Nothing But Iron: Black Friday
November 24, 2006
by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W.
Alternate title: Misery State
Alternate title: Open for Pleasure
Black Friday is an accounting ink color reference to the first shopping day after Thanksgiving, one that, for many vendors, is the most profitable (i.e. in the black) of the year. For retailers, Black Friday is a good thing, but it could have easily described the depressing effect of Wisconsin’s disjointed loss against Missouri State at the South Padre Island Invitational. It was a game in which little seemed to go right for the purportedly seventh-best team in the country, one where the genius of radio broadcaster Matt Lepay was more detriment than attribute. The picture that Matt put into my mind by way of the airwaves was ugly indeed. A little less focus would have spared me the frustration of the Badgers’ collective ineptitude.
This is where the discussion turns positive: 1) It could be that Missouri State, coming from the now-credible Missouri Valley Conference, is actually a good team, worthy of beating a highly-ranked opponent. Let’s give the Bears a little credit. 2) It could be the Badgers are not as good as everyone thinks they are. That doesn’t mean they won’t be. 3) This is not football. One loss, or even a handful of losses, will not dash the dreams of an entire season. Will football take note? Naw. 4) Sometimes you have to stink before you come out smelling like a rose. The seemingly embarrassing loss to Missouri State may turn out to be more motivator than prognostic indicator of mediocrity or utter collapse. Until mid March, a loss itself is far less important than what happens next. 5) Except for those who are used to it, top-ten rankings are distracting. College kids are going to get caught up in hype. They read the headlines. For awhile at least, the distraction of No. Whatever will be gone, and the kids can focus on playing ball. I am sure that these Badgers with these coaches will have received the message loudly and clearly: Success and respect are earned, not voted upon. I look forward to seeing them apply that principle, especially with a rigorous conference schedule on the horizon–and make no mistake, it will be rigorous.
I had a nice Thanksgiving at the in-laws. First I was treated a tasty helping of NFL. At my insistence dinner was postponed until the conclusion of the Miami-Detroit game. How exciting. We brought the salad. It was an exotic salad because I was able to get three bags of spinach from a guy selling it out of the back of a truck at the gas station. I won’t tell you what I paid, but it was worth it for this rare delicacy. For some reason there was a lot left over, which was fine with me because I had it for breakfast this morning.
After dinner, while intermittently watching more football from a slumped position on the couch, I got an idea that could allow me to retire within a couple years. I will share it with you on condition of secrecy: caffeinated Turkey. The biggest obstacle that I foresee is getting the live turkeys to drink the coffee. The second biggest obstacle will be getting the live turkeys to sleep at night. My research team and I will work around it, for example we might give the hyper turkeys Ambien at bedtime. We would use only organic coffee, so we could sell our product at Trader Joe’s as organic caffeinated turkey. At $7.99 per pound these birds will be flying off the shelves, and soon I will be giving thanks for Black Wednesday.
I got up early today. Really early. Normally my 4:00 a.m. arisings are reserved for C-section and labor epidural duty, but I wasn’t on call. I was on mall. I did not intend to buy anything, but I wanted to go there to see what all the fuss was about. Speaking of fuss, earlier I had asked my fourteen-year-old son the difference between the PS 2 and the new $500 PS 3. "It’s the same as the PS 2, only more expensive," he replied. At that time sixteen-year-old son chimed in, "No. The graphics are way better with the PS 3." The bottom line, from the father’s perspective, is that neither of my kids have even asked about upgrading our game system, way better graphics or not. They know better. Someone at work did ask if I would seek out a PS 3. I told him we were waiting for the PS 4 with the advanced game controller that will allow me to anesthetize patients anywhere in the country from my TV room. That will give me more time to tend the sleepless hyper turkeys.
No fair to digress from that which was already a digression. I got to the mall at 4:30. It was dark, but I could see shadowy figures milling around the mall entrance. From a distance they looked suspicious, almost sinister, but up close they bore the much less threatening (except perhaps to each other) traits of middle-aged moms.
