Book Club: Coach, by Michael Lewis

At 91 double-spaced pages, Michael Lewis’ Coach is not much longer than an issue of Sports Illustrated. This little book overflows such tiny confines, though, as Lewis carefully interweaves a paean to Billy Fitzgerald with larger musings about the lessons we all (should) learn on the road to adulthood.

At its most basic level, Coach is a well-constructed tribute to the man who taught Michael Lewis to be more than just a ball player. Coach Fitz's story is not a unique one, and for that matter neither is Lewis'. And while I wouldn't go so far as to call Coach a vanity project, I'm not entirely convinced it would have been published had Lewis not found mainstream success with the publication of Moneyball in 2003. Nonetheless, Coach is eminently readable, and worthwhile not just for Lewis' nostalgia, but also for his thoughts on the over-protected atmosphere today's kids often grow up in. What struck me, though, was not the minutiae of Lewis’ personal experience, or his sky-is-falling concerns regarding modern youth. Coach, for me, was an unexpected reminder of how I got to be the person I am today.

In my sports-filled life, I have had too many coaches to count. As the years have passed, I find that I can clearly remember very few of them. Time has reduced some to mere names, and others are left with only faces. Many have been completely erased from my synapses. None of them, though, no matter how misremembered, had anywhere near as much impact on who I was then or who I am now as my own father. From watching M.A.S.H. on his knee as a small boy to our ongoing discussions about what is and isn't "important" in life or sports or family or whatever, I don't think any one person can claim a bigger role in the shaping of my personality.

My dad was a carpenter when I first arrived in this world, but a serious knee injury eventually left him without a job or much of a future. Ours wasn't a house for complaining, though, so while my mom waited tables at night to make ends meet, my dad set about reinventing himself. Before my young mind really knew what was happening or what was at stake, the man who never finished college was taking courses and soon found a job as an estimator for a structural steel company. He cooked dinner for my brother and me every night. He commandeered our 8-bit Nintendo Entertainment System and beat the holy hell out of the original Legend of Zelda before I even conquered the first boss. His hard work saved our family so completely that I was an adult before it even occurred to me we might have been in jeopardy. To the eight-year-old me, a new house wasn’t anything special. A new routine, some new friends and, hey, my own room, great. But to my father, it must have been…redemption.

Growing up, I never suspected that my parents were anything out of the ordinary. Surely every father got up before dawn on Saturdays to drive his sons to hockey practice along the dark corridors of highway 101 while they slept in the back seat? And what dad didn’t patiently instill the belief that anything was possible, even a cross-country pilgrimage to Woodstock, so long as it was planned and worked for? And didn’t all the neighborhood kids learn about patience, hard work and dedication by reassembling an old truck piece by piece alongside their old man?

I’m a little bit older now, and whether you consider it wisdom or a Michael-Lewis-in-Coach-style cynicism, I’m finally starting to realize that not everyone grew up like I did. And the more I learn about my father’s life, both before and after me, the more about me I realize he deserves credit for. My convictions and my stubbornness. My belief that I can do anything I want, so long as I get around to deciding just what that is. My loyalty to the people most important to me. The rocks glass full of M&Ms next to me as I write this, an eerie parallel of the cup next to my father’s armchair.

So whenever my mother calls to vent about his latest project or tic or obsession, I laugh, I sympathize, and I comfort. And when she finally runs out of steam, she lets out an exasperated sigh and says, “That’s your father.”

And I smile, and I think the myself, “You’re dammed right.”

The Bell Tolls for Thee, Ben Braun

After a second-round NIT loss to the Ohio State University, Cal finally dropped the axe on Ben Braun. Reactions are varied, from respectful to torn to jubilant, but I'll admit I don't know how I feel about the move. On the one hand, 219-154 seems like a pretty good record over the past 12 years (of course, I'm no mathematician). On the other hand, this is my most enduring memory of Cal basketball:

March 2002 was a pretty glorious time in my life. I was living about twenty minutes outside of Amsterdam, and making the most of it. My friends and I were planning a massive St. Patrick's Day bash, as if we suddenly needed a reason to get intoxicated. As a Cal fan, still stinging from a 1-10 football season (the only victory a 9/11-rescheduled cupcake game against Rutgers), I was elated to my Golden Bears reach the second round of the tournament. It really wasn't a difficult decision: I'd head into Amsterdam ahead of my friends to watch my sixth-seeded Bears take on the third-seeded Pitt Steelers Panthers.

