Commenting on the Commentators

As an avid sports fan, I get to know famous broadcasters almost as well as the personalities on the court, which is to say I develop a very strong superficial knowledge of their habits and behavior. No time is better for acquainting oneself to the idiosyncrasies of commentators than March Madness, the NCAA basketball tournament when a new broadcaster greets the listening ear for just about every game. Legends like Jim Nantz and Billy Packer join characters like Dick Vitale to provide a stunning ensemble cast.

Unfortunately, sometimes these gentlemen can be difficult to understand. They use a vernacular native to jocks and junkies that is foreign to everyone else. They think, I am sure, that they are easy to understand, but to the untrained ear their gibberish is as comprehensible as the three year old graffiti beneath the Miller bridge. Here at FCN, we took out a pen and paper during the games and jotted down our favorite lines from the various presenters along with an explanation. Here they are, followed by a translation in parenthesis:

"Heeeee's got the triple!" (Three-point basket)
"Stops, pops; it's in." (Pull-up jump shot)
"Rejected!" (Blocked shot)
"Not this time!" (Blocked shot)
"Say goodbye and hello to the second row" (Emphatically blocked shot)
"Woah! That's the strongest weak side help I've seen today" (A Jim Nantz favorite)
"Gentle kiss and in." (Bank shot)
"Double smooch off the glass." (A Dick Vitale favorite, when the ball rolls on the rim and touches backboard before falling into the basket)
"Count it" (Scored shot)
"They've really been struggling from the charity stripe." (Team has a poor free throw percentage)
"Got the step..." (A player is beginning a drive to the basket)
"...found a lane..." (A player has found a lane to the basket)
"...he dishes it out..." (A player passes to another player)
"...he kicks it out..." (A player passes to another player after driving toward the basket)
"Rocks...pops." (Kobe Bryant - or similar ball hog - has the basketball)
"All the way to the hole." (A player completes a drive with close shot)
"What a moment!" (Jim Nantz is amazed by something on the court. This happens often.)
"Trifecta" (Three point basket)
"Super scintillating sensational!" (Dick Vitale is excited by something on the court)
"Slap a lapper." (Dick Vitale is excited by something on the court and wants to put his job at risk)
"Dipsy-doo dunkeroo slam-jam-bam, baby!" (Dick Vitale actually said that)
"...baby" (Dick Vitale is trying to be cute while using the same line he started using in 1979)
"Foam the runway, this guy is on fire!" (A player has been making a high percentage of his shots or otherwise been playing well recently)
"Freeze it." (Used during instant replay to draw audience's attention to a particular detail)
"Send it in to the big fella'" (A color commentator's instructions to consider a low post move)
"Rise and fire." (A jump shot. Use of this line got a commentator fired. Incomprehensible, I know)
"Turn out the lights." (One team has lost any chance of winning the game)
"The party is over." (One team has lost any chance of winning the game)
"Oh my." (A particularly eloquent play-by-play line)
"Boom." (A particularly eloquent play-by-play line often deployed after a dipsy-doo dunkeroo slam-jam-bam)
"'Nuff said." (A particularly eloquent play-by-play line)
"Yesssssssss." (Used late in a game after an important basket is scored)
"He puts the biscuit in the basket." (A player scores)
"Threeee-cola." (Three point basket)
"This freshman has ice in his blood." (The stress of the game is not registering in a young player's behavior)
"He's cooler than the other side of the pillow." (The stress of the game is not registering in a player's behavior)
"As good as it gets." (Jim Nantz after Florida won its first national championship)
"From downtown..." (Three point shot attempted)
"Bang!" (A player scores)
"Sweet sassy molassy." (Contrary to popular opinion, line is actually used in men's games to denote respect in a player's recent move)
"Oh, baby, what a play." (Sometimes used by broadcasters other than Dick Vitale)
"Tickie-Tack." (A player is called for an "unnecessary" or ill-advised foul)
"Right between the eyes." (A player scores)
"That's levitation." (An athletic shot block)

And that's just a sampling. To get the rest, you will have to watch the Sweet 16 round of March Madness this weekend.

Screaming in the loot

The other day I attended the season home opener for my school's acclaimed Division I men's basketball team. If you've followed FCN for a while, you may recall that I am one of the most vocal and aggressive fans a team could ever dream of. For me, a team's success is personal; a victory for the boys on the court is an inspiration for the rest of week, a boost better than caffeine and taurine and a loss is an equally effective depressant. In fact, I've been able correlate bad moods to my team's poor performances and some people may even be able to use competitive performance as a predictive barometer of humor.

