The Day Boston Changed Forever

I spent hours sitting on my bed, into the wee hours of Monday night, writing sentence after sentence after sentence. I was trying to determine the best way to start this piece, how best to grab the readers' attention, as if this was like any other piece of writing. I began writing about the unexplainable captivation of Boston. I used the phrases "enigmatic aura" and "mythological stature". I tried to craft a perfect opening and hours later found myself at the same place I started. During the course of that near sleepless Monday night, my emotions swung back and forth, a pendulum of shock, disbelief, sadness, and anger. I simply couldn't write anything down. Each time I did another emotion would surface, drowning out the other. Monday was supposed to be joyous and celebratory. Even from many miles away in Washington D.C. and even though there was no public holiday, I was excited; Marathon Monday in Boston is easily the best day of the year.

It started out like any other Monday. I had class in the morning and then Criminal Law beginning at 1:30 and ending at 2:50. During class I would peek at the Red Sox score, letting out a small and only slightly noticeable fist pump when Mike Napoli hit a game winning double. And as class ended at 2:50, the same time the explosions occurred, the exuberance that lit up my face quickly turned to confusion as the news trickled in. I had planned to meet with a Professor but I rushed home instead, watching the news, attempting to make sense of a nonsensical event. This was so personal, so close to my heart, and the hearts of anyone who has lived or spent time in Boston. This day was, for lack of a better word, sacred.

And then I saw the blast, the horrid video from the finish line, the sound of the explosion, the screaming, the blood, the horror, my feelings so visceral that I couldn't help but gasp. And then I saw the boy, Martin Richard, that young and beautiful child, with a wide smile, big brown eyes, and those pre-braces teeth, the picture of carefree innocence, holding up a sign for peace. The wall holding my emotion quickly crumbled as the salty and bitter tears streamed down my face. I remember sitting in my bed on Monday night, my eyes red and puffy, flinching when I heard the door close, then closing my eyes, reminding myself to breathe. Deep, easy breaths, just one at a time.

Why Boston? Why the Marathon? Why this day? There were simply no answers to the innumerable questions. I have been to the Marathon. I have walked those very streets, the very spots where the explosions occurred, more times than I can count. Sometimes, I would take the train into Back Bay Station, walk down Dartmouth Street, cross Boylston Street at the intersection just a few hundred feet from where the first explosion occurred, continuing on through Newbury Street and its expensive shopping, through Commonwealth Avenue's tree-lined walkway marveling at its pristine beauty, and then crossing over Storrow Drive, to the Esplanade, looking out over the Charles River to Cambridge, watching the sun slowly set. There is little that can top it.

Boston is a city that makes no sense yet makes perfect sense; a city of anomalies and paradoxes. It's a city that is nearly impossible to drive in with its roads appearing to have been designed by a small infant after being given his first coloring book. Its mayor, its stumbling, bumbling, goofball of a human, who can't stand on his feet or pronounce the names of the city's most famous athletes, yet is beloved by the city and  is easily re-elected each time he runs. Its subway system, built 100 years ago, seemingly unchanged or improved, leaving riders pleasantly surprised when it works properly. Its most notorious residents, filled with dropped "r's" and intolerance, ambivalent to outsiders or change, harboring a penchant for alcohol consumption, yet living in the heart and capital of arguably the most tolerant, educated, progressive, and liberal state in the country, home to some of the greatest institutions in the world. Its nightlife, or lack thereof, closing while other cities are just beginning, the subway shutting down just as you are going out, leaving you to find a non-existent cabby who doesn't take credit cards or have a sense of direction. Fenway Park, its beloved baseball stadium, plopped tightly and awkwardly near Kenmore Square, where ticket prices are the highest in the league buying you a seat which fits maybe half of your body, where a pretzel may run you $5, where the bathrooms overflow, and yet you can't help but be transfixed by its ambiance, magic, and transcendent beauty. The history of the city sitting at every street corner, innocuous landmarks quietly hiding in plain sight, reminders of the iconic events in this city's history which helped propel America to independence; The Old North Church, The Boston Tea Party, Bunker Hill, and the other Boston Massacre. I don't know what the Marathon will be like next year, and in the years to come. It will most assuredly never be the same. But there is something about Boston, something I cannot pin-point, something, like the city itself, that I cannot explain, something deep inside me which knows that Boston will refuse to let this affect us.

