HUMAN RIGHTS HERCULES WITH A FUNKY JUMPER

John Prendergast had the funkiest jumper I've ever seen. It would start somewhere down around his hip, roll up the side of his body and be slung whiplash-style somewhere in the direction of the basket.

All this occurred — in defiance of the laws of physics — with the timing and weird natural athleticism that was unique to J.P. For all the herky-jerky spin-move mania that was J.P.'s pigeon-toed game in high school, the kid could ball because he never stopped moving, never got tired and was fearless. And he believed.

These same attributes — plus a healthy dose of moral outrage and big-time smarts — have led J.P. to the summit of human rights activism.

He has spent the better part of the last quarter-century shining a spotlight on the most troubled parts of Africa — tirelessly raising the alarm for those who cannot raise it themselves. From the Ethopian famine to the killing fields of Northern Uganda, Somalia and, most recently, Darfur in northern Sudan — J.P. has borne witness, documented and shouted from rooftops about the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent victims.

J.P. has now written a book with Oscar-nominated actor and fellow activist Don Cheadle. It is called Not On Our Watch.

And I suggest that you read it.

Now I know what you are thinking — because I have had the exact same thoughts:

"Africa? What about all the problems we have right here in the U.S.?"

"Um ... we are at war ourselves."

"Genocide. I mean ... genocide! What could I possibly do that would change something so huge?"

"Africa — the place is hopeless."

We do have urgent crises here. We are at war. And "Genocide" is a problem so huge, so halfway-around-the-world and so nobody-I-know that it is difficult to get fired up.

I read Not On Our Watch and it was stunning. I felt proud to know J.P. and count him as a friend. Ultimately, though, I was moved not by John and Don's remarkable commitment, nor the inspiring efforts of students across the country or even the wrenching photos in the middle of the book — but by a single description in the book:

"Amina ... had fled her village during an attack. Her husband had been shot ... She had two of her children on her back and the other two in her arms as about twenty Janjaweed (the government-sponsored militia) chased her on camels. First they ripped her five-year-old, Adom, from her, and when she stopped running and begged for her child, they told her they would shoot her. So she continued running away from her village that was up in flames. The Janjaweed then tossed Adom into the fire. He was screaming and calling her name but she just kept running."

I have a five-year-old.
How can I do nothing?

Who benefits from my action? I do.
Who benefits from your action? You will.

FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, WATCH "RESCUE ME"

The best show on television started it's fourth season last Wednesday and most of you weren't watching. What the hell?
I know. I know.
Denis Leary provides very little gray area. People seem to think he's either brilliant or a total assface. (For the record — I lean well to the former)
But, for the love of God, how can you keep yourself from at least trying a show that is harrowing, hilarious, heady and heartbreaking (sometimes all in the same scene.)
This is Denis Leary's high-water mark — or at least in a dead heat with No Cure For Cancer. As writer/actor of this highwire TV act (I'm going to break the record for descriptive H-words in a single blog) he delivers not only an emotional wallop but a tonic for the recent horrors visited on Irish-Americans who own television sets.
Who else was ready to call in air strikes after suffering through the likes of Madigan Men, Trinity and the goddamn Fighting Fitzgeralds?
Rescue Me has something for everybody.
Why, just in last week's episode alone — there was Tatum O'Neal passionately advocating for the marital importance of a porn stash. The woman's porn stash, no less. There were sexy doings in a Catholic church during Mass — and the participants were consenting adult parishioners. There was a spectacular explosion, firefighting heroics, pity sex, teen sex, gay marriage, substantial weight loss, true love, vomiting, domestic squabbling and at least eight genuine belly laughs.
Watch this show. You're worth it.

MR. PORTER

I wanted to be Howard Porter. In fact, countless times in our backyard, I was Howard Porter. Howard Porter was my first basketball hero.

On May 19th, he was severely beaten and left for dead in an alley. A week later, he died. He was 58. Although I hadn’t thought of Porter for a solid 20 years, I was shocked. And I grieved. Howard Porter was there at the beginning of a lifelong love affair.

Basketball has been in my bloodstream as long as I can remember. I played in grade school, high school and college. I even hung on for years in rec leagues and pick-up games until I ran out of meniscuses, ankle ligaments and the desire to trash talk middle-aged civil servants. It bonded me to my brothers in a way nothing else has.