For all the readers that I didn't lose with two dollar phrases like "competitive performance" and "predictive barometer," the implication of my approach to watching sports is that I do everything in my power to see the team I'm rooting for win. Everything, that is, short of donating money to BALCO laboratories.

It's often said that the "sixth man" in sports is the home crowd. We may look weekend warriors, sitting in the stands like so many Monday morning quarterbacks, chugging down calorie laden drinks and life shortening snacks, but actually lusty cheers are a motivating force for the team. At least that's what we'd like to think. It's also what the media, sports leagues and colleges want us to think, but that's beside the point.

In an effort to encourage louder cheering, many organizations will throw "goodies" like shirts, commemorative balls and coupons into the stands, creating an entertaining frenzy among the audience as we struggle amongst ourselves like poorly raised children for possession. Generally, the louder you cheer, the more goodies get thrown your way, meaning that those who have been naturally blessed with loud voices run away with the most loot.

I scream loudly. That is, I do my vocal best to see my team to victory. I shout so loudly, in fact, that a friend who was listening to one of my team's games on the radio heard my voice and recognized it as mine. I use a handful of prepared taunts, print out the visiting team's roster so I can shout player's first names and join in with the cheerleaders on all their routines.

And my efforts are normally generously rewarded. For instance, I caught a couple of shirts, a few coupons and trinkets and an occasional free hot dog last season. I never got a chance to really dominate with my catches because of the enthusiastic gyrations of my good friend Nick, who always sat next to me and made like Champ Bailey or Asante Samuel as he did his best to disrupt my flow. That's right, Nick was throwing off my groove.

Well, now Nick is in Virginia studying his happy hands off and I got my first chance to make a grab at goody history at the season opener.

I was terribly disappointed when I heard from my inside man (a friend who is employed by the team's "Loud Squad") that no T-shirts would be handed out because of a miscommunication with the textile supplier. Despite the lack of supply, I managed to pull down the following (itemized with estimated resale value):

In N' Out Burger coupons ($2 value) x3 = $6.

PomPom ($3 value) x 1 = $3.

Balloons imprinted with the team logo ($.50 value) x 2 = $1.

Team bumpersticker ($.50 value) x 1 = $.50

Media guide to the conference's athletics ($5 value) x 1 = $5

That's eight items worth an estimated $15.50. And, as a student, game admission was free. Over the course of a two hour game, I got paid better than minimum wage to watch my favorite team sport.

And that's not counting the hot dog that my friend Ally swiped away from me at the last second (sitting where Nick normally would) and the Frisbee that buzzed just over my outstretched arm in the middle of a full leap (it landed three rows above me).

But I'm not writing this post just to brag; of course, that's a solid justification, but I have other, more altruistic reasons, too. I am writing to share a few of my hoarse secrets to other fans. Follow my directions and you may find yourself rolling in the the loot:

1) Sit 5-15 rows from the court. Positioning is key. Objects are generally thrown with little more than arm technology. Sure, air compressors are sometimes used to allow the compliments to reach the rafters, but a good 80-90% of all tosses are made from the court to the rows indicated above. Don't sit too close to the court or you'll be overthrown.

2) Befriend. I learned this tip from the New England Patriots. The best way to win is to bend the rules a little. If you see an employee marching around before the game, introduce yourself and ask to be helped out. Say you are trying to impress your girlfriend or that you'll split the pizza with him later. To the girls: A megawatt smile won't hurt your chances.

3) Scream your head off. Nobody ever caught anything by staying silent (unless of course, we're talking about Nick, but most of his catches were on throws intended for me). The louder you get, the more your inside man will feel justified in throwing your way.

4) Takeaways from kindergarteners do count. I know some people think it looks bad to steal a commemorative goodie from a six-year old attending his first college game, but when we're talking about loot, "you gotta do whatcha gotta do." That six-year old is playing a man's game. Trust me, no one will remember the teary eyed face of the whippersnapper you ripped off. Your T-shirt count will live in infamy.

5) Be ready for anything. Sometimes a ball will be thrown several rows above you and then be deflected down. You need to always have your head in the game and be ready to handle whatever the other fans throw your way. Remember that a juggled catch may mean the difference between another T-shirt and, well, not another T-shirt.

That about covers it. Try it yourself at the next sporting event you attend. If you break my record, write us an email and tell us about your exploits. Be sure to include a picture of the loot and a medical report detailing the damage to your vocal cords. Extra points will be awarded for crying six-year olds.

