Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Monday Evening PG

U of L vs. UK hoops.

I’m on record as saying I’m not a fan of the game.

I hate it but accept that Kentucky has been the far more successful program during my lifetime. I’d just as soon not have to get all worked up annually, as I am inclined to do. Always grateful the day after, when it’s over win or lose.

Both schools have won nattys in a season when they lost to rival.

For me, the game is a nuisance. I realize I’m in the minority. And that it’s not going away. Though a tip on November 11 indicates some don’t consider it in the realm of Blue Devils/ Tar Heels or Hoosiers vs. Boilermakers.

Still I’ve been ruminating about the very strange timing of next year’s meeting between a couple of highly ranked squads on the uptick.

Early November. Middle of the week.

Most odd. Continue reading Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Monday Evening PG

Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Back to the Day

If there was any doubt that Pat Kelsey (with Josh Heird holding the ladder) gets it — and frankly there should not have been any whatsoever were you paying attention — fuhgeddatboutit now.

The notion that PK might not fully understand Louisville Cardinal Basketball can be tossed in the trash with that old rotary phone, that Flowbee haircutter you bought one night when stoned watching horror flicks, buggy whips, three on the tree gear shifters, slide rules, that basement full of nutritional powder you bought when taking a flyer on multi level marketing, and your Bed Bath & Beyond discount postcards.

Rivalries ‘r’ Us.

Back to where we once belonged.

Before UK was forced into an annual series with U of L, thanks to a gubernatorial edict and that OT setback in Stokely, the Cards had two main rivals.

Fierce antagonists.

Memphis State.

Cincinnati.

And, in a whirlwind of announcements, we’ve learned that both are back on the schedule. Continue reading Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Back to the Day

A Hoopaholic’s Derby

Yes, kids, that’s me wearing my personalized Hoopaholic ballcap.

All day, Derby Day.

Along with a Dr. Gonzo Kentucky Derby is decadent and depraved t-shirt.

As for the quote on the back above the signature of Randall Ave’s Favorite Tormentor, “From that point on, the weekend became a vicious drunken nightmare,” those days are long past*

*But while knocking out this perfunctory, meeting-my-contractual-obligation obligation, I remembered another doozy tale from yesteryore, which I’ll regale you with below.

Adding to the legitimacy of my header: While running errands drizzly Derby morn, I ran into Lancaster Gordon at Costco. That counts, right? Plus upon returning from a post-race pizza run (Wheated, if you must ask, on my virgin trip. Tasty, worthy of being mentioned in same sentence as Pizza Lupo.), my hosts graciously agreed to turn off the local post-Downs telecasting, and turn to the Nugs vs. Clips.

Ya know, enough is enough even for the obsessed, watching folks limping to buses, shoes muddied, fascinators drooping

So, yeah, I was bi-sportal, Derby 2025. Hoops & Horses.

It ended up being my favorite Derby Day in decades. Continue reading A Hoopaholic’s Derby

Tales of Derby (Then & Now)

One of Glorious Editor’s cute quirks is his annual call for members of the Commentariat to regurgitate their most mondo bizzaro stories of how they got home from the track on Derby Day.

Hey, since, I got the key to the gate, I’ll weigh in. And, triple post it at all my venues. And, in addition, throw in other tales of the first weekend in May, some of which might actually be of moderate interest. Some with more info than you probably ought to be told.

But let’s start with 2025, since I got a huge dose of Derby Derby just last evening.

Derby Wednesday Dinner at Jeff Ruby’s.

Our corner table was multi-geographical. Guy in from LA, gal in from NYC. The usuals from New Orleans. Crescent Hill, Clifton and a Downtown denizen all in attendance.

The place was jammed. And jammin’. Electric. Like everybody had a power cord comin’ outta their hip, plugged into a socket under the table. Vibes of Good Times.

Fellas with rolls of pocket cabbage. Ladies on their arms in four inch stilleto fuck me pumps. Dudes who looked like they wandered in off the street staring.

And, giving it a hint o’ sports relevance, other than Derby of course, our special guest. Sitting at the next table, a pal of my horse playing buddies, a Derby regular, and former NBA champ, former NBA Coach of Year, Avery Johnson.

Who, when he saw my pals who are regulars at the track, came over and worked our table.

Nice guy.

Sitting at his table was one of those don’t-we-know-that-guy from somewhere guys? Isn’t he a Somebody?

We never figured it out. There were a couple of others like that in the throng.

Food was OK, nothing special.

But it filled my minimum yearly requirement of Derby Derby.

Other than watching the race, and the Oaks, I’ll be sitting the rest of the festivities out.

Unlike the Daze of Yesteryore.

 * * * * *

Of course, we start the memory trail with a moment from back in the day. Early 70s. When everything was skewed a bit, if not enhanced with some neon tracers to add color and disorientation.

One year, a pal had a pocket full of powder. Though the statute of limitations has long since run, he shall remain anonymous nonetheless. Because he was packing some serious substance.