Perhaps I should have been concerned when I couldn't round up any of my friends to go with me (None of them Cal students, hardly any Americans, but still). I definitely should have been worried when I realized the game was in Pittsburgh. Nonetheless, I went happily into the city, with a pair of shamrock-shaped sunglasses, ready to celebrate Ireland and Cal's inevitable advancement to the Sweet Sixteen. The game started off pretty well. I befriended a few other Americans in the bar. The waitress was cute and, I thought, flirting with me with that Dutch-accented English I enjoyed so much. The halftime score: 25-26, bad guys. An upset was brewing, I could feel it. This was going to be the best St. Patrick's Day.

Three minutes into the second half, Cal's up 32-28. I'm sending drunken, random text messages across an ocean and a continent to my friends back in Berkeley, celebrating the Bears and arguing about the best way to pick up a waitress. (Full disclosure: I am a jerk.) My new friends in the bar are planning to come out drinking in the Dutch suburbs with me. Right about then, the wheels fall off:

The next time our waitress comes by, I get the 'are you sure you want another beer?' treatment. I do, and she is not impressed. And then:

Pittsburgh held California without a point for 9½ minutes during a decisive 16-0 run, which began with Cal leading 32-28 with 16:40 remaining and ended with Pitt up 44-32 with 7:08 left. The Golden Bears went more than 11 minutes without scoring a basket, and 15-plus minutes with only one basket.

(Thanks, ESPN.com archives, for ripping my heart out anew.)

Pitt went on to blow the Bears out of the water. Final score 63-50. My new friends offered feeble condolences; the waitress couldn't have ignored me more if I didn't exist. (By then, I was wishing I didn't exist.) I paid my tab in then-cheap Euros, and ventured out into the cold, Dutch night. I got lost on the way to the train station, and a walk that should have taken 15 minutes took 30. When I finally reached Amsterdam Centraal, only two of the 15 or so people were there, the rest having begged off for one reason or another.

After as much sympathy as an English girl and her disinterested American boyfriend could offer, we set off for an Irish bar, hoping to drown my sorrows in Guinness. We had all been to this bar before on several occasions, but tonight, for some reason, none of us could find it. After much wandering around, and not a few stops into other bars and coffee shops in the area, we were ultimately reduced to walking up and down the streets, vainly searching for an Irish pub that seemed to no longer exist. I walked up to an indescribable cast of skeevy hash dealers and generally crazy people, asking directions in the sort of horrendous faux-Irish accent that only a drunken, pissed off American can manage. Oh, and I was still wearing my giant shamrock sunglasses, courtesy of the good folks who make Killian's Irish Red. Needless to say, these people I was talking to were not anxious to help me.

We never did find the bar, and I'm pretty sure that's the night I lost my hat.

All of which begs the question: If this is what comes to mind when I think of Cal Basketball (Well, that and watching Tony Gonzalez push opponents around and saying to myself 'Hm, he should probably play football.'), can I possibly consider the departure of Ben Braun to be a bad thing?

OK, one last link: Goldenblogs has some thoughts of the future of Cal Basketball that are worth keeping in mind as this search goes forward.

Saying Goodbye

There's a nice farewell to Justin Forsett over at Bears Necessity. I agree with his evaluation (although I don't really see what Forsett's faith has to do with anything, apart from explaining his taking a knee after touchdowns), and share his hopes for Forsett's future. Probably not a top tier back, but he'd be great as the speedy half of a Thunder & Lightning backfield. Dallas comes to mind, but I think they just signed someone to pair with Marion Barber III. (Or maybe not. ESPN.com has Barber as the only RB on the team. OK, then, Forsett would be a good fit for the Cowboys.)

Between Marshawn Lynch and Justin Forsett, Cal has benefited from a strong running game over the past few years. (I remember J.J. Arrington and Adimchinobi "Joe" Echemandu both having strong Berkeley careers as well, in spite of their relative lack of professional success.) It will be interesting to see if the Bears are as strong on the ground in 2008. We all know they didn't want Kevin Hart's help. Jahvid Best looked strong last year as a compliment to Lynch, but he's coming off a hip injury. Hopefully he's back up to speed. A strong running game will go a long way in helping Cal reestablish their place near the top of the Pac 10.

It's baaaaaack

According to Jalopnik, the long lost Chevy El Camino is coming back as...a Pontiac? My family had an early 80s L-Cam when I was a kid, and I loved it. Light blue, not quite car, not quite truck. What could be better?

I'm not wild about the Pontiac-ization of the design, but it's nice to see the ghost of a classic rise back up.