OFF THE BEATEN ST. PATRICK'S PATH — Roddy Doyle

(ed. note: First things first — never underestimate the power of a blog entry. To wit:
I ignited an Ursinus-hoops-tastic burst of blog activity earlier this week — focusing on young John Noonan (great-grandson of Irish immigrants, mind you.) Tonight the Ursinus College Bears defeated Bible Baptist, 94-76, in the 1st round of the NCAA tourney. Noonan — in his first game flush with BrothersMcC mojo — promptly went off for a career-high 28 points.
We do what we can.)





Now for today's offering:

Most everyone knows about The Commitments — the wildly popular movie about the fictional ragtag Irish band that finds success. The Commitments was originally a novel written by the great Irish author Roddy Doyle. It later was included in The Barrytown Trilogy — along with his next two novels, The Snapper and The Van — both of which also became films.

Doyle won the Booker Prize for his 1993 novel Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha. But the spotlight we throw today is on my favorite from the pen of Mr. Doyle:

A Star Called Henry


Profane, profound, and laugh-out-loud funny, it is Doyle's best. He gives us one of the most memorable characters in recent fiction in Henry Smart — born in 1902 into grinding Dublin poverty to a one-legged father who works as a whorehouse bouncer and uses his wooden leg to keep the peace.

If that doesn't hook you — you can kiss my ass.

We follow Henry — memoir-style — as he makes his way through a tumultuous childhood to joining the cause of Irish independence and ... I'll say no more. Except Henry meets many an historical figure along the way.

Writing this good is rare.

So go get the thing and read it. Hell, it was published in 1999. It's gotta be in paperback by now, you cheapskates!

A Star Called Henry is Volume One of The Last Roundup.
Volume Two is Oh! Play That Thing — it's good but not nearly the masterpiece A Star Called Henry is.

That's right, I said masterpiece. Problem, friend?

OFF THE BEATEN ST. PATRICK'S PATH — Sinead

Over the next few days, I'll endeavor to bring you some of the less-well-trod options for cultural Irish enhancement.

As beloved as they may be — you'll not find The Quiet Man, The Clancy Brothers or James Joyce in these pages. It's about new experiences, forgotten gems, hidden treasures.

And, please — for the love of all that is good and holy, Michael Collins and John F. Kennedy — NO GREEN BEER.

Today's offering:

Just because she's a split-personality nutcase who is a danger not only to herself but record executives and authority figures everywhere — we cannot forget that Sinead O'Connor is possibly the greatest female vocalist in Ireland's illustrious history.

She is brilliant, petulant, unhinged, beautiful, infuriating, inspiring, heartbreaking and, in the end, mysterious. Just like the country she hails from, tortures and reveres.

Here she reminds us of our common humanity:

THE LAST TRUE AMATEURS LOVE THE GAME — AND MAKE HISTORY

There is a plaque that hangs just inside The Palestra, the legendary basketball arena on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. It reads:

"To win the game is great. To play the game is greater. But to love the game is the greatest of all."

That quote may apply to the legions of Division I players that have made history at the Palestra through the years. But nowhere does it apply more than in the relative obscurity of Division III basketball.

There are no scholarships. There is no TV deal. There are no coach's endorsements. And many times, there are no fans.

The players in Division III are the last true student-athletes. They aren't going pro and they aren't getting famous. And they play hoops for themselves, their teammates and the love of the game.

And these guys can play. Really play.

And while the college basketball landscape is dominated by the March to Madness, Bob Knight's bail-out and Kelvin Sampson's compulsive scuzzball behavior history was quietly being made, Division III-style, not forty minutes from that famed plaque at the Palestra.

Ursinus College, in Collegeville, Pa., became the first team in Centennial Conference history to go undefeated in conference play. The Bears hit 18-0 with a 72-69 nail-biter over Muhlenberg on Saturday.

The Bears have an All-American scoring machine in senior Nick Shattuck. They also have an emerging star in junior guard John Noonan.

You will read very little about Nick Shattuck the rest of the way because John Noonan is my nephew and I'm going to brag about him from here on out.

Nick — sorry, dude.

And in keeping with strict BrothersMcc protocol, I am writing this without benefit of actually having seen any of the games — which in no way diminishes my expert opinion and insights. That said ...

John Noonan is the quintessential D-III hoopster.

He was the best player at his high school — tiny Friends Select in Philadelphia. He had the chance to transfer to bigger high schools that played in more competitive leagues but he chose not to. Friends Select was his school and the guys were his teammates.

In the summers, John held his own against some of the best players in the city — many of whom went to D-I schools.

Ursinus, a perennial power in D-III, recruited him. And off he went, tagged as the school's next great player.

