A calendar hangs on the wall by the four repair bays at Cecil’s Chevron downtown. Notated prominently — in thick black marker — are the dates and starting times of U of L games. Other matters are in regular ink.
Johnny Cecil is a Cardinal fan.
He has season tickets. He goes to away games when possible. He’s paid tuition for his kids to attend the university.
He is invested.
The morning after Charlie Strong’s introduction as Louisville’s new football coach, Cecil was smiling once again.
“I tried to watch the press conference on my computer here,” he said. “Then I listened on the radio. I watched on TV last night.”
Asked his initial impression, Cecil didn’t mince words.
“It’s a home run.
“I like that he’s seasoned,” he continued. “I like that his recruiting strength is in Florida and areas in the South where Louisville needs to be recruiting. I never understood how we’d get kids from out West to come here.”
Then there’s the topic mentioned in nearly every conversation about Strong’s introduction as U of L’s new football coach, the 10 seconds of immediate Cardinal lore known as The Moment.
At the press conference, Strong was speechless and fought back tears when acknowledging his fears that a head coaching position he’s long craved might never have come.
He was surely remembering the jobs he interviewed for but didn’t get despite his résumé. Like Minnesota, where he was interviewed under the guise of being a candidate for a job already filled.
Strong allowed his emotions to take charge. It was a stunning, deeply human moment.
Johnny Cecil was touched: “I could feel it.”
Football, the most popular sport in America, is also the manliest. Fans want their teams aggressive. They want their teams to play mean, to hit hard, to strike fast. They want their coaches strong and assertive.
How ironic then that the instant that has galvanized a fractured Cardinal football fan base was a tender interlude punctuated by tears of joy. Many have mentioned how Strong displayed more emotion in those dozen silent seconds than his mechanical predecessor did in three years.
The consensus from every corner is that Tom Jurich made a great choice. “Maybe a perfect fit,” says Wildcat, his online name notwithstanding, a major U of L pigskin supporter.
But, as Cecil acknowledged, “A new coach is always a crapshoot.”
Strong has never been a head coach. (Not that such a line on one’s résumé assures success, as Cardinal fans well know. Exhibit A: Ron Cooper. Exhibit B: Steve Kragthorpe.)
But Strong has had stellar mentors. Steve Spurrier, Lou Holtz and Urban Meyer all coached national champions. Seth Hancock has been an icon in the thoroughbred industry for decades.
The fellow knows how to coach ’em up on defense. In one BCS title match-up, Strong’s Gator defenders held Ohio State to 82 yards, bashing the favored Buckeyes 41-14. In last year’s title game, Charlie’s charges held Oklahoma, the most prolific offense ever in college football, to 14 points. This season, Florida was top five in four different defensive categories.
Yes, the statistics are there.
He’s coached umpteen All-Americans, even more high NFL draft picks, national defensive players of the year, big-time award winners, etc., etc.
The leadership and defensive coaching talent are there.
Strong knows the big time. Along with Florida, he’s coached at Notre Dame, South Carolina, Ole Miss and Texas A&M. Roaming sidelines around the New Year has become an annual ritual.
Experience is there.
Yet fame and fortune are fickle. Favorable outcomes are never a foregone conclusion. Strong has been left a woefully bare cupboard. The current U of L squad may be earnest, but it is thin in numbers and lacking sufficient championship talent.
In this Internet age, when the next latest and greatest is but a mouse click away, fans want microwave-fast gratification — yesterday. Adulation such as Strong is now experiencing can be fleeting. Loyalties change as quickly as some pseudonymous blowhard can make up a rumor in a chat room.
Alum and longtime fan Fred Smart observes, “We need organization and inspiration. We need to get the fans unified. And we need players.”
The fans seem united for now, and hopefully beyond next season’s inevitable setbacks.
Organization, staff selection and recruiting are among the many variables to be revealed between now and spring practice. (Early returns are positive. Strong nabbed a four-star quarterback within 24 hours of his hire.)
