Eighty-two games in an NBA season, and the Lakers are bound to lose 60 of them this season. Pretty depressing.  

For as bad as they’ve been, Mitch Kupchak has been hard to fault. The Lakers aren’t saddled with a cap nightmare, they seem a lock to hold on to their top five draft pick this summer, and even the contract extension for Kobe, which was immediately labeled an albatross around their neck, rode a wave of goodwill, good PR and good basketball sense.^a

The key will be navigating the gravitational pulls of the league’s current star players. Scientists detect celestial bodies that are too far away to see by observing how light is bent and shaped by other, closer bodies. They calculate the missing variable and assume a certain invisible body in a certain place has a certain weight.

In the NBA, LeBron is still the player with the most pull, and whether he stays in Cleveland will trigger another wave of reactionary roster moves.

Jalen Rose thinks Kevin Love will end up in LA. I don’t see him staying in Cleveland. I don’t see Cleveland even needing him, as crazy as that sounds. But Love also isn’t a player that would care about Hollywood’s shallow benes. Maybe he’d pick LA to be close to Westwood. No one really seems to know how Love thinks, so maybe it would all work out perfectly.

Still, the best hope, if you’re a Laker fan, is that Julius Randle is studiously receiving BAMF lessons from Kobe in the bowels of Staples Center every night while his broken leg heals. And that kind of hope seems almost as empty as the last month of a 60-loss season.

My coat will forever remain a sacrifice to St. Patrick himself.  

I walked into The Tavern in Downtown Hartford with it lovingly zipped to the chin. A cheap Merona peacoat I prettied up with a yellow Oregon lapel pin. It’s been left and retrieved from bars in two states. Those instances were my fault, though. Induced forgetfulness, I think, is the gentle euphemism.

This time, though, amid the carnage of Saturday’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade, I knew exactly where I left it — Slung over the back of the chair behind the pool table, still there at least hour before I was forced to leave without it.

That was right around the time a hulking dude in a garbage chartreuse polo knocked over a stranger’s drink in front of God and everyone and just walked off.

I demanded he apologize — because apparently this is my crusade now, demanding verbal restitution for drunken accidents I had nothing to do with, like the world’s lamest, sloppiest vigilante — and he immediately asked if I wanted to fight about it. That was his first recourse.

It was a fight we both knew he would win, even though I’ve added 15 pounds of muscle since January and I feel stronger and denser than ever– especially in my arms and back. Doing tricep dips doesn’t make it easier to take one on the chin, though. He would’ve hit me, then hit me again.

I was, however, holding a pool cue from our ongoing game, so I dug it into the ground in front of me like a pole vault pole.

He turned to a short, nerdy guy dressed like a leprechaun that was standing next to our table. I had pregamed with hours earlier, but I couldn’t remember his name.

“Are you friends with This Asshole?”^a The Hulk asked, pointing at me. It was a perfect 1980s teen-movie farce, an oversized trope putting the tiny, bespectacled clown in a moral crisis.

The littler guy wasn’t friends with me. He had known me for six hours. We shared an Uber. But he also knew who was right. He did, after all, see the spill.

For one moment, he hesitated, and I thought maybe I had misjudged him. Nope.

“Naw, I’ve never met him,” he said, refusing to meet my eye contact. It was so infuriatingly predictable that I immediately fulfilled my destiny as This Asshole.

“Are you KIDDING me, dude?” I yelled, waving the cue. I turned toward the room to hold court, a young Cicero at the Roman Forum. “You’re just gonna pretend like you don’t know me? Like we’ve never met? I was just at your house!”

It was more effective than I thought it would be. It cut him down entirely, and he shrunk and left the room.

Instantly I felt rotten straight through. It was mean and easy, and I was embarrassed at how quickly Doing The Right Thing decayed into Being A Dick. So I sat back down, righteous and ashamed, and I postured a little more to the people at our table.

At least the conflict with The Hulk was resolved. We went from being two Alphas in a stalemate to accomplices in the destruction of a leprechaun. Our business was finished. The guilt was shared.

An hour later, my coat was gone. I probably got what I deserved. But damn, I’ll miss that coat.

I won’t pretend I thought Oregon had a realistic chance at beating Wisconsin at any point before tipoff. In every single bracket I filled out, I had the Badgers advancing past the Ducks.  

But then the game was tied 52-52 with three minutes left. Oregon had firmed up inside, relentlessly chased shooters out to the perimeter and made Sam Dekker and Frank Kaminsky look like, well, big, slow, white guys.

So you can forgive me if just for a moment I let myself entertain the notion that Oregon could do what NC State did and knock out a No. 1 seed in the tournament.

Welp. Maybe next year.

(I also can’t pretend I’m a rabid Pit Crew wannabe. I watched two games this regular season before catching Oregon’s complete postseason run. Even against Wisky, I was still learning the names of the guys at the back of Dana Altman’s rotation.

But it’s still my alma mater, dammit, and still hurts to see them lose to a team I love as much as Wisconsin.)

