone from zero to sixty these past weeks, it would be entirely understandable if they were feeling the heat of a white-hot spotlight.

Nevertheless, it served to mute the sold-out crowd. Their unmet expectations pooled behind them like water in a reservoir. The faces gathered at the Sky bench during time-outs were dour. Disappointed. This was not happening.

After being outshot and outscored in each of the first three quarters, the scoreboard read Mercury 63, Sky 54. Not an insurmountable margin, to be sure. But with so little evidence it would be, fans could be forgiven for steeling themselves against the possibility the Sky might not clinch this day. 

I know I was.

I'm not sure exactly when it changed.

In my happy haze, I remember Allie Quigley hitting several threes. Then it was Candace Parker's turn. A match had been lit. Fans expressed their pent-up delight. The arena was stirring.

Something was definitely afoot.

The revitalized Sky continued to score. Defend. Pass. To play like the team they had been throughout their wondrous run. It was one of Stefanie Dolson's shots from the paint that finally put them on top. The crowd erupted. Delirium was Wintrust Arena's new normal.

A Courtney Vandersloot jumper and and two free throws put the icing on the cake. The screaming and the cheering and the bedlam did not stop. So this was what it's like to be at a championship clincher!

I was beside myself, but in a healthy, non-multiple-personality-disorder kind of way. This couldn't be happening, could it? Not after those first three quarters? I checked the guy next to me. He was beaming. “Can you believe this?” he said. I shook my head “No.” I was smiling beneath my mask.

I raised my arms above my head and howled.

On the Mercury's final possession, Brittney Griner put up a three. It bounced off the rim and fell. Parker picked-off the rebound and dribbled up court. Only seconds stood between the Sky and a title.

The horn sounded. Disbelief. They had done it!

The realization that it was over was both a happy and sad one. I watched the players congregate at center court, where bits of gold and blue foil floated down from above. Hip-hop boomed over the PA. To (almost) quote David Bowie, I was floating in a most peculiar way.

At last I exited the arena. The late-afternoon sky was cloudless and brilliant blue. Perfect. I went for a walk to soak up whatever ambiance might be lying around. The Phoenix team bus was stationed at the southeast corner of the arena. Two players exited to applause from a pair of die-hard fans.

It was not acknowledged.

(I later learned that Griner, Diana Taurasi and Skylar Diggins had boycotted the post-game press conference. Their petulance reminded me of the Detroit Pistons and the 1991 Eastern Conference Finals, where Isiah Thomas and Bill Laimbeer (among others) skulked off the floor before the game four rout had even concluded. Is it possible Taurasi and the two Pistons are somehow related?)

Finally, I must give a shout-out to Dolson and starting center Azura Stevens. They endured the brunt of inexplicable calls against the Sky. To wit, Griner and Mercury forward Kia Vaughn appeared to body, shove and grab Stevens and Dolson with impunity, while the Sky centers were hit with fouls if they so much as perspired on their Phoenix counterparts.

Ditto an invisible offensive foul on Quigley. Huh? In one aspect at least, the WNBA has achieved parity with the NBA: its officiating is equally inconsistent and arbitrary. In the context of that officiating, yesterday's game was a horror show.

Okay. Enough.

I drove home in contented silence, happy for all concerned. I hope they keep this memory close for the remainder of their lives. It is so very, very special.

A New Leaf

At the risk of appearing unbearably sensitive to one group and unbearably pretentious to another, I am going to admit that yes, I read poetry. It is the literary equivalent of a chef's reduction sauce; language distilled to its purest essence.

At its best, every syllable, the very sound of the words, contributes to its message. Poems are a world of thought expressed in a few dozen lines.

So it was with great relish that I read this one, which appeared in Heidi Stevens' Balancing Act column in last Sunday's Chicago Tribune. It was written by Maggie Smith and is titled Rain, New Year's Eve.  

It couldn't be more perfect for a world (and a population) as battered and broken as ours.

   The rain is a broken

piano,

   playing the same note

over and over.

   My five-year-old said

that.

