Unfortunately, I’m no stranger to the dusty landscape of the Bush Leagues. It’s a sad, desolate place for sure — filled with perpetual darkness and Teem soda. It’s a place I’m all too familiar with, frankly. In fact, I’m more acquainted with it than the average, well-adjusted, non-paint-huffing mind could even comprehend. For a number of reasons.
Don’t believe me? You’re doubting my stout BL credentials? Yeah? Well doubt this, asshole:
I’m one of the 17 people alive who’s played an official collegiate basketball game in a f–king hotel ballroom. (That’s right. Let that soak in for a moment. Let it wash over you like a warm vat of Bushy orphanage gruel. And pay no attention to those muffled whimpers you hear. It’s only my eternal soul crying a sorrowful Negro hymn. Happens every time this is discussed.)
Apparently, the Macon Coliseum — where the game was supposed to be played — had sustained roof damage the week before and blah blah blah blah it doesn’t matter. Because the fact of the matter is this: any shot attempt from beyond 28 feet that night would scrape the goddamn ceiling. Seriously. Which I don’t think has ever been a problem in a Big Ten game. Not that I know of. Because make no mistake, this wasn’t a “hall.” It wasn’t an “auditorium.” It was a room. Just barely big enough to house a regulation sized court … but not quite big enough to accommodate spectator seating. Oh, what’s that? I’m exaggerating, am I? Very well then. Here. The total paying attendance that woeful night: zero. Z. E. R. O. Zero. For a regular-season, in-conference, Division I basketball game. Sweet f–king Moses.
Mathematically speaking, my third-grade basketball games at First Baptist Church drew infinitely more fans. Literally. And you know what? Those games also incorporated the use of a functioning scoreboard. And locker rooms. And sub-195-degree ambient temperatures. And concession stands. And the generalized impression that the game actually meant something. Anything.
The Macon Mishap, quite obviously, had none of that. None. It had all the pomp and circumstance of a pick-up Wallyball game … but with more claustrophobia. Less dignity. And if you think that’s the lofty pinnacle of my own personal Mount Bushmore, you’d be wrong. You’d be sorely mistaken. It’s but Basecamp 2 — a mere six vertical miles from the embarrassing peak. (If we were to ascend any further, though, you’d need an oxygen tank. And years of intense preparation. And I’m just not ready to go there right now. Not publicly, at least.)
The point of all this? Simply put, I don’t want my knowledge on the subject called into question. Not now. Not ever. I wanted you to know that I’m fully capable of identifying — and deftly expounding upon — all things painfully amateurish.
And for the record, ESPN’s decision to cut short the Edmonton race was just that. Painfully — almost unimaginably — amateurish. As Bush as Bush can be. And sadly, that was the most noticeable storyline from the day. To me, it overshadowed all else. Which is too bad, really. Because there were other things from the race worth discussing. Those things would include:
(1) this mesmerizing Paul Tracy chap, who I’d never heard of before. He looks like that crazed albino from “Contact” who blew up the launch pad … and he drives like a furious Beijing cabbie (i.e., clearly not opposed to cutting through lawns and sidewalk kiosks and so forth). And you know what? That’s a pretty simple formula, actually. Awesome + awesome = f–king awesome. He deserved his own article.
(2) EJ Viso introducing himself to Graham Rahal — much like a sub-orbital Tomahawk cruise missile might. Which probably deserves it’s own 28-part Ken Burns documentary.
(3) Young Rahal — following his swift Visofication from the track — saying something to the effect of, “someone needs to teach him to calm down.” Yep. Right on, Graham. We’ll get to that here soon. Right after we learn how to domesticate tropical typhoons. And …
(4) The fact that the Pagoda’s nemesis, Jack Arute, was noticeably absent. And with no Jack, there was frankly no need to snort Oxycontin and hurl things at my television screen. And without that, things got infinitely more boring. Or so I learned. Please come back, Jack. The Pagoda, I fear, needs your smarm.
But certainly, the most noteworthy event of the day was IndyCar once again getting fist-rammed by ESPN. This time through the decision to prematurely end the race. You know, because the first of 83 consecutive SportsCenters mustn’t be slightly delayed.
And having studied this situation carefully, I can say this in all honesty: as far as crushing Bush Leaguery is concerned, this is “an NCAA basketball game getting relegated to the dank ‘Willow Tree Room’” times 1,000. Know why? Because at least they let us finish the game. Albeit in utterly abysmal conditions. But whatever. I mean, had the Powers That Be halted the game so that the Goldstein Bat Mitzvah could commence … well, maybe then it’s a different story. Maybe then, the two scenarios become compatible.
But they’re not. This was far worse. And that’s the damn shame of it all. Because it’s become painfully clear now: IndyCar gets treated like no other sport on the planet.
If anyone out there can give me another sporting event that goes from legit athletic competition to a speed-game of bingo, by all means, please tell me. Women’s beach volleyball? Nope. Major League Lacrosse? Huh-uh. Collegiate softball? We could only pray. The Highland Games? Not a f–king chance they short change the caber-toss. Nor should they, really. Not unless they wanted the whole of Scotland to drunkenly pillage neighboring countries.
No, this only seems to happen to IndyCar. Whose television “partner” in this heated battle for relevancy routinely punts them into the depths of the Bush Leagues. And by this point, they’re all too familiar with that God-forsaken place.
More so than any relevant, respectable, non-roller-blading sports league could possibly comprehend.
