Mister Faded Glory | The critique of everything

You may not have noticed amid the hoopla surrounding Thursday night’s Marquette-Connecticut game. But with the Huskies’ win, Jim Calhoun earned entry into the prestigious 800-win club, an elite fraternity among college basketball’s longtime coaches. (By the way, Jeff Adrien was only present for 400 of those wins. So you know.)

For the last several seasons, Calhoun and rival Big East coach Jim Boeheim have approached the 800-win plateau, with Calhoun winning the seesaw battle to reach the pinnacle first. (If everything goes ideally the rest of the season, Boeheim, who counts 791 wins – all at Syracuse – will earn his 800th after Syracuse’s second-round win in the NCAA tournament. Hey, permit a guy to dream, all right?)

It’s very possible Calhoun’s milestone was somewhat underreported because of his maligned outburst earlier in the week – castigating a phony reporter asking the most boring question of all time*. It’s possible that because of that state-employee question that ESPN chose simply to run with the zeitgeist and nearly forget Calhoun’s big moment.

(*Really – how was that the proper forum? And I would submit the reporter’s “state-employee, coaches and athletics rake in completely too much” argument on behalf of the state’s welfare is entirely tired. Your quibbles are with college athletics and society in general, and will not be solved at a press conference.)

But I urge you to recall Dean Smith’s chase for 800 wins, Coach K’s ascension to the plateau last season, and more appropriately, Bob Knight’s 2003 run-up to the mark. During Knight’s countdown to the milestone at Texas Tech, each insufferable Big 12 game was televised, led off any and all highlight packages, with on-screen SportsCenter graphics celebrating each Knight win like falling dominoes. And certainly, no shortage of ESPN, Fox, nor CBS talking heads failed to effusively praise Coach Knight – who, get this, not all of us were going to like, but they understood that. The hype rivaled Brady-Manning levels, for crying out loud.

Fast forward to now, when two universally-respected, championship-winning, long-tenured, and veritable institutions Calhoun and Boeheim approach the milestone, and we hear nary a peep. Neither has enjoyed such a graphic, countdown, free recruiting publicity, or such a collective gush. Both are Hall of Fame coaches. So was Knight. Each is universally liked by the media. So is Knight.

So what gives? Why the months upon months of 2003 hype for Knight and the collective quiet for the Big East pair? Is it just because Knight is such a polarizing figure? Or that he was joining Rupp and Smith; and all three have multiple titles? (Er, so does Calhoun.) Or because Knight inspires media lust among journalists – he can treat any and all talking head like dirt and they just love him more? Or because late in college basketball seasons the bubble takes over and the phony stuff goes away.

We hope it’s nothing. Or that media prognosticators have moved on from such rubbish as cosmetic milestones. But (sigh) we doubt it.

(Side note: How about that! I managed to get through the entire column without attempting to prove Boeheim is actually a better coach than Calhoun despite Calhoun’s extra NCAA title! I mean, Jimmy B has more Final Fours, is two years younger, and has a higher winning percentage and more 20-win seasons owing to his 791 wins. But who’s keeping track of that stuff, really?)

The glow of Oscar night and movie awards season has fully dissipated, and it’s tough to find the excitement prepping for another trip to Paul Blart: Mall Cop.

Not to fear, however. Great minds still wonder where to plot Slumdog Millionaire among its newfound Best Picture brethren. Is the charming, coincidental joyride a classic like Casablanca or or cupcake like Titanic?

(Quick aside. We saw Rachel Getting Married last night, and it would slide in at a comfortable No. 4 on our Best Of list, just behind The Wrestler. Shot with a similarly deconstructed style, RGM nails suburban Connecticut and is a poignant, prescient sometimes-intense satire of weddings, rehab, money, self-righteousness and family. Extremely well done.)

Back to our column. Sure, the glow is gone, but you can still waste hours of time in your office cubicle scrolling through a critical ranking of Best Pictures then and now. And yes, I realize the redundant act of linking to rotten-fucking-tomatoes, like none of you jokers have heard of it. (Ooh! That’s new! Mister Faded Glory, on the absolute cutting edge!) Whatever, we figured they can use the clicks.