And he struggled.

The transition from Friends Select-type competition to top-flight college hoops was a huge challenge. John played sparingly as a freshman — he was tentative. He put pressure on himself. He got frustrated. His jumper deserted him.

But he kept working. He worked hard. Then worked a little harder.

Last year — as a sophomore — John moved into the starting line-up and he showed flashes. But his jumper still was fickle and the team never found its stride, stumbling on a four-game losing streak to end the season a disappointing 16-10.

This year, John Noonan has emerged. And it couldn't happen to a nicer guy. He is playing clutch basketball, shooting the ball like a seasoned veteran and even leads the team in steals. And he makes his free throws.

(Note to John Calipari at Memphis — There will be games that come down to making free throws and it will be your undoing. For the love of God, practice free throws, mister.)

And John Noonan is funny. Which goes a long way in the course of a grueling hoops and books season.

In the final three-game run to history, Ursinus battled the following:

— prior to an 88-62 road win against Dickinson, Nick Shattuck and John were flattened by the flu. John dragged himself out on the court and laid 22 points on them, going 8 for 11 from the field.

— against Haverford, a team Ursinus beat by 30 earlier in the year, John gets whistled for a phantom foul with .08 seconds remaining and the score tied. The player from Haverford College spares John years of therapy and possible mental illness by missing the free throw. Ursinus holds on in OT 82-75.

— In the final regular season game at Muhlenberg, Ursinus survives an excruciating parade to the foul line by Muhlenberg in the last two minutes and a desperate three-point heave to stay undefeated.

The Ursinus Bears were perfect. John Noonan broke out — averaging nearly 15 points a game and even throwing down his first career dunk.

The Ursinus Bears host the Centennial Conference tournament this weekend. They are ranked 17th in the country and #1 in the Middle Atlantic Region. They are on their way to the NCAA tournament.

So, when you're filling out your pools for March Madness and watching games and shouting yourself hoarse, remember D-III — the teams that play out of view, that go to class, that play for the love of the game.

And remember that nice guys do finish first.

Just ask John Noonan — 2008 1st-Team All-Conference

NO DICE: EVERYDAY SALVATION

There is nothing like great theater.

And there is really nothing like great theater that hits you when you least expect it. That presents itself in such a unique and committed way that it makes you want to jump up onstage and share the joy.

And when you factor in that the great theater in question — No Dice from the New York-based Nature Theater of Oklahoma — is a four-hour experimental theater extravaganza — the enormity of the thrill becomes clear.

In the friendly confines of the Wexner Center for the Arts in Columbus, OH, the astounding No Dice ensemble takes stylized acting and wildly energetic choreography to a place of high art.

The dialogue was crafted from countless hours of taped phone conversations between company members and their friends and family. The characters are foreigners — until they discard their accents and then their costumes and we realize what we suspected all along:

They aren't foreigners — they are us. And they are making a Herculean effort — using everyday conversations — to make sense of their lives and the world they share. Their interactions are by turns melodramatic, vaudevillian, touching and consistently hilarious.

Topics of dissection — um, discussion — include office work, Russian TV, drinking, dieting, novel punishments for scofflaw actors, Mel Gibson's Hamlet and dinner theater. All explored with non sequiturs, fits and starts and magnificently commited acting.

Then there's the dancing — which is as joyously uproarious as any I've ever witnessed on stage. (I admit, I do not possess a comprehensive mental library of dance numbers on stage but take my word for it.)

The theatrical experience of No Dice ultimately defies any written description. Like any great live experience — it needs to be seen, felt and heard.

However, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the truly inspirational commitment by the actors — especially the astounding trio of Zachary Oberzan, Anne Gridley and Robert M. Johanson.

I would also be remiss if I didn't mention that my lovely, insightful and persistent wife, Lisa, was the driving force to see this show. See, I've been in and seen enough wacky-kooky-hey-look-at-us we're-super-different! experimental theater that I was leery of a four-hour sojourn — possibly into the heart of nutville.

No Dice is a show that restores faith in the power of live theater.

It is an example of what live theater should be.

I wanted to be up there with them.

PATTON, HE AIN'T

I've been a Bobby Knight apologist for years. Yes, it's been with declining conviction recently but nevertheless, there it is.

My brother Trip thought Knight was a dick.

I loved The General's teams when I was growing up — especially the 32-0 '76 team that sealed the deal in Philly. I dreamed of playing for Knight. His teams played tough, hard-ass basketball. They were unselfish and disciplined. They overcame physical limitations. They played hoops the right way. They played hoops that let you dream.

