(ORIGINALLY POSTED JULY 20, 2008 ON www.brothersmcc.blogspot.com)
... is taking your kid to American Idols Live 2008.
Holy Money Grab.
Most Disturbing (yet hilariously true) Moment: While runner-up Idol David Archuleta was warbling along, he was bathed in a light that was blatantly phallic.
There was a circular outcropping at the front of the stage and it was awash in white light that extended past the little fellah in a ramrod straight line and ended with a bulbous flourish just beyond.
And if that wasn't enough — and, again, I am crapping you negative — swirling around the circular ball-sac-ish outcropping were dozens of very sperm-ish-looking lights. Lisa and I nearly choked on our Cracker Jacks and bargain-basement $7 flat Bud Lights. Never in my life have I seen so many parents looking around for independent confirmation of what they were witnessing.
Then ... then! ... at the end of Archuleta's song, the sperm lights exited in unison — as if the music gods had just climaxed (a wet dream, no doubt, since they surely were asleep by that point.)
It was a bizarre sedative of a concert — complete with a gigantic Pop-Tart mascot, a desultory Guitar Hero video game contest, all the female performers mechanically shaking booty (except piano-bound Brooke White) as if the audience were full of drunk out-of-town businessmen armed with a stack of singles, and all 10 performers each imploring the crowd to make more noise — where only that Aussie dude Michael Johns seemed to inject any real fun or emotion into the proceedings.
In the end ...
Our daughter had the time of her life.
Upon reflection ... Greatest Concert Ever.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
A Love Letter ...
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON JULY 14, 2008 ON www.brothersmcc.blogspot.com
"The real job of any actor is to retain an urgent need to become a better actor."
The renowned acting teacher Larry Moss said something like that ... as far as I know. And, as is our custom at BrothersMcC, I didn't bother to look up the exact quote. I liked this one just fine. It struck me as truthful.
And difficult to fulfill.
When I first moved to New York to pursue acting — shortly after FDR left office — I had seen exactly zero plays.
Actually, that's not true — my high school buddies and I went to Archbishop Carroll's production of Inherit The Wind. We snuck beers in and, being the assholes we were, laughed out loud during all the dramatic moments.
Talk about denial ...
Anyway ....
The first play I ever witnessed — sober — was the original production of Burn This by Lanford Wilson at the Plymouth Theater.
I had been in New York just a few months and had done little but tend bar, drink with an angry focus and expand my working knowledge of recreational drugs. I could not have been further from being an actor. I was beginning to think I had made the worst mistake of my life.
Then John Malkovich made his entrance in Burn This and two and a half hours later, all doubt had been scorched away. If ever I could do to someone else what Malkovich did to me that night, it would be worth any humiliation, hardship or hangover. I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
In the intervening years, I've been able to scrape together work as an actor.
But I also drifted about as far as one could from that night at the Plymouth Theater. I effectively gave up the theater — not that the theater was knocking my door down or anything but ... I became that dude — the one waiting for the phone to ring, dying for that next chance to be "Cop #2" on CSI — which, coincidentally, I am currently available for, if Carol Kritzer is reading this blog — and I think we all know she is.
I have spent an inordinate amount of time doing — and pursuing — work of dubious artistic worth. But that's the gig for 96% of us and that is cool (surprisingly — health insurance, mortgage payments and food aren't included with your SAG card) — as long as there is something else. I mean, after a while, the question has to be revisited — "Why the fuck did you become an actor in the first place ... and, more to the point, why are you still at it?"
Well, I was lucky enough to be reminded of both "why's" over and over again during the past two months — working on the play Stones in His Pockets by Marie Jones.
It was — by turns — frustrating, exhilarating, terrifying and joyful.
It was theater.
I felt like an actor.
And no amount of gratitude can convey how thankful I am to still have my hat in the ring.
Secure in the knowledge that I will never be nominated for any award any time soon (okay — maybe I have an outside shot at, say, "Creepiest Villain Who Bears An Uncanny Resemblance To Kevin Bacon") I will now thank the people who have instilled, nurtured and resurrected the 2nd greatest love affair in my life.
