Eli Manning, Literally a Marked Man

It’s amazing how quickly we forget disgraceful opening acts.   Celebrate those whose arrogance knew no bounds on day one.  Cherish those who entered professional sports too scared to play anywhere, and too adrift to look in the mirror. 

But for those like Eli Manning who refused to play fair on draft day, I say it’s time to hand down a fair sentence. 

It’s time to emblazon them with scarlet letters. 

A “DD” patch for draft dodger to be worn on their jerseys in perpetuity.

A more hopeful and exciting day than the draft never existed in professional sports.  It’s a day where past hardship pays off.  Where the worst of the worst get first shot at getting better.  A day designed to ensure parity by getting the best young talent into the hands of those less fortunate.

But from time to time the opportunity for unbelievable riches and excitement isn’t enough for a young athlete.  Faced with an opportunity to show great character, the athlete falls on the sword of cowardice instead by refusing to sign with teams eligible to draft him.    

And so I say, mark him.    

Tattoo his jersey with letters befitting his conduct. 

Force him to wear a scarlet patch. 

Emblazon him with a “DD.”  Recognize him as a draft dodger.

To describe Ely Manning, J.D. Drew, and John Elway once without mention of their original sin is blameworthy.  To let them enjoy lengthy careers without remembering is tragic. 

Elway is a two-time Super Bowl cover-boy, remembered now as a hall of famer and good guy.  But he screwed NFL parity by dodging the draft with selfish indignation. 

J.D. Drew is a former all-star who has reaped millions playing baseball for many major league clubs.  But he and agent Scott Boras knifed the Phillies in the back when the team refused to pay the exorbitant sum Boras demanded.

And then there’s Eli Manning.

The NFL promotes Eli non-stop.  Fans celebrate him as a Super Bowl champ.  And the media—it falls all over itself praising Manning’s guts and grit. 

But he was a draft dodger too.  The worst of all time.  His dad and the New York Giants helping him to orchestrate the most deplorable self-promoting attack on the draft ever seen. 

Nice guys off the field, Manning, Elway and Drew should be booed on it. 

Con-artists who refused to follow their sport’s greatest tradition, these athletes dishonored the games they professed to love by cowardly hiding from sport’s competitive equalizer.

An act that more deserved punishment never existed, and a patch hits the right note.

A complete ban would be too severe.  Suspensions or fines too easy to move on from. 

But a patch—it creates all the right incentives to discourage this kind of thing in the future. 

Simplicity would be the patch’s greatest virtue.  It wouldn’t restrict play, inhibit performance, or in any way deprive the player of an opportunity to succeed on the field.  It would be fair in that respect.

But it couldn’t be hidden either. 

Photos, advertisements, and video highlights would henceforth tell the story.  The whole story.

And in leagues with more uniform restrictions then catholic grade-schools, the simple patch would serve as a stark reminder of what not to do.  A reminder of what’s expected from those with the great fortune of playing. 

The jersey’s scar would also let fans judge its importance based on their own tastes and beliefs.  A New York Giants fan might use Eli Manning’s patch as a driver to teach contract negotiations.  A San Diego Chargers or San Francisco 49ers fan might use it to teach character and honor.

In either case it would be taught.  Explained.  Discussed.

The problem with the current state of affairs is that leagues and television networks have an incentive to celebrate and promote stars for money’s sake.  And that’s understandable. 

But it too often means forced ignorance of past misconduct. Re-writing of history.  Rebranding of players from year to year based on charitable donations and book readings at local children’s hospitals.

None of that is bad, mind you, and I don’t begrudge a player the right to remake his image.  You want to donate to children’s hospitals, go do it.  That’s great.

But certain offenses can’t be remedied so easily.  And one is draft dodging.  It’s effects linger for decades.

And so while we can forgive a draft dodger and let him play, we should never forget him.  Forget what he did.  Forget what he stood for on the first day of his professional career. 

