My sympathy goes out to Don Imus. Not because he was fired, but because his firing should be the beacon of some good in our hypocritical, paradoxical and confused society. I fear that won’t happen.
Now, just for a millisecond, let’s table al the hoopla and the avalanche that landed on him yesterday. Let’s just look at the incident, and then try and see if he deserved to be crucified for his statement, one which said he derived from a pop culture/IPod generation that bobs and weaves to facsimiles of such lyrics in our headphones everyday.
Don’t pretend like you’ve never heard a rapper call a woman a ho or a whore, or a gold digger or a chicken head, and sang the hook.
What Imus said was stupid, that’s one thing we al can agree upon. But I’m not sure anyone can label Don Imus or anyone else a racist or bigot for one glaringly indecent, insensitive comment.
I don’t claim to know the man, and I’m sure 99 percent of those reading this don’t, either. But if anyone reading this has never made a joke involving sex or race, then please stop reading and take your seat at the right hand of the Father.
Imus’s firing was the product of a witch hunt masquerading as a morally driven crusade. Give me a break. It was all about the politics, agendas, and, of course, the Benjamins.
Look at the two men at the forefront casting the stones: Rev. Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson. Both these men have made statements they were never forced to recant. Sharpton once referred to the Central Park jogger, a woman brutally raped and left for dead, as a whore.
Jackson all but convicted the three Duke Lacrosse players charged with raping a 27-year-old stripper 14 months ago, saying, “There's more evidence that violence occurred to her than she's the lead of a hoax.”
Now what is he saying? Is he going to pay their legal fees the way he wanted to pay her way through college? Of course not.
These two men use their pulpits to do more harm than good. In a time in our country where race relations are at a constant simmer, ready to boil, they reach for the gas can. They do little good to mend whites and blacks, rather making the tenuous times between the two sides more divisive. It makes me sick.
CBS released three statements regarding Imus’s slur and not until the last were they repulsed by what he said. Things have a way of picking up steam in our media -- especially when sponsors, feeling social and economic pressures, begin to retreat.
And in case you weren’t aware, CBS is owned by Viacom – the rightful gatekeepers of all MTV channels and BET. Those stations produce more misogynistic material than Imus could spew in 10 lifetimes.
So now Imus, who birthed these ill-advised and moronic comments, no longer has a way to make amends. The women he truly afflicted, the Rutgers basketball team, met with him and forgave him. They are the victims, the ones in dire need of consolation.
If anyone at WFAN, CBS, or MSNBC had any marbles, they would’ve turned this media circus into a stage for knowledge. One solution could have been to have Imus and the Rutgers coach and team on his show to discuss race in the media, or portrayal of women in today’s society. ANYTHING to bring the discussion out of the spin zone, and into a level-headed debate. Those are the issues at hand. It would’ve taken a PR department 10 minutes to quell this storm and wait for the sun to come out.
Instead, everyone bailed. That will never happen.
I agree with Charles Barkley’s statement earlier this week, noting that no one deserves to be fired over one comment, one mistake. We are all fallible, subject to stupidity and lapses in judgment, but if we were all so harshly punished, there’d be way more people on the unemployment line.
But, to me this is less about Imus than it is about the other swirling issues we are all left to deal with in the fallout.
Will Imus’s comments fade into the sunset now, or will all these parties, like Jackson and Sharpton and Viacom, make good on their word that the campaign doesn’t end here? They say they will take on the music world, the rappers, and hate producers in our culture.
I will have to see it to believe it. I just hope it doesn’t start and end with Imus. Then, his firing will truly be a waste.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
...No. 5...
So I’ve taken some time off between postings on this bad boy. I can’t really call it a hiatus; it was more like a sabbatical.
Just don't call it a comeback.
Yet once I dug up this buried treasure I yearned to finish this Top 10 Curses list. My influence on sports through 6-to-10 was pervasive, but I wouldn’t be doing any of you justice if I didn’t finish the Top 5. Besides, now I can link this thing to Facebook, which means my loving girlfriend won’t be the only one forced to read this.
Without further ado, let’s pick up right where were left off.
Without further ado, let’s pick up right where were left off.
Number 5
2004 American League Championship Series
Boston Red Sox vs. New York Yankees
We read this script before, seen this movie a million times. Just insert the cliché of your choice here. It was a forgone conclusion that the New York Yankees, a well-oiled dynasty which suffered a hiccup is the 2003 World Series against the Marlins, was about to leave the ALCS station headed for its last stop: The World Series.