Anyway, humor me because you know what’s next – our random, arbitrary and totally airtight dueling lists of Best Best Pictures and Worst Best Pictures. As a favor to you, we’re even eliminating Crash from consideration. You know Crash, the film that’s not so much a Best Picture, but a litmus test for intelligence. How so? If you like it, you’re stupid. See how easy that was? Anyway, here goes:

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As few of you know (though even fewer of you care), I’m currently in training for future contestantship on Wheel of Fortune. In fact, as I’ve discovered through playing along with several DVR’d episodes, Wheel of Fortune is America’s Game. Well, that settles it. No dream is more quintessentially American than my desire to stand up on stage and pummel two bozos at word puzzles.

Now, don’t call me a Mensa just yet. I’ve begun training for Wheel after finally realizing I may no longer be smart enough for Jeopardy! Too many Milwaukee’s Beasts and reruns of Two Guys and a Girl over the years have robbed me of some of my trivial intelligence. For example, I can no longer tell you who played Beethoven in Amadeus.

Anyway, training’s going well. Tonight I solved each and every puzzle before the contestants, while watching from my elliptical machine at the gym. Not content with simply internalizing each triumph (I solved ‘Spelling Bee Champion‘ with only three E’s on the board), I chose to spout off each answer, out loud, a burst of victory inaudible to me, but loudly boasting my intelligence to a full row of treadmill-striders. You’re fucking right, it was Seeing London from a double-decker bus. That hyphen was a dead giveaway.

Yep, that was me. Churning on the elliptical, listening to Right Next Door to Hell (why don’t you write a letter to me?), ruining everyone’s else’s fun with some macho attempt to virtually prove myself on a quaint game show. This made me slightly more annoying than the joker in the backwards Game hat and black ankle socks, obliviously karrioke-ing around the track; but still far less annoying than the puffy-chested loser in a tank top loading up the calf press with three plates, pausing ten minutes in between each set of four.

But that’s our sacrifice. Someday the Wheelmobile will roll into my town. And I’ll be ready, dammit.

We take only a small amount of pride in being almost as painfully slow as the prestigious Academy to sort through our own opinions and award the year’s best in movies.  In fact, we’re even painfully slower - we didn’t know the Oscars were scheduled for tonight until Friday. (And where the hell was I?)

Partly a victim of circumstance, partly trapped in the moribund Midwest, we always scramble during January and February to load ourselves up on the previous year’s best. Still, we fall short. Frost/Nixon, for example, hasn’t surfaced anywhere near here. Our local art cinema has scheduled Milk and The Reader for the next two weeks, after the Oscars have already concluded and nobody plans to watch those hollow award pleas again. Which, I suppose, is OK.

But by now, you’re sick of our whining, hyperbole and excuses – and you’re certain this column runs longer than Benjamin Button. To our lists!

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Not that I’m turning any of you on to the fantastic nouveau phenomenon of “I’m On A Boat,” nor hailing the genius of Andy Samberg (Most of the time I detest these digital shorts; the batting average for ‘em must be a Bako-like .145.). But, well, consider yourself saved from a lengthy blog post about baseball and steroids. For that, tune into Mike & Mike. Tomorrow, they’ve got the guy who erected the press conference tent at the Yankees’ spring training field. For now, enjoy the genius.

Permit us just a little melancholy at the apparent end of Marvin Harrison’s career in Indianapolis.

It’s too bad his last few seasons provided a window into perhaps a troubled soul or perhaps the supreme arrogance of Harrison – for more than a decade he laid claim to the arguable title of second-greatest receiver of all time. Before you quickly remind anyone that Harrison benefited solely from Peyton Manning’s brilliance, please be aware that Harrison led a crappy 1996 Lindy Infante Colts team to the playoffs as a rookie. Manning’s short learning curve in the NFL was aided by Harrison’s prowess.

Do not forget his MVP-worthy record-breaking season in 2002, nor his ascension up the ranks of the all-time greats. He’ll find another home, he’ll perhaps even return to Indianapolis at some point. And to Mister Faded Glory, he will always be one of Triplets, one of the greatest, a Super Bowl champ, and an astonishing athlete – with only Jerry Rice a superior receiver.