Former coach Howard Schnellenberger trumpeted a collision course with a national championship. Ron Cooper dazzled when he arrived in town clutching a list of 50 ambitious endeavors he wished to accomplish. John L. Smith charmed with his smirk, swagger and bowl-worthy squads. Bobby Petrino just won, baby.
Steve Kragthorpe, like a vampire, sucked the lifeblood out of the program.
If Charlie Strong repairs Louisville football as well as Johnny Cecil repairs cars, Cardinal fans are in for a grand tour.
More exactly, Steve Kragthorpe’s situation and the downward momentum of his career at Louisville: how he replaced Bobby Petrino, how the team was immediately less good, how the fans became disgruntled, how that disenchantment has escalated to cacophony, and how those fans want him gone — yesterday, if not sooner.
But first to Susan Boyle.
You remember her, right? She was all the rage as a singing sensation on one of those British who-is-going-to-be-the-next-superstar shows. One day, nobody had ever heard of the frumpy housefrau with the amazing voice. The next day, millions were viewing a video of her stunning debut on the Web.
How long ago was that? Weeks? Months? Last year?
Then she showed up soon enough with a makeover and a record contract, at which point all those instant fans abandoned their adulation and moved on.
Within a time frame most accurately measured in hours or days, they went veni, vidi, relici. With apologies to Plutarch, they came, they saw, they moved on.
Which is when I coined the term, “Boyle point.” It’s the instant in this accelerated cybergalactic age when our latest fascination becomes what was once called “yesterday’s papers,” the moment when we’ve mouse-clicked to the next diversion, the moment when the rage’s upward arc heads south.
So, as U of L’s football season trudges inexorably to ignominy, the fascination has moved from the field to the three-ring circus that is the discussion of Kragthorpe’s future in Louisville, and who his successor might be.
And in this saga, there have been too many Boyle points to compute.
There you stood, nine feet away from eliminating every ache and pain in my rapidly aging body. You knock that putt in and I’d be able to put on my Brooks Beasts and run pain free, my pulled hammy miraculously healed. I could jump on my Trek and tackle those hills in Cherokee Park without having to click to the lowest gear. At Hogan’s Fountain, I’d still have breath. I’d arise in the morning and not have to stretch first thing before being able to trundle to take care of business in the bathroom.
You wrinkled ol’ linkster, if you had sunk that baby and won the British Open, it would be a whole new ballgame for every one of us old farts losing the smackdown with our dotage. We’d be able to get out of our recliners without having to push up with our arms.
I’d have sat down this morning at my Young Chang upright and both hands would have worked together like their supposed to, chords with the left, melody with the right in harmonious, seamless symmetry. 12/8 time would ring like 12/8 time. “Blueberry Hill” would actually sound like Fats Domino, not “What’s that song he’s playing?”
But no, Tom, bless your heart, you acted your age, our age. You were attacked by the yips and short stroked a chance at immortality.
So it’s Monday Blue Monday just like last week and next and life, as it inexorably does, is once again inching forward to its inevitable conclusion.
If nothing else, Tom Watson, your flirtation with the unthinkable underscored one of the absolutes. Don’t wager with time. Time always wins. The under always prevails.
Ask Lance Armstrong, as defiant an SOB as ever laced ‘em up for competition. On the same day, Tom Watson failed in his attempt to send the Father Time packing, the greatest cyclist ever fell prey to the same delusion on the climb to Verbier, a challenge he would have swallowed whole and spit out with disdain a half decade ago.
You know those lyrics to that song, the one the Stones stole from Irma Thomas?
Time is on my side, Yes it is.
Great song. But wrong.
There is an arc to our physicality. We can cheat it by staying in shape, eating right, finding the balance with the cosmos. But we shall succumb. There is no winning argument against it.
Which isn’t to say we don’t hold our heads up high when we try. Tom Watson did. Lance Armstrong kinda did. (He’s a cranky ol’ boy, that one.)