I was able to find a parking place immediately adjacent to the handicap space in front of Boston Store. Score. I had planned to auction my parking spot on eBay, then go park in a nearby suburb and walk back, but I could not post my space for bid because I was unable to find wireless internet access at that hour. It was a good idea though. In fact, I may suggest that my licensed teenager set up a parking space capture business with his friends. They could get up early on major holiday shopping days and secure prime parking spots, which they would relinquish for customers who would have pre-purchased them on line for unreasonably (at least to those of us with half and ounce of patience and perspective) large sums of money. Their web site could be called myspace.com. Haha lol pos.
OK, I am a liar. I didn’t really go to the mall until later that evening when the masses were at home wrapping their day’s quarry in brightly-decorated paper that will soon help comprise thousands of metric tons of occasionally biodegradable landfill. My son needed basketball shoes. We first went to Dick’s Sporting Goods. They did not have the shoes Connor liked, so we went elsewhere. It was the first time I had ever been in Dick’s and not spent any money. Sorry, Dick. I lied because I thought it would entertain you. Let me know if that is not the case and I will henceforth revert to telling the truth.
I forgot to tell you in my Italy column last week that I left my Italian for Dummies book on Lufthansa plane in Frankfurt partly due to a post-call hangover that was not made better by effects of jet lag or lagging jets. If you happen to be in Europe and you run into a German guy who speaks Italian suspiciously well, ask him if I can have my book back. I knew I should have gotten Italian for Sleep-Deprived Adults with ADD. That one has a chain that clasps to the reader’s shirt.
Since we are on the subject of old business, did I mention that I went to the U.S. Open? In September. Yes, that was a long time ago, but the images are still clear in my head, and there is no reason they can’t be clear in yours too. I had the privilege of seeing Andre Agassi’s final match, with my wife and our friends Michael and Rita, all of whom are huge tennis fans. None of us wanted to see Andre lose, but it was a rare privilege to be in Arthur Ashe Stadium that day to feel the love–there’s no suitable synonym for it–of his final farewell to New York, and probably to competitive tennis, but not necessarily professional baseball.
The kid who won the match–I have misplaced his name amongst many more vivid memories–played well, but Andre’s battle with the ravages of an age-related aching back could not be concealed. Though he had a hard time walking upright between points, his perseverance and mental toughness were stunning to watch. After the match a young mulleted Andre evolved gracefully into the old shaved-head Andre in images that flashed on the big screen behind us, appropriately synched to Tina Turner’s Simply the Best.
We saw Maria and Martina and the Bryan brothers and countless other amazing players hitting amazing tennis shots. It was wow-a-minute tennis, the mastery of which can only be appreciated by those who try but will never attain that mastery. And we saw rain. Lot’s of rain. Out of four scheduled days of tennis, we were rained out of two. It helped that we had access to any session we wanted because we had purchased all the tickets in the entire two-week series. At first glance, that seems like a frivolous expenditure, however we did it as an experiment (in the interest of science), thinking we would have access to better seats, and figuring we could sell most of the extra tickets, perhaps at unfair profit. Our seats were upper deck (Promenade) level seats, but in the first-row above an entry tunnel, with nobody in front to obstruct our view. We were not disappointed with our seats.
The selling part of the experiment did not go so well because demand, even for the championship weekend was worse than we projected. The threat of rain and Andre’s departure changed market conditions. We learned that the USTA has a special rain policy for subscribers (paraphrased): We greatly appreciate your patronage. In recognition of your financial contribution to the USTA and the United States Tennis Center we offer you our sincere thanks, and this reminder: we do not control the weather, but we do control the money you gave us for the ticket subscription, and you ain’t getting any back.
Had we purchased individual tickets, as opposed to all of them, we would have been reissued tickets to another session in this or next year’s Open. With minimal scrutiny we might have concluded that the experiment had failed miserably, so we chose to eschew scrutiny and instead focus on what a great time we had. Next year, if we return, we will have a different plan for tickets such as getting to know some corporate interests, like Olympus or Lexus or American Express, whose people have lots of money and only casual interest in tennis, so we can be invited to sit in just a few of the many hundreds of seats that remained empty during almost every match we attended.
New York, the city, was more fun than I had ever imagined it could be before I went there for the first time in 2005. This year’s agenda like last year’s, consisted of tennis, gut-distending dinners, fantastic Broadway shows (There’s a reason Jersey Boys won the Tony) and a delightfully small amount of shopping. And photography.
