Some guy allegedly offered one of his testicles on CraigsList for Super Bowl tickets. C’mon. I know it’s a “ball” game, but this is carrying things too far. The guy is surely, dare we say, certifiably “nuts.” Or, since he’s offering only 1 of his, perhaps “a nut” would be better. And not for nothing, what person in possession of valuable Super Bowl tickets would want someone else’s testicle? I mean, I know about the practice of hanging replica bull testicles from vehicles, but really, a single human one?
I’ve often said that I have zero interest in meeting or befriending (even in my fantasies) artists whose work I admire. And that includes athletes, with a bullet. In fact, athletes are among the artists whose “art” productions I most admire and yet with whom I’d least like to become personally acquainted. Why should I? I’d only and inevitably be disappointed. The poet Christopher Isherwood put it so well: “No need to meet the duck just because you’ve enjoyed the foie gras.”
Exhibit umpteen comes from the L.A. Times obituary of J.D. Salinger, unquestionably a great writer, whose “Catcher In The Rye” was virtually a bible for generations of angst-ridden, rebellious teens. Turns out that, in addition to being obsessively reclusive and a bit of a dick in his personal life, former live-in lover Joyce Maynard revealed – and who could possibly have seen this coming? – “his absorption in homeopathy and his devotion to Reichian therapy. According to Maynard, Salinger also regularly induced himself to vomit after eating foods he deemed unhealthful and taught her to do the same.”
That doesn’t make him evil, and there are plenty of people into such things. But it does make him a crank, and I suspect that every great artist, whether a writer, painter, musician, dancer, actor, or athlete, is a crank or an eccentric – a self-centered eccentric – to a significant degree. Just speaking for myself, I’d rather enjoy the great art without ever meeting the whacko artist, and limit my involvement with cranks and eccentrics to myself, my family, and my friends.
Perhaps an even better analogy is a story that a rock groupie from the 1970’s told a writer for New York magazine decades ago. Seems she had a fixation on getting laid by Mick Jagger, and pursued that goal monomaniacally by becoming a groupie and shtupping pretty much every man involved with the rock scene. Every time she bedded a guy, she thought, “He’s good, but he’s no Mick Jagger.” After a few years, it happened. The Stones were in New York, and with her connections, she was in the entourage participating in the bacchanalian orgies at their hotel. One night, Jagger crooked his finger at her, led her to his bedroom, and the culmination of her fantasies came to fruition. So what was she thinking when Mick was playing hide the bratwurst with her? You guessed it: “He’s good, but he’s no Mick Jagger.”
And that’s the problem. NO great artist can ever be as great in person as the art he produces makes us think he should be. Why set oneself up for disappointment?
Exhibits A-Z: Terrell Owens, Esq. Trust Mr. Owens to stir the (chamber) pot yet again. He’s had his share of artistic contributions to the collective body of football art, to be sure. No surprise, that. Didn’t one of his spokeswomen once refer to him as “a man of his STATUE”? He’s apparently a living WORK of art! But what a piece of work he is.
No perceived lack of success in his career, no missed catch, no fumble, no failure to score a TD has EVER been TO’s fault. Not a single one. Every problem he’s ever had has been because he was paired with inferior QBs, who couldn’t or wouldn’t call his number, couldn’t get him the ball, etc., etc. Now he’s mouthing off about how he’d have set every single record had he just managed to be paired with Elway, Montana, Young, or [fill in the blank]. Oops, he actually DID have Young for a while at San Francisco, but hey, who’s counting?
He might even be right about that records thing, since he’s compiled some impressive stats anyway. But so what? If I had a billion dollars, I’d be a billionaire.
It’s not as if the QBs he’s been “burdened” with (until he got to BARFalo, anyway) are total chopped liver. While Jeff Garcia, Donovan McNabb and the Tony Romo of a couple of years ago might not have constituted a Hall of Fame roster, each and every one of them was significantly above the median for NFL QBs. Not that Pro Bowl selections mean a damn thing, but each of those “inferior” QBs has had at least one of those.
That’s a better group of QBs, come to think of it, than some WRs who’ve MADE the Hall of Fame can boast of. So, as Cassius said to Brutus, perhaps “the fault lies not in our stars but in ourselves.” (True, Owens was venting about owning the records, not merely compiling HOF numbers, so the case isn’t quite closed; but the door’s swinging shut, anyway.)
And just maybe, even saddled with those QBs whom he holds in such contempt, he still could have padded his statistics just a bit had he actually made some effort on a regular basis to complete routes, to reach a little for balls that were overthrown, to go back into traffic to snare balls that might have been a bit underthrown, to fight defenders for balls that were in any sense up for grabs – you get the idea.
For all his physical gifts, like Randy Moss much of the time, Mr. Owens was never one to do any of the dirty work. Which then became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Heck, forget about “dirty work.” How about just hanging onto the ball, which was always a challenge for TO. Maybe that, rather than an inability to get him the ball, explains why his QBs have always had the temerity to look for other receivers who’ve been far less gifted, but far more committed to running routes, making plays, and protecting the ball. Just a thought.
