Category Archives: Basketball

GRC: The New Now: Hoopaholic’s Gazette

In my already sports-obsessed yout, I tried to emulate a few years older similarly addled neighbor friend across the street.

He collected game programs.*

*For those readers who might not understand. Once before the dawn of time in a world long ago far away, they’d sell programs at games. Rosters. Scorecards. Bios. Stories. Ads from the local dairy. Often a very cool cover graphic. Hence the origin of a no longer heard huckster cry, “You can’t tell the players without a program.”

His vast collection was pretty robust.

Mine, meager.

Somewhere along the way, a relative got me program from a Michigan football game. Underneath the roster list there was a pronunciation guide.*

*Not unique to the Wolverine squad — most schools, even today in media guides, provide such info if there might be a name hard to pronounce. 

Michigan football, at least back then, had more than a fair share. And not just players from nearby Hamtramck, then an enclave for Polish Americans. Evashevski. Oosterbaan. Skrepenak. Lazetich.

Which peripheral, actually legitimately related to the topic at hand meandering leads me to this, the rebirth of an era in college hoops when pronunciation guides are not only de rigueur but mandatory.

Which has led me to coin a new acronym, which has received the approval of fellow hoopaholic Smarts. Continue reading GRC: The New Now: Hoopaholic’s Gazette

Thursday’s Some Ado About . . .

For a short while during my LEO stint, I had a copy editor with whom I had a, shall we say, testy relationship.

Not talking about then editor Cary Stemle, a friend and fellow sports/ music obsessive who totally understood and approved my modus operandi.

I forget the fellow’s name. My breezy, verbose, culture reference-laden style was obviously an anathema for him. He was prone to the pedantic. In extremis.

Along the way, I noticed some tweaks to my submissions that were becoming more vexatious. But, in a fit of maturity, I let them go without complaint.

Then, an issue came out in which he’d put a header over my column, which read to me anyway something like, “Here’s Another Stupid Nonsensical Article About Nothing.”

Pissed, I went to Cary, who given his other duties really hadn’t paid attention before the issue was published. I specifically recall we took a meeting with the guy, and a shouting match ensued. A new sports piece I’d submitted was during football season, and I inserted the totally cool acronym AFROS, which the Cardinal receivers had dubbed themselves at the time.

*America’s Finest Receivers On Saturdays. 

The fellow, totally clueless, did not understand, did not inquire and 86ed the reference. Continue reading Thursday’s Some Ado About . . .

The Tortuous Path of a Sports Fanatic

If only I could heed my admonishment to my very own self.

To wit, Chuck, you care too much, this is not healthy.

But noooooooooooooo!

Oh, the ups and downs that can determine one’s state of mind.

On Tuesday, the Cardinal nine was upended by hapless Bellarmine.

Then my Detroit Tigers were down two going into bottom of 11th against the BoSox. This, after St. X grad Trey Sweeney kept them afloat in bottom of 10 with a game-tying RBI single.

Resurgent Javy Baez hit a walk off three run tater to win the game. His second three run shot of the night.

On Wednesday, the NFL released next season’s schedule. Continue reading The Tortuous Path of a Sports Fanatic

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

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