Off to the track we went, with several of those one hit schnozzle things that fit easily in one’s pocket. And could be engaged for use more surreptitiously than the old lines on the fist thing.*

*Too much info for ya? Since I’ve been clean since ’82, I’m comfortable sharing. Though I did argue with myself, is this story simply not to be recited?

Anyhow, as is the case in such situations, spreading it about becomes part of the deal. Even in a throng like Churchill on Run for the Roses day. See a pal in the Paddock. Some comely jeune filles in the Mint Julep cue. Gotta share.

And the next thing you know, we’ve made it back to my place in the Triangle after the race. Along with 20 or so other folks, maybe 2 or 3 of which one or the other of us actually knew.

The details of how we got there or how the evening unfolded are long forgotten.

More than enough said about that evening anyhow.

But, yeah, Derby Derby.

 * * * * *

My old college pal Marc, the fellow who introduced me to JazzFest, is as obsessed with Derby as I am with JF. He owns some horses. Loves to bet the ponies. Has been to town here for Derby every years since late 60s.

Met his bride here when staying with me one year in the 70s. At Eddie Donaldson’s no less.

We’ve had some times.

Anyway, one year long ago he hit it big on the race.

$25 Large.

I forget why — maybe because I had stopped imbibing, and he was inclined given the moment to tipple a few — but he handed me his winnings to safekeep. He knew I wouldn’t peel off a few bills.

So there we were in celebratory mode among the revelers at Captain’s Quarters.

And I’m walking about, working the crowd, with pockets full of Benjamins.

Very strange feeling.

Derby. Derby.

 * * * * *

Then there’s the Derby Eve — again early 70s– I found myself after midnight grabbing a burger at Masterson’s there by U of L.

Sitting at the counter, taking in all the odd gangs assembled.

There were a dozen or so twentysomethings — fraternity/ sorority types, obviously dazed and confused — trying to get oriented. A couple came up to me, and were asking directions or some such.

Turned out, as sometimes it happens, they were from Ohio State, all pals of one of my best friend’s fiancé. And were in town to visit with them and go to the track.

I mentioned they seemed a smidge buzzed. Such that the reason they arrived in town so late was, they had somehow driven all the way from Columbus to Nashville, before they realized they’d missed Louisville and headed back.

True.

Anyhow, they hadn’t been able to get in touch with their hosts. And were fried.

“Can we stay at your place tonight?”

Checking out the sorority sisters, I agreed.

I mean, you know.

My place at the time was a $60/ month 500 sq. foot attic apartment in the Triangle. One bathroom. Sparsely furnished. Pillows in the stereo/ smoking den.

So after I finally got to use my own bathroom, I walk out to find two of the coeds already nestled into my bed. Which was full size, not even a queen.

I’d love to dazzle you with intimations of some memorable inappropriate moments from then on. But there are no stories to be told. I think, if memory serves, I was so uncomfortable but so “hospitable” I ended up sleeping on the floor because it was more “comfortable.”

I’m smiling bemusedly at the remembrance.

I had a Derby breakfast to go to with a date — remember those? — so I shooed away that herd way to their intended destination way earlier than they would have liked.

A Derby Derby interlude I haven’t thought about for years.

 * * * * *

From the 7th grade through high school, I worked at the track on Derby Day.

Selling flimsy little folding stools in the infield.

Two bucks. Three with a back.

My take 10%. That’s right 20 cents, or 30.

So, one and done, if a customer brought back one that broke, we just gave ’em a new one.

I’d make a hundred bucks easy that day.

Plus I could walk anywhere in the Downs with my Harry Stevens Caterer button.

Watched Chateaugay romp to the wire from the roof.

 * * * * *

The last time I was actually at the Downs on Derby Day was late 90s or so.

I was writing for LEO at the time, and my purpose was to cover the whole scene, Culture Maven style. Millionaires Row. Guys peeing on their white bucks in the bathroom. Whatever. Cover story.

I had a pass that got me everywhere in the Club House.

Except the Turf Club.

To which I managed access anyway from the outside staircase.

Saw lots of friends. And some famous folks.

Finally a couple of friendly but insistent security fellows engage me, advise I didn’t have access to that part of the Downs, and they were going to walk me out.

Along the way, others I knew kept engaging me. I’d smile, advise I’d love to stop and chat, but I’m getting the heave ho. It was an amusing situation that had us all laughing. Including my escorts.

When they got me to the hallway, they sweetly advised, “We hope you understand, just doing our job.”

No problem.

But I took it as a sign.

Though it was several hours until the Derby, I’d had enough.

Quarter century later, I haven’t felt the need to return.

— c d kaplan

 

Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Monday Morning PG

This opening bit is for The Professor.

Who was indeed a real prof, and an eminent one at that at the Law School.

But, as is par for the course here, it’s a serpentine route to get to the point.*

*Some call if filler. Some call it shtick. I dunno. 

Anyhow, I’m not a betting guy.

Those incessant adverts for betyourentire401kothisabsurdprop.com promising $500 in bonus moolah if your first buck down on Steph Curry to net 11 triples against the Rockets wins, those lures roll over me. The bait stays on the hook. I’m a many of many chronic obsessions, betting thankfully has never been one.

