There was a Big Game not that long ago in which Cal was a heavy, even prohibitive, favorite over Stanford, and in an attempt to try and even out the sides, we recommended rain.Not just rain, though, but a Biblical torrent, frogs, locusts, water drops as big as a babys head the whole nine yards. It would ruin tailgates, make the game unwatchable (unless you like mud for more than the usual psychosexual or medicinal reasons), but it would even out the scales.People objected. It didnt rain. The game was a rout.And we are confronted by such a possibility again, with Stanford a heavy (though not yet prohibitive) favorite Saturday night, with everything to play for, while Cal is working for pride and a slightly better insignificant bowl berth.But rain to the point of flooding? Nah, and not a meteor shower, or monsters leaping up from the foot-high turf at Stanford Stadium. None of it. Cal is on its own, warts and all.And strangely, a lot of people seem to think so, too at least people who like to put their money where coaches mouths are.The game opened at 20 points for Stanford, a three-touchdown spread which typically is the harbinger of a five-touchdown victory. There arent many straight-up upsets in the face of such numbers, and only Oklahomas loss to Texas Tech this year while giving 29 falls under that category.Yeah, Oklahoma. The one thats in the thick of the BCS title race.But when the Stanford line was introduced, the assumption was that it was too low, that this really was one of those rout-of-the-century possibilities.Instead, the line has dropped, and its only Wednesday morning. Its 19 in some places, even as low as 18 in others. There is a groundswell for Cal in the only place where such things can be reliably measured in the marketplace.And when you have that, you dont need Gods Meteorology Department for intervention. This may have the makings of a big-kid college football game after all, and even if it doesnt, there is enough doubt in the minds of the spectator class to leave things as they are, cloud-seeding-wise.This is not a prediction of how the game will actually turn out, mind you. The players will determine that, and we leave them to their own devices in that way.No, this is about planning the folks who bring generators and satellite dishes and start tailgating at 9 a.m. by watching the days games with one eye and the fondue pot with the other. The folks who pick out their cardinal and blue and white and gold finery so that they can be identified by like species and cage free links and drinks from strangers and offer the same to others.This is an entreaty to whichever deity handles such mundane details that rain is not required for the game to be interesting, at least for awhile. The wine needs only to be protected from sunlight rather than hail; the venison wings and the brie sculptures do not need little tents to protect them from the horrors of death from the sky. The shoes do not need to be wrapped in Nike-approved foot-foil.This is going to be regular old football, with the two variables being the performances of the athletes and the last time the grass was cut. Stanford still has all the earmarks of the better team, but there is always the possibility of Cal being Texas Tech for one day, and for Jeff Tedford to get some weve-been-mean-to-you-and-were-sorry love from the fan base. Yes, the game is being played at an idiotic hour for what few people will be interested but not in attendance, and there may be minor Heisman Trophy implications.But intervention from the planetary forces that can lay waste to entire states? Not needed this year, thank you. If the line jumps back to 22 or 23, maybe youd have a discussion point or maybe that would be evidence that the games been fixed but for now, let the day be clement and the dispositions rosy. There is drinking and eating and high-speed collisions between young men to be enjoyed. And the gamblers are happy and moving money in the time-honored capitalist way. What more could you possibly want?Ray Ratto is a columnist for CSNBayArea.com
As rumored over the past two months, Major League Baseball just lowered the Oakland Athletics’ revenue by $34 million, and now all the other developments of the past few weeks have finally become a call to arms by an organization that has always been strident pacifists when it comes to money.
In other words, The Little Engine That Occasionally Could has now been stripped of its little-engine classification, and the conditions that allowed them to play the cute little underdog are gone. No more waiting for more clement economic circumstances, or a more favorable political climate, or for the ever-nebulous “future” which the A’s always dangled before its dwindling fan base.
That was the news of Wednesday. Thursday, reports from ESPN’s Jim Trotter indicated that San Diego Chargers owner Dean Spanos is going to swallow his pride to exercise his option to join Stan Kroenke in Los Angeles, thus reducing Mark Davis’ viable options to Las Vegas and the tender mercies of the NFL, or Oakland and the tender mercies of whoever decides to tackle the problem of a new football-atorium.
In other words, push and shove are now jockeying for position in what is expected to be a crash.
First, the A’s.
With the news that Major League Baseball is going to hack the team’s revenue sharing check by 25, 50, 75 and then 100 percent over the next four years, the margin of error for new front man Dave Kaval to get a stadium built has been reduced to those four years. He is following the dictates of his boss, the persistently hologrammatic John Fisher, who essentially shoved Lew Wolff out the door for preaching San Jose and then caution.
The A’s don’t want to share anything with the Raiders, which rules out a Coliseum site. They have investigated Howard Terminal, which is not without its issues. And there is a new darkhorse site, the land around Laney College which, in a tart bit of irony, is the site of the Raiders’ first Oakland home, Frank Youell Field.
The city and county are in the early stages of a deal to sell the Coliseum land to a group faced by Ronnie Lott and the money-moving Fortress group, and get out of the landlord business entirely. It has pledged somewhere between $190 and $200 million in infrastructure improvements, though in the case of two stadia, the question of whether that amount is split remains to be politicized.
