Nothing Iron: Green With Admiration by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W. April 4, 2009 I am a bad person. I tried to do the right thing. I tried to wish for Michigan State, Tom Whizzo, and Gorddam Futon to fail, but instead I failed. Maybe writing about it will purge the guilt of my gutless betrayal, but I may need therapy to reclaim my sensibilities. The Louisville-MSU regional final started normally enough, with me fulling expecting to enjoy Sparty’s One Final Moment. Sure, I had fleeting pangs of hope that the Spartans would somehow beat the best of the Big Bad Big East and pull the dregs of the rest of the Big Ten into nationally-tolerated legitimacy, but these pangs were suppressible. Mostly I imagined the vindictive comforts of Izzo’s anguished grimace, Goran Suton’s face buried in his hands, Kalin Lucas’s being consoled by Travis Walton and Raymar Morgan staring forlornly at his Nikes. And then the weirdest, dumbest thing happened: I started to notice how well Michigan State was playing. Not flashy well, or cocky well, but workmanlike well. With defense and help defense and sharp passing and sharing–yes, sharing–and inspiring hustle and more defense. At times it seemed like Louisville had never faced a good defensive team. Maybe it had just been awhile–the false spoils of the ultra-No. 1 seed–but I had to admire how MSU challenged every shot, every rebound and every loose ball. The only things Louisville got uncontested were free throws and time outs. On the offensive end the Spartans were not slow, but selectively methodical, choosing their moments of exploit with grace and precision. You can only have your back broken so many times before you collapse, and back-broken Louisville collapsed into a heap of what could have been, but not necessarily should have been. People will have said by now that the Tigers were looking past this game. That they were actually the better team. That the inferior Spartans got them on a bad day with the planets misaligned–if the same teams, they will have mused, played a hundred times, the Spartans would maybe win again. Maybe. After all, how good could a Big Ten team–even its champion–be anyway? I wonder if the UConn players take comfort in that notion at this very moment. Intrigue led to respect, and by the second half I was actually cheering for the green team. Yes, I have no backbone, no principles, no ethical standards. But shame was not enough to sustain a proper disdain of this conference arch rival. In fact, the new-found affection lingers to this moment, so much so that I kinda wouldn’t mind if Michigan State takes out the next Big East team, or even all the rest of them. I admit this well wishing is not simply altruistic, but I am not above self-serving motivations. If the Spartans prevail–and who knows what could happen when you play for a couple games as the underdog for the national championship–I could pound my chest, just a little. And when I was done pounding, you would be able to read my t-shirt. On the front: Wisconsin Basketball (Almost Didn’t Lose to National Champion). On the back: Big Ten, Mid-Major My Ass! O.K. that’s a little wordy for a t-shirt, so I might have to get a banner too. But the real drama is not at Ford Field. It’s not even in Detroit. The real drama is cyberspace, where the Pride Pool broils with intrigue, peril and apprehension. Yes, that does depend on one’s perspective, and since it my sports column, I control that. Michigan State-UConn is interesting, but the stakes in the other half of the bracket are huge. Huge is an understatement. Colossal is more like it. As in monumental, as in everything rides on North Carolina beating Villanova. Well, not everything, but pretty much all that matters in this lifetime or at least on Saturday. You see, brother Bruce has Villanova in the finals. I have NC. Bruce is behind me in the standings, but not so far to be eliminated as a threat to sibling superiority. His deficit is a mere reflection of a scoring system quirk that I intend to fix for next year, but he came by his opportunity honestly. Neither of us can finish last because my now-favorite niece, Jenna, is stuck there as a permanent insulator to all, with no possibility of rescue. Thank you, favorite niece Jenna. Neither of us can even finish behind brother Mike, who, despite begin my coolest brother, has a bracket that is almost as vigorous as the mortgage industry. Right now, in fact, President Obama is meeting with top advisors to consider whether or not Mike should be given North Carolina in a Pride Pool stimulus package. If not I can offer him