Many people leave the city when they are young. They may move to New York or, like me, to D.C., where the streets make sense and the public transportation works. But sometimes I think of Boston. I think of the times waiting for the subway at Downtown Crossing on a hot summer day, the smells wafting through the air, hearing the groans from the commuters, as an announcement about mechanical problems delays your departure. I think of shaking my head angrily, sweat trickling down my face, as another commuter knocks into me, seemingly unaware that I was standing there. But one day I will return, and I will sit in Downtown Crossing during that summer day and I will smile. I will smile because I would simply have it no other way. Because just as it's certain I will return, so will Boylston Street, so will this great city, so will Patriots Day, and so will the Marathon. We would have it no other way.

The Obscenity of the NCAA

NCAA President Mark Emmert

Rutgers' Coach Mike Rice

Arizona Coach Sean Miller

Over the past couple days two major stories have emerged from the magical world of College Basketball. First, it was revealed that Ed Rush, the Pac-12 Head of Officiating, told a group of referees he would offer $5000 or a trip to Cancun if they rang up (whistled him for a technical foul) Arizona head coach, Sean Miller. Second, a haunting and disturbing report from Outside the Lines showed Rugters' head coach Mike Rice throwing basketballs and swearing at players during practice. Larry Scott, the Pac-12 commissioner, and Tim Pernetti, Rutgers' Athletic Director, disciplined both men, discipline that allowed both men to keep their job. Rush was reprimanded, which essentially means nothing. Rice was suspended three games earlier this season and fined $50,000, which is essentially nothing. These stories will almost certainly continue to evolve, and if I were to surmise, I would bet that Rutgers, being a public university, will ultimately fire Mike Rice in the coming days, or he will resign. As for Ed Rush, I would say him losing his job is far from a certainty, since the public outcry will be far less vitriolic towards him than to Rice. The people most and almost exclusively offended by Rush are sports fans (and University of Arizona students and alumni) while those offended by Rice include every person on Earth, except for maybe Mel Gibson.

I don't know much about Ed Rush. I do know that Marc Cuban said in 2002 he wouldn't hire Rush to "manage a Dairy Queen".  But up until this controversy I had never heard his name before. But I will not soon forget it. So much is wrong with this situation, I find myself trying to muster some semblance of coherent thought in a feeble attempt to describe my emotions. Am I sad? disappointed? angry? bewildered? shocked? For sports fans, this epitomizes our worst fears. Sports are so special because they are (or are supposed to be) some of the only elements of truth in the world. Sports are not supposed to be affected by the outside world. With all the terrible things we see on the news every day, sport endures as a symbol of fairness and impartiality. May the best man win. Plain and simple. Beauty in its purest form. But sports are not immune to the vices of the outside world. So when those tasked with overseeing the impartiality of the game, the referees, compromise the integrity of the game, the anger that results is often impassioned and fierce. After all a referee is "an official who watches a game or a match closely to ensure that the rules are adhered". Ed Rush has not just compromised the integrity of the game, he has destroyed it. The first action should have been his immediate dismissal, yet almost as shocking as the comments themselves, Larry Scott, the Pac-12 commissioner, has not fired Rush. Instead Scott decided to speak about the situation and made some of the most perplexing comments I have ever heard.

Scott said, among other things, that he did not find a "breach of ethics or integrity in the officiating program" and that there was "nothing individual about Sean Miller in all of this". Really Larry? What Ed rush said was ethical? If there was no breach of integrity, would you say that this incident has espoused confidence in Pac-12 officiating? Does this behavior embody the rectitude that is expected of Pac-12 officiating? What planet is Larry Scott on? What occurred is actually the opposite of Ed Rush's job description. His job is to oversee the officials to ensure the integrity and impartiality of the game remains. I'm not sure how Ed Rush could have fucked up worse. It's like a doctor who makes a patient sicker or a teacher who makes a student dumber. And then to say that Sean Miller wasn't targeted? Sean Miller received a technical foul, his first of the entire season for telling the official that his player "touched the ball". The question we need to ask is whether Sean Miller receives this technical in any other situation. I think the answer is emphatically, no. And while Scott admitted the comments were inappropriate, he in essence excused them by saying they were simply made "in jest". Does that even matter? At the time of the technical there was 4:37 left in the game. Mark Lyons was called for a double dribble, which was the incorrect call, as the defender touched the ball. Miller protested and received a technical. UCLA made two free throws. UCLA would win the game by two points. Ed Rush's comments affected the outcome of the game. Even Larry Scott is dumb enough to know basic math, I think.

