Looking for Some Deer to Fear

Another old favorite is challenging for a title after numerous set backs. Following surprisingly early exits from the post-season after amassing the league's best record two years running, the Milwaukee Bucks have re-grouped and face the Phoenix Suns for the 2020/21 NBA championship.

Much has been made of the fact it's their first crack at a championship since 1974, five years after the selection of Lew Alcindor (you probably know him as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar) in the 1969 draft instantly catapulted the expansion Bucks into contention in just their second season.

(It didn't hurt they unearthed a future Hall of Famer—small forward Bob Dandridge—deep in the fourth round of the same draft.)

The young team needed a stabilizing veteran, and the then-Cincinnati Royals (now the Sacramento Kings) gifted Oscar Robertson to the Bucks in exchange for Flynn Robinson and Charlie Paulk.

While Robinson was a decent combo guard for a handful of seasons, Paulk was out of the NBA just two years later. Given how lopsided the trade was, it's pretty obvious that with Robertson in his thirties and still without a ring and the Royals lapsing into mediocrity, it was a kindness extended to the all-time great for ten seasons of jaw-dropping basketball.

After Alcindor/Jabbar was traded to the Lakers following the 1974/75 season, the Bucks—not surprisingly—declined. But the rebuild was a very short one. Don Nelson arrived for the 1977/78 season and the Bucks were on their way.

Point guard Brian Winters (obtained in the Jabbar trade) had emerged along with forward Marques Johnson to lead the new look Bucks. Guard Quinn Buckner and forward Junior Bridgeman (also obtained in the Jabbar trade) added valuable support off the bench and the Bucks found themselves in the post-season.

They advanced to the second round, where it took the Denver Nuggets seven games to conquer the young'uns.

After a brief stumble in 1978/79 the Bucks returned the following year bolstered by first-round draft choice Sidney Moncrief, the acquisition of veteran center Bob Lanier and the blossoming of Bridgeman into a full-fledged starter.

The addition of Lanier was perfect for a coach who prized spacing and ball movement. His Bucks never had a single dominant scorer, but several who could move the ball around and keep defenses guessing.

And Moncrief became a brilliant guard and just one in a string of Bucks guards known for their suffocating defense.

Deft trades and savvy drafting became hallmarks of the Nelson era and the primary reasons for their ongoing success.

When Lanier finally announced his retirement it took only a single season for Nelson to land his replacement, the similarly talented Jack Sikma.

And while Winters had been a capable point guard, the addition of Paul Pressy in the '82 draft was a definite upgrade. As was the trade of aging forwards Bridgeman and Johnson in September of 1984 for Terry Cummings and two guards yet to fulfill their promise: Craig Hodges and Ricky Pierce.

Pierce in particular was able to step-up and fill the void left when Moncrief's knees began to fail him prematurely.

Despite another brief trip to the playoffs (they lost the semis in seven to the Seattle Supersonics), they had captured the first of what would be seven straight divisional crowns and set the foundation for what would be a decade of sustained success.

1979/80 was also the first in what would be a dozen consecutive post-season appearances and these Nelson-coached teams would win a minimum of fifty games for each of the next seven years.

But like so many storied contenders, their greatest weakness was timing. The Bucks ascended just as the Larry Bird-Robert Parrish-Kevin McHale Boston Celtics were taking ownership of the Eastern Conference. And on the rare occasions when the Celtics weren't dominating, it was the Philadelphia 76ers of Julius Irving, Moses Malone and Maurice Cheeks.

In fact, those Sixers knocked the Bucks out of the playoffs four of the next five seasons. And when the Bucks got past Philadelphia, it was only to face those fearsome Celtics. 

Like I said, timing.

In fact, in the Bucks three visits to the Eastern Conference Finals in '83, '84 and '86, they lost to the eventual NBA Champion each time.

In the ensuing three decades the Bucks had some nice players and even made the Eastern Conference Finals in 2001 with a team built around Ray Allen, Glenn Robinson and Sam Cassell.

But it couldn't continue. Not until Giannis Antetokounmpo showed up, anyway.