I haven’t played competitive basketball in five years. And not a day goes by that I don’t miss it. Basketball was my obsession. And college basketball has been — and remains — my favorite.

Luckily , I grew up in Philly — where the heart of college basketball is located. (It’s not even up for debate, so put a sock in it New York, Indiana and Tobacco Road.)

That heart beats loudest in the Big Five. For the uninitiated, the Big Five includes LaSalle, Penn, Temple, Villanova and St. Joe’s — as well as the most heated rivalry in college basketball — St. Joe’s-Villanova. (Again, don’t even try with Duke-North Carolina, people. St. Joe-‘Nova is about hate… Philly hate. It’s no contest.)

First my sister Pam, then Trip enrolled at St. Joe’s. By default, I became a rabid ‘Nova hater.

But when I was seven years old, all I knew was that I loved college basketball and Howard Porter took Villanova to the NCAA championship game against UCLA. ‘Nova lost 68-62 but Porter was named the most outstanding player of the tournament.

A guy who played basketball three parishes away was the best player in the country. Of course I idolized him. It was 1971. Howard Porter was king. Three-time All American. Sure-fire NBA prospect. Philadelphia folk hero. Then it all fell apart.

He’d dealt with an agent during that magical season, in violation of NCAA rules. Villanova’s runner-up finish was vacated and Porter never received the MOP trophy because that was 86’ed as well.

Villanova turned him out and Porter was never really the same. He went on to a disappointing NBA career, retiring quietly in 1978. He then promptly spiraled into drug addiction.

I don’t really remember the agent scandal of ‘71. I was seven. Howard Porter was larger than life. He was the coolest person in the world. Even as my duty as a ‘Nova hater became a blood oath, I loved Porter. I followed his NBA career religiously even when it slipped into irrelevance.

By 1985 — the year Villanova pulled the greatest upset in NCAA history by beating Georgetown for the title — Porter was a broke, forgotten coke-addled mess living with his mother. He was also completely out of my consciousness. And would be until two weeks ago.

Porter had pulled himself together, gotten straight and become a probation officer in Minnesota. He had become a pillar, a role model. He had faced down the worst in himself and came out the other end better for having gone through it. He may even have lost his life to one of the people he’d been trying to help. The police don’t know yet.

I knew none of this.

Villanova eventually welcomed him back. In 1997 — 26 years after ending the greatest career in school history — they retired his jersey.

A few years ago, Jay Wright, the Villanova coach, stopped practice one day when Porter was visiting. Wright pointed at Porter and told his players, “That right there is Howard Porter, the greatest Villanova basketball player of all time.”

The players all called him “Mr. Porter.”

Once again, he was a man among boys.

Once again, he is a hero.

BITTERSWEET "WAITRESS"

Under normal circumstances, “Waitress” is the most enjoyable movie of the year. It heralds the arrival of an immensely talented writer/director who also has carved out a career as an actor.

Unfortunately, the circumstances surrounding “Waitress” are anything but normal. Adrienne Shelly, the writer/director/actor in question, was murdered in her New York apartment last November. “Waitress,” a smart, zesty and heartfelt comedy, is her final film — and a triumphant parting gift for us.

Jenna (Keri Russell) is a “pie genius” who works at Joe’s Pie Shop and slogs through an unhappy marriage. She concocts outrageously delicious pie recipes in her head — all mirroring her current state of mind. She dreams of leaving town and getting away from her overbearing, brutish husband Earl (a riveting, oddly touching Jeremy Sisto.) Much to her dismay, Jenna discovers she is pregnant. She commiserates to great comic effect with her two co-workers — Becky (Cheryl Hines) and Dawn (Shelly).

Thoroughly uninterested in being a mother, especially to Earl’s baby, Jenna grudgingly goes to her gynecologist, Dr.Pomatter (Nathan Fillion). Right from the get-go, sparks fly and the two embark on a torrid affair that whiplashes back and forth between unbridled passion and sudden attacks of conscience.

Jenna tries to hide the impending bundle of less-than-joy from Earl. She immerses herself in the pies and Dr. Pomatter. At work, she has to deal with a foul-tempered boss (Lew Temple) and Old Joe, the cranky owner of the restaurant (brilliantly played by Andy Griffith.)