I thought it would be the ultimate challenge — to play under that kind of pressure, to thrive in that demanding cauldron. Even if I was too short, too slow and too earthbound.

Trip reiterated his sentiment that Bobby Knight was, is, and shall be ... a dick.

Even when everyone around me labeled him a bully, an ogre, a jerk off, a dick — I was fascinated by Bobby Knight. Did it really make you a better person to survive four years under him? Could someone be that angry, stubborn nasty and intimidating AND be a fiercely loyal, brilliantly innovative, tough-loving father-figure genius coach?

Maybe, Trip said, but not Knight — because Knight is a dick.

I was mesmerized by Knight's contradictions. I read John Feinstein's amazing book A Season on the Brink and came away wanting to meet Knight and find out what the Sweet Jesus made him tick.

You'll meet a dick, Trip said.

Well, I was too slow, too small and too earthbound a hoopster to ever come near experiencing Knight's particular brand of coaching. And the closer Knight came to Crazy Old Guy status — I mean, his eyebrows have their own zoning laws — the less I was able to rationalize my fascination.

But, even as his behavior became wackier and downright reprehensible, there was STILL a kernel of absorption in this Shakespearean decline. Sure, his teams tanked in the tournament and he was beginning to look more and more like a dinosaur. Yes, he railed like Lear and picked on little guys like Jeremy Schaap, who had the unmitigated gall to not pucker up and kiss his ass.

But he was Knight — maybe the greatest college coach of all time. And he had his principles — twisted as they might get by his temper and pig-headedness. His programs were clean. He cared about the kids. The kids got their diplomas. He was there.

Knight was there — through shitstorms and tornados, through outrage and witchhunts, through his own buffoonery and the exploitation of the media.

Knight hung in. Because it was for the kids. That's what college coaching is, after all. It's for the kids. Isn't that what every coach says?

Isn't that why coaches — in particular Bobby Knight — demand unquestioned loyalty, total obedience and maximum effort?

Because it's ultimately about character. Principles. Ideals. The kids. Jesus Christ, it's about the kids after all!!!!

Except when the coach is a dick.

Bobby Knight quit. He didn't retire. He'll coach again, the pussy. He had a painfully mediocre team at a school that — no matter how you slice it — was, is and always will be an also-ran. And he bailed. He took his red sweater and went home. He couldn't even be bothered to consider the four seniors on his team.

He tortured poor Martin Zeno for four years and then gives him the high hat with a month left. In fact, playing for Bobby Knight has probably 86'ed Zeno's NBA prospects.

And what thanks does Martin Zeno get?

The thanks of a dick.

Bobby Knight can tell everyone that he left to help his son Pat — who took over for Dad as coach at Texas Tech. But Pat was already promised the job whenever Knight was through. Why quit in the middle of the season? Why quit on the team that you browbeat about loyalty and toughness?

Bobby Knight told Jay Bilas of ESPN that he was "tired." And that it had been a "tough season." Okay, Bobby Knight is 67 — that's old but it's not even close to I'm-absolved-of-all-responsibility-for-my-actions old.

Worst of all, Knight told Bilas — "I'm just a basketball coach. I didn't work on curing heart disease or work on a cure for cancer or lead a division into a military endeavor that was a tremendous benefit to the United States. I've been a basketball coach.''

That quote was the killer — because Knight knows it's a lie and built his career on just the opposite.

And Bilas, who simply knows better, let it slide. He didn't have the courage to risk Knight's petulant wrath.

Here's the truth ...


College basketball is not insignificant. Yes, it has ruined some young men and probably hundreds of coaches' marriages. But college basketball has saved countless young men and women and thrilled millions and made millions and is a cultural institution. And I'd like to know this:

If you're just a basketball coach, Mr. Knight, — Why do you lose your shit every game. Why don't you sit on the bench, shut up and read the paper? Why do you write books about the lessons learned? Why do you take young men under your wing? Why does Duke coach Mike Krzyzewski call you the most influential person in his life other than his father?

Because, you hypocritical jackass, you know and I know that you (and every other coach worth their salt) is way, way more than a coach.


I can tell you, unequivocally, that when you sweat and bleed for a coach for three and a half years, you are in it together — to the end. That's just the way it is. That man or woman becomes more than a coach. That person becomes like another parent.

And no amount of wizened verbiage, crocodile tears and rationalization will change the fact that the Texas Tech players will feel that they let Knight down, that they drove him from the arena. That he quit because they weren't good enough.

Is there a worse act to commit in the locker room?


Why would Knight do that to those kids? And then, as a final shiv, why in the name of John Wooden would he leave the door open to the possibility of coaching again somewhere else? I mean, it was so easy to avoid. Just finish the season like a man. Why would The General make such a weak-tit choice!?