Whether you all share in my thanks and/or resurrection is another story entirely.
But screw it — why wait till they're all dead:
To Greg Zittel — A teacher of blinding intensity and fierce dedication to the creative spirit. Any seriousness of purpose I may have acquired as an actor came from him.
To Wynn Handman — Easily the most influential — and the best — acting teacher the country has seen in the last fifty years. If you don't believe me — just ask Alec Baldwin, James Caan, Kathleen Chalfant, Chris Cooper, Michael Douglas, Allison Janney, Frank Langella, John Leguizamo, Mira Sorvino, Christopher Walken, Denzel Washington, and Joanne Woodward.
To my students — As flaky and kooky as they are, they have no idea how much they have taught me. I'm in their debt ... not monetarily, of course (just so there's no confusion on the first Tuesday of the month)
To Jimmy Bohr — Improbably, we've both ended up in Columbus, OH. Not so improbably, he is the best director I've ever worked with. His patience and insight made Stones In His Pockets an experience that will be difficult to top. And, Jesus Christ Almighty, does he make unreal German potato salad.
To Jon Osbeck — Who knew a Swedish half-Jew could pull off six Irish characters, a Scottish bodyguard and a chick ... and be a better Irish step dancer than I am? And the fucker built our deck. And he plays piano. And he can sing.
On second thought, let's beat the shit out of him.
To Lisa — I don't know ... I assume every actor has a spouse who says "Hey, I have an idea — let's form a company and do Irish theater. And if you drag your feet, I'll keep after you because — you moody, thick bastard — I know a great idea when I have one even if you don't. So we're doing this play and I know you'll take all the credit afterward but that's cool because I'll know the truth and that's good enough for me."
Well, Lisa, now everyone (or at least the eight people who read this blog) knows the truth. You are extraordinary.
"The real job of any actor is to retain an urgent need to become a better actor."
The renowned acting teacher Larry Moss said something like that ... as far as I know. And, as is our custom at BrothersMcC, I didn't bother to look up the exact quote. I liked this one just fine. It struck me as truthful.
And difficult to fulfill.
When I first moved to New York to pursue acting — shortly after FDR left office — I had seen exactly zero plays.
Actually, that's not true — my high school buddies and I went to Archbishop Carroll's production of Inherit The Wind. We snuck beers in and, being the assholes we were, laughed out loud during all the dramatic moments.
Talk about denial ...
Anyway ....
The first play I ever witnessed — sober — was the original production of Burn This by Lanford Wilson at the Plymouth Theater.
I had been in New York just a few months and had done little but tend bar, drink with an angry focus and expand my working knowledge of recreational drugs. I could not have been further from being an actor. I was beginning to think I had made the worst mistake of my life.
Then John Malkovich made his entrance in Burn This and two and a half hours later, all doubt had been scorched away. If ever I could do to someone else what Malkovich did to me that night, it would be worth any humiliation, hardship or hangover. I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
In the intervening years, I've been able to scrape together work as an actor.
But I also drifted about as far as one could from that night at the Plymouth Theater. I effectively gave up the theater — not that the theater was knocking my door down or anything but ... I became that dude — the one waiting for the phone to ring, dying for that next chance to be "Cop #2" on CSI — which, coincidentally, I am currently available for, if Carol Kritzer is reading this blog — and I think we all know she is.
I have spent an inordinate amount of time doing — and pursuing — work of dubious artistic worth. But that's the gig for 96% of us and that is cool (surprisingly — health insurance, mortgage payments and food aren't included with your SAG card) — as long as there is something else. I mean, after a while, the question has to be revisited — "Why the fuck did you become an actor in the first place ... and, more to the point, why are you still at it?"
Well, I was lucky enough to be reminded of both "why's" over and over again during the past two months — working on the play Stones in His Pockets by Marie Jones.
It was — by turns — frustrating, exhilarating, terrifying and joyful.
It was theater.
