The Crown Victoria breaks down

I didn't get a chance to watch last night's US Open women's semifinals live, because I was watching my beloved Buckeyes lose yet another heart-breaker they should have won. But thanks to the DVR, I was able to catch up and just finished watching Serena "Crown Victoria" Williams lose her match to Kim Clijsters. Down a set and trailing the second set 5-6, Crown Victoria was serving at 15-30, and committed a double-fault for match point because of a somewhat ticky-tacky foot-fault call. At that point, Crown Victoria lost it and went on a paranoid rant that would have made Milton Bradley proud. She spent the next couple of minutes alternatively preparing to serve out match point, then stopping, screaming obscenities at the line judge who called the foot-fault, then preparing to serve again, then stopping and ranting at the line judge yet again. Predictably enough, Crown Victoria's tantrum practically forced the chair umpire to penalize her a point for unsportsmanlike behaviour. Game, set, match. Would Crown Victoria have been able to mount an epoch-making comeback when facing match point against a player who appeared to have her number? Highly improbable, but not impossible. Regrettably, Crown Victoria's antics make the question moot.

I've always supported Crown Victoria, even though she's a textbook example of the "Gracious winner, sore loser" corollary. She heaps effusive praise on opponents after she's defeated them, almost to a fault, but when she loses, she refuses to give opponents credit, instead saying things along the lines of, "She made a lot of lucky shots, and I made lots of errors." Being a somewhat sore loser does not a sports villain make... but even the biggest Crown Victoria apologist might have a tough time defending last night's meltdown. I'm not passing holier-than-thou judgment here. I may not be a professional athlete, but it doesn't take a professional athlete to understand that emotions and frustrations are brutally magnified in the heat of competition, especially when the stakes are high. That having been said, Serena's "Ugly American" moment cost her the match, and possibly a few fans.

One week down, 42 weeks to go

After a week and a half of excruciating new employee inductions, coma-inducing orientation and staff committee meetings, mind-numbing guideline sessions full of TLAs (three-letter acronyms), and the occasional respite of a school spirit speech, classes finally started this past Monday, and I finally got around to my job: teaching. Well, kind of.

On Monday, first and second periods were shortened owing to a pep rally, so all I did there was take attendance and distribute class syllabi. The remaining periods, I was able to do what I had hoped: namely, to introduce myself at length, and to have all of my students do the same. With some of the classes, this activity quickly de-evolved into a chaos of excited questions about my tattoos. Go figure.

On Tuesday, I went through the tattoo show-and-tell lunacy with my first two periods, then caught up all classes on lab safety. One of my Chemistry students astutely noticed we don't have a fire extinguisher in the room. At least he was awake!

On Wednesday, more flat-out chaos: I marched every one of my classes down to the Library so they could pick up their textbooks. Since all the Science classes were slated to pick up their books that day, the wait took up most of the class period. Upon our return to the classroom during one of my Physical Science classes, I noticed there were still some ten minutes left until the bell, so I asked the students to go ahead and start reading Chapter 1, to which one unfortunate soul replied, in shocked disbelief: "You want us to read? ON OUR OWN?" It's gonna be a long year.

On Thursday, finally! Lecture time. Well, lecture time for the first four periods, since the school photos "grade X students go during period Y" designation left me with only half of my Physics students during sixth period (the juniors left), and only one Physics student during seventh period (the seniors left). At least I was able to help her with her Algebra II homework.

Friday was doubly good: no more administrative garbage or interruptions, and since we have casual Friday at our school, I was able to wear jeans and tennis shoes. The jeans aren't such a big deal, because even my dress pants are comfortable. But the tennis shoes were a gift from God -- I have blisters on my heels from a week of wearing dress shoes. Time to splurge yet more money I don't have to buy a pair of fancy sneaker-dress shoe hybrids.

All in all, the first actual work-week of my new job was: exhausting, because I found myself leaving school and coming straight home to prepare lectures and activities for the next day; frustrating, because I (the whole faculty, really) had to deal with an absurd amount of transferring students, the class sizes are absolutely enormous, and all of our schedules were shifted around the day before classes started -- yes, you read that correctly, and in my case, it was actually the NIGHT before; but also very rewarding, especially when it comes to my Physics students, who are attentive, funny, and understand that once we're on task, I need them to stay focused. It was tough keeping some of my other classes equally focused, especially my non-honours, we-don't-want-to-be-here Physical Science students, but aside from the occasional "QUIET, please!" warnings, I had no disciplinary problems. And if that's all I have to worry about when it comes to discipline, then I'll be thanking God profusely, because that kind of restlessness was to be expected during the first week of school.