Because, in the end, the winningest coach in College basketball history, the towering innovator, the General, the mentor who has shaped countless lives, the man, the myth, the legend ...

... is a dick.

Trip was right.

And that might be the worst part of all this.

Moral Octuple Standard

No one has done what Jim Brown has done.

Hall-of-Fame NFL legend. Civil-rights activist. Racial barrier smasher. Movie star.

The racial obstacles he had to overcome are unimaginable for athletes today. His life 's accomplishments are a wellspring of inspiration.

The guy has gone into the scariest neighborhoods in America and rescued African-American kids from gangs.

There is greatness about him.

I even cried when he died in The Dirty Dozen.

But it's time for him to shut up.



At least when it comes to dictating the moral duties of star athletes.

Specifically, Tiger Woods.

Here's the thing, Mr. Brown —

Tiger Woods is not you.

He's not as angry as you are.

He's not as prone to violence as you are.

He's never had trouble acknowledging his offspring.

As far as we know, Tiger has never threatened to snap his wife's neck.

We're pretty sure Tiger hasn't smashed the windshield of his wife's car — with her in it.

We're almost positive that Tiger didn't jump into the spotlight as Maurice Clarett's advisor and then disappear once the kid really could've used some help.

Of course Tiger Woods isn't perfect. Just like you, Jim, are not perfect.

Tiger seems to be a world-class grudge-holder (Is he part Irish!?!?), a bit of a control nut and he is way too successful for anyone to truly like. But all he has done is revolutionize his sport and handle the daily crushing pressure and expectations with (mostly) grace and a prickly sense of humor.

So Kelly Tighlman — someone none of us had ever known existed prior to this — said something idiotic, insensitive and reprehensible: that young players on the PGA Tour would "have to lynch him (Tiger Woods) in a back alley" to keep him from winning.

She's a moron. We all understand that. Most of all, Tiger Woods.

Tiger Woods said that it was not the brightest thing Tighlman ever said but he considered it a "non-issue", that he and Tighlman are friends and that was that.

That pissed Jim Brown off.

Evidently, Tiger is not allowed to be mildly offended.

Evidently because Tiger isn't an opportunistic, hypocritical Jacksonian, Sharptonian flame-fanner, Jim Brown is heartily offended.

Well, I'm wildly offended that Jim Brown is heartily offended that Tiger Woods isn't more offended.

See, nobody's perfect.

The Midas Touch ...

... is exactly what Tony Resch possesses.

So it is high time that the global BrothersMcC readership gets a load of one of the true good guys.

Tony Resch (AKA H-Squared for reasons that are none of your business) will be inducted into the National Lacrosse League Hall of Fame in February.

Why, you ask?

Oh, just your run-of-the-mill phenomenal success and leadership achieved with uninterrupted humility and a wickedly sly sense of humor.

Formerly known as the Major Indoor Lacrosse League (MILL), the NLL has been in existence since 1986. Tony Resch played for the Philadelphia Wings from 1988 to 1993. A ferocious defender, he was the team captain for three of those years. The Wings won back-to-back championships in 1989 and 1990 and Tony was an All-Star in 1991.

In 1994 he became the Wings head coach. In 8 seasons, Tony won four championships and took the Wings to the title game five times.

That is quite a run. And done with dignity all the way.

Anyone who has sat at a Little League or a high school basketball game with assorted coaches and parents popping aortas and throwing Knight-ish temper tantrums knows the truth:

It's rare that a genuinely nice guy kicks the crap out of the competition year in and year out.

And it didn't start with the NLL.

Oh no, sir.

Tony graduated from Yale where he was a two-time All-American and a three-time All-Ivy Leaguer. And he played football as well. Plus he met his future wife there — the lovely, intelligent hoop-playing Irish girl Mary Gorman.

Talk about outkicking your coverage. Believe me when I tell ya, Tony went Ray Guy on that one.

His athletic exploits become even more impressive when you consider that during his junior year — smack in the middle of lax season — he had to share a dorm for six weeks with a wayward, alcohol-and-coed-crazed, broke, journalism-school intern malcontent who had a chip on his shoulder and no sense of boundaries.

Namely, me.

In spite of that, I've been lucky enough to count Tony as a friend ever since (personally, I think it was the Honeymooners marathon that cinched it) and I can think of no better subject than the ultimate stand-up guy getting his due.

Tony is currently the athletic director at LaSalle College High School in suburban Philly. He also is an assistant coach on the school's lax team. The team's leading scorer is some kid named Patrick Resch.

As if there were any doubt.

Congrats, H-Squared.

Psyched at you.