Meanwhile, Becky is having an affair of her own, only she won’t say with whom. And Dawn, the resident wallflower, is on a romantic path with uber-nerd Ogie. I just have to say that Eddie Jemison, one of the legions of dependably good character actors that you’ve never heard of but instantly recognize, makes Ogie the most memorable comic suitor of recent vintage. Jemison is sweet, hysterical and weirdly familiar.

As Jenna gets closer and closer to giving birth, everything, as it must, comes to a head. That’s all you’ll get out of me, except to say that every moment — even the ones you think you see coming right down Broadway — pack a wallop, or at least a belly laugh.

Every step of the way, director/writer Shelly surprises us. And this quirky character study never pulls it’s quirk muscle. It all feels right and real. You care what happens … to everyone. The film hits the perfect balance of satire, off-kilter comedy and a genuine feel-good vibe. It earns our affection honestly by taking the Official Maudlin Chick-Flick Handbook and setting it on fire.

Shelly has too much respect and sincere affection for her characters to settle for standard-issue — everything comes with a piquant seasoning, a bite that cuts the sweet.

And the performances are spectacular. As the pie-baking, baby-fearing Jenna, Keri Russell once and for all shakes off any lingering “Felicity” memories (not to mention the mess that was “The Upside of Anger”) and emerges as a bona fide movie star. She carries the film — with a grace and emotional depth that I’ve seen in precious few young American actresses.

And can we just anoint Andy Griffith a national treasure and get on with it? He takes what could’ve been a walking cliché — the lonely curmudgeon — and breaks your heart.

I read somewhere that Hollywood is bemoaning the dearth of young leading men who can “do it all.” Well, I believe that Nathan Fillion has a beef. (As does a certain Irish-American blogger/actor who shall remain nameless.) He can do it all. He’s been a soap star (One Life to Live), an action hero (Firefly) and in “Waitress” he is funny, romantic and goddamn charming. And he better stay away from my wife.

Cheryl Hines is a riot as dye-job, chain-smoking Becky. And Shelly’s Dawn is a gem of comic cluelessness and aching sweetness.

Shelly has left us with a minor classic in “Waitress.” The stylized dialogue and cinematography, the small-town eccentricities, the sneaky humor — we’ve seen parts of it all before. Just not with the kind of guts, smarts and emotional heft of “Waitress.”

Watching such a satisfying film was bittersweet. The fact of it’s excellence only magnified what we’ve lost. I remember the first time I encountered Adrienne Shelly. My girlfriend (now wife) and I went to see Hal Hartley’s “The Unbelievable Truth” at the Angelika in New York. It was her first film role. She was the lead — and she was great. I couldn’t put my finger on why she was great. She just was.

I’m happy (and sad) to report that Adrienne Shelly finished the same way she started.

Go see “Waitress.” You’ll laugh. You’ll cry.

DUKE LACROSSE: STILL DE-PRESSED

The good news is that the travesty dogging three former Duke lacrosse players is over, as the prosecution’s case contained more holes than Bonnie and Clyde’s last ride.

The bad news is that the other travesty in this whole cesspool of ambition and mob-mentality vengeance will not be rectified. Mike Pressler, Duke’s head lacrosse coach at the time and designated fall guy, got screwed, hung out to dry, left for dead and otherwise treated like shit.

When everything exploded in March of last year, the outrage was almost instantaneous … as was the assumption of guilt. The usual suspects lined up at the tabloid trough and gorged themselves. I remember wondering if someone was going to have to give Nancy Grace oxygen, she was so amped about the ratings, er … I mean … allegations.

The racial and class implications have been well-documented as has the anguish visited on the accused young men and their families. What has not been nearly as well-documented is the price paid by Pressler and his family.

In the wake of the scandal, he was forced to resign by Duke president Richard Brodhead. Threatening and profane signs appeared on the family’s front lawn. Hate emails, phone calls and verbal threats followed Pressler’s wife Sue and their two daughters Janet and Maggie.

Still they tried to ride out the storm. Pressler believed his players were innocent. His support never wavered. Conversely, he was offered up as the sacrificial lamb by a freaked-out, knee-jerk president and a please-don’t-fire-me-too athletic director named Joe Alleva.