Photography in New York is like searching for treasure in bank vault. Everywhere I looked I saw something interesting. Sometimes I would just stop walking and force my focus on a narrow view in one direction to see what I was missing. The lights, shadows, motion and reflections created unique images on every street corner, and the effect was magnified tenfold by the rain-soaked streets. I know I am not prone to seizures, because I surely would have had one during my visits to Times Square. One afternoon with a moist U.S. Open ticket stub in the pocket of my Gortex jacket, I took to the streets starring in my own Broadway production: That Crazy Guy Taking Pictures in the Rain. Nobody stared or glared or wondered or even seemed to care. I am sure New Yorkers see many events more bizarre than a guy taking pictures from under an umbrella.
On a fluke, I got to spend time with my brother Matt, who lives in Burbank. Matt had called a few weeks earlier to ask if I planned, by chance, to go to the U.S. Open this year. By chance it turned out I was going, and he and my niece, Carsen, were visiting a friend there that same weekend. Matt was my very first tennis opponent, long before I ever had the lessons that now allow me to understand the various components of my inadequacies, so it was fun to share a session of tickets with him. We were fierce adversaries, as only teenage siblings can be. I learned then that the frame of a wooden racket is subject to cracking when heaved over a tall fence. It was against Matt that I once yelled to myself, "Confidence, Stupid!" Um, O.K., Coach. Matt could not help but laugh, and I myself grinned at the absurdity of the admonition, but soon we were back to the business of being angry at ourselves and at one and other. These days racket frames are better constructed to withstand unusual impact. Better yet, I have since shed my fury for the shortcomings of my game.
Closing perceptions about New York: 1) I was treated with great courtesy almost everywhere I went. That is far more consideration than I have typically experienced in Chicago, where I have generally found mere tolerance of outsiders to be the rule, frank rudeness to be commonplace and courtesy to be uncommon enough that it surprises me when it happens. Maybe it’s the Packers cap or motion W on my red shirt that makes it so, or maybe it’s that my Packers cap doesn’t match my red shirt. Granted, such opinions are perspective dependent. My friend Dan, a native Chicagoan who, with his wife Kim joined us on the adventure, felt that NYC was dirty, cold-hearted place. Matt’s friend, who moved to New York a year ago had a similar opinion. She found the people there to be self serving and ungracious. And she moved there from Los Angeles! 2) New York is a city of profound diversity. For me, an outsider, that diversity was a source of richness that was pleasing to the eye and ear, though I was not sure if New Yorkers saw it as a positive attribute. Of course racial prejudice exists there, but I sometimes wondered which group would have been representative of the minority. 3) The one unsettling observation I can offer, and perhaps this speaks to the reason I would visit, but never live there, is that none of the people–those I identified as natives–who I passed on the sidewalk or in the subways were smiling. The expression from person to person was strikingly consistent–an empty, far-away, uncertain, almost depressed look of someone whose happiness was out of reach. Not a frown per se, but a lack of contentment that was not concealed. I felt a little sad for the people with that expression.
[Click here to see other images of New York and the U.S. Open]
Lastly, I leave you with a story that typifies the challenges of parenting. Caving to the sheer practicality of the device, we gave our youngest a cell phone for his birthday. Purportedly he was the last kid in his class to get one, a fact–if it really is fact–that is no small source of pride for his dad. Connor was thrilled. Later, in the car I came to understand the full depth of his gratitude. "Hey, Dad. Guess what my ring tone is." I figured it would be something out of the hip-hop genre popular with his cohort. "It’s that one fight song. You know, for Michigan. It’s such a cool song." Minutes later Connor got a call, and sure enough, Hail to the Victors rang out like the audio track from every gain of greater than four yards, every pass completion, every first down, every touchdown, every extra point, every recovered turnover and every Diet Coke and program sale in the history of Michigan Stadium. I assure you, the ring tone was not cool.
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Nothing But Iron is an amateur sport column. At this time the author receives no support from Olympus, Lexus or American Express, but urges his readers to use products or services offered by these companies whenever possible. Tell them Steve Lagman, a huge tennis fan, sent you. This issue is dedicated, despite unruly ring tone behavior, to the author's son on his birthday. ©2006 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved.
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