All the best, Marvin.

Pretty slim pickings ’round these posts when all we can do is post cropped screenshots of misspelled ESPN banner ads.

Hee. (Bristol’s IN Connecticut, assholes!) Though it looks like a crappy Photoshop – terrible font choice and all – this banner ad actually ran today, promoting the World Wide Leader’s Clash of Mister Faded Glory’s least favorite titans. Oh, and Pittsburgh won. In Storrs. Though we’re not yet prepared to launch our pre-tournament, pre-seed, preview, suffice it to say we’re actually warming up to the idea of our favorite perpetual prima donna finally making the Final Four. (As much as it’s painful to watch that godawful Panther offense, nonetheless.)

Anyway, I have no idea quite what to make of the college basketball landscape specifically because college basketball is, apparently, no longer ever on. What happened to ABC and ESPN filling the entire days with b-ball after the NFL concluded? What did I miss? How is golf on CBS more often than a 2 p.m. Sunday game? And seriously, what’s with Indiana? Every week! Did someone fail to inform CBS and ESPN that Indiana is terrible this season?

Regardless, we’re high on some teams so far (Pitt, Oklahoma, Louisville, Villanova), sour on others (Duke, Wake, Xavier, Marquette, Zona State), bored with paper tigers (UNC, UConn, Memphis, Michigan State), and quietly waiting for others lurking to put it all together. (Ahem, SYRACUSE.) But we’ll discuss this more later.

Honest.

UPDATE: Can’t resist the poor headlines, but hopefully David Ortiz doesn’t check out the Leader tonight to see that his sound bite has morphed into “Big Papi On Steroids” (as in “Dorf On Golf,” I suppose) as a lead video item. Cunning double entendre or simple stupidity. You decide.

Apparently I need to shell out some dollars and attend (sigh) Cubs Fantasy Camp if this is the stuff that goes on. (via Deadspin)

Alternatively, shouldn’t this mean that a new album is done? Do they really expect Into the Wild to satiate me?

Nothing much going on. Stop complaining. Scroll down and check out that giraffe photo again. HILARITY.

Once again it’s February. Once again we’re slowly digesting the best movies of 2008 (Hint: NOT Revolutionary Road) as well as the probable 10 teams that will threaten for the NCAA title. You might as well know that we’re simply prepping wordy, long posts on each – probably which will prove so profound as to rock the very core of your existence. Or you might snicker at our immaturity. Either way.

(Could be worse, right? I could whine about the Super Bowl – once again dubbed The GREATEST EVER in a long series of greatestest Super Bowls ever. Does the first sportswriter who slaps this lazy gimmick as his column lede earn dibs at the nacho bar? Anyway, I’m babbling. I could whine about my $12 wager on Ben Roth as MVP not panning out, but I long ago realized no one anywhere gives a shit about your lame gambling anecdotes.)

ANYWAY, lately we’ve been obsessing over this “Random 25 Things” virus chain swirling around facebook. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Remember, I’m a narcissist, introvert, and extrovert, so I derive great satisfaction from perusing my own list over and over, nodding at my own brilliance. With that in mind, one note rings especially true as March Madness approaches.

4. I continually struggle to rationalize my dueling fandom of Iowa and Syracuse, especially because I’m not an alumnus of either.

So fucking deal with it; I like both the Hawkeyes and the Orange. Sue me. Which means you’ll be seeing a lot more upcoming, frantic posts like this:

• Syracuse absolutely had to win its game tonight against West Virginia, and the Orange finally looked like the team that rolled through its non-con schedule. Paul Harris showed up, Jonny Flynn controlled the game, and Eric Devendorf didn’t shoot 45 times. Within the next two weeks, they’ll face ‘Nova, UConn (Big Wednesday!), Georgetown and Nova again. Gotta split those. This one, they had to have. Well done.
• But speaking of the other guys – how come no one told me new Colts coach Jim Caldwell is an Iowa alum? How did this escape me? It’s almost as though the team that employs Dwight Freeney, Marvin Harrison, Tom Moore and Bob Sanders consults me for decisions. Well, allow me to render one: FANTASTIC HIRE.