With the Bucks having fallen behind in each of their previous two series, they now have done so again. The Suns are firing on all cylinders and their guards are plainly outplaying the Bucks' pair. Stir in the suddenly-elevated play of Deandre Ayton and fearing the deer suddenly takes a bit of effort.

Is it presumptuous to call tonight's game a must-win?

 

It's That Voodoo That Tom Do

Way before I did, Tom Ricketts realized he had an expectations problem. Saddled with a civic institution of a baseball team and its fan's elevated expectations, he faced a quandary: how do I achieve fiscal austerity, maximize my rate of return and yet convince the public I am vested in this team and its ongoing success?

Distressed that the cash tsunami he anticipated when he purchased the Cubs had yet to materialize, Tom had become irritable. And the public pressure that accompanied the re-signing of three stalwarts, which meant three more expensive long-term contracts that only guaranteed he'd be on the hook for a lot of money, was only making things worse.

Tom thought. And thought. He consulted with consultants. He lost himself in the creation and examination of scenarios. It would be a public relations disaster to trade Anthony Rizzo, Kris Bryant and Javier Baez. As it would to let them leave via free-agency.

And yet, hadn't he spent enough money?

How could he duck re-signing the threesome (one of whom was on the wrong side of thirty, the other injury-prone and the third having seemingly peaked by the age of twenty-eight) without being crucified by Cub fans and the media? In what kind of environment could let his his three stars go without giving the faithful cause to take-up pitchforks and torches?

“Ah-ha! I've got it! I'll make them bad! I'll have Hoyer gut the pitching staff! We can let Jon Lester and Jose Quintana and Tyler Chatwood go to free-agency and trade Yu Darvish! Hell, he's a Cy Young contender and he's under contract! And while Kyle Hendricks is pretty damn good, there's no way he can carry a team!

And best of all, we have no prospects on the farm! It's genius! I can dump salaries today and it'll pave the way to saving even more tomorrow! No wonder I'm a billionaire! And the fans? As soon as those bi-polar crybabies get a load of the new Cubs they won't give a crap what happens!”

And so it was done. The team momentarily veered off-course in May, but is now back to exploring the multitudinous varieties of futility. A rejuvenated Craig Kimbrel is playing like he didn't get the memo, but with the trade deadline just three-weeks and change away, he won't be a problem for long.

Collectively at their career lows, it will be interesting to see what Rizzo, Bryant and Baez fetch—not that it matters.

The heavens will part and ol' Tom will soon be rolling in it. He knows, like we all know, that when it comes to Wrigley Field and the Cubs, the product on the field is less-important than where they play. And he can make money far more cheaply than he would fielding a contender.

Besides, with a championship in the bank, he's set for the next century.

Right?

Stuck in the Middle With...me?

I had no idea the block-programming I encountered via my cable provider would one day double as a weather model. If I had, I might not have fired them. Alas, AT&T bills escalate like Illinois property taxes, putting the kabosh on that teachable moment.

But even minus the ongoing example their lesson remains.

Last winter gave all appearances of being a mild affair, with precious little of the white stuff falling through the twenty-fourth of January. In my naivete I even began to entertain thoughts of green grass and soft breezes. Leaves on trees. Songbirds.

But the same block-programming which had gifted me with days full of That '70s Show and Wicked Tuna and the always-delightful Housewives franchise asserted itself in a new arena—weather. The one-flavor-at-a-time aesthetic was about to deliver a punishing new blow.

It snowed. Then it snowed some more. And then it snowed still-more. A forty-three year-old record for consecutive days of measurable snowfall nearly fell as well, but was merely tied. Long story short, we received a winter's worth of snow in a single month.

The concentration was unprecedented.

Then spring arrived. And for the first time since 2017, May didn't generate record amounts of rain. But relief is discouraged in Illinois, and by June my portion of the state was immersed in a drought.

Beige grass, trees stressed and shedding leaves—the whole deal.

But last Wednesday it finally rained. Then it rained on Thursday. And on Friday. Saturday. Monday. Tuesday. And is forecast for today as well. (Though appropriately gloomy, Sunday was somehow exempted.)