May the next 42 weeks be more like Friday -- a nice, relatively stress-free, routine learning / teaching experience.

I just don't get it

I've tried, repeatedly, but I don't understand the fascination. UFC / Strikeforce / MMA / Affliction / Ultimate Fighting / Whatever just doesn't make it for me. Last night's card was advertised as an epoch-maker, because lots of supposedly spectacular match-ups would be televised, and the headliner was a battle of the best two female MMA / UFC / Whatever fighters. Well, I toughed out the entire card, again, and was disappointed and revolted, again. It isn't a problem of the sport being too barbaric -- even though I understand that all such fighting sports are barbaric -- because I love boxing. It isn't a problem of the sport being too seedy, because it's come a long way from those disturbing clips of that homeless dude fighting weirdos for cash or food; in fact, last night's event was as glitzy and well-produced as any stellar boxing card in recent memory. I can't even say, in good conscience, that it's a problem of a lack of skill, because I'm not well-versed on the finer points of take-down techniques, submission holds, or shoot (chute?) fighting.

For me, the biggest problem is that no matter what happens, MMA either fails to hold my interest or actually disgusts me. Last night was no exception. The four things that I remember the most from the two-hour program are not exactly selling points for the sport:

• Prolonged stretches where the fighters just circled one another, followed by a quick takedown by one of the fighters, and said takedown resulting in prolonged stretches where the fighters grappled awkwardly on the floor, until the referee eventually reset them because the crowd would boo the lack of action.

• Fighters taking entirely too much punishment. I don't think I'm being a hypocrite here. Boxing gloves are very well-padded, and I've actually experienced what it's like to get punched in the jaw by a gloved opponent. Sure, it doesn't feel too good, but to be honest, I've taken worse lumps playing soccer. I've also experienced what it's like to get pounded with a practically bare fist or get kicked in the thigh, and it's brutal. One complaint about MMA you'll never hear from me is that fights get stopped too quickly. In my opinion, the exact opposite holds true. Last night, some Armenian dude dropped his opponent with a crunching right hook, and there was no pause, mercy, or eight-count. Instead, the Armenian fighter immediately pounced on his helpless and halfway unconscious rival and landed at least five or six vicious blows on his face before the referee finally stepped in to wave off the contest. The bloodied and bruised loser was left to stare up at the lights with a thousand-yard glassy-eyed stare. It was scary and repugnant.

• Testing is sorely needed in the sport, and I don't mean the "what multiple learning profile is Fighter X" type of testing. Yesterday's main event pitted Gina Carano, the supposed face of female MMA fighters, against an opponent who goes by the name of "Cyborg" -- I shit you not. Carano is a pretty good-looking girl, so I can see why the promoters would want to showcase her. As a bonus, her name allowed me and a group of equally immature friends to make roughly one million "pounding Gina" moron jokes. This Cyborg person, though... yikes. To quote the Steve Carrell character from "The 40-Year Old Virgin": her hands were as big as Andre The Giant's, and her Adam's apple was almost as big as her balls. She was more of a man than I'll ever be. Predictably enough, the good-looking but not very well-skilled Gina took a hellacious beating from Cyborg. I suppose we should be thankful there wasn't enough time for lots of grappling, or else Cyborg might not have known whether to throw punches or penetrate and thrust. [Shudders.]

• There really don't appear to be too many rules. During the girl fight, while Cyborg had Gina pinned against the cage (yes, they fight in a cage -- draw your own conclusions), she was actually scratching Gina's face. I suppose that's pretty convincing evidence that Cyborg's a female after all, but still... that was just insane.

All in all, I was not impressed. Call me a stodgy old fogey, but I think I'll stick to boxing, where people try to punch each other's heads off in a civilized manner.

The fire sale from hell

To the remaining Tribe fans who haven't deserted the team after Larry Dolan took it over from Dick Jacobs, the current installment of the yearly fire sale does not come as a shock. Nonetheless, all of us are devastated by this latest round of trades. The CC trade last year was incredibly painful but understandable. CC was heading into free agency and had very honestly made it clear he would go to the highest bidder. Hence, getting something in return for CC before the foregone conclusion of his leaving at the end of the season made sense, even to CC's most ardent supporters. But this year's trades of Cliff Lee and Vicky Martinez are not justified by the same parameters. Both players had team options for next year, at roughly the same salary they're making this year. Why, then, not employ the same strategy as last year? That is, start the year with an intact roster, see if the team will contend, and, if things look bad as the trade deadline approaches, deal the marketable players who are heading into free agency for prospects. I like to think that we the Tribe Faithful understand that the salad days of Jacobs actually trying to field a winning team regardless of personal cost are over. We may be chronically afflicted with collective Sisyphus issues, but we're not hopelessly stupid, so we also realize that these are crummy economic times for everyone. But if Dolan hopes to make any money from his ownership stake in the Indians, he needs to field a competitive team.

