And another thing...

Muncie meatheads

And now, more proof that higher education sometimes attracts the lowest common denominator . . .

Hear what happened at Ball State last weekend?

Apparently chromosome-challenged moron slipped notes containing racial slurs beneath the office doors of basketball coach Ronny Thompson, son of former Georgetown coach John Thompson, and members of his staff. Last month Ball State admitted NCAA rules violations  by Thompson and his staff during the summer of 2006, citing improper monitoring of open gyms and weight room sessions.

The Cardinals then went on to finish 9-22 in Thompson's first year. Which might or might not have had more to do with the notes than anything.

Well. Except for the racial-slur part.

Look, blasting the guy for losing 22 times last year, that might be fair game. But when you resort to commenting on a man's pigmentation (Do I really need to say this, in 2007?), you not only cross the line but prove once again that racism isn't dead in this country, it just nods off occasionally -- not matter how often the Bill O'Reilly/Rush Limbaugh crowd tries to claim otherwise.

Not to mention the fact that, speaking as a Ball State grad, it's damned embarrassing. Like people don't already think everyone in Indiana is a sandwich or two short of a picnic.

-- Ben Smith

Stiffed?

The Indiana Pacers didn't have a pick in Thursday's NBA draft, but I see they did make a move. They swapped a second-round pick in the 2009 draft to Miami for the draft rights to Stanko Barac, a 7-foot-1
Bosnian who averaged 13.1points, 7.1 rebounds and 1.8 blocks per game for Siroki in the Adriatic League.

Pacers general manager Larry Bird said he was looking at Barac as a project, and plans on stashing him in Europe for the next few years.

Couldn't tell you if that means the kid's got upside, or if he's one of those crossed-fingers types the Pacers hope will eventually come out fully, rather than half, baked. I'm just hoping for one thing.

I'm hoping "Stanko Barac" isn't Bosnian for "Stuart Gray."

-- Ben Smith

More rasslin' stuff

One more word about pro wrestler Chris Benoit, and then I'm done, I promise.

(Hey, I know it's not a sport. I know that technically means I'm not supposed to be writing about it. But what do I always say, boys and girls? Thaaat's right: It's my blog).

Anyway, remember a couple of days ago, when I noted that Benoit was like the fourth pro wrestler who's died in five years?

Turns out it's worse than that.

Turns out that 38 pro wrestlers younger than 40 have passed since 1985. Thirty-eight. And if you're assuming this has something to do with rampant steroid use in the pro wrestling biz, well, as they say, give that man a round of applause.

Thirty-eight deaths under 40 is not the sort of stat pro wrestling wants out there, I would imagine. And it won't be the last embarrassing revelation, now that the spotlight's been turned on this.

This is only the start, in other words. And before it ends, the whole gig could come crashing down.

-- Ben Smith 

Coots rule

'Twas a proud moment last night for those of us who still remember who won the Indianapolis 500 in 1968 (Bobby Unser), but can't remember what we had for breakfast (Yogurt? Count Chocula? Beets?).

This just in from the Department of I Might Be Old, But I Can Still Ring Up Your Sorry Behind: Seven pitchers older than 40 were scheduled to start MLB games Wednesday; six actually did after Kenny Rogers was rained out in Detroit. Rumor has it would have been eight, but Tom Seaver put his car keys down for a second and couldn't remember where he left them.   

That'll show those whippersnappers. And it proves what Geezer Nation has been saying all along, in between yelling at those damn kids to get off the lawn.

Baseball was better back in the day. Even if the day was yesterday.

-- Ben Smith 

Tragedy, unscripted

And now for today's lesson, which ought to be obvious but so often isn't in a world where Paris Hilton sloppin' hogs on a farm and fat losers hooking up with centerfolds-come-to-life passes for reality: Life is not a show.

You can't script what happened down in Fayetteville, Ga., last weekend, where professional wrestler Chris Benoit apparently strangled his wife on Friday, smothered his 7-year-old Saturday or Sunday and then hung himself from a weight-machine pulley as much as a day after that.

It was an ugly dose of unscripted life too bizarre even for the bizarre world of the WWE, whose latest storyline -- I'm not making this up -- involved WWE capo Vince McMahon getting blown to kibble in a limousine explosion, then miraculously reappearing, whole and breathing, on Monday's telecast.

That was the same day authorities found Benoit and his wife and child, and, unlike McMahon, they're not coming back. And if that's reality of the most starkly tragic sort, it's underscored by the greater tragedy of steroid use, which may or may not have contributed to Benoit's death but certainly is a recurring theme in the pro wrestling racket, no matter how absurdly its leadership tries to deny it.

Authorities found anabolic steroids in Benoit's house, purchased from a Florida outfit currently being investigated by the Albany, N.Y. district attorney's office. Even more disturbing, they found needle tracks in his son's arm; the investigating D.A. says he believes the boy had been given human growth hormones because the family thought he was too small for his age.

All of this once again reiterates that the pro wrestling culture not only tolerates performance enhancing drugs but considers them business as usual, just another part of the show. And if that occasionally puts people in the ground before their time -- even if steroids didn't contribute to what happened in Georgia last weekend, they're already linked to the deaths of three other professional wrestlers since 2002 -- well, that's simply the cost of doing business.