It seems even the Cubs, in a fresh take on the eternal nature or nurture question, have adopted the dynamic.

They sucked in April, setting franchise records for hitting futility. And when you consider the team began play in 1876 in the so-called “deadball” era, well, it appeared the deadball era wasn't quite as dead as we thought.

They got their groove on in May, going 19 and 8 and outscored the opposition 131 to 85—a margin of nearly two runs a game. Oh my god! These guys are the 1939 Yankees reincarnated!

Ugh-huh. Sure.

June has seen a return to April's form (if their play can even be dignified by such a term), as they have gone 12 and 15 and averaged a meager 3.3 runs per game, which is even worse than April's showing.

It has grown exponentially worse since the fourteenth. From that point, the Cubs have terrorized Major League Baseball, winning 4 of their last 15 and crossing home plate 28 times in those 15 games. (If you're as mathematically-gifted as I, you'll notice that isn't even two runs a game.)

It is wearying. Sorry, Mr. Hoyer.

Stir in lingering pandemic fatigue, inflation, shortages, random and widespread gun violence and our simmering political and societal divides and life feels pretty damn weird. Out of control. Like a frozen pizza that goes from undercooked to burnt in milliseconds. 

What the _____? Are extremes the new normal?

It must now be asked: Could the neurological condition known as bi-polar actually be a lifestyle?

Rot Never Sleeps

Newspapers all over the country are in trouble. In our slavish desire for speed, we consume news via social media. Not because it's more in-depth or more accurate, but because it's faster.

It's also unvetted. Unconsidered. Full of errors. And reliant on questionable sources. But yes, it is faster.

Playing the dragging-my-heels Luddite while the rest of the world rockets off into supersonic cyberspace is an act fraught with futility. I am not going to change a thing. The world is going to do what the world is going to do.

Sigh.

Along with internal combustion engines, record stores, grilling with charcoal, movie theaters and book stores, newspapers face a questionable future. Those that haven't already merged or consolidated are being devoured by what I like to refer to as vulture capitalists.

Like the Chicago Tribune, currently being ingested by Alden Global Capital.

Armed with vast reserves of cash, funds like Alden swoop in, buy a controlling interest and proceed to dismantle its target like car thieves in a chop shop. They sell off the components with the expectation the ala carte sale will generate more revenue than a bundled one.

It its wake are the employees—usually left unemployed with little in the way of severance or pensions. 

I'm no businessman, but I believe had the Tribune not gone public and consequently made itself vulnerable to this parasite, it would have survived. It was a formidable newspaper with a devoted readership.

Not so long ago, it would take me a morning and a good part of the afternoon to plow through the Sunday edition. It was stuffed with local and international news of every stripe, reported by a robust network of bureaus and correspondents stationed all over the world.

Music, art, film, books, sports, politics, transportation, business and any kind of conceivable feature all received similar attention. It was the world at your fingertips, strained through a now-irrelevant filter of fact-checking and confirmation.

An old saw of journalism went “If your mother says she loves you, check it out.” You know—like it was going to be on Fox News or social media or something. Newspapers like the Tribune were a gathering place, a shared link between people. They provided a sense of community.

In their place is a hopelessly fragmented media landscape playing to impossibly divergent interests. We have retreated into hyper-demographic social media bubbles which insist anyone who doesn't fit the profile is not to be trusted.

To many of you I'm just a tiresome old man bemoaning the loss of another cultural touchstone. But I'm thinking it's highly probable I'm correct about the coarse and merciless future we're building, and what role this event plays in it. 

So. John Kass, Dahleen Glanton, Heidi Stevens, Mary Schmich and Eric Zorn are gone. Alden Global Capital has paid them to go away. On the surface? A dent in a local newspaper's appeal. But taking the longer view, it is another step forward in our inevitable construction of the Tower of Babel.

It is so very, very sad. But at least Alden Global Capital will get rich(er). 

And isn't that we're all about?

Oi Vey!