   Already she knows

loving the world

   means loving the

wobbles

   you can't shim, the

creaks you can't

   oil silent – the jerry-

rigged parts,

   MacGyvered with twine

and chewing gum.

   Let me love the cold

rain's plinking

   Let me love the world the

way I love

   my young son, not only

when

   he cups my face in his

sticky hands,

   but when, roughousing,

   he accidentally splits my

lip.

   Let me love the world

like a mother.

   Let me be tender when it

lets me down.

   Let me listen to the rain's

one note

   and hear a beginner's

song.

There's Something Happening Here...

On the surface, the season was a letdown. After the signing last May of two-time MVP and future Hall-of-Famer Candace Parker, you could say the sky was the limit. Armed with a pair of all-star guards in Courtney Vandersloot and Allie Quigley, the Sky seemed primed to make some serious noise.

But injuries to Quigley and Parker helped stunt what should have been a coming out party, and the Sky stuggled to a .500 record, finishing 16 – 16.

But as innummerable promotional campaigns have stated: That was then. This is now.

Edging into the playoffs as the number-six seed, the Sky defeated the Dallas Wings in a win-or-go-home contest 81 – 64. Considering Dallas went 14 – 18 during the regular season, was the number-seven seed and that the game was played in Chicago, well, it could almost qualify as a foregone conclusion.

The surprise came in round-two.

Facing the four-time WNBA champion Minnesota Lynx (22 – 10) in Minnesota, the Sky had a great big challenge in front of them.

They played tough in a see-saw battle until mid-way through the third quarter, when a series of fast-break opportunites broke the game open. Outscoring the Lynx 27 – 20 in the fourth-quarter, the Sky walked away with an 89 – 76 win.

Four players finished with between fourteen and nineteen points (Vandersloot, small forward Kahleah Copper, center Azura Stevens and reserve Diamond DeShields) while another (Quigley) ended with eleven.

And what of power forward Candace Parker? Eight points, three assists and four rebounds.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the beauty of it. Up against a team six games ahead of them in the standings and on their floor, the Sky beat the Lynx by thirteen with their most-prominent player suffering through a mediocre game.

Kaboom.

And the Sky have continued that onslaught against the Connecticut Sun.

The Sun ended their season on a fourteen-game tear to finish with the WNBA's best record at 26 - 6. Four of their starters were named to the All-WNBA Defensive first or second team. And the Sun owned the legue's best defense, finishing with a defensive rating of 91.7.

All the Sky have done is beat them in a double-overtime thriller that featured just the second triple-double in WNBA playoff history and then apply their own defensive clamps while pulling out a 86 – 83 victory yesterday afternoon in Chicago.

On the cusp of a WNBA Finals appearance for just the second time in franchise history, fans can be excused for looking forward. I've been following sports for half a century, and this team has every earmark of being a Cinderella.

They're peaking at just the right time after a season of stops and starts. With that season under their belts, they're gelling and surging and appear to have that magic combination of talent and grit.

Forcing fourth-quarter turnovers against the Sun and then watching as Vandersloot tore down court and fired the ball to Copper or Quigley or hit the shot herself was as thrilling as anything I've seen in professional sports lately.

Especially from a team with 'Chicago' on its chest.

I can't speak for other WNBA franchises, but seeing the Sky perform in an arena at seventy-percent of capacity was heartening. The NBA's poor cousin, the WNBA—however deserving—doesn't enjoy the wall-to-wall coverage and isn't the mass-marketed colossus its big brother is.

But like seeing a band on the verge of breaking through, yesterday's game was played in front of passionate fans not-at-all hesitant to vocalize their support. No, it wasn't a sell-out. Scalpers aren't salivating over game-four.

But the fans in attendance were genuine. Real. No one was there to be seen. (And if they were, there weren't enough ESPN cameras to capture their on-trend prescience.)

Something's happening here. The Sky are rocking the WNBA, and it is so very, very cool to witness. At the risk of sounding like some deranged BDSM submissive, I am going to beg these women to kick my ass. 

And kick it hard.