I felt like an actor.
And no amount of gratitude can convey how thankful I am to still have my hat in the ring.
Secure in the knowledge that I will never be nominated for any award any time soon (okay — maybe I have an outside shot at, say, "Creepiest Villain Who Bears An Uncanny Resemblance To Kevin Bacon") I will now thank the people who have instilled, nurtured and resurrected the 2nd greatest love affair in my life.
Whether you all share in my thanks and/or resurrection is another story entirely.
But screw it — why wait till they're all dead:
To Greg Zittel — A teacher of blinding intensity and fierce dedication to the creative spirit. Any seriousness of purpose I may have acquired as an actor came from him.
To Wynn Handman — Easily the most influential — and the best — acting teacher the country has seen in the last fifty years. If you don't believe me — just ask Alec Baldwin, James Caan, Kathleen Chalfant, Chris Cooper, Michael Douglas, Allison Janney, Frank Langella, John Leguizamo, Mira Sorvino, Christopher Walken, Denzel Washington, and Joanne Woodward.
To my students — As flaky and kooky as they are, they have no idea how much they have taught me. I'm in their debt ... not monetarily, of course (just so there's no confusion on the first Tuesday of the month)
To Jimmy Bohr — Improbably, we've both ended up in Columbus, OH. Not so improbably, he is the best director I've ever worked with. His patience and insight made Stones In His Pockets an experience that will be difficult to top. And, Jesus Christ Almighty, does he make unreal German potato salad.
To Jon Osbeck — Who knew a Swedish half-Jew could pull off six Irish characters, a Scottish bodyguard and a chick ... and be a better Irish step dancer than I am? And the fucker built our deck. And he plays piano. And he can sing.
On second thought, let's beat the shit out of him.
To Lisa — I don't know ... I assume every actor has a spouse who says "Hey, I have an idea — let's form a company and do Irish theater. And if you drag your feet, I'll keep after you because — you moody, thick bastard — I know a great idea when I have one even if you don't. So we're doing this play and I know you'll take all the credit afterward but that's cool because I'll know the truth and that's good enough for me."
Well, Lisa, now everyone (or at least the eight people who read this blog) knows the truth. You are extraordinary.
REMEMBER THEM TODAY ... AND TOMORROW ... AND ...
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON MAY 25, 2008 at www.brothersmcc.blogspot.com
Take a look at that face.
See it.
Study it.
Imagine what kind of life led up to that photo.
Imagine the countless people touched by that face.
Please look at it one more time.
That's Sgt. John "Kyle" Daggett, 22, Airborne Army Ranger from Phoenix, AZ.
He died earlier this month from injuries sustained when an airburst mortar exploded over the armored vehicle he was traveling in.
Daggett was in the rear gun hatch, exposed, along with another soldier when the explosion occurred in Baghdad.
Sgt. Daggett's injuries were overwhelming yet he made it from Baghdad to Germany to Halifax, Nova Scotia, where he finally succumbed.
I know absolutely nothing about Sgt. Daggett's life, except that he died a hero. And that, after the mortar exploded, the driver of the vehicle who recovered enough to drive "like a bat out of hell to the evac site, taking out vehicles, utility poles and anything else in his way" was my nephew James McCarthy.
Jimmy is still there. In harm's way. And now he is a veteran — he is still on active duty, of course, but he is a veteran. For our sake — he now knows what most of us will never know and has seen what most of us will never see.
For our sake.
I can imagine, but I cannot comprehend, what that reality is like.
It seems the only way to be a truly concerned and engaged citizen, not only of this country but of the world is to make it personal. Make it specific.
Look at that picture of Sgt. Daggett once again.
See what was sacrificed.
That is specific.
Imagining my nephew in the chaos of battle.
That is specific.
The burden of the unknown carried by his mother — my sister — every day.
That is specific.
The injuries sustained by SPC Shane Stuard — who was riding alongside Sgt. Daggett — are specific.
Shane, a father of three, is recovering from his injuries at Walter Reed Army Medical Center.