Cleveland is a football town, and they'll support the Brownies no matter how putridly inept a team / coaching staff / managerial staff is in place. The attendance records for Browns games provides compelling evidence of this unconditional support. Since their return to the league, the Brownies' record of futility has been astounding, and yet they keep selling out game after game after painfully embarrassing blowout loss to the fucking Steelers game. Neither the Cavs nor the Tribe are granted the same luxury of seemingly unlimited support. The pre-LeBron Cavs were probably a few more lousy seasons away from being relocated (you can't convince me otherwise), and team owner Dan Gilbert has done a remarkable job of following previous owner George Gund's lead and investing oodles of money, time, and effort into building a first-class franchise. Sure, the fact that LeBron has blossomed into the league's best player hasn't hurt, but the point is still valid: unless you own the Brownies, you must spend at least some money to make money. The Cavs regularly sell out home games, and the crowd is enthusiastic and rabid, as it should be. The same scenario played out for the Tribe starting in the mid 90's and continuing into the early part of the current century. The new stadium, coupled with a team that actually started winning and became a perennial contender thanks to several shrewd trades AND lucrative player contracts (bears repeating: LUCRATIVE PLAYER CONTRACTS!!!), resulted in an unprecedented era of baseball success in Cleveland, as witnessed by the remarkable sellout streak of 455 consecutive home games.

If Dolan's only strategy for maintaining a positive bottom line is slashing the payroll, which GM Mark Shapiro has confirmed countless times, then the Tribe are in for a nasty free-fall of perennial rebuilding. Dolan would be better off selling the team to someone who actually has the capital to invest in team improvements and wait for those investments to mature, à la Dick Jacobs. Dolan would also be well-advised to sell the team before the average attendance plummets to the triple digits, something that was quite frequent in the 80's and early 90's. I used to work downtown back then, and can still remember walking to old Municipal stadium after work with friends and/or Fiancée No. 2 (she was a trooper), paying $5 for tickets, and, since the stadium would be practically empty, sitting anywhere we wanted -- even the ushers didn't give a shit back then, and with good reason: those teams were abysmal. I'm sure I speak for the remaining Tribe Faithful (all 13 of us) when I say that a return to those conditions would be nothing short of a catastrophe.

The swine flu finds an adequate home

What better place for the swine flu to strike than a supposedly environmentally conscious institution built upon a wetland and run by unethical sybarites?

Disturbing the priest

One of the all-time greatest rock songs, from Black Sabbath's sublime "Born Again" album. The indefatigable Ian Gillan does so much screaming and cackling in this song, that it's a miracle he had any voice left after recording it. I never pay attention to lyrics, but this morning, I was reminded of a nice little line from this song: "Watch out for religion when it gets too near."

I was still in my ratty PJs and savouring my last cup of late-morning coffee when someone knocked on my door. I went to have a looksie, and beheld two very well-dressed young men whose appearance and demeanour screamed "Jehova's witness." I usually shoo these types of visitors away, but for some reason, felt a pang of sympathy for these two youngsters who were braving the insufferable heat for the sake of their so-called duty. So, for roughly two minutes, I let them chat me up about Christianity and the Bible -- no use clamming up about my faith, since I loathe lying and my cross tattoos were plainly visible -- before wishing them a good day and advising them to stick to whatever little shade they could find.

As they were leaving, one of the kids turned back and, rooting through his briefcase, told me he had a pamphlet he thought I might find useful. I was going to respectfully decline, but again, felt so bad for these kids toiling away in the dog days of summer in the name of their faith, misguided though it may be in my opinion, that I decided, "let this poor kid hand me his leaflet; if nothing else, it might provide some laughable bathroom reading." Imagine my surprise when I looked at the pamphlet and saw it was entitled, "Depression and Anger." The Jehova young'un proceeded to explain that this pamphlet not only referenced several passages in the Bible dealing with the evils of depression and anger, but also provided several additional references (Biblical or otherwise fanatically Christian, of course) that would help, and I quote, "a Christian who had strayed from the path" overcome the root of these evils. In the immortal words of Jack Slater, "big mistake." I gave Jehova boy the Manson lamps, and asked, "Wouldn't this pamphlet be a more appropriate choice for someone who answered the door while wiping their eyes, or insulted you, or slammed the door in your face? That's the kind of person that might be in need of counseling, anger control, or simple etiquette lessons." The obviously nonplussed Jehova kid tried to rally, and replied, "We like to leave these pamphlets so that good Christians like yourself can use them to stay on the path." "Nice try, but the damage is done," I told Jehova boy. "If staying on the path means making unfavourable snap judgements of people who open their door to your unsolicited Saturday morning visits, I'd rather careen right off your path, for it leads directly to presumption, which, last time I checked, was a sin." Hey, I figured waxing poetic was the way to go. Jehova boy tried to stammer out a reply, but I politely and firmly told him not to bother, and sent him and his pal on their merry way.

And that's how Bible-pounding zealotry transformed a nice Saturday morning coffee session into me standing on my porch in my PJs, looking like a disheveled swarthy hillbilly, and arguing semantics with two suit-clad Jehova's witnesses young enough to be my kids. Watch out for religion when it gets too near, indeed.

Alexis Argüello (1952-2009)

I've been a boxing fan for as long as I can remember. I guess it was unavoidable, given that my Dad was a boxing fan and, predictably enough, I took most of my behavioural cues from him. But my formative years need some credit here, too. The late 70's and the 80's were strife with boxing greatness. Heck, even the silver screen saw Rocky, a movie about a pug and his struggle for respect, win an Oscar. Unlike today, where the most charismatic champions are robotic Russians or dim-witted obnoxious loudmouths, the great champs of my childhood and adolescence were larger-than-life figures whose only concern was fighting the best, without worrying about sanctioning fees, purse splits, favourable match-ups, "getting my due," or whatever other pathetic excuses today's paper champions use to dodge good opponents. In those days, I liked a lot of fighters, but there were five guys whom I worshiped with an adulation that bordered on the maniacal: Salvador Sánchez, Marvelous Marvin Hagler, Azumah Nelson, Julio César Chávez, and my all-time favourite, Alexis Argüello, by far the greatest boxing champion of my lifetime. Two days ago, Argüello passed away in his native Managua, Nicaragua, after suffering a gunshot wound to the chest. Argüello had been elected mayor of Managua, and although at this time his death has been decreed to be a suicide, the circumstances are decidedly suspicious.

I first saw "El Flaco Explosivo" in a televised bout against Arturo Leon, and during the pre-fight introductions, I remember being more impressed by Leon, a squat, muscular guy with a thick build, and thinking that Argüello was too thin, spindly, unassuming and unimposing to pose much of a threat against Leon or, for that matter, any other boxer. Of course, boxing matches are not won and lost based on appearance, something that became rather obvious when Argüello started following up his surprisingly quick and stiff jab with explosive right crosses. Leon managed to go the distance, mounting a few rallies here and there, but had absolutely no answer to Argüello's well-balanced, non-stop arsenal. As luck would have it, his next championship defense, a rematch against Alfredo Escalera, was also televised in Uruguay. Argüello delivered an even more impressive beatdown, knocking the rugged Escalera down three times en route to a late-round stoppage. Just like that, I was hooked. Here was a guy who was as relentless, ruthless, and unforgiving in the ring as he was decent, sportsmanlike, and gracious outside of it. This may seem hard to believe, considering today's "me me me it's all about me" chest-pounding, trash-talking athletes, but as soon as the refs finished counting out his opponents, Argüello's first move was to help the vanquished foes to their feet. This is not a romanticized exaggeration. No fighter was as universally loved outside the ring, and arguably no fighter was as universally feared inside it.

I was lucky enough to see quite a few of his subsequent fights, especially once we moved to the States, where Argüello was remarkably popular. The fact that he'd learned to speak very good English and even starred in a Lite Beer commercial with Billy Martin (Argüello's over-the-top "I got to meet thees guyyy!" punchline brings a smile to my face even to this day), as well as his crowd-pleasing, take-on-all-comers style, endeared him to an American audience that was, to be honest, just as xenophobic then as they pretend not to be today. For me, the summit of El Flaco's career took place in late 1981, when he took on media darling and tough-as-nails challenger Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini and TKO'd him after methodically pounding him into submission over 14 brutal rounds. Immediately after the stoppage, he went to console the heartbroken Mancini, and promised him he'd be a champ someday. Mancini, a super-nice guy whose life saw plenty of tragedy and adversity, did indeed go on to win a championship, and to this day, credits Argüello with teaching him how to behave like a champ both inside and outside the ring.

Rest in peace, Flaco.