The Day I Smashed My Proboscis

I have promised, somewhere in the annals of CN past, to tell the faithful few more about my nose. The exact wording was that it would be a “great topic for another post.” As is my habit, I had completely forgotten about that pledge and was ready to write today about the beauty and grace of undersea turtles, when I was violently reminded of my commitment.

By violent, I mean Hoss sucker punches Little Joe not Brad Pitt and company in Fight Club. You guys have plenty of reasons to be worried about me, but violent rages are not one of them.

Anyway, I was playing basketball yesterday at the gym and taking on the local Arab community which apparently sees hoops as a cultural passtime. You know the scene: A bunch of sweaty twenty-somethings whose little social interaction is the high fives and crude taunts of community ball. If I were of Arabian descent, I would fit in perfectly.

The team that was dominating when I arrived consisted of two super tall college students one of whom could dunk from a standstill, a wizened old man who continues to play only because he has no other life but makes up for it by having a great perimeter shot and a girl. Yes, a female had broken the sanctity of male dominated hoops culture and deigned to play our game.

I hate to say it, but she was good. As I watched the game from the sidelines, taking an occasional warmup shot and stretching periodically to keep my joints lubed, I saw her juke an experienced player for an easy lay-in, pop a perimeter trey while an opponent had a hand squarely in her space and make some awesome ball handling decisions that set up her teammates for easy baskets.

Maybe it was that she jinxed her opponents or maybe her opponents were distracted (if you get my meaning), but it seemed that quality players turned to raspberry Jello as soon as they assumed the defensive posture against her. Predictably, those watching the game would issue snide and sexist remarks at the expense of the player who got “fooled by the girl,” but my attention was focused on the competitive side.

She favored her right hand, shot from the chest like a WNBA player and telegraphed her shots with a long face up. Her defense was tolerable, but she was slow. If her defender guarded against the right side drive and watched closely for the sign of an impending shot, her play might not be so hot. On offense, quick penetrations and perimeter ball teases might use her own court sense as a weapon to open up driving lanes and maybe allow for the occasional deployment of my favorite move, the pull up jumpshot.

She was good, but I felt she was beatable.

As I took the court and waited for the next game to begin, I stood next to the girl, a nonverbal message to my teammates that she was the person I wanted to guard. She introduced herself as Cindy and we did the athlete's version of a handshake: a firm but soundless handslap that occurs about roughly waist height. Eye contact is optional. There isn't any version for girls, so I used the guy-guy greeting.

My first touches of the game were terrible embarrassments. Somehow Cindy was able to reach in during one of my cross-over teases and poke the ball away for a steal and an easy breakaway lay-in. On the next possession she blocked my pull-up, stuffing the ball back in my face and earning a series of catcalls from the sidelines. I was embarrassed and my team was losing. But none of that was as bad as what followed.

With the game close, we were having success in the low post, banging the ball in low with our big man, an overweight kid from the East side of town named Troy (He was probably named Mohamed, but they called him Troy so as to not confuse him with the other Mohameds) . I dribbled into the front court, fed the ball to Troy and then waited on the perimeter as a kick-out option. Troy did a spectacular post move but his shot landed short on the rim and I ran toward the hoop for the offensive rebound.

What followed was a collision. I don't remember all the details of the smash, but I do know that it involved Cindy and Troy, was about two and a half feet off the ground and that my nose was at the very center. I felt a squish sound – not a crack, but a squeak, like a tire rapidly deflating – and heard gasps from those the sideline spectators. Time stood still for a second and then I landed hard on my rump, creating a bruise as colorful as it was painful.

My younger brother has twice broken his nose and I was present for both occasions, so I am familiar with the circumstances that surround protuberance fractures: One bone is pulled loose from another and the schnoz assumes a shape quite dissimilar from the one it used to claim. A little blood and swelling are inevitable side effects.

But my schnoz wasn't broken. When I inspected my nose in the mirror after the game (which we lost, in case you had to rub it in), I didn't feel any swelling or bone irregularity. The the cartilage was stretched and blowing my nose was painful, but the bones were just as sturdy and stable as before. You really thought I broke it, didn't you?

For shame.

I really think my feat of physical sacrifice earned me respect from the other guys. They all wanted to see my bruise and several were complimentary about my nasal swelling. One guy even said I had "hops," which is pretty rare "for a white guy."

In retrospect, however, I wasn't completely satisfied with the game; I think I would have sacrificed my nose, if only I'd beaten that girl.