Deeply involved in cataloging my enormous collection of vinyl, cassettes and compact disc for possible sale, I have been negligent in posting to my blog, The Square Peg.

To those who make it a habit to stop by, please accept my apologies. Your readership is deeply appreciated and I hope The Square Peg has sparked a smile, a laugh or even the comfort of a shared thought or opinion.

I will return to regular posting as soon as I am able.

Until then, let me extend belated birthday greetings to my favorite living rhythm and blues singer, Eddie Levert of the O'Jays.

The esteemed Mr. Levert turned 79 yesterday.

Roger Benitez

Like you, my sleep is often compromised by fears that America's law-abiding gun owners are having their right to bear arms thoughtlessly and needlessly trampled upon by overcautious state legislatures who persist in the idea that the way to combat America's gun violence epidemic is to limit their availability.

That's just silly, right?

But thanks to the actions of the great and good Roger Benitez (a U.S. District Judge in San Diego), I might sleep a little better tonight.

You see, Benitez overturned a thirty year-old ban on assault weapons in California, meaning that the sad, the angry and the fearful who must feather their nests with as many guns as they are capable of purchasing will be able to do so.

Capriciously likening assault weapons to Swiss army knives, Benitez writes “...the popular AR-15 rifle is a perfect combination of home defense weapon and homeland defense equipment. Good for both home and battle.”

Exactly what battle are you referring to, Rog? The one right-wing militias collectively masturbate over in which they slaughter any demographic not male, white and Republican?

(It should be noted, gentlemen, that Ann Colter, Kellyanne Conway and Laura Ingraham will be unavailable for repopulation efforts owing to their age.)

You don't have to listen very hard to hear echoes of the former President's speech from January 6^th, do you? It's another lightly-coded reference to destroying a democracy Republicans have no chance of competing in and replacing it with a totalitarian dictatorship as quickly as possible.

Add to it the fact his ruling was issued on National Gun Violence Awareness Day and the whole thing really begins to smell. You also don't have to listen very hard to hear the “Nyah nyah!” emanating from the mouths of oppressed California gun-owners, either.

Benitez lapses into de-rigueur conservative criticism, stating that the ban has not eliminated mass shootings nor prevented attacks on law enforcement officers. I'm not sure the latter was the reason for enacting it, but I'm positive that making it harder for assault weapons to find their way into human hands was at the ban's heart.

And we won't ever know how many assault weapons didn't find homes because of it, will we?

Judge? Let me explain something to you: the ban is like the motion sensor in your backyard or the dead bolt lock on your front door. Neither is guaranteed to prevent a break-in or theft, but to deter would-be criminals. Which is why they're called deterrents.

Look at it this way: locked cars and locked homes are routinely broken into. Given locks failure at eliminating property crime, should we remove them?

Of course not.

Automotive brakes (even those enhanced with ABS) have likewise failed to eliminate vehicular collisions. Do we call them failures too, throw up our hands and say to hell with them?

Of course not.

Because we will never know how many incidents didn't happen because of their presence.

(OMG. Am I really employing reason to address a (presumed) Republican? And does that mean I get 'idiot' tattooed on my forehead?)

Like a coal mine fire, it's easy to overlook the still-simmering rage Republicans harbor over their “lost” election. (If Democrats are as good at stealing elections as Republicans are at gerrymandering and button-pushing, why didn't Democrats steal the House and Senate, as well?)

Given to herd behavior, the Republican electorate surrenders to groupthink even faster than they absorb the latest round of propaganda splashed all over Fox News. Their craven puppetmasters are a cornered felon, who understand it's either kill or die. Prison is not an option.

I once yearned for post-pandemic relief, yet it seems the pandemic and its stressors are fated to give way to a struggle between those who wish to preserve democracy and those who wish to crush it.

I'm so glad I'm not twenty-one.

Charlie's Good Tonight, Innit He?

Happy Birthday, Charlie.

Thanks for all those drum licks. They keep me in time.

You kick my butt like Earl Palmer.

 (For the rest of you, hoping the source of this post's title is common knowledge.)