It’s only fair.  And it’s only a patch.

Weapons of Mass Destruction

A day after the disturbing details of the Penn State sex scandal rocked the nation, the nation’s sports media demanded Joe Paterno’s firing. Mostly ignored were the victims and the legality of Paterno’s actions. Commentators instead excused the Paterno-centric coverage as the natural result of Paterno’s big name, and then tore down the legend they spent decades creating.  

But the sports-media-turned-mob screwed up when it turned a story about criminal abuse into a story about a secondary actor’s morality. It doubled down by drawing moral conclusions without satisfactory information.

It’s not unfair to say the sports media raced to judge Joe Pa. A rapid one day attack, it reached a destructive crescendo by the evening news. 

The later in the day a Paterno opinion was published or aired, the more defiant and indignant were its contents. The cautious opinions of the morning turned strident and broad by the afternoon. Each raised the moral bar. By the end of the day, some on the airwaves publicly opined Paterno’s actions were worse than Sandusky’s.

But the sports media buried a quiet and uncomfortable truth when it built a moral case against Paterno. It didn’t have all the facts. Much of what Paterno knew and when he knew it was a gaping mystery.

In a normal case this would have ended the Paterno story. But this story was never normal. 

Instead of waiting for more information, the sports media took the extraordinary measure of brushing aside the lack of data regarding Paterno. Employing classic straw man tactics, the media created arguments designed to make the information that was available enough to indict. 

It was as if the sports media wanted to go no place it had ever gone before, or perhaps felt it had to. The outrage was based on the questionable premise that morality changes for each person.

We were told, for instance, that Paterno should be held to a higher moral standard because he held himself out to be an ethical person. Or because he was a leader of men. Or because he was the true king of Penn State. Therefore, he could be judged more harshly than others.

These arguments allowed many in the sports media to ignore the deep rooted question in all of us: What would we have done confronted with a similar situation at our work? 

Of course nuanced and complicated stories don’t enrage, sell copy, or entertain. So in fueling the story for immediate blast-off, the sports media also developed a simplified narrative. 

Out of the spotlight were the real-life villains, into it the famous person. Pliable moral law swapped for real law. Speed and opinion trumped precision and fact.

A failure in important ways, it was also shining success. 

We often forget that the sports media’s job is to entertain, cultivate listeners, and make money. This is especially true of outlets like ESPN whose ultimate goal is to keep eyeballs and ear drums tuned-in to its stories at all costs, and who can’t afford to be on the wrong side of public opinion. The Paterno coverage satisfied this objective.

So when the Pennsylvania police commissioner charging Sandusky went off script to open the moral case on Paterno, you almost couldn’t blame the sports media for taking the bait. 

It was a good business decision.

But Paterno’s job turned out to be the cost of entertaining.

It’s fair to ask how high that cost actually was, and some could contend it was pretty low. But it’s just as likely that the costs were high. 

It’s just not often that someone is fired for doing no more than the law requires. And that’s a good thing.

Our nation’s laws are based in part on moral codes. But they also smooth out moral variability and demand factual showings before a violation may be proved. Those are bed-rock principles of criminal justice.

Which is why Penn State’s Board of Trustees originally gave no reason for firing Paterno. They couldn’t say he was fired for not reporting up the chain as the law required, because Paterno did that. He followed the law we normally care about. And they couldn’t say he was fired for refusing to do more than the law required because such justification was both legally suspect and factually questionable then and now. 

So in a display that was equal parts understandable and blameworthy, Penn State’s Board said nothing.

Until now.

Caving to local pressure the board finally explained the firing Thursday, noting that it fired Paterno because he “could not be expected to continue to effectively perform his duties,” and because “it was in the best interests of the University to make an immediate change.”     

But the Penn State Board’s tardy explanation only confirms what we knew already. It fired Paterno because an impossibly emotional story about kids created such moral outrage that university administrators had to act.