So can we. I attacked those inclines in the park today. Breathed hard at the top of Golf Course Hill, but breathed nonetheless. Made it all the way in a higher gear too.
I thank Tom Watson for the elixir, the impetus to rejuvenate.
Spend a weekend at home alone, with my sweetie away, and here’s where my mind wanders:
Now I guess I could riff on and on about the abject soulfullness of this incredible song — Toussaint McCall’s “Nothing Takes The Place of You.” The funereal organ, so simple but so rich. The elemental piano trills for counterpoint. The essential rhythms of the muted drums.
Or the lyrics, understated, but enough to rip your heart out.
So, after listening to McCall’s one shot classic more than a few times, I began to wonder: Is this the most soulful tune ever recorded?
I’ve been reading a lot of articles and have watched several TV exposés about Bernie Madoff.
I’m still not sure what makes this guy tick. There is an evil pathology there that still escapes me. The guy — and probably his wife and some cohorts — simply didn’t care who they messed over for their own personal financial and social aggrandizement.
And, while I can’t say that these Cordish folks, who seem hellbent on fleecing as many cities out of tax dollars as they might, can quite be branded as Madoffian, I’m beginning to wonder.
Some Louisvillians who are experiencing bad times, their businesses having been plundered asunder by the white elephant we call Fourth Street Live, along with some other inquisitive taxpayers with an affinity for local interests and taking care of our own first, as well as some just plain taxpayers wondering what da fuh? is happening with our tax dollars, are starting to look beyond the gloss at Cordish.
On a daily basis, Rick Redding’s site continually provides insight into the political and cultural goings on here in Louisville.
And it was there reported last week that Paris Hilton received a cool $150,000 to appear in town for the Derby. First of all, good for her. She’s been able to turn herself into a commodity that people pay just to appear at a party. What a gig. (By the by, you can get me for a lot less. Hell I’ll even wear a pair of Jimmy Choos if the price is right.)
Anyway, the website reports that 1/2 was paid by the Barnstable/Brown party. Which means, one would surmise, that it lessened the charitable contribution by that figure. And that the other 1/2 was paid by those wacky carpetbaggers who have deftly got their hands in the pocket of our Mayor Jerry Abramson. That’s right, those lovable Cordish folks.
Which means, if you follow the money, that city dollars paid for Paris Hilton’s visit to the Derby.
Does anybody in authority understand the concepts of “cost/ benefit analysis” or “legitimate and prudent use of taxpayer dollars”? It doesn’t appear so.
Enough is enough, I say. It’s time for the Courier-Journal or LEO or Business First or The Voice or one of our local TV news departments, somebody/anybody with the energy and doggedness, to launch a full scale investigation to reveal the sordid details of the Cordish/ City of Louisville tryst. Frankly, this love affair is starting to stink worse than the dump out on the Outer Loop. Actually that’s not true. It’s stunk for awhile.
Home owned businesses are falling by the wayside because they can’t compete with the apparent sweetheart deals our city administration keeps handing Cordish.
Where’s the outrage?
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Fourth Estate . . . Which of you is up to the challenge?
This is the state that elected Edwin Edwards, currently domiciled in a federal prison facility, who ran on this slogan: “Vote for the Crook.” Seems Edwards, who liked both women in abundance and to make a bet more often than not, chose a company to run a casino in New Orleans, after which he was named executor of the estate of the company’’s principal. He was running against long time Klan leader, David Duke.
This is the state that elected demagogue Huey Long. That elected Huey’s brother Earl, who was cavorting about with famous stripper Blaze Starr. And chose Jimmie Davis as governor. His prime qualification for state office was that he wrote the tune, “You are My Sunshine.”
It might look stunning over the fireplace. You could move that new 42″ HDTV currently there into a corner of the room.
Okay, you’re sure.
Don’t care about bidding on one His Excellency’s famous sparkly gloves either?
Okay. I understand. Then I shan’t bore you with any details about the upcoming auction of Michael Jackson and Neverland parapernalia, chotchkes, bric-brac, furniture and haberdashery.