We hear he digs mail — especially from kids.
Take a minute, remember and send it to:
SPC Shane Stuard
Walter Reed Army Medical Center
Ward 57
6900 Georgia Avenue NW
Washington DC 20307
I'm anti-war. I think any sane person is.
But I am pro-soldier ... because war is the worst thing on this earth and soldiers know it and they choose to do it anyway — so the rest of us don't have to.
I once was in a room with four Vietnam veterans and a Desert Storm veteran. The conversation centered on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and the realities of being a soldier. At one point, the Desert Storm vet looked me in the eye and asked, "How come you never served your country?" There was no malice in the asking, but all conversation stopped and everyone waited for an answer.
I had no answer that seemed adequate so I told the truth, "I made the choice to avail myself of the freedoms that you have fought to provide me ... Thank you."
And one of the Vietnam vets stuck out a hand and said, "Fair enough. You're welcome."
I shook his hand and remembered my old man talking about fighting in the South Pacific in World War II. And what that cost him.
Now I remember my nephew Jimmy in Baghdad and his buddy Shane at Walter Reed.
Most of all, though, I think I'll remember that face in the picture.
And I'll try to remember the cost of my freedom.
Take a look at that face.
See it.
Study it.
Imagine what kind of life led up to that photo.
Imagine the countless people touched by that face.
Please look at it one more time.
That's Sgt. John "Kyle" Daggett, 22, Airborne Army Ranger from Phoenix, AZ.
He died earlier this month from injuries sustained when an airburst mortar exploded over the armored vehicle he was traveling in.
Daggett was in the rear gun hatch, exposed, along with another soldier when the explosion occurred in Baghdad.
Sgt. Daggett's injuries were overwhelming yet he made it from Baghdad to Germany to Halifax, Nova Scotia, where he finally succumbed.
I know absolutely nothing about Sgt. Daggett's life, except that he died a hero. And that, after the mortar exploded, the driver of the vehicle who recovered enough to drive "like a bat out of hell to the evac site, taking out vehicles, utility poles and anything else in his way" was my nephew James McCarthy.
Jimmy is still there. In harm's way. And now he is a veteran — he is still on active duty, of course, but he is a veteran. For our sake — he now knows what most of us will never know and has seen what most of us will never see.
For our sake.
I can imagine, but I cannot comprehend, what that reality is like.
It seems the only way to be a truly concerned and engaged citizen, not only of this country but of the world is to make it personal. Make it specific.
Look at that picture of Sgt. Daggett once again.
See what was sacrificed.
That is specific.
Imagining my nephew in the chaos of battle.
That is specific.
The burden of the unknown carried by his mother — my sister — every day.
That is specific.
The injuries sustained by SPC Shane Stuard — who was riding alongside Sgt. Daggett — are specific.
Shane, a father of three, is recovering from his injuries at Walter Reed Army Medical Center.
We hear he digs mail — especially from kids.
Take a minute, remember and send it to:
SPC Shane Stuard
Walter Reed Army Medical Center
Ward 57
6900 Georgia Avenue NW
Washington DC 20307
I'm anti-war. I think any sane person is.
But I am pro-soldier ... because war is the worst thing on this earth and soldiers know it and they choose to do it anyway — so the rest of us don't have to.
I once was in a room with four Vietnam veterans and a Desert Storm veteran. The conversation centered on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and the realities of being a soldier. At one point, the Desert Storm vet looked me in the eye and asked, "How come you never served your country?" There was no malice in the asking, but all conversation stopped and everyone waited for an answer.
I had no answer that seemed adequate so I told the truth, "I made the choice to avail myself of the freedoms that you have fought to provide me ... Thank you."
And one of the Vietnam vets stuck out a hand and said, "Fair enough. You're welcome."
I shook his hand and remembered my old man talking about fighting in the South Pacific in World War II. And what that cost him.
Now I remember my nephew Jimmy in Baghdad and his buddy Shane at Walter Reed.
Most of all, though, I think I'll remember that face in the picture.
