Ratto: Here's to the Chaos of The Big Game


Ratto: Here's to the Chaos of The Big Game

Nov. 17, 2010


Ray Ratto

I would like to report to you that because the line has been moving steadily toward the underdog in Saturday's Big Game, this means that Cal will make it a memorably close game, based on the fact that Cal has dominated the betting (and subsequent paying) in this hardy perennial.

But, like the hangover over Cal's close loss last week to Oregon, the possibility that Andrew Luck and Jim Harbaugh may never see another Big Game, the possibilities of a Rose Bowl for Stanford and a Holiday Bowl for Cal and how the boys endured the food and conversation at the Guardsmen's Lunch, this doesn't tell you a whole lot.

What it means is, Cal has more people betting on it (the line has gone from 8 to 6 - since Sunday morning) because it has more fans and graduates, and that the Oregon game rekindled betting hope. That is all.

Like the Oregon hangover, another non-starter logic-wise. If the Cal players haven't gotten over that one yet, they deserve to be crushed Saturday.

Or the Luck and Harbaugh stories. Luck will leave because there are untold riches and challenges awaiting him, barring an NFL lockout. And Harbaugh will leave as soon as the right riches and challenges come a-beckoning. We know that, they know, their teammates know that. Nobody is stupid here.

Or the bowl possibilities. Stanford needs Auburn to lose, soon. That's it. An Auburn loss probably puts Boise State in the title game, freeing the Rose Bowl from the obligation of taking an AQ team (say, TCU) - that is, unless the Rose Bowl doesn't think Stanford will travel as well as TCU, in which case it could take the Cardinal anyway. And Cal could sneak into the Holiday Bowl as the next Pac-10 team in the pecking order after Oregon goes to the national championship, Stanford to the Rose and Arizona to the Sun.

Suits make that call, though, and the Big Game isn't the last dance on either team's schedule.

And we make no judgment on the Guardsman lunch. We weren't there. We've never been there. If the Guardsmen have anything to do with it, we never will be there. That's what guardsmen do, after all. Keep out the riff, not to mention the raff.

No, all that stuff doesn't matter in terms of figuring the game. What does, is this weather forecast.

Yeah. Rain. Lots of it. It's the one thing that will change Saturday's game, by a lot. The Memorial Stadium turf will hold up better than the traditional grass field, unfortunately, because nothing says a great rivalry game quite like the kind of mud that obscures all uniforms and obliterates footing. But it will be a bother, and so will the wind expected to accompany it.

See, we tend to see big things in small ones all the time when it comes to football, because there's so damned much time to kill between high-speed collisions between borderline insane young men. We want the psychological stuff to matter. We want to bathe in the minutiae so the majutiae (the big stuff, I guess, though my make-it-up-as-you-go-along Latin isn't as strong as it used to be) can be ignored.

But we know that Stanford is on paper the better team with more to play for. We also want the Big Game to be about the unpredictable, the zany, the downright unforeseeable, and other than injuries, the weather and the band are the best you've got.

And we're not rooting for injuries, or either band, as far as that goes.

That leaves weather, and this is not a bad forecast. It would be better if the game was at Stanford because the Cardinal play on God's own mulch, and therefore can turn it into God's own bog within a quarter. At Cal, you need puddles and high winds to get the kind of chaos we're looking for here.

And truthfully, since we don't give a damn who wins, having attended neither school, we'll root for chaos every time.

So never mind all the other stuff. Root for a nasty front to come in off the Pacific and make the game a complete silent movie comedy. We can't vouch for the result (except that in such an eventuality you should bet the under), but you'll remember it a lot longer.

And if you're attending the game and need to keep that grill working, then root that the Weather Channel, the closest thing we have to the Almighty, is wrong. I mean, never mind the game. You've got coals (and guests) to keep lit.

A sports-related pie-fixing scandal? Hell never felt so fun


A sports-related pie-fixing scandal? Hell never felt so fun

I’m liking this 2017 so far. Then again, after 2016, nearly any year would be an improvement.

Just this last weekend we got a flat-earth scandal that turned into a mock-up about media self-importance and fake news (yay Kyrie Irving and his impish sense of satire!).

We got the overblown Russell-Hates-Kevin narrative, and the faux Russell-Secretly-Loves-Kevin counternarrative, all because we are stunningly attracted to meaningless and utterly contrived drama (yay our ability to B.S. ourselves!).

We got the NBA All-Star Game ripped for having no defense even though last year’s game was, if anything, worse (yay short attention span!).

We got the Boogie Cousins trade and the national revulsion of all the thought processes the Sacramento Kings put into this perpetually rolling disaster (yay making Boogie and Vivek Ranadive household names!).

And now we got the Great Sutton United Pie-Fixing Scandal. Yeah, pie-fixing. Hell never felt so fun.

So here’s the deal. Sutton United, a very small fry in English soccer, got to the fifth round of the FA Cup, a competition in which all the clubs in England are commingled and play each other until one team remains. The big clubs almost always win, so any time a small club goes deep, it’s a big deal.

Anyway, Sutton went deeper in the competition than nearly anyone in the last century, a charming development given that it is such a small club that it had a stadium caretaker, goalie coach and backup goalie all in one massive fellow, a 46-year-old guy named Wayne Shaw. Shaw became the globular embodiment of the entire Sutton Experience, a jolly lark for everyone involved and especially when he ate a pie on the bench in the final minutes of Sutton’s Cup-exiting loss to Arsenal.

And now he’s been eased into resigning his jobs with the club, because – and this is so very British – there were betting shops taking action on whether he would in fact eat a pie on the bench, and he either did or did not tip off his pals that he was going to chow down on television.