Finally after several years and a retrial, Phil Spector, the ultimate combo of musical genius and maniacal murderer, is in jail. A jury of his peers — if such a gathering is possible for a cockamamie like Spector — found him Guilty of Murder 2d.
Back when he was charged, I wrote a column which is posted here at my site. I thought I’d reprint it here, since the news is timely again. Here ’tis again in its entirety:
It is the evening of the day.
Half the Beatles are gone. Elvis is oil on velvet. The Stones are flummoxed. Deluded by dotage, they think mugging their way through “Sympathy For The Devil” is rock ’n’ roll. Mick is more than a kiss away as an over-the-hill gigolo, “The Man From Elysian Fields.”
And cute little Michael Jackson has been freakin’ in Neverland so long he’s morphed into a new species. His TV interview was a trip to the Shelby County Fair, a front row view of the Bearded Lady with three legs and the feats of legerdemain she performs with a ping pong ball.
Yet another boomer icon has turned left on red. Somebody asked me the other day if I’m surprised that Phil Spector’s been charged with murder?
Before you get too excited, I don’t mean he was arrested or anything like that.
I’m talking about this fellow Eric Bendl, who is hard not to notice when he’s walking the streets. He’s always out and about with this big rubber globe, which he calls, not without justification, “the World.” As in “Today after work I got out the World . . . ”
Anyway, Bendl’s main goal, other than laughs and attention, is to increase awareness of Diabetes, a disease suffered by his mother, former politician of note, Gerta Bendl.
When World Guy sets out, besides “the World” he takes along his faithful canine, Nice.
So today, while out for a jog, I happened upon World Guy, “the World” and Nice in the Cherokee Triangle. They were dazzling a couple of sub teen girls who were mesmerized. Meanwhile Nice decided to relieve himself on a lawn.
Sadly Wold Guy started to walk away without cleaning up after his dog. That’s a no-no in my book. So he allegedly cares enough about world awareness to walk around with a five foot diameter globe, but doesn’t clean up after his dog. Hmmm. Is there some sort of contradiction there?
He seemed pissed when I asked, “Mr. Globe Man, you’re going to clean up after your dog, aren’t you?”
Let’s hope this was a one time omission. That’s he’s as earth concious as he would portray himself, and usually cleans up after Nice. Hey, maybe he can even start carrying around a litter bag, and really set an example by picking up cans and discarded food wrappers and cigarette packages as he walks “the World.”
How did I come to honor the curiosity that is the grave marker of one hit wonder Ernie K-Doe (Real name: Ernest Kador)? Listen up.
Those into Oldies but Goodies surely know without much brain racking that he sang “Mother In Law” The Top 40 song with the classic call and response. The lyrics in full:
(Mother in Law) Mother in Law/ (Mother in Law) Mother in Law
The worst person I know/ (Mother-in law, mother-in law)/ (Mother-in law, mother-in law)/ She worries me, so/ If she’d leave us alone/ We would have a happy home/ Sent from down below
Mother in Law/ Mother in Law
Satan should be her name/ To me they’re bout the same/ Every time I open my mouth/ She steps in, tries to put me out/ How could she stoop so low
I come home with my pay/ She asks me what I made/ She thinks her advice is the constitution/ But if she would leave that would be the solution/ And don’t come back no more
Always championing the individual and railing against the imposition of the government, he fell on the side of abortion rights for pregnant women. His wife strongly influenced that decsion. As she did his support for the ill-fated Equal Rights amendment. And he threw in the towel, and Tricky Dick under the bus, on Vietnam.
On most other matter, he was all GOP, all the time.
Read sports rants, rumors & innuendo from my alter ego Seedy K. Click to check out Score! at leoweekly.com.
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A calendar hangs on the wall by the four repair bays at Cecil’s Chevron downtown. Notated prominently — in thick black marker — are the dates and starting times of U of L games. Other matters are in regular ink.
The purpose here is to discuss Steve Kragthorpe.
Damn you, Tom Watson.