And I'll try to remember the cost of my freedom.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
OXFORD INT'L FILM FESTIVAL: FILM, BEER, FOOD AND BEER
Evidently, film festivals are where dietary considerations and exercise regimens go to die. And they die a relatively happy death — because the Oxford International Film Festival was quite fun.
Do you want the travelogue replete with witty remarks about the preponderance of cows and scary highway rest areas?
No?
Cool.
We'll hit you with the relevant facts and let you get on with your life.
Lisa and I were stashed away in a primo room at the Marcum Conference Center — the de facto hub of the festival. We were directly across the hall from Donna D'Errico and her two kids, though we wouldn't actually see them until the next day at the Actors Panel.
The first thing we did was grab some food. Actually, the real first thing we did was grab some umbrellas because it was pouring rain. We'd been told to expect a bevy of dining alternatives within walking distance of the Marcum. We didn't realize that the "walking distance" frame of reference used by our host was of the college-kid-in-flip-flops-during-an-artic-blast-who-cares-if-we-get-
soaked-we're-friggin'-19 variety.
Being on the geezer side of the median age range — and hungry — and thirsty — we got umbrellas ... and beer.
The food was good at 45 East Bar and Grill in downtown Oxford, Ohio and they poured a respectable pint of Guinness.
A good harbinger — if you put stock in harbingers.
Our first cinematic experience was a block of documentary shorts — we hung in for one about the mysterious death and disappearance of honey bees in the U.S. The we got hit with one about stock-car-racing evangelical pastors. It was a bittersweet character study that ranged from fundamentalist shouters to borderline- clowns-at-a-kids-party-with-bad-intent. All champion perspirers.
One definite highlight of the festival was the first feature-length film we saw. My guess is that Kabluey will never make it into your multi-plex (or your single-plex, for that matter) and that sucks for you because this movie is funnier than most of the stuff currently on the docket.
Writer/Director/Star Scott Prendergast recruited the likes of Lisa Kudrow, Christine Taylor, Jeffrey Dean Morgan and an utterly ego-less and, frankly, very ballsy Teri Garr for a sweetly quirky and often hilarious tale of redemption.
Remember this movie. It'll be out on DVD soon, I bet. Its worth the time.
Lisa had to make a premature exit the next day — but not before a rigorous night of classic festival boozery with the gang from The Lodge. Our daughter was sick and Lisa — being a far more responsible parent than I — went home to take care of her.
Later that day, I had the pleasure of sitting on an Actors Panel that was moderated by the delightfully no-nonsense director John Putch, whose very funny Bachelorman was in the festival competition and racked up the largest audiences we saw all weekend. The other panelists included Ms. D'Errico, who was in the ensemble drama Intervention and was the target of my shameless pestering since Intervention was directed by Mary McGuckian, who is married to the estimable John Lynch. In addition, there was Rodney Lee Conover (whose stand-up act provided the basis for Bachelorman), Clyde Kusatsu, who's been in practically every movie and TV show made in the last twenty years and is a top-notch storyteller, and Mike Landry, star of the film Frost.
The panel was lively and most memorable for the story Clyde told about getting axed by his agency of 18 years right after doing The Interpreter, with some ne'er-do-wells named Kidman and Penn. It was bracing to be reminded that working more steadily than 98.7% of all the other actors out there means ... well ... nothing to
certain dull-witted agents who shall remain (Paradigm) nameless.
I mean, Clyde was on Ironside, for Chrissake!! And has not stopped to take a breather since. Seriously, what the fuck, Paradigm!? Your roster just too full of talented, gracious and genuinely nice actors who work non-stop?
The Lodge screened twice and pulled a Villanova-Namath-Eruzione-esque upset, sharing the Audience Award with hometown favorite Eastern College. I missed the jubilant celebration at the awards dinner and the (no doubt) witty, self-deprecatingly irreverent acceptance speech by directors Brad Helmink and John Rauschelbach.
