The Daily Paragraph 2/5/2007 (Football Independence Day Edition)LOS ANGELES -- There are three important national holidays on the official calendar of Hoops Nation™. First and foremost in importance, of course, is Selection Sunday in March -- the day that the entire college basketball year leads up to. A second is coming up in a couple weeks: that glorious Day of the Mid-Majors, the day when we take over (some of) the cable and broadband airwaves, BracketBusters Saturday. The third one, the one that elicits the most ecstasy and joy in your humble narrator, is today -- the anticipation has been sphincter-clenchingly unbearable, and it's finally here. After a long winter of annual discontent, a bright and clear morning has dawned... on Football Independence Day. American-style football is the most ridiculous mish-mash of a "sport" that sentient beings have ever slapped together: a bastardization of the grand old game of rugby union, but with pads and helmets and steroids. To paraphrase George Will, football brings together the two worst things about American society: violence and committee meetings. But in no other game will you find such a premium of "toughness" and "manliness," balanced against the fact that all your favorite franchise's scoring records are most likely held by a 175-pound dude who's on the field for less than two minutes per contest. Or such hypocrisy as when real violence breaks out, it's an "embarrassment". At its very core, football is a game for confused, maladjusted, passive-aggressive sissies. And in no other game will you find such a figure as the dashing, smart pretty-boy quarterback exalted to such ridiculous superman status -- I can remember a TV roundtable discussion about who the better athlete was, Lance Armstrong or Brett Favre. Armstrong pedalled a bicycle faster than anybody else for thousands of miles and over treacherous mountains, for an entire month -- seven times -- but the football apologist asked glibly, "Yeah, but did he have 300-pound guys chasing him?" And those nameless, fat linemen... many of whom will die forgotten and unsung before 50, mostly due to obesity-related conditions. Now it's all over, for six months anyway. As the needless analysis of every last detail of the Super Bowl (and the meaningless Pro Bowl) dies away, we can focus on a real sport: basketball. There are no greater athletes than basketball players (although marathoners are up there -- but that's a personal bias); nobody runs and jumps and gives as much sustained effort in a game context. Football, with its caste-like specialization and hours of standing around, translates well to television -- that's all the game has going for it. So where was I on Super Bowl Sunday? Thanks for asking. I spent the day in a football-free bubble, in the only city that cares as little about pro football as I do: Los Angeles. I awoke to the soft undulations of Redondo Beach waves as the sky went all pink and orange, the rising sun providing perfect back-light. I donned my trainers, took my place along the sand-swept marinas and plazas for an extended morning jog, as I ran alongside bronzed and flawless young women in tankinis and sleek bodysuits... each more astonishingly beautiful than the last. After a brief recovery period, I relaxed in a beachside cafe, tasting cold peaches and apples, sipping a strawberry concoction as jazz was piped in through Bose speakers. A two hour-long drive along the Pacific Coast Highway followed -- I opened the sunroof on my rented Hyundai Sonata as I darted through the undulating hills and circle-curves of America's most scenic road. I paused for a brief nap on the sands of a perfectly secluded beach... and as a perfect sunset washed the sky in soft colors, I stopped by a Baja Fresh for a vegetable burrito bursting with tomatoes and jalapeno peppers, a hand-held treat literally exploding with bold and saucy flavors. And not once -- not once -- did I receive an update on the score of the Super Bowl. It wasn't until Monday morning -- from a spam e-mail message, of all places -- did I receive the news that the Chicago Bears had emerged victorious as NFL champions. It was a small scrap of sports information I quickly filed away under "meaningless." Yes, It was a perfect day, but not nearly as perfect as this one: Football Independence Day. Conference Shootaround! Closed on account of the holiday and its resultant three-day weekend. K-Dub's Krazy Fact of the Day! Last Friday, we talked a little about the NBA Efficiency Model. It's not tempo-free by any stretch of the imagination, and there are certainly better ways to measure a player's output. But this stat looks at a player's performance very much like a fan does: good things are plusses, bad things are negatives. Sportswriters tend to look at the game this way too, and that's why I thought it might be interesting to measure the list of conference "efficiency" leaders against the Player Of the Year list at the end of the season. Here's that formula again: ((Points + Rebounds + Assists + Steals + Blocks) - ((Field Goals Att. - Field Goals Made) + (Free Throws Att. - Free Throws Made) + Turnovers)) And here are the current conference leaders in average efficiency (Eff/GP) of the mid-major conferences, along with something resembling quickie analysis: America East: Jamar Wilson, Albany (17.7) A standout stat-stuffer in an underwhelming and confusing league. Could win POY. We'll check this stat's hit rate again when the POY decisions come down in March. Salud! |
