The one saving grace of
professional sports’ team owners is that what you see is what you get. Jim Crane, Mark Cuban, Jerry Jones and their
ilk aren’t going to win a Nobel Peace Prize, even if they wanted to, which I’m
pretty sure they don’t (assuming they even know such a thing exists). Any true show of compassion or generosity
that emanates from the owner’s box, which shouldn’t be confused with carefully
crafted responses to a crisis, is merely an exception that proves the
rule. These guys are what they are, and
only a fool would think otherwise.
But it’s not good to go through
life in full-cynic mode. As human beings
with all those spooks and whatnot in our heads, we need heroes, which is one of
the reasons sports exist in the first place.
Theoretically, amateur sports should fill the bill by circumventing the
corrupting influence of money that comes with the pros, only it doesn’t. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the NCAA,
March Madness, the College Football Playoffs….
There’s a moral dilemma to being a
parent of an NCAA D-I athlete, and I freely admit I wish I could’ve experienced
it. The dilemma involves wanting the
best for your child both in the short-run (think one to five years) and the
long-term. They’re not always the same,
hence the dilemma. But I was doubly “blessed,”
if you will, by having a daughter who played D-III softball.
First off, an infinitesimal percentage
of female athletes in D-I do anything in their sport after graduation, so only
very foolish people pretend otherwise.
For D-III, square the infinitesimal, which means only fools beyond
belief would think their daughter is going to have any kind of athletic career
after graduation.
Oh, I think there’s a saving grace
to D-I baseball and softball. Unlike
certain other NCAA sports that will go unmentioned here, these two don’t
generate mountains of revenue, or the scandal that comes with. Think Rick Pitino and whomever you want. So, I would’ve been more than willing to see
if I could’ve handled the D-I parents’ dilemma, but it didn’t happen. And I should get over it, as my daughter has rightly
reminded me once or twice in a voice that sounds awfully parental.
Still, I have a boatload of good
memories, and that’s a good thing because the Olympics, that other purported
home to the amateur ideal, make the NCAA—and every pro sports’ team owner, for
that matter—look like choir boys instead.
How do members of the IOC not get up every morning and look at the
mirror in absolute shame? Beats me.
What’s the old saying? Oh, right, a fish rots from the head down. That would explain the IOC shakedowns that
host cities have paid (under the table, of course) since, well, a very long
time if not since the beginning of the modern games. And then we have the situation in the U.S.,
where coaches and doctors prey on Olympic hopefuls. In case you’ve ever wondered what prisons are
for, look no further than Larry Nassar.
Really, the next time an Olympics’ official demonstrates the slightest
bit of courage will be the first.
With the COVID-19 outbreak, there’s
a chance for someone, finally, to step up, but, whatever you do, don’t hold your
breath. The Summer Games in Tokyo must
go on, damn’ the torpedoes or whatever it is that’s making people sick (and
die). Athletes want to stay healthy, and
they don’t see how they can train if they’re supposed to self-isolate. But maybe the big problem here is merely one
of perception.
To the IOC, anyone qualifying for
the Olympics isn’t an athlete but a gladiator.
And gladiators who are about to die salute the tyrant(s) in power. No?
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