Once again we are graced with the wit and wisdom of Scott Turner of Rocky Sullivan's in Red Hook.

Greetings, Pub Quiz Eloquence Peddlers…

We live in a vibrant, exciting, pulse-increasing, edge-of-oblivion era.  War, recession, globalization, an actual apology from Rupert Murdoch. 
Astonishing things cross our field-of-vision so fast we've had to make
full use of a tool that we can't possibly make full use of — talkin'
about you, Internet.

So why is it that athletes act dumber than fenceposts?

Why such a mean-spirited broadside in a week of storybook endings, from Slumdog Millionaire's OscarTM triumph to yet another Captain Sully sighting (at President Obama's Democrats Jump To Their Feet/Republicans Sit On Their Hands Fest)?

Devon Harris is why.  On Tuesday night, Harris, playing for Bruce Ratner's New Jersey Nets
(slogan — "Uh…Hello…We're, Er, Playing The Sport of Basketball If,
You Know, You'd Like To Stop By…") hit a miraculous last second shot
to beat the Philadelphia 76ers.  Okay, forget that Harris
couldn't possibly have received a pass, taken a few steps, deliberately
run into a 76er to draw a foul, get fouled by said 76er, attempt a
desperation shot, lose control of the ball, regain control of the ball,
and heave it half the length of the court in 1.8 seconds.  No surprise,
of course, to Brooklynites who've watched Ratner's Atlantic Yards debacle unfold in a  custom-designed Markowitzian phantasmagorical parallel universe.

Said Harris, "I infuse the bold aesthetics of Swan Lake with a Kierkegaardian predispositional radical embrace of C.L.R. James."

Anyway, Harris' shot goes in and the Nets win in stunning, dramatic
fashion.  Interviewed after the game, Harris had this to say: "It was a
wild shot. I
don't have that much to say about it."

Waxing equally eloquently was Harris' teammate Vince Carter: "That's impressive," said Carter. "I don't know if he ever in his life could do it again."

Yeah.  See, here's the thing.  In the immediate aftermath of
championship wins, record-setting performances, and legendary moments,
America's pro athletes unleash torrents of mumblymouth bromides.  It'd
be nice if Harris, who'd just created this year's best buzzer-beater
highlight, had something more to say about it than "I don't have that
much to say about it."

Well, no, he didn't, but could you imagine?

As
for Carter — really, Vince, you don't know if Harris ever in his life
could received a pass, taken a few steps, deliberately run into a 76er
to
draw a foul, get fouled by said 76er, start a half-court shot, lose
control of the ball, regain control of the ball, and heave it half the
length of the court in 1.8 seconds again?  Well, you're the NBA superstar — you should know.

"I
don't know what to say, man"…"I can't put it into words"…"Whooo!  I
just don't know…"  "I can't put it into words."  Grown men and women
paid handsomely to entertain us, and they don't know.  Yes,
adrenalinizing pinnacle-of-a-career moments can sap one's strength. 
But remove their tongue with surgical precision?

The sad fact is that in sports today, all we're left with is the
score.  The era of the Interesting Athlete is gone.  Nicknames like Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown and Oil Can Boyd, are gone.

Eccentrics like Bill Lee, Dock Ellis, Turk Wendell, Dick Allen, Mark Fidrych, Esa Tikkanen, and the entire American Basketball Association, gone. 

Hard-shell bad-asses like Bob Gibson, Bill Russell, Jim Brown and Chuck Bednarik, gone. 

Politically-charged athletes like Curt Flood, Tommie Smith and John Carlos, Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf and Jim Bouton, gone.

We're left with blandishments like Devon Harris, Michael Phelps, Sidney Crosby, Tiger Woods, Eli Manning and,
well, entire rosters of entire leagues of entire sports.  I understand
why owners want it that way — compliant players are just plain easy to
deal with.

At the same time, I don't understand why owners want it that way. 
Wild eccentricity puts fans in the seats and gets them talking about
sports again — something we'll see less and less of as the recession
and Mets/Yankees ticket-price greed discourage more and more from caring.  The Bronx Zoo
Yankees of the '70s and the obnoxious, brawling Mets of the '80s are
legends in this town who reached beyond hardcore sports fans to bathe
in the greater ether of human existance.

We like indelible marks left on our souls.  All the better if
they're jagged, sharp and joltingly entertaining.  Even Captain Sully,
who I believe is scheduled to rescue a cat in our tree, rewire our
kitchen and cure AIDS later in the week, spoke out in favor of increasing pilots' salaries.

Athletes are told to shut up and play.  Why?  If they're
interesting or eccentric or both, let's hear it!  Sports is always
entertainment, but entertainment isn't always sports.  That means
entertainment wins!  Put that full scholarship and those longe nights
on the road to good use.  Spew wild, fascinating quotes all over the
bored beat writers covering your team!  Cause controversey!  Speak from
your heart!  Listen to your soul, not your team owner and agent!

Even just the truth.  That's enough.  Goodness knows truthtellers
in this new millenium are the biggest kooks out there.  Is that
possible, Modern American Athlete? To say it with relish, and let us relish what you say?

"I don't have that much to say about it."

Ugh…I thought you'd say that.