Is This Really Where All Our Attention Should Be?

Here we go again. The end of the world as we know it. Well, not quite, but that’s what those who cover and hover in the world of sports would have you believe.

Michael Vick, Barry Bonds, and a rogue NBA Official currently dominate newspaper headlines and radio airwaves. Fair enough. Electrocuting dogs, breaking sports’ most revered record with the aid of illegal performance enhancers and possibly throwing games in a professional sports league are all cause for disgust and alarm, as well as some reality checks. But turn to a sports page or tune the dial to a sports radio station and people are acting as if Bin Laden just hit Manhattan again. Well I say, “Aren't our priorities just a bit out of whack!” Moreover, "Why are we so shocked?"

You want to see real issues, spend a week in New Orleans. You want to talk about issues that impact hundreds and even thousands of people, in life-altering ways, visit parts of New Orleans not named Bourbon Street and Harrah’s Casino. Unfortunately, the urgency with which the media once treated the catastrophe that was Hurricane Katrina is now saved for professional athletes who make a lot of money and really aren't very good people.

It’s Wednesday, July 25, and on the cover of the USA Today is a headline that reads: “Say It Ain’t So: Fans Take A Hit.” I tuned into Mike & Mike on ESPN Radio this morning and you had Golic and Greenberg (I’d love to use other names to refer to these shills) talking about the NBA officiating scandal and sounding as if their best friend AND mother just died. Please. And did you see the look on NBA Commissioner David Stern’s face during his Tuesday press conference? Giuliani didn’t look that glum on 9/11. These are just a few examples of the utter shock, paranoia and horror that have suddenly overcome media, league officials, TV pundits and even some fans as the fallout from these three events continues. Here’s what kills me: not that these aren’t all very serious issues or crimes, they are, particularly Vick’s antics. What him and his clown friends did (and I say 'did', not what they’re ‘accused of’) should result in nothing short of a permanent ban from the NFL, and whatever punishment a court of law decides is suitable. No, what gets me the most is that we all act so shocked and so bent out of shape that each of these occurred. To me, it’s a complete fraud, an utter disingenuous fraud that has the foul stench of political correctness all over it.

What, Mike Vick is the first superstar athlete to be involved in shady goings-on behind the scenes? Is this revelation of animal cruelty really that shocking? Think about it, we hold these guys who have questionable background and upbringings to such high standards as role models, simply because they can run fast or throw a ball 80 yards, but the minute there's news of possible indiscretions, we're all scratching our heads in utter shock. Please! Hundreds of baseball players have been cheating for 15 years, and so has Bonds since the late 90s. In addition to being a cheater on the field, Bonds is also a cheater off, be it taxes or marriage. Yet here we are spending time debating whether Bud Selig should be on the field to celebrate when he hits HR #756. Why?! Gambling and organized crime have made their way onto the playing fields, stadiums and arenas all over this country for years now, perhaps not in overwhelming amounts, but don't think for a second that it hasn't. Point shaving has reared its ugly head several times in the college ranks (hello Tempe, hello Boston). And up pops one bad seed ref who didn't know how to control his gambling problem and it's the worst sports catastrophe of the past 40 years? Get a grip.

Again, I'm not downplaying the magnitude of any of the above. None of it should be acceptable. And the NBA better make damn sure Tim Donaghy was the only ref involved in betting on games. But can't this country, media and fans alike, ever display some perspective, and some reality when stuff like this surfaces?

For five years now we’ve been watching CEO after CEO and CFO after CFO carted off to jail for 30 years after swindling their company and its shareholders out of millions, and politician after politician caught with cold, hard cash in hand and lobbyist-related perks that would make Donald Trump’s lifestyle seem humble. So what makes anyone think sports, professional or even collegiate levels, is any different from Corporate America or Capital Hill? Where there’s money, there’s crooks, and crookedness, it's that simple. Sports are no different. You have cheaters, you have guys who don’t know how to handle the fame and money and abuse society’s rules because they think they’re made of Teflon, and, you have guys on the take because, well, they just are. Greed is real.

But there’s David Stern, putting on that “What, this is happening in my league??” look. There’s ESPN, the phoniest of all phony, the very organization that has corrupted sports of all kinds, only in legal ways, trotting out every shill anchor and every talking head analyst, acting with utter disbelief and disdain that the Pacman Jones and Michael Vicks of the world can actually exist and do such abhorrent things, and instigating this "my gosh, what should we all do now, whoa is us and whoa is the poor fan" mentality.

Again, people are absolute frauds for acting as if this stuff doesn’t occur from time to time – yes, athletes can misbehave when we’re not watching them on TV. Either that or they’re just downright naïve. Wake up.

But no, instead, we’re all asleep at the wheel, playing right along and falling into the same old trap, just like when the Don Imus flap occurred. Instead of using an unfortunate incident and turning it into a positive where lessons could be learned and people can grow, everyone (most, anyway) just does the typical PC knee-jerk reaction of shame and drama and horror. You know what I say: Ignore the cheater and his feats on the field and his home run totals, throw the dog killer out of the league and let the justice system deal with him, and admit that the NBA let a misguided person on its floor as a referee because its officiating system has flaws, but acknowledge it can be corrected, and move on. Let’s learn and get better for it. Oh, and by the way, we’re still all going to wake up tomorrow with our health, and our lives intact.

That’s more than I can say, though, for countless numbers of people in Southeast Louisiana, who wake up in trailers or gutted homes with no savings left and no money to go buy the basic necessities. If only our country watched and talked about THAT STUFF with the same amount of horror as they do a low-life football player. Now wouldn’t that be something!

Katrina's Lessons Lost Already?