Illusion, after all, is everything inside that ring. Even if real life sometimes, and horrifically, veers off script.

-- Ben Smith         

   

Metamuciled up

And speaking of golf, this just in from the corner of Oh, Come On, and How Great Is That?:

The president of the Champions Tour, Rick George, has announced that the over-50 pro-golf circuit will drug test its members for performance enhancing drugs if that's the policy the parent PGA adopts.

How great is THAT?

Imagine making 78-year-old Arnold Palmer pee in a cup because he showed up at the Greater Cialis Open with guns the size of steamer trunks and a neck like a canned ham. Imagine Tom Watson suddenly uncorking 350-yard drives -- with his putter. Imagine Jack Nicklaus showing red for HGH, then saying, "Gosh, my cholesterol meds must have reacted funny with my thyroid meds."

Geezers on 'roids.

And here you thought the juice was all prune.

-- Ben Smith

 

Youth, being served

Just in case you didn't already find the world a preposterous place, here's a quick rundown of the things a Florida kid named Alexis Thompson can't do:

1. Drive.

2. Get in to see "Spider-Man 3" without a parent or guardian.

3. Be on the streets past 10 p.m. in certain cities.

. . . and here is a list of things she can and will be doing:

1. Shoot 72 and 71 in a 36-hole qualifier in Orlando earlier this month.

2. Play in the U.S. Women's Open this weekend.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, Alexis Thompson, is, um, 12 years old.

In a couple of months, she'll be a seventh-grader. In a couple of days, whe'll be playing against Anikka Sorenstam, Paula Creamer, Karrie Webb and Se-Ri Pak in a major golf tournament.

Given that I have a daughter who's just a year younger than Thompson, and T-shirts that are older, this is more alarming than turning on CNN to find that it's finally sold its soul completely and become the Paris Hilton Channel. A 12-year-old in the U.S. Open? What am I gonna see next, 5-year-olds taking time out from Barney to smoke service returns back at Roger Federer on the lawns of Wimbledon?

This is all too bent to contemplate, at least sober. I'm a 52-year-old adult with a wife and two kids and a dog and the School Carnival Goldfish From Beyond Space And Time (normal SCG lifespan, two days; lifespan of ours, three months and counting). I'm a responsible professional in my field. And someday, I can feel it, my livelihood will depend on getting a usable quote from a kid who's still into Bratz and Hannah Montana.

Take me now, Lord. Take me now.

-- Ben Smith

      

Mr. Hyde, we presume

I'm not much a believer in the science of personality transplants, but even I know a documented case when I see one.

Just caught an ESPN.com piece on Ryne Sandberg by Wayne Drehs, and here's what caught my eye: In barely more than half a season as the manager of the Peoria Chiefs of the MIdwest League, Sandberg's been ejected four times. And suspended once.

This does not exactly make him Earl Weaver. But it doesn't make him the Ryne Sandberg of old, either, the one who slipped in and out of the clubhouse like a ghost and could, according to some, go weeks without saying boo. And if he said more than that (example: "Hi, boo") you pretty much had Ryno's version of a State of the Union address.

In 16 summers as a player he was ejected from games only twice. In half a season as a manager, he's already doubled that. One more outbursts and they'll be calling him "fiery."

And wondering why no one's seen Lou Piniella around lately.

--- Ben Smith   

Tanks for the memories

So the Chicago Bears have finally, irrevocably, at long last, given up on Tank Johnson.

And after only, what, seven or eight chances. The world is a harsh and cruel place.

Guess this means Lovie Smith's application for sainthood gets held up in the mail, although the inordinate patience he showed with his train-wreck defensive lineman must surely guarantee some further review down the road. Guess it also means the Bears aren't playing any Peyton Mannings this week.

Not that I'm cynical or anything.

--- Ben Smith 

Not so Mad

OK, so I know I was there early. I know the sun was barely off the deck and the driving range was still white with dew and toothpicks were holding my eyelids open.

But, still: Where were all the people this morning, at Fort Wayne Country Club?

The whole idea to go back to the old Mad Anthonys Children's Charity Classic format was to bring the fans back, at least as I understand it, but the fans apparently didn't get the word. There not only weren't hundreds when the first club struck the first ball at 8:30, there weren't even tens. Even more than an hour later, there were merely handfuls of people scattered around the 18th green and No. 1 tee box, and out on the course the only galleries I saw were friends and relatives and wives of the players.

Maybe the fans came later, in which case I stand corrected. But if it's 10 a.m. and you can still set off a satchel charge without dismemberment being involved, something's clearly not right.

I know the good work the Mad Anthonys do, I know how valuable its charities are, I know the rich history behind this event. So I hope I'm wrong when I say this: I've got a feeling its time is past.

I'm not the only one. Ran into an acquaintance while I was following Jan Stephenson this morning, and he said he'd just come over on the shuttle from Elmhurst High School. His car, he added, was the only one in the lot.

"Not a good sign," he observed.

Nope.

-- Ben Smith