this: Thank you, cool brother Mike. The frightening reality is that either Bruce or I will finish behind the other. There has not been a sibling showdown like that since the time Matt stole Mike’s favorite shirt and spilled pizza sauce on it. Of interest, son Connor, a nonconformist from birth, is the only pool entrant who picked MSU to win it all. Connor cannot win, but he can break into the top five, which would give him immediate-family honors and swagger enough to say, "Dad, I can’t believe I beat you so badly." Son Patrick, alas, is locked into 34th place, just a spot behind me. I am on the heels of step-dad Ken, who is in 31st. Noteworthy: I am tied with Coin Toss Experiment, which generates an automatic note to self for next year. Kelly is maxed out but untouchable, which is not meant to be a reference to last week’s article about natural (viagragricultural) male enhancement. The big story is Mom Gayle, who has a chance to do what no Lagman–pardon her for taking on the Creswick alias–has done since Connor won the pool two years ago–win the Pride Pool outright. Mom is perched at the top of the standings, and will remain there unless Connecticut wins and NC loses. If both UConn and NC win, mom still wins if UConn loses in the final. It’s complex; flow sheets are available for $139.95. Mom’s chief threats are Mike Becker and Derek Smith-Rongstad. Either way, mom will medal (if there were any), she wins the Medicare-eligible division and most likely takes Lagman-family honors. There is ample pride in beating her husband, Kenny (bronze), and first-time Pride Poolist, Sherman Andrews (silver). If all else fails I have Hawaii to fall back on. Did I mention I am almost there? Of course not. This is not the kind of thing you say to people who will continue to wake up to 34-degree temperatures for at least another week, while I am getting, as Connor says, my bronze on. We are in the sixth hour of a nine-hour flight. Thanks to an aisle seat and Seven Pounds, a four-star in-flight-movie, the journey has been more tolerable than I expected. On the other hand, this amount of air-travel approaches that which may compromise my fondness for the airline industry. And yes, I say fondness with a bit of sarcasm. I consider United Airlines to be one of the better major carriers, but I continue to be fascinated by the industry’s approach to customer service. It’s kinda like Cousin Vinny’s (Joe Pesci, My Cousin Vinny, 1992) approach to the practice of law. At least Vinny was trying. I sometimes get the sense that the airline industry is not. Not that I am ungrateful for the near-miracle technology of flight that can deliver me to far-reaching exotic destinations in less than a day, but there is so much room for improvement–low hanging fruit as they say. In the case of the airlines, the lowness of the low-hanging fruit is the muskmelon range. I can’t escape this vision of top airline executives, who arrived with intact luggage, sitting in a posh board room outlining agreed-upon customer service principles in elaborate Power Point: 1) If you don’t like it, go buy your own plane. 2) None of our competitors give a damn either, so where you gonna go? 3) It’s a high pressure job, we are weary and people are constantly complaining, so cut us some slack. I do understand, as a medical professional who knew precious little about excellent customer service a decade ago, that I must criticize with caution. As an offering of fairness I will bet that there are many workers in the airline business who do sincerely give a damn, however, it has yet to reach the critical mass whereby most customers leave the experience saying, "Wow, I was really treated well." Maybe that will always be the case, but maybe one of the bigs will follow the painstakingly-slow, but now-nearly-perceptible lead of hospitals and doctors offices and start treating its customers like Grandma Gayle treats her grandchildren and like I treat my favorite, not to mention once again, last-place niece, Jenna. Until then, I will tolerate the airlines just like they tolerate me. _____________ Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column. The author apologizes to his other near-favorite nieces, who will have a chance to supplant Jenna by protecting him from ruin finish in next year’s pool. The author also apologizes to any readers employed by the airlines and would like these readers to know that your readership is important to NBI and that NBI regrets having unexpectedly changed its publication schedule and that it lost your golf clubs. ©2009 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved.