The killing fields...in Brooklyn

I've never made such a bold move. I've left the security of midtown Manhattan and submerged myself in a culture where I am the minority. I now live in a neighborhood called Bushwick, where people used to burn their houses for the insurance money and, as I was told today by a professor, many used to call it "the killing fields."

Pol Pot, fortunately, is no longer on the throne in Bushwick. Rather, a patchwork of latinos and African Americans beat the sidewalks and line the subway stations. My roomate, Luke, told a story today of how he passed another white guy on the street in our neighborhood and instantly was drawn to him: "I thought, 'dude, another one!'"

Our street reminds me of old school Harlem, where neighbors are family, kids run around carlessly free, and old-time melodies hijack the air and bounce off the kissing buildings. Last night I finally got to bed at 2 am after the 50 somethings across the street finally turned off their curbside stereo, silencing Gladys Knight and the Pips and her Motown counterparts.

Throughout the evenning, random yelling, cursing, and laughing fill the air like sporatic firworks on the Fourth of July. Earlier today I heard someone get hit by a car. Most people ignored it--to New Yorkers, the sight and sound of sirens is like a canary to a mountain man. But this is home.

Below are some videos I took during our first night in this strange, yet captivating place. We have named our place, "Halsey House." For the next 9 months we hope to make it through the killing fields. So far, the outlook is good.

Charlie!

My nieces and nephews have fallen in-love with this YouTube video featuring a young british boy and his brother, Charlie. Watch it, and pay attention to the voices.

After seeing it close to 1,000 times, my kin now recites the famous phrase endlessly. Just this morning, my nephew Tate pinched his brother Bailey. Instead of smacking the tar out of Tate, Bailey calmly, and in his best Midwestern British accent, cried, "Charlie, that hurts."

When you're finished watching the video, take a look at the numerous copycats. Shamefully, I admit that grown men pretending to be young British lads are funny.

Stuff a black candidate for president likes...

There's an hilarious, cheeky blog out there called "stuff white people like." (Click here for some great laughs.) So when I saw the latest Obama ad, I couldn't help but draw a correlation.

Here's the add in a nutshell: "I'm a black candidate who now has the minority vote locked up. So I want to take this opportunity to let you know something important: trust me, I really really really do like white people. Hell, I was even raised by some!" Over at The American Spectator, Phillip Klein says, "Clearly, Obama is trying to convey to white working class voters who eluded him in the primaries that he loves America, and white people." Apparantly, nothing says that better than cheesy guitar music and an ad with 99% whites.

Oh yeah, and for those of you who don't remember, the grandmother in this ad is the one Obama calls "the typical white person" and a "racist." But don't worry, near the top of the list of stuff a black candidate for president likes, is white people.

Maybe I'm an anomaly, but I'm ready to put this race issue to rest. Obama isn't.

UMPbelievable

I'm a little league umpire two nights a week. Some would call me a masochist, and there are days I agree. Rick Reilly explains it best in a recent piece for ESPN.

In it, he talks about two Georgia high school baseball players (a pitcher and a catcher) who conspired to bean an ump because they didn't like his strike zone. The pitcher threw a fastball that went as straight as an Amish minister. But there was one problem: the catcher dind't catch the ball and it hit the ump square in the face mask. When state officials saw the tape (viewed here on YouTube), they immediately gave the team a severe warning and fined the school $1,000. The catcher who orchestrated the beaning lost his spot as a walk-on at Gordon College. "I was shocked," said Gordon coach Travis McClanahan. "I've never seen that happen. I've never heard of a player even suggesting doing that."

But while the players have already received severe reprimands, Reilly thinks there's still one more thing the players should do (and this is where he captures the ugly side of umpiring):

"I hope . . . the players have to pay in a way they'll never forget: by being forced to umpire Little League games. They'll be amazed how vile parental vocabulary can be, how far little brothers can spit and how many pitched balls wind up hitting them in the thorax."

But let's not stop there, Rick. I think our jails would be less crowded if teens caught for stealing, under age smoking/drinking, or vandalism had to serve their sentences behind the plate, instead of behind bars. Heck, they might end up begging for the slammer.

How It Happened--The Proposal Story

I've always dreamed of writing the following. I never imagined it would turn out like it did. Here's how it happened.

In order to begin, I have to go back about a month. In May, I knew I was going to ask Brett to marry me this summer, but wasn't sure exactly when. Mine and Brett's schedules are both crazy, so it was difficult. But even more difficult was finding a time (and a way) to talk to her Dad without her knowing.

My original idea (to secretly fly to Dallas and talk to him and then continue on to Austin where she is) didn't work. I didn't have $550 to spend on a plane ticket and the weekend I needed to go didn't work for her Dad. After some furious attempts to coordinate schedules, it seemed like things were not going to work out. But just when things looked bleak, Bretts Mom informed me that they were going to be in Chicago the week before I was leaving to see Brett. That's all I needed to hear.

After numerous secret conversations, selfless committments by both my parents and her's, I met Brett's Mom and Dad in Chicago (Gurnee Mills) on Friday morning before my flight left for Austin. Along with my Mom, brother, and her parents, we ate lunch at Joe's Grab Shack. I've decided that any man thinking about asking for a father's permission should have a stomach full of shrimp and crab legs. It helps with the nerves.

Lunch offered a chance for my Mom to get to know Brett's parents, and I couldn't stop smiling. When we finished, Mr. Sanders and I spilt away for some Starbucks and the big talk. It was a conversation I had been anticipating in my head for awhile. Without a doubt, it was one of the best, most meaningful conversations of my life. Since you know how this all ends, you also know I got the answer I wanted. We also found time to go to Bass Pro Shop, which is the best way to cap of an amazing conversation.

Brett's parents brought me to the airport for a flight that was supposed to leave @ 5:20. But United Airlines had a personal vendetta against on-time flights that day. I called Brett a few times explaining how much this didn't make sense, since my "flight" from Milwaukee to Chicago went off without a hitch. One guy wrote on his hand the number of times our flight was changed: 10 changes later and his palm was irrecognizable. Three girls from Croatia had been waiting 30 hours for a flight to Austin along wiath another man waiting for 23. This was their last opportunity. I figured there must be something to the Friday the 13th thing after all. For 6.5 hours I kept feeling inside my pocket, ensuring that the round piece of metal adorned with expensive, compressed coal was still there. It was.

I finally arrived in Austin @ 12am on Saturday, exhausted but relieved. I got to Brett's sister and brother-in-law's house and quickly hid the ring and the modified photo album I had created to house the box. (I had put some pictures of us in a photo album along with a note, and then after about six pages, I cut a square hole in the rest of it and hid the ring box inside.) Her sister knew I had talked to her parents, but wasn't sure if I was going to pop the question.

"So, can I see it?!" she asked.

"See what?"

"The ring. You're going to ask her, right?"

(This was one of my finest hours.) "No. Things didn't quite work out how I wanted. The ring didn't come in time, so I'm going to have to ask her later this summer."

"Awww. Really? Dang--I'm so bumbed. We thought for sure you were going to. Are you sure?"

"Jamie, now you're starting to make me feel bad," I responded. "I dont' have the ring."

I would find out later that her and her husband laid in bed discussing how my trip was pointless, and that if I wasn't going to ask I should just go home. (Obviously in a half joking way.)

Satruday during the day was spent shopping. Brett will tell you that she spent the day "dressing" me. Apparantly women have this keen ability to pick out the best looking outfits for their men. Call it the sixth sense. We returned from shopping around 3pm. I told her we needed to eat early becaue we were going to watch the sunset on Austin's Mt. Bonnell, which was to take place @ 8:30. I encouraged her to dress up a little and I took my camera along with my backpack which housed the special photo album. (She later would tell me that the dressing up, camera, and backpack tipped her off that something was up.)

We ate @ Austin's Hula Hut, a restaurant with an island feel, great food, and a waiter that kept hitting on me. I had macadamian-crusted Mahi Mahi--DELICIOUS! We sat outside in a part of the restaurant that jets into the water. Air conditioning was non-existent in the 100+ heat, so the fans blowing Brett's hair all over the place were welcomed. As we left, I couldn't help but notice the t-shirts for sale at the entrance which declared, "Keep Austin Weird." It's apparantly the slogan for the city.

We left the restaurant and started making our way to the mountain, which is more like a glorified hill. I had planned this out to somewhat reflect the setting of the first time I told Brett I loved her: on top of a "mountain" in Little Rock, AR. Litle did I know how much this milestone would reflect that one.

We got to the mountain, but not without a litle hiccup. Relying on Brett's GPS, it took us to a private residence instead of the foot of the hiking trail. The random peacock on the side of the road could have rattled off our license plat number after passing him so many times. But we finally made it and began making our way up the long stairs just before the sunset.

Once at the top, we veered to the left and began taking pictures of downtown, the river, and the bluffs. But we had company, so I continued buying time until they left. When it became obvious they weren't going to, I spoted a trail that led to the bushes and some privacy. I searched it out and called Brett over. She came over and I asked if she wanted to sit down so I could give her the gift I had made her. She did and I pulled out the album.

I gave her the album with specific instructions not to skip ahead. She read the note and began looking at the pictures. It wasn't until she started flipping through that I began to get nervous. She got to the last page and turned it over. There, starring her in the face, was a gray ring box hidden in the album with a little piece of paer that said, "open me." She looked at me with a smirk and I told her to go ahead. She took the box out of the album and openned it. There, in a brilliant yellow was...another note. It said, "stand up."

As she stood up, I reached in my pocket and pulled out the ring. I got on one knee and said, "Brett Sanders, will you make me luckiest man alive? Will you marry me?"

Just like when I told her I loved her, she said three words: "Are you serious?" Not once, but three times she said them. It was the longest minute of my life. She finally answered, "of course," and I slipped the ring on her finger. It was amazing.

We stayed around for awhile and took pictures. Eventually we made our way down and met her sister and brother-in-law at Joe's Crab Shack (again), where we reminisced and made too many phone calls and sent too many text messages to count. All in all, it was the best day of my life. One I will never forget.

Speical thanks to Jamie and Destin for allowing me to crash on their couch, for being so hospitable, and for making much of this possible.

The Real March Madness

Sports writers and talk show hosts across the country have called the NCAA college basketball tournament the best weeks of the year. What other event, they ask, causes even the non sports fan to test his luck at filling out a bracket and throwing $20 into a pool? Overweight, washed-up Joes at water coolers everywhere become college basketball experts once March rolls around. Never mind the fact that these people can’t even tell you what a field goal is or which teams won last year. The tournament is no respecter of persons, though; every once in awhile it rewards the know-nothings who pick a number 10 seed (Davidson) to make it to the Elite Eight.

But if you placed seventh in the pool because someone’s 60 year old aunt picked Davidson to be the Cinderella this year simply because her son’s best friend is named Jonathan who was the best friend of David in the Bible, you still have less cause to be upset than the other 92% of us.

Why?

Because in all likelihood, many of us didn’t even get to see the best part of the tournament. In a brilliant move by the NCAA, games on Thursday and Friday of opening weekend start in the early afternoon. Thus, anyone with a job or who is in school is prevented from experiencing the “best weekend in sports.” As it was so graciously put to me by a co-worker, “Seidl, anyone who has a life can’t watch these games.”

Now some may argue, “Well it’s only the first two days of the tournament; surely nothing important happens then.” On the contrary.

This year alone, the first two days of the tournament were some of the most exciting. For example, Villanova (a 12 seed) beat Clemson (a 5 seed), San Diego (13) beat Connecticut (4), Kansas St. (11) beat USC (6), and Western Kentucky (12) beat Drake (5) with a last second three point basket. But those who were working hard to boost the economy or who were gaining intellectual capital lost out on the excitement. In fact, the ones rewarded with the games were not even happy—the couch potatoes had to give up their regularly scheduled soap operas to watch sweaty guys running around bouncing a dead pig. Hardly as riveting as watching some woman in a fictitious town scheming a way to get her son back from her evil mother who killed her father to hide the true identity of her bed-ridden brother.

The solution to the problem is easy: add an extra day (i.e. play games on Wednesday too), putting all the games at night and giving fans an opportunity to be, well, fans. That way, everyone would cool down and be given a chance to be a part of the madness.

I would like to acknowledge the help of Joe Sumrall and Jane Anderson regarding the fleshing out of this idea.

Ethical Sports: An Oxymoron?

If Paula Cole were to take a look at sports today, I think her song would go something like, “where have all the ethics gone?”

Players and coaches in all sports are quickly becoming examples of what not to do, instead of showing the world what integrity looks like.

For example, Kelvin Sampson “resigned” on February 22 as head coach of Indiana’s storied basketball program after being charged with five major recruiting violations. What got him in so much trouble? Like Clinton and the blue dress, it was Sampson and the telephone.

The NCAA alleges that Sampson made illegal contact with recruits via telephone while he was still under recruiting restrictions due to a similar scandal while he was at Oklahoma. While with the Sooners, Sampson and his staff made 577 illegal phone calls. He lost his job there and was put on probation.

But instead of treating the phone like a disease and avoiding it after the debacle at Oklahoma, Sampson thought he could slip a few pills and be immune from the restrictions. No one would ever find out, right?

Wrong.

The NCAA did find out, and instead of coming clean, Sampson lied. But why? Unfortunately, in the world of sports these days, the better question is: why not?

While we like to think of our favorite sports figures as ideal role models, the truth is many are far from it. The norm has become to lie first and ask questions later. Just look at Nick Saban and Alabama at the end of the 2006 NFL season.

While coaching the Miami Dolphins, Nick Saban adamantly denied he was going to leave for Alabama. “I’m not going to be the Alabama coach,” he cried. That was in December. He became the Alabama head coach in January.

While you may believe these are just isolated incidents, to see more proof just look at the current steroids problem in baseball and the Spygate scandal in football. The truth is that lying and “violations” are becoming a trend; a trend that is starting to pervade all levels of sport.

Kevin Hart, a high school senior from Nevada, recently was part of one of the biggest dupes in recruiting history. Hart, who desperately wanted to play college football, created a lie that would have made the boy who cried wolf blush. On February 1, Hart called a press conference to tell the world that, after much thought, he decided to accept a scholarship offer from the University of California.

But there was just one problem—California never recruited him or offered him a football scholarship. Hart made the whole thing up. He lied. Just like Saban. Just like Sampson.

The point, I hope, is clearly seen: the leaders of tomorrow take their cues from the leaders of today. Coaches like Sampson and Saban are partly to blame for the actions of athletes like Hart. And until we start holding big name coaches and players to higher standards, we can’t be surprised when the Kevin Harts of the world accept phantom scholarships.