 Mike Rice is another name I had never heard of until yesterday. I guess that's what happens when you are the basketball coach at Rutgers. Earlier in the basketball season, in mid-December, Rice was suspended for three games and fined $50,000 for what were, at the time, unknown offenses. The reality of that suspension came to light yesterday when Outside the Lines released video of Rice throwing basketballs at players and berating them with offensive slurs. The video is shocking and thus explains why Rutgers acted so surreptitiously during the initial suspension. The Rutgers A.D. said at the time, "there was obviously some things that are not to the Rutgers' standard that we evaluated and decided upon". Really? How about some things not up to the human standard? Mike Rice called his players pussies, bitches, cunts, motherfuckers, and faggots. He threw a ball at one of his players' heads. He aggressively put his hands on players, pushing and grabbing them. A college basketball coach is an educator and a role model, who is charged with setting an example for impressionable 18-22 year old young men, many of whom lack a strong familial structure. Not only does he fail that test, he might not even meet the criteria for world's worst dad. But as seems the tradition in NCAA athletics, those in charge seem to be the one's most in need of edification, like Rutgers A.D. Tim Pernetti.

Pernetti was interviewed on Outside the Lines and was pressed on the leniency of the discipline. Pernetti mentioned that the tape shown was not a full representation and that it is important to look at those incidents in full context. Might I inquire as to what context you are referring to? Because there is no place whatsoever for that type of behavior on a basketball court. Ever. But most bewildering was Pernetti's logic that this was simply a first offense. Maybe if you add up every incident together it was a first offense. Rice didn't simply hurl one ball at a player's head or call one player a pussy, he did it over and over and over again. According to the report, at least three players transferred due to his actions, and one player, Gilvydas Biruta, who is from Lithuania, was called a "Lithuanian faggot". Maybe if you took one of those incidents such as throwing a ball once, or yelling an epithet once, I would consider it a first offense. But not this. This is multiple offenses that Pernetti rolled into one to support his morally reprehensible penalty. Three games? $50,000? To put that in context, Shabazz Muhammad missed three games for accepting impermissible benefits ranging from $500-$700 during recruiting trips. And Mike Rice makes approximately $700,000, so $50,000 is approximately 1/14th of his salary. Sounds fair to me.

The bigger picture regarding both of these stories is the same pervasive themes that has led to the inexorable decline of the NCAA and its credibility. Players simply don't matter. They mean nothing. And it literally gets shoved into our faces over and over again. Those stupid NCAA commercials which show how the NCAA is always there for its pawns student-athletes. While the NCAA signs huge contracts, like the one in 2010 for 10.8 Billion (no, that is not a typo), its players are held at the mercy of coaches who are free to leave their university on a whim (it's usually for more money). Because when Gilvydas Biruta was called a "Lithuanian faggot" the only fair thing to do would be to make him sit out a year, which he did. While Mike Rice sat out three games, Birutas sat out the entire season. Seems logical, right? But logic means nothing to the NCAA. Remember Mike Leach? The Texas Tech football coach who put his player in an electrical closet. After being fired Leach signed a deal with Washington State which paid him over 2 Million Dollars per year. Naturally, he was accused of abusing his players in his first season at Washington State. There has been reported abuse all over the country. Just last month, University of Utah swim coach, Greg Winslow, was told his contract would not be renewed after allegations surfaced of sexual abuse, along with claims that the University did not do enough to protect its players from the abuse. The list goes on.

Scandals in collegiate athletics have become as ubiquitous as the competitions themselves. Players are helpless as they are left with nowhere to turn, while coaches and administrators are left accountable to no one. The truth is that in a month we will forget about Ed Rush and Mike Rice. No one will remember Larry Scott or Tim Pernetti. But I can assure you, with the utmost certainty, the scandals will continue. The names will be different. The stories will change, but only slightly; the idea is the same. The coaches with their exorbitant salaries will become more indispensable, and the players more inconsequential. The NCAA ostensibly represents the body which protects players but any action by the NCAA starts and ends with the movement of their lips. At the end of the NCAA's new March Madness commercial they say, "just know we're always there for student-athletes". And then something caught my glance outside the window. I looked quickly to see a pig flying through the air.


Editors Note** Mike Rice was fired this morning (4/3). I guess I can see into the future.**