He did eat the pie. His pals collected on their bets. The sport’s governing body opened an investigation into market manipulation by gambling – which is hilarious given that no fewer than 10 gambling establishments have advertising deals with English soccer clubs. Shaw was invited to quit to kill the story, and he took the hint.

Hey, dreams die all the time. But it’s still pie-fixing. Let that rattle around your head for a minute. Pie-fixing. Not match-fixing. Not point-shaving. Pie-fixing.

Now how can you not love this year?

Sure, it sucks for Shaw, but it serves as a series of cautionary tales for athletes around the world.

* Gambling is everywhere, and every time you inch toward it, you dance on the third rail.

* If you want to help your friends, give them cash.

* This is a horribly delicious way to lose your gig.

* And finally, fun in the 21st century isn’t ever truly fun because someone in a suit and a snugly-placed stick is going to make sure you pay full retail for that fun.

But it is nice to know that something that has never happened before is now part of our year. Pie-fixing is a thing now, as silly in its way as Irving’s flat-earth narrative was. And as we steer away from normal games as being too run-of-the-mill-fuddy-duddy entertainment, we have replaced them with sideshows.

Or do you forget how many people complained Saturday and Sunday that the dunk contest wasn’t interesting enough? How stupid is that?

Lots. Lots of stupid. But against pie-tin-shaped planets and pies turned into betting coups, how can it possibly compare?

We chase a lot of idiotic narratives in our sporting lives. The great What Will The Patriots Do To Roger Goodell story died like the old dog it was. We still try to flog Warriors-Thunder as a rivalry in search of better TV ratings when all the obvious evidence is that it is no such thing unless you think a couple that broke up nine months ago is still a solid story. We have Bachelor fantasy leagues, for God’s sake.

This would leave most normal folks in despair, thus matching their everyday experiences, but yin meets yang, and every time it looks like we are all barrel-rolling into the sun, we get Irving, and then we get Wayne Shaw.

In short, 2017 is going to be fun of grand surprises for us all. I look forward to the day President Trump tries to fete the Patriots and only gets to Skype with Bob Kraft and the equipment guys who midwifed DeflateGate, and Mark Davis in Las Vegas, just to see if he can get a P.F. Chang’s into the Bellagio.

Why not? This is sport’s year-long tribute to sketch comedy, and evidently everyone is signing on enthusiastically to replace lessons of morality and honor and equality and dignity and sportsmanship with slackened jaws and belly laughs.

So yay sports! Or as it is clearly becoming, A Night At The Improv.

Patriots win one for the ages, but where does it rank?

Patriots win one for the ages, but where does it rank?

The price of watching Roger Goodell being booed back to the Bronze Age is a subtle but real one, and one that people will feel very dearly soon enough.

The last great cathartic Super Bowl is now done, with the New England Patriots winning the brilliant and decisive battle to be sports’ new evil empire. In doing so, it rendered Goodell a permanent and risible punch line in National Football League history, the mall cop who wanted the death penalty for littering, and in the words of the song “got what he wanted but he lost what he had.”

True, $40 million a year can make the dissolution of your public persona a reasonably decent tradeoff, but we lost the argument about who won his windmill tilt with the Patriots. It’s done, and he is now permanently and irrevocably a figure of ridicule.

But that’s not the only debating point America lost Sunday night, and while you wouldn’t think it given how much time we are willing to shouting at each other, quality arguments are not easily replaced.

We have almost surely lost the mindless debate about the best quarterback ever, because there is nothing anyone can bring up that the words “Tom Brady” cannot rebut except calling his own plays, and since that is no longer allowed in football, it is a silly asterisk to apply.

We have almost surely lost the equally silly shouter about the best coach ever. Bill Belichick is defiantly not fun, but he has built, improved and bronzed an organizational model that is slowly swallowing the rest of the sport. That and five trophies makes him the equal if not better of the short list of Paul Brown, George Halas, Vince Lombardi, Bill Walsh and Tom Landry.

Plus, Belichick locked up the most absurd response to a question in coaching history Monday when he said, “As great as today feels . . . we're five weeks behind the other teams for the 2017 season.” Even allowing for Gregg Popovich in-game interviews, the so-grim-he-could-make-a-robot-cry worship-the-process response has now become a cliché. If 2017 prep was so important, he should have skipped yesterday’s game, and he definitely should have chosen not to waste so much time on the trophy stand after the game when training camp drills needed to be scheduled.

Oh, and DeflateGate died. Dead. No zombie possibilities here.

We do have a meatheaded argument ahead of us about which championship in the last year is the best, which can be settled here.

1. Leicester City, because 5,000-1 is 5,000-1, and the whole world understands that. Plus, there was invaluable three-month buildup that engaged non-soccer fans.

2. Chicago Cubs, because 108 years is 108 years.

3. New England Patriots, because . . . well, I don’t have to explain it unless you have no useful memory span. “Down 25 In The Third Quarter” is the new “Down 3-1.”

4. Cleveland Cavaliers, because they slayed the first unbeatable Warrior team by coming from 3-1 down, and even as a silver medalist, it will always be an internet meme, which is what passes for memorable in our decrepit culture.

5. (tie) Villanova basketball and Clemson football in a tie, because they were essentially the same great game.

7. The Pittsburgh Penguins, because the Stanley Cup Final was devoid of drama or high moments, and only 14:53 of overtime. Feh.

But everything else is settled, and this Super Bowl will not be topped for a long time. Our current cycle of absurd championships is almost surely going to end soon, because “Down 3-1” has happened twice in eight months (three times, if you count Warriors over Thunder), and the bar has now been placed well beyond reasonable clearing.

Indeed, the only thing left is for a championship team to spontaneously combust on the award stand. But if they do so and ignite Roger Goodell along the way, that would be an ending America would cheerfully endorse.

But that also isn’t an argument any more, and yes, that includes Gary Bettman.