But the real point here is that the Gordian knot that is Oakland’s weird hold on its franchises remains tightly raveled. The Fortress announcement was supposed to be a point of clarity, but the revenue sharing news and now the Chargers-to-L.A. rumors have returned chaos to its usual position at the tip of the food chain.
And chaos makes for hasty decisions, and hasty decisions are often regretted. But hey, what’s life without rich people awash in regrets?
The new developments ratchet up the pressure on the City of Oakland and Alameda County to decide what support – if any – to provide a new A’s stadium, and coincidentally what support – if any – can be provided to the Raiders if they are forced to stay in Oakland by the NFL.
It even ratchets up the pressure on the NFL owners to decide among themselves whether their actual end-game goal – to have the Raiders controlled by someone other than Mark Davis – is better served by allowing him to move his team to Las Vegas or denying him his escape route.
But now for the first time there are time constraints – a few months for Mark Davis, a few years for John Fisher and Dave Kaval. The principles of subsidized Moneyball are now conjoined with the principles of Darwinism, and as the A’s have had innovate-or-die thrust upon them, the Raiders have approached the day of reckoning they’ve been desperately kicking down the road since Al Davis’ death. Plus, the political structures of Oakland and Alameda County will catch the holiest of hells either way, and probably across the board.
But as Paul Weller once wrote, “That’s entertainment.” Find shelter, children. The acrid smell of roasting money is in the wind.
Officials are a pet cause of mine, since they are uniquely hired and set up for daily failure as a condition of having the job at all. They are given a supervisory role against a group of mesomorphs running, jumping, colliding and athletick-ing all over the place, only so that they can interpret a rulebook written in Cambodian script in such a way that he or she angers everyone involved, and is supported by none of the people who gave him the rulebook to defend.
But sometimes, despite all this, officials need to be left alone to apply common sense in direct defiance of the dictates of the bloated swine who made the rulebook a tool of the socially ignorant.
And no, I am not talking about Doc Rivers snapping like a stretched bobblehead the other night after Ken Mauer tossed him from the Los Angeles Clippers-Brooklyn Nets game for being geographically inappropriate with fellow official Lauren Holtkamp (he crossed the midcourt line, and curb your dirty minds). Screw him. He had it coming.
No, this is about Frank Schneider, who refereed the otherwise unremarkable Paris Saint Germain-Angers match in Ligue 1, the top division of French soccer, and felt compelled to yellow-card PSG goalscorer Edinson Cavani for doing this.
For you link-averse weenies, Cavani scored a goal and then took off his shirt to reveal an undershirt that read “ACE FUERZA” in support of the Brazilian soccer team Chapecoense, the team involved in the plane wreck that killed 77 of 81 passengers, including all but a few of the team’s players and staff en route to the championship match of the Copa Sudamericana in Colombia against Atletico Nacional.
It was a thoughtful gesture, one we want our athletes to produce to show that they are not just mercenaries with expensively shod feet. It was a credit to Cavani, who is Uruguayan and who knew none of the players involved. He did it to be a human being.
And Schneider knew that. But the rules say he had to give Cavani a yellow card for removing his shirt as an act of celebration or in this case, sympathy, and if Schneider had ignored it, his supervisors would have punished him knowing full well that ignoring it was exactly the correct and decent thing to do.
This right here is one more reason why people hate officials, even more than they used to. They are not allowed to apply their own common sense to a situation that demands it, and if honoring fellow athletes who died in an accident doesn’t demand the common sense of saying, “Heartwarming thought there, Scooter. You’re a good lad. Run and frolic with the other woodland creatures, unconcerned with any notion of punitive action.”
Maybe Schneider walked up to him as he presented the card and said, “Listen, this is crap. You know it and I know it, and I will back your play in the game report, but I have to do this. Please find it in your heart to forgive my bureaucratic obligations.”
That’s not the zenith of understanding as we would wish it, but it would be a way to try and shield Cavani from the withered arm of the law.
Or maybe Schneider said, “I give this card to you in my role as a strident and iron-willed defender of mindless regulations. I spurn you as I would spurn a rabid wolf.”
I don’t know. All I know is, Schneider ends up looking stupid for carding Cavani for supporting his soccer-playing brethren, and officials across the globe cry out as one, “You put him in a ridiculous position, you suit-wearing filth. Where is your compassion? Where is your dignity? Why can’t we line up in an orderly fashion and kick you squarely in the groin 30 to 70 times?”
And a decent human instinct is stamped out as though it were caught stealing office supplies.
You can extend this lesson as far as you wish, including the No Fun League’s old-white-guys fetishistic ban on post-touchdown self-expression, but right here is where that sort of mockable nonsense starts. People died, some of them soccer players. A fellow soccer player honored them on the field of play without disrupting the game itself. He was sanctioned. This is idiocy.
But Doc Rivers getting flipped in Brooklyn? Sorry. There’s only so far we can go with this, and in this case, well, to quote the old philosopher, “Nice tantrum, Glenn.”