Don’t entirely blame the university. At its core it is made up of people, and people are imperfect. People want to protect their jobs. People want to be moral and be remembered as such.

At the same time, Penn State wasted a teachable moment by doing what the uneducated nation asked it to do. We all knew critical missing information existed. But on the strength of the sports media’s moral rabblerousing, Penn State’s Board couldn’t resist swinging the axe.

Now, months after the story broke, the sport’s media is still asking, “What if it was your child?” to drive home moral points and opinions. That is a fair and understandable sentiment, and a question that should be asked.

But it’s unnerving that no one is asking another question as well: What if you were fired because of public outrage based on strikingly incomplete information? 

Would you understand?

Strip away the arguments premised on the higher moral standard to which Paterno should be held and ask yourself whether this kind of firing is a good idea. 

Should gays or lesbians be fired because their superiors or the public find it immoral? What about members of unpopular religions? 

Should you be fired for supporting or rallying against abortion?

In answering these questions, fight the urge to look for laws that might require certain answers. No one provided that courtesy to Paterno.

Nearly a decade ago, the news media trumpeted what seemed like a guarantee that weapons of mass destruction existed in Iraq. But news reporters later ate crow for moving too fast and for blindly following a consensus opinion.

It’s possible that what Paterno knew and when he knew it could turn out to be the sports media’s version of nonexistent weapons of mass destruction. That’s the risk you take when you follow.

The College Football Matrix

College football and its fans are in a matrix.  But no one seems to care and most watch and cheer in a drugged-like stupor of acceptance.

Wake up.

Watching Oregon, Michigan, and Oklahoma St. players dance off the field after BCS wins I could see the joy on their faces.  Seeing Florida, South Carolina, and Boise State smiling at scoreboards I could feel their sense of accomplishment. And when Alabama stood under the confetti Monday night I could smell their pride.

But I just felt sorry for them.  Downright sad.

Sorry that they thought their games meant something.  Sorry that they thought it mattered. Sorry that the conferences, bowl directors, and their television partners spent so much cash to perpetuate a lie.  A myth that the kids had been a part of something important.

Because these games aren’t important. These participation bowls don’t mean anything.

Even Monday night’s so-called National Title Game was an embarrassment to competition.  A slap to the face of fairness.  The centerpiece of a system that uses bowl-games like drugs to hook and daze fans.

Drugs of the worst order.  Crack like addictiveness rolled into made-for-TV packages.

Pure evil-genius.

Make people temporarily happy—that’s the goal.  Let as many teams as possible win their last game. Give everyone a chance to celebrate.

And to those happy people, market goods.  Sell them stuff to perpetuate the myth of meaning.  Encourage them to want more.

To the zombied fans, sell tickets and bowl t-shirts.  To the money hungry sponsors, sell advertisements. 

And because they have no money, flat out bribe the players with free stuff. 

X-box 360s.  Ipods.  Watches.  Throw in a suit to wear on game day.  Do anything and everything to hide the plain truth.

These games mean nothing.  Tell us nothing. 

The joy of the victor always tempered by the fact that no player really finishes a champion. 

Sure ESPN, college football coaches and Bill Hancock from the BCS promote a champion. On Monday they crowned the Alabama Crimson Tide.  But that’s all part of the matrix—it’s most important task to convince people it’s real. 

But it’s not real.  None of it.

Two teams from the SEC played in the title game. One was shut out in embarrassing fashion.  Supposedly the better one.

Meanwhile Oklahoma State, Stanford, and Oregon were at home.  Steaming.  Boise State and Houston, also at home, relegated to bowls utterly lacking in anything worth talking about.    

The result? 

Controversy.  No real champion.  No buy-in from everyday folks.

Alabama feels good, and I don’t blame them.  But they finish a one-loss team like so many others.  Including LSU.