I had left that morning — after a final night of free food and booze — a night that saw one supremely creepy, hapless, balding, middle-aged dude trolling the reception for teenage girls with an invite to the "After-After party", which coincidentally happened to be back at his place.
In the woods.
In a lodge, I think.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
YOU WANT FUNNY? THIS GUY IS FUNNY!
Do you know who Harold Lloyd is? He is the least known of the three silent-film-era comic geniuses.
There is Charlie Chaplin. There is Buster Keaton. And there is Harold Lloyd.
Chaplin and Keaton remain household names; brands even.
It is Harold Lloyd, though, who is the father of the romantic comedy. He pioneered the film image of the regular guy — a living, breathing person we recognize — who gets caught up in all kinds of wackiness as he tries to get the most basic things — the girl, friends, a decent job.
Harold Lloyd made roughly a gazillion films — shorts and feature length. Although routinely labeled a movie snob in this space — I had never actually seen a Harold Lloyd film until Wednesday night.
Oh, I had seen DVD cases in which Harold Lloyd's films were kept. The things are found in abundance around the home of Joe Furey and Alison Brown — two of the most generous and hospitable human beings on the planet, by the way.
Joe and Alison graciously board me at their wonderful residence anytime I am in Los Angeles — often at a moment's notice. They, in short, save my ass repeatedly and are great company besides. Alison is a recently minted Phd and a clinical psychologist. Joe is a writer/director/actor of much renown and one of only a handful of people who have made me injure myself through excessive laughter.
Joe's love of vintage comedy films is boundless and yet he'll never force it on you. Therefore, any time we watch movies together, its up to me. And I never pick Harold Lloyd — or anything silent. I didn't get it. I was convinced it wouldn't be all that funny.
I was wrong.
I was dead wrong.
I was as wrong as a Taco Bell/Sierra Nevada Pale Ale hangover fart in a crowded New Orleans greenhouse.
On April 2 Joe invited me to a screening of The Freshman at the AFI Institute up in the Hollywood Hills. The crowd was Joe and I and a flock of young filmmakers — plus Harold Lloyd's granddaughter, Suzanne Lloyd, who is in charge of all her grandfather's films and has made it her life's work to bring his films to the public.
The Freshman is hilarious. It is the direct ancestor of — and way funnier than — Adam Sandler's The Waterboy. It also had to be an enormous influence on the current George Clooney effort Leatherheads.
The next day, Joe and I watched Safety Last! — it has the one Harold Lloyd image I was already familiar with:
And Safety Last! was as funny as The Freshman.
Maybe alot of you are already hip to Harold Lloyd but I'm going to assume that you are as pig-headed as I have been.
In The Freshman and Safety Last1, Harold Lloyd brings something recognizable to the screen. His comedy — often rigorously physical — always has the bite of reality. And subtlety. Lloyd was no ham. He was just funny, inventive and a great actor.
Take a break from Fool's Gold, Run, Fatboy, Run, and Drillbit Taylor and enjoy the genuine article.
Harold Lloyd — the funniest man ever to wear glasses.
Friday, March 14, 2008
OFF THE BEATEN ST. PATRICK'S PATH — John Lynch
A native of Newry, Northern Ireland, John Lynch has been called the cinematic face of the Irish Troubles. On screen, he also has two-timed Gwyneth Paltrow, romped with Lassie and been one of the most touching schizophrenics in film history.
You'll recognize his face, no doubt, but John Lynch is one of the greatest actors you've never heard of.
Liam Neeson, Colin Farrell, Colm Meaney and the incomparable Daniel-Day Lewis are the branded faces of Irish film. John Lynch is it's quiet soul.
He arrived on the film scene indelibly with Cal in 1984. Playing the title character — a reluctant IRA terrorist — Lynch brings a haunting sensitivity and depth to the affecting story of Cal's love affair with the widow (a stunning Helen Mirren) of the man he helped to kill.
Cal, like Lynch, is an under-appreciated classic.