After taking the first two games in New York, the Bombers bulldozed the Red Sox the way Germany overran Poland’s infantry (which consisted of men on horses going up against tanks) in World War II. A 19-8 win gave the Yankees a 3-0 series lead, making a return to the World Series a mere punch of the ticket. No team in baseball history had ever forsaken such a margain, and surely it wouldn’t happy to the most storied franchise in sports, as YES Network dubs them.
With tickets to Game 6, I was resigned. I wanted to see the Yankees clinch a berth in the big dance. Brian Silverstein -- my best friend at the time who staked claim to the other ticket -- and I began scouring the Internet and investigating how to get out money back. Maybe we could trade them in for World Series tickets, we bellyached.
Hopefully the Yankees will make it to Game 6, win at home, and everyone could go home happy, we joked. When speaking to friends, I said the only way my ticket would go to use was if the 11th floor bathroom ran out of toilet paper. I even recited the dreaded phrase aloud.
“This series is over. This is better than last year,” I snickered, referencing Aaron Boone’s walk-off homer that put the Yankees in the World Series.
But our jests would soon turn to jeers. Game 4 was moved back a night because of rain, allowing the Red Sox to reset their rotation. Derek Lowe started in place of Bronson Arroyo, and Pedro Martinez and Curt Schilling were now on the docket. Still, I wasn’t too worried.
Then the slightest tactical error in the bottom of the ninth in Game 4 turned out to be a series-turner. It amazes me, because I still remember the move being regarded as minor at the trading deadline. Dave Roberts, whom Boston got midseason, came in as a pinch runner, stole second base and eventually scored. The Sox won in extras, and won Game 5 in similar fashion on Big Papi’s home run in the 14th.
Brian and I, now quivering and despondent in the rain, sat in section 53 of the bleachers for Game 6: the Bloody Sock debacle. After A-Rod’s glove-slap torpedoed the Yankees chance, we looked at each other and didn’t say a word. We knew what was happening, but could not acknowledge it. As I've declared before, being a Yankee fan is hard because when you experience the joys of victory, it makes defeat more unbearable.
Game 7 turned out to be the real formality, and I won’t even get into it. The memory is blurred, a night of three too many Jack and Coke’s, and I prefer to keep it that way.
We read this script before, seen this movie a million times. Just insert the cliché of your choice here. It was a forgone conclusion that the New York Yankees, a well-oiled dynasty which suffered a hiccup is the 2003 World Series against the Marlins, was about to leave the ALCS station headed for its last stop: The World Series.
After taking the first two games in New York, the Bombers bulldozed the Red Sox the way Germany overran Poland’s infantry (which consisted of men on horses going up against tanks) in World War II. A 19-8 win gave the Yankees a 3-0 series lead, making a return to the World Series a mere punch of the ticket. No team in baseball history had ever forsaken such a margain, and surely it wouldn’t happy to the most storied franchise in sports, as YES Network dubs them.
With tickets to Game 6, I was resigned. I wanted to see the Yankees clinch a berth in the big dance. Brian Silverstein -- my best friend at the time who staked claim to the other ticket -- and I began scouring the Internet and investigating how to get out money back. Maybe we could trade them in for World Series tickets, we bellyached.
Hopefully the Yankees will make it to Game 6, win at home, and everyone could go home happy, we joked. When speaking to friends, I said the only way my ticket would go to use was if the 11th floor bathroom ran out of toilet paper. I even recited the dreaded phrase aloud.
“This series is over. This is better than last year,” I snickered, referencing Aaron Boone’s walk-off homer that put the Yankees in the World Series.
But our jests would soon turn to jeers. Game 4 was moved back a night because of rain, allowing the Red Sox to reset their rotation. Derek Lowe started in place of Bronson Arroyo, and Pedro Martinez and Curt Schilling were now on the docket. Still, I wasn’t too worried.
Then the slightest tactical error in the bottom of the ninth in Game 4 turned out to be a series-turner. It amazes me, because I still remember the move being regarded as minor at the trading deadline. Dave Roberts, whom Boston got midseason, came in as a pinch runner, stole second base and eventually scored. The Sox won in extras, and won Game 5 in similar fashion on Big Papi’s home run in the 14th.
Brian and I, now quivering and despondent in the rain, sat in section 53 of the bleachers for Game 6: the Bloody Sock debacle. After A-Rod’s glove-slap torpedoed the Yankees chance, we looked at each other and didn’t say a word. We knew what was happening, but could not acknowledge it. As I've declared before, being a Yankee fan is hard because when you experience the joys of victory, it makes defeat more unbearable.
Game 7 turned out to be the real formality, and I won’t even get into it. The memory is blurred, a night of three too many Jack and Coke’s, and I prefer to keep it that way.
The Curse Top 10
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