At the end of the day Alabama won a made-for-TV event that only meant something to those whose job it was to promote it. ESPN, Bill Hancock, and Brent Musburger to name three.

How pathetic.

This sad story, however, is punctuated by a sadder one. 

People can’t get out of the matrix.

There’s just so much steady happiness to the participatory nature of college football.  A game for everyone.  Each team six wins from next year’s joy-fest.

It’s simple.  It’s sweet.  A vanilla happy ending around every corner. 

Never real heartbreak. Never national drama.

But there’s a cost to the matrix, and it’s true greatness.  The chance for people to enjoy something really high-stakes. The opportunity for something real. 

Less winners outside the matrix, maybe.  More dramatic and legitimate champions, definitely.

So I say, wake up sports fans.  Sacrifice your team’s participation bowl next year and choose the red pill marked playoff instead. 

Get out of the Matrix.

You won’t regret it.

The Worst Deal Ever Signed

With rumors in the air of a restructured Bowl Championship Series on the eve of an all SEC title game, one can only hope that a fair playoff system emerges from the rubble. 

Whatever the system, it must crush Notre Dame. 

No more credit for past triumph, no more special treatment.  A new system starts by leveling the playing field once and for all.

One of the profound faults of the BCS is Notre Dame’s exalted status.  Treated like a conference unto itself, Notre Dame’s say on what happens in the BCS is literally 10 times greater than any other school.  It gets paid more, is more likely to appear in BCS games, and even has more votes in the BCS created Harris Poll.

Notre Dame’s disproportional control of the BCS is an embarrassment to college sports. 

The corruptly powerful position runs deep.  For starters, Notre Dame’s athletic director sits on the powerful “Conference Commissioners” governance group.  This is the BCS’s most powerful committee, and Notre Dame’s athletic director sits as the equal to the eleven conference commissioners. 

Larry Scott (Pac-12), James Delaney (Big 10), and Mike Slive (SEC) each use their single vote to advocate for a dozen universities.  Notre Dame’s athletic director advocates for Notre Dame alone.  

Notre Dame’s President also sits on the BCS’s Presidential Oversight Committee, a group which oversees the conference commissioners.  Notre Dame’s inflated position thus expands exponentially as the only university in the country with individual membership on the two most important BCS panels.

The BCS guarantees Notre Dame more money too.  If Notre Dame is not selected for a BCS game, it gets approximately $1.8 million.  Every year.  When the BCS shuns other independents like Army, Navy, and BYU, the payoff is a measly $100,000.  And when Notre Dame participates in a BCS game, it's guaranteed $6.1 million. 

Conference-affiliated BCS participants are also guaranteed big sums, but in every case that money is then shared among all members of the participant’s conference.  Thus Notre Dame takes at least as much as every member of the Automatic Qualifier conferences each year, and when it participates in a BCS game, Notre Dame takes approximately three times more.

By special rule, the BCS also guarantees Notre Dame a BCS game if it is in the top-8 of the final BCS standings.  No other team gets that guarantee.  And finishing in the top-8 is easier for Notre Dame since it’s allotted more votes in the BCS sanctioned Harris Poll. 

You heard that right. 

The poll that the BCS created in 2005 allowed Notre Dame to nominate more voters than any other school in the country.  Three times more represented in the Harris Poll than any other school, Notre Dame’s slots aren’t filled by relatively unbiased journalists either. 

Notre Dame’s Harris Poll contingent of Derrick Mayes, Allen Pinkett, Roger Valdiserri and Gene Corrigan are a biased collection of Notre Dame homers — ex-players, radio play-by-play announcers, and former Notre Dame athletic and sports information directors.

Subpar, and often embarrassing, Notre Dame is lion way past its prime.  Like UCLA’s basketball tradition, Notre Dame’s past glory should be remembered.  But it shouldn’t be a major piece of the foundation of a post-season system. 

A restructured system requires that we put the toothless lion down so that college football can move forward — with fairness and justice for all.