Editorial from the July 24 edition of the Times-Picayune
(note: the editorial itself isn't great. I think a better written piece could have made a stronger point. Nevertheless, it is thought-provoking. In my opinion and based on my experience here, this is a very real issue).

http://www.nola.com/news/t-p/editorials/index.ssf?/base/news-4/1185259989258320.xml&coll=1

Finally

My phone rang Friday afternoon. My caller ID told me that it was a local call. I answered. Charlie identified himself and said hello. I pretended to know who it was, when in actuality I had no clue. I had spoken with a Charlie earlier in the week, a man who works as a Personal Assistant to the St. Bernard Parish President, Junior Rodriguez. I thought it had to be him. But, as he went on about how he finally moved into his house, I was even more confused. “Who the heck is this?”, I kept asking myself while Charlie continued about how nice it is to finally be moved in. Then, it hit me. Oh, Charlie!

I smiled.

All of a sudden this phone call went from frustratingly confusing to captivating and enjoyable. "Charlie, you’re in your house? That’s awesome."

I met Charlie shortly after arriving here, while working with Project Hope. I spent an afternoon helping out at his then-gutted home (see pic above right, Charlie and I outside his house on March 1), watching a volunteer named Hopper jump around like a gymnast through the cross beams in the ceiling making sure they had enough support up there. The entire house was studs and old copper wire. Charile, meanwhile, was full of optimism that day. He told me about his life, his son, and his wife. She passed away last year after going into the hospital with appendicitis. I’m murky on the details, as Charlie doesn’t say much more than that she had complications after surgery and died. He told me, though, how he promised her while she was still alive and in the hospital that no matter what, he’d have their son in a house before too long. They had lived for years in trailers before Katrina. A tree sliced their trailer in half during the storm. They since lived with Charlie’s brother, sometimes with as many as 11 people in that house.

Finally, a house was on the way. Charlie bought it last year. Like a lot of other people here, he bought it for a cheap price, and now just has to fix it up. (“Just”, by the way, is a relative term. “Just” fixing up around here usually means exhausting whatever savings one has while waiting on money from the government that may or may not come). He was brimming with optimism and hope and excitement that day. That was in early March. I saw him a couple of times in the following week or two, as well, still full of excitement as his house progressed.

Then things just went dark. I hardly saw Charlie anymore. Volunteers would sometimes be working at his house, and I went by to see the sheetrock up, the walls forming. It was starting to look like a home. I really did look forward to seeing him and his 13 year old boy, CJ, get in there. But then I came to find out that Charlie came down with double pneumonia. He was in and out of the hospital twice, and on an unpaid leave of absence from work. I would hear, second-hand, how he was doing every few weeks or so, but that was it. Every time I drove by his house there was no one there, the front door shut, the driveway empty. Not even scraps or junk or garbage, all signs of a house actively under repair around here, in the front yard.

Finally, two weeks ago, I saw him. I went by his brother’s house to meet Hopper there, and Charlie was pulling out of the driveway, in his truck, CJ in the passenger seat. He looked worn out. Always so eager to chat my ear off, Charlie was short that day. He was sick again, and at the time it looked as if he might have to go back into the hospital. I wished him well, told him I’ll hope for the best, and that I’ll be here when he moves in. Then he drove away.

His brother told me later in that visit that he wasn’t doing well at all. It’s been a struggle. He has no income, things with his house are on hold, and he’s battling this pneumonia. Meanwhile, seven of them are still crammed into one home. I used to be so happy when I thought about Charlie. Now I felt terrible for him.

And then on Friday, about 4 p.m., my phone rang. I didn’t even know Charlie had my number – although I know and work with a lot of the people who help him out, so it’s not shocking he got it. I was just surprised. But when I had finally put two and two together, I was thrilled. “Scott, we’re finally in. It’s not done and really close to where I want it to be, but it’s livable,” he told me. I must have said “that’s awesome” at least five times. I asked him if he’d be around on Saturday, I wanted to come see it. He said sure and to stop by.

It’s amazing what serves as progress here, in this region that was torn to shreds by Mother Nature. I knocked on his door Saturday afternoon. Charlie opened it and welcomed me in, and as I made my way through the door all I could see in the living room was an air mattress, a pack of cigarettes, and a projector that plays DVDs. He was watching Castaway, with Tom Hanks. Charlie used to go on and on about how he was going to have a big screen projector for him and his son to watch movies on. Well, he has it. Unfortunately, he doesn't have much more.

An air conditioning unit was in one of the windows, blowing a healthy dose of cold air and cooling the entire front room. He had the windows covered, though, keeping out the extra heat. The floor is still concrete, no carpeting is down yet. The walls are painted, but there’s no molding or baseboard. His son came out from the back room. I had heard so much about him, but had never formally met him. CJ is a bit heavy like his dad, but extremely friendly. I looked around the house. Every room was the same as the others, no carpeting, and really no furniture. One of the bedrooms had a mattress on the floor, but Charlie told me they’re both sleeping on the one air mattress in the living room because it has AC. He didn’t care about the living conditions, he had just had enough sharing a small house and imposing on his brother. So long as there was electricity, running water and walls, he was moving in.

Charlie’s been through a lot. He lost his home, then his wife, and fought health issues of his own. Even CJ, all of 13 years old, just passed his second kidney stone (Charlie said he’s on his 12^th right now). He’s says he’s better now, and that he’s going back to work Monday. That’s great. With income he’ll be able to move a little faster in getting the house fixed up. CJ kept interjecting, with a smile, how he hopes it also means he can finally get a computer. Charlie would just look at him and say he will someday, but that for now it’s lower on the priority list.

Small steps, even if it means sharing an air mattress on a concrete floor, mean everything to the people down here. I told Charlie to call me again, that I’ll come back and see his next steps, no matter how big or small. And next time, I’m sure I’ll know who he is when he says it’s Charlie.