Lynch was part of the combustible cast of Derek Jarman's searing Edward II (1991) as well as the heartbroken Lord Craven in the sweet and sumptuous film version of The Secret Garden (1993) — his first taste of commercial success. That same year came In The Name of The Father, as Lynch played Paul Hill alongside the Oscar-nominated Day-Lewis as Gerry Conlon — half of the railroaded Guilford Four. Deservedly so, the powerful, moving film was nominated for Best Picture.
Now on a full-fledged great-movie binge — Lynch, in the next three years, went from John Sayles' The Secret of Roan Inish to Angel Baby, where he was wondrous as a schizophrenic fighting for love and his independence to Nothing Personal — possibly his greatest performance — as a young father trying to stay apolitical in 1975 Belfast to his indelible turn as doomed hunger striker Bobby Sands in Some Mother's Son — which reunited him with Helen Mirren.
Lynch is probably best-known to American audiences as the feckless boyfriend in Sliding Doors (1998) — which not only stars Gwyneth Paltrow but has been seen by Trip McClatchy nigh on 400 times.
In the intervening ten years Lynch has continued to give finely etched performances — most notably in the mini-series Bleak House, the latest incarnation of Lassie and as legendary soccer star George Best.
In every role — John Lynch finds its heart. And you believe him. He's an artist.
You could do a lot worse than a John Lynch film festival this St. Patrick's Day.
JUST RIDICULOUS !!
Try as we might to bring the St. Patrick's Day countdown your way, the absolute magic of college hoops and BrothersMcC mojo refuses to be ignored.
John Noonan's (that's him administering the bear hug) favorite descriptive adjective is "ridiculous." It is summoned for good, ill and anything in between.
And now it must be applied to Ursinus College basketball.
These guys are ridiculous.
Tonight Ursinus took on last year's national runner-up Virginia Wesleyan (of the powerful — and I mean POWERFUL — Old Dominion Athletic Conference — which has produced its share of great teams, D-III Hall-of-Famers and slow, earthbound, fundamentally sound, Irish-American hotheads who get in fights and nearly tossed from games minutes after tip-off when their families have driven five hours to watch them play ... okay maybe just one of those.)
This second-round match-up had "Bad News" written all over it for Ursinus. Their leading scorer and All-American Nick Shattuck was hobbled by a painful bruised heel and Virginia Wesleyan was fast, physical and experienced.
By the way — this Shattuck fellah was cut from his high school freshman team and squeaked on JV as a sophomore. Now he's a college All-American. Mover over, Rudy. Here's a picture of the dude:
Long story short — Virginia Wesleyan comes out smokin' and Ursinus is down 17 at half time. Shattuck has as many points as I do to complement his three fouls and John Noonan is clanging everything outside two feet.
But soph guard Matt Hilton is on fire — or as his notorious relative might say, "hot."
And 6-10 Michael Shema is beating up Virginia Wesleyan inside.
In the second half — Ursinus chips away, Virginia Wesleyan gets tight, Nick Shattuck absolutely guts it out and scores huge bucket after huge bucket, Noonan finds the range and some French dude named Cousart has a zillion assists. Ursinus comes all the way back and finally takes the lead 60-59 as John Noonan, showing hops foreign to the rest of his gene pool, converts a sweet alley oop play.
It see saws the next couple of minutes. Helfferich Hall is pandemonium, my sister — John Noonan's mother — is in cardiac arrest, her husband — John's dad — is quietly aging decades and my nephew Sean is apparently plotting a media grab (see above photo — and dig the Ohio State sweatshirt — purchased by the wife and yours truly. Kid has taste.)
Ursinus rides clutch play and a collective huge pair to a mind-boggling 70-64 comeback win for the ages. And a spot in the Sweet Sixteen. And quite possibly the greatest post-game celebration picture in sports photo-journalism history.
Reached for comment following the game, John Noonan characterized the comeback, the photo, the gutcheck, the Sweet Sixteen, the celebratory embrace with teammate Keith Page, the Freak-a-Deak photo jubilation of his cousin Sean and the length of this sentence as ...
"ridiculous."
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