Serena Williams, head case extraordinaire, known for bad sportsmanship, for beating herself at the U.S. Open and for her incredible meltdown and loss of nerve against a younger, fitter Justine Henin at the French Open a few years ago is back on top, having cleaned the comebacking Ms. Henin’s clock, or, since she’s Belgian, her “horloge.” To be fair, she’s also kind of known for having won 12 Grand Slam singles titles, tied with Billie Jean King, and countless doubles titles More power to her. When she wants to be, she’s a beast.
My main criticism of her – other than her spoiled-brat and classless way of losing AND winning – has been that she doesn’t want to be often enough. Seems kind of a silly observation, given her 12 Grand Slam titles and all, but just imagine how great she could have been had she been committed and motivated on a consistent basis.
What irks me about her now, though, is her continued insistence that she could, in any sense, and at any level of accomplishment, compete with male tennis players. Maybe she’s joking, but I don’t think so. She’s referred to the fact that she’s closing in on Roger Federer’s 16 Grand Slam titles, as if there’s something comparable just in the numbers. Annika Sorenstam, before her retirement, made a similar reference to her “competition” with her good friend, Tiger Woods, for number of majors won. Are we expected to take this nonsense seriously?
Just to set the record straight, Serena has won her Grand Slams, and Annika has won her Majors, against women. The best women players in the world, to be sure, but still women. Federer and Tiger have won their titles against men, and, not to beat a dead horse, but the very best male players in the world, to boot. That should be all that needs to be said.
After all, lest we forget, Sorenstam, at or near the top of her game, actually competed – well, maybe not the aptest term – at the Colonial Open a few years back. That tournament, of all the Men’s PGA tournaments, was maybe the best one for her, because it was played on a short and not super-challenging course. So how did she do? Missed the one-over-par cut by 4 strokes. A bunch of men missed that cut, too, but that’s hardly the point, is it? More power to her for ruling the women’s toy roost for all those years, but what’s the comparative value of her women’s majors?
The Serena story is pretty much the same. Brad Gilbert said in an interview a few years ago that she’d played against a male player ranked so low that he was pretty much reduced to playing doubles only, and lost love and love. I don’t have independent verification, but it’s credible to me.
So congratulations to her for her great success in a minor league. She’s earned her fame and large fortune. But that’s no excuse for her to start getting delusions of grandeur about her ability to succeed in the major league, or the comparable worth of her achievements and Federer’s.
When I speak of “comparable worth,” I’m not speaking about popularity, mind you. I can’t prove it, but it does seem to me that women’s tennis is at least as popular as the men’s game these days, if not more popular. But that’s not because the women’s game is better, and most assuredly not because the women are better tennis players.
The unquestionable number one factor is that most sports fans are heterosexual men, and they’d rather watch attractive women sweat and flaunt their wares in skimpy attire than watch men in shorts do the same. That’s as valid a reason as any to watch a sport, I suppose; and certainly a valid issue to consider in determining allocation of money and camera time.. But it’s no basis for promoting the ludicrous concept of ATHLETIC equality.
I see where U.S. national soccer team member DaMarcus Beasley’s BMW was firebombed FOR THE SECOND TIME. Beasley plays for Glagow Rangers, one of the Scottish Premier League’s premier teams. Rangers have a long and storied rivalry with Glasgow Celtic. The rivalry is even more heated than, say, Red Sox-Yankees, not just because Rangers and Celtic play in the same city, but because Rangers are the “Protestant” team, while Celtic are the “Roman Catholic” representatives. So there are overtones of holy war added in. And Glasgow is a toyugh town, anyway – about as tough as they come. Fans of Celtic have been known to treat Rangers fans and players even worse than Raiders’ fans treat fans of the Broncos or Chargers, and vice-versa.
So the HOPEFUL analysis is that the firebombing is “merely” an indication of how truly rabid and vile the rivalry is, or, possibly, that a diehard Rangers fan – pissed to the gills, as “lager lout” Brit soccer fans regularly seem to be – did the deed because he was fed up with Beasley’s ineffective play while recovering from injuries.
That’s the “hopeful” analysis, you say? What, pray, could be worse? Well, Mr. B is African-American, and there’s been a distressing spike in racist comments and attacks by British and European soccer fans. I’m talking monkey yells during matches, chants featuring language banned at all sports facilities in the U.S., obscenely derogatory signs, and even physical attacks. The “barbaric” U.S. would never even consider countenancing such filth, but it’s standard operating procedure in the “cultured” and “refined” Old World. Just ask French and Barcelona FC great Thierry Henry. There’s plenty wrong with U.S. attitudes to race, but we are the acme of enlightenment by comparison.
Please send comments and criticism — especially criticism — to thonglaw@sprynet.com, where it will be dealt with appropriately.