The Presslers now must uproot their daughters and pack not only their belongings but a thoroughly unwarranted stigma as they move to Smithfield, R.I. where Pressler is coaching at Bryant University, a Division II school. No disrespect to the Bryant Bulldogs, but Pressler has gone from the penthouse to the Port-a-Potty.

My guess is that Bryant will be a national power in less than five years. Pressler spent 16 seasons at Duke, compiling a 153-82 record with three ACC championships, 10 NCAA Tournament berths and an appearance in the 2005 national championship game. He was named the 2005 USILA National Coach of the Year.

He is, by all accounts, a great coach.

That didn’t matter. One reason it didn’t matter is the seething resentment of collegiate athletics by most of the academic community. Eighty-eight professors at Duke came barreling out in unified indignation aimed at Pressler. He had let the lacrosse players get out of control. He was turning a blind eye to their depravity. He was personally packing the one-hitters and cleaning out the beer bongs. He was Bluto in a Blue Devils hat!

All of which is just ridiculous. For some reason, professors want to believe that big-time athletics are 100% horrible. They want to believe that college athletics are a blight that irreparably harms the education process. And that the coaches are somehow inherently responsible for the behavior of the students on their teams. Or worse, encourage it and foster some sort of bacchanalian atmosphere.

Well, you heard it here first, the head coach of any collegiate team bears NO responsibility for keggers thrown, bongs smoked, blowjobs gotten and acid dropped. None.

Actually, I’ll amend that.

The head coach bears exactly the same amount of responsibility as each student’s academic advisor, RA and the admissions staff. Especially at a school as prestigious as Duke. Sure, Pressler recruited them. But you guys let them in. And you guys advise them on their majors and what courses to take and how to navigate the treacherous waters of self-important, insulated, tenured educators who only break a sweat when the elevators are broken.

Ironically, in the arena of setting an example of how one might conduct oneself in the real world, Pressler has been a champion. The enlightened ones at Duke charged with the betterment of our privileged young citizens have, in a word, sucked.

How do I come by this razor-sharp insight? I was a college athlete myself. As it happens , my career as a student-athlete-partier overlapped that of Mike Pressler’s. We both attended Washington and Lee University. He was three years ahead of me. He was an All-American football and lacrosse player. I was a basketball player – minus the All-American. Minus the All-Campus for that matter. He was elected to the W&L athletic Hall of Fame. I was elected keymaster a few times.

My basketball coach was Verne Canfield, a hard-ass stickler who played every mind game in the book. And I still drank too much beer and tried to sleep with many different girls. (Ed. emphasis added by the aforementioned Many Different Girls.)

Verne had early-morning Saturday practices. And I still did shots of Jager until I passed out on the footbridge wrapped in a Snoopy blanket. Verne rode us about our grades. And I still tried to drive along the foggy Skyline Drive while on mushrooms.

The point is — General Patton could have been my coach and I still would have played quarters until I puked through my nose.

It is called being away at college. And no coach should be expected to be responsible for any of that foolishness. Namely, because it is impossible. Mike Pressler was busy coaching and being a good husband and father. He didn’t have time to monitor the latest beer hats and strip Twister games.

And one more thing. Let’s just get it out in the open. Lacrosse players are prodigious partiers. Always have been, always will be. So are large numbers of non-athletic students. Always have been, always will be. Young men and women away at college are allowed to behave like immature assholes. Because that is what they are.

And no one is going to change that.

And its not Mike Pressler’s fault.

I knew Mike Pressler for a short time --- and yet he left an impression. He dedicated himself completely to whatever he undertook. He was intense. He was a maniac on the field. He was a coach’s dream. I’m sure he did many boneheaded things off the field in his illustrious four years at college. Because he was an idiot. Just like everyone else.

Pressler is the man he is, in large part, because of the sum of his experiences at Washington and Lee. Not only is he one of the best in his chosen profession, he has proven himself time and again to be principled, honorable and loyal.

Too bad the same can’t be said for his former colleagues at Duke.


If you want to read Pressler’s whole side of the story, it comes out in June:
It's Not About the Truth: The Untold Story of the Duke Lacrosse Rape Case and the Lives It Shattered by Don Yeager and Mike Pressler