But . . . were I bettin’ dude . . . there’s one I’d be mighty sure of winning.

It would be that new Louisville sharpshooting guard Ryan Conwell has never heard of Ricky Nelson.*

*Warned you this would be circuitous.  Continue reading Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Monday Morning PG

Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Commotion, Relegation>Elevation

Come on Baby, do the Loco-Commotion

Skewed lyric to fit. With apologies to Carole King, Gerry Goffin, Little Eva and Mark Farner.

“What’s the commotion,” Kasean Pryor inquired via social media?

You mean, Kasean, like why were Cardinal fans fretting when you waited to (almost) the last minute to reveal you’d cut the deal with 502Circle to pledge your unwavering troth for another campaign at U of L?

That commotion?

C’mon, dude.

Speaking of almost waiting until deadline, how ’bout James Scott?

On the 250th anniversary of Paul Revere’s Midnight Ride, give or take a day or two, the (former) Cardinal pivot bid his verily unanticipated adieu to the Ville, hitching a ride on that carriage of Cinderella before it turned into a pumpkin.

Commotion begat Loco-Commotion. Continue reading Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Commotion, Relegation>Elevation

Hoopaholic’s Gazette: The Silence Screams

Is it the lies?/ Is it the style?/ It’s a mercenary territory/ I wish you knew the story/ I’ve been out here so long dreamin’ up songs/ I’m temporarily qualmless and sinking

Ignoring my own admonition, that what I see while staring relentlessly into the weltschmertz of the Portal.

Mercenary territory.

Wish I knew the story.

Lots of ballers, thousands of them — 3,500 according to Seth Davis, only 500 committed — scurrying about, hands out.*

*Before we go any further, I want to explain something. I do not wish to come across as some cranky old guy, objectifying how much better it was in the good old days, two hand set shot and all. How loyalty mattered. Yes, I’m cranky. And old. But I accept the new reality, as mondo bizzaro as it is getting. 

It’s just driving this hoopaholic nuts.

The silence is deafening. Continue reading Hoopaholic’s Gazette: The Silence Screams

Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Pryor & the Portal & the Carousel

Kasean Pryor, you’re on the clock.

Will you stay? Or will you go?

The Cardinal Nation turns its wondering eyes to you.

By all accounts, including somewhat prevaricating statements by Pat Kelsey, the Cardinal big is trying to negotiate a bigger NIL deal from the university and 502Circle.

It is hard not to think of the analogous situation to that of former Tennessee Volunteer QB Nico Iamaleava. Which is all the buzz among those of us who can’t get enough of the turmoil enveloping the world of commerce vs. college sports.

He had a deal with Rocky Top for $2mill a year for 4 years. So it is reported. Which is actually more than the $8mill, since he started getting stipends while still a prepster. Seems he feels he’s now worth $4mill per season.

Given his good but far from top shelf stats, it appears he and his financial team are misoverestimating his value. Vols coach Josh Heupel certainly thinks so.

Sayonara, dude, best of luck to ya. Continue reading Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Pryor & the Portal & the Carousel

Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Withdrawal >> Anticipation

In the 70s I was a sorta hippie*, masquerading as a counselor-at-law** at Legal Aid.

*I was fully immersed in the stoner, sex, drugs & rock & roll part, but never went full patchouli.

**I have classmates to this day who have never quite figured out how I scored enough points to pass the bar exam. Given that I spent the evening before the last day in Cincy at a concert by The Who and The James Gang. More than surprised myself actually.

During the holidays our office abided by the Schuetze plan. Half the staff would have off Christmas week, the rest New Year’s week. I’d always take the latter.

My propensity for a life of frolic cranked to 11 would come to a screeching, depressing road block New Year’s night, right about halftime of the Orange Bowl. The grind returned with the morning’s dawn. A pall ensued.

These days my life is more subdued. Understatement that.

But that same feeling of emptiness arrives on the morning after the final Monday of the hoops season. Continue reading Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Withdrawal >> Anticipation

Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Saturday Night Alright Alright!!!

Gonna set this Dance alight/ Cause Saturday night’s the night I like/ Saturday night’s alright alright

During a full immersion into the hoops extravaganza that stands among the greatest since Sir Charles busted Naismith’s last peach basket, I thought of an eve in the iconic summer of ’70.

The Mailman and I were sitting on my back stoop, deciding to smoke one joint after another, in perpetuity or until we ran out, to see where it took us.

Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’.

At one point along the way I wondered aloud, “What if in the future, they discover this stuff’s really healthy for you?”

To which my less sanguine, less romantic, more practical partner in crime deadpanned, “I don’t believe that’s the discovery they’ll make.”

We did not OD. Although we might have visited an alternative reality. Or two.

Nor did I last night after the Houston comeback over Duke somehow bested the bloodbath of Gators chomping Tigers. But if the Blue Devils had somehow tied on that last possession, I’ve no doubt I would have had to check myself back into treatment this morning.

No mas, fully sated, I pleaded. Continue reading Hoopaholic’s Gazette: Saturday Night Alright Alright!!!