#McGeeUpdate

I’m in the process of tearing through John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee series. As you can see, I’ve a long way to go.

At the Bristol Savers, I found a 1951 edition of “Kim,” by Rudyard Kipling. Inside was an inscription from a headmaster to a student, upon the latter’s completion of “Form III,” whatever that is.  

It was really a cool book, in great shape for being 65 years old. Weird to think it was a 50-year-old classic even when that book was made. At trivia last Wednesday^a, I learned Kipling was the first to call prostitution “the world’s most ancient profession,” way back in 1888. Twelve years later, he wrote Kim.

There’s no lesson here or any big takeaway. I just think Kipling is a fascinating dude, and “The Jungle Book” is a great book.

Speaking of Mowgli & Co., here’s a fantastic excerpt from Brian Phillips, one of my all-time favorite writers, on Kobe Bryant from last January.

A few months ago, I read The Jungle Book to my 8-year-old niece. She listened with huge eyes to Kipling’s story of talking wolves and vengeful tigers and the Law of the Jungle; as soon as we were finished, she demanded to hear it again. One of the places where her eyes got biggest was the part about Akela, the Lone Wolf, who rules the pack from atop the Council Rock. Do you remember this? It’s silly, like Kobe Bryant, and also kind of moving, like Kobe Bryant. Akela is strong and cunning. But he knows that one day he must lose his strength, and that when that happens, the young wolves will challenge him and pull him down and kill him — which, of course, nearly happens in the course of the story. There’s a lot of talk in basketball about players who are alpha dogs; an October 2013 Sports Illustrated cover depicted Kobe as the last of the breed. But ask my niece what happens when alpha dogs reach the end.

Boy. That’s some good writing.

By now, you’ve seen the video of SAE’s Oklahoma Kappa chapter singing racist chants on a party bus. I have some thoughts about it.

The news hit my newsfeed just before midnight last night. BroBible’s Brandon Wenerd was talking about how, if the video was a true representation of events, it was DEFCON 5 for SAE. That dropped my stomach into a cavern of fear and resignation before I even knew what was going on or what had happened.

What is it this time?

The video was tough to watch more than once. The zeal is what turns my stomach, the happiness in his face as he repeats something he’s said God knows how many times in darkened basements and brotherhood events.

It reminded me of old footage of Hitler Youth summer camps, where fresh-faced enthusiasm is envenomed by hatred and institutionalized racism. There’s no excuses to be entertained and no sympathy to be dredged up for those even tangentially involved. It’s disgusting.

I was a sophomore when I was appointed president of Oregon Beta. Our chapter was on the brink of losing its charter as a result of hazing charges that, compared with this video and other incidences across the country, seem comically trivial. We painted the chests of pledges purple and yellow. It was a celebration of the completion of a successful rush. It was a silly activity everyone — especially the pledges — looked forward to, but we deserved the sanctions we got.

And those were the circumstances under which I took over. Backs against the wall. No room to fail.

I actually don’t remember much from my sophomore year because my brain was constantly maxed out. I was taking the first serious journalism classes of my life and had just started working at The Emerald. My life was the busiest it had ever been, and on the weekends, the pressures of managing 80 dudes determined to drench their insides with alcohol were almost overwhelming. When I was supposed to unwind and recharge, I was instead on red alert.

As president, you’re on call 24/7. Somebody pulls the fire alarm, you talk to the firefighters. Somebody tosses a chair out the window — “I lost in FIFA, dude” — you help clean house inside and out. A girl drinks too much, then comes over to your house? You’re the one responsible. Some weekends, Chris and I would just pray to get to Sunday night without any problems. We rarely made it without putting out at least a small fire, even if it was just a disagreement between brothers over the last piece of Jack’s pie. That’s just how it was.

It was a master class in conflict resolution, diplomacy, communications, public relations, politics and damage control.

And I loved it. It made me the person I am today, for better or worse. It gave me confidence and real-world knowledge. It stoked my ambition and forced me to deal with my lifelong aversion to conflict. It made me a leader, an effective communicator and a better son, friend and boyfriend. It grew me up.

So I can’t sit here today and say I’m not proud to be a member of Sigma Alpha Epsilon. That would be disingenuous.

Were there components of my rush, my pledgeship, my house and my brothers that embarrass me? Yes. There are moments I regret, and actions I wish I could take back. Who doesn’t have those?

Nothing, thank God, was ever in the same zipcode or even hemisphere as the video. That makes our most blazing crises look like matchsticks.

But how can I convey to anyone who hasn’t lived through this experience that I am not, in some small way, a product of the same organization and societal structure that produced the ugliness in that video? How can I prove we’re not all like that?

I just can’t.

This will — and should — spark another wave of conversations regarding the usefulness of Greek Life in America.

Haven’t we moved past this? critics will say. They will point to sickening campus sexual assault stats and the raft of accidental deaths due to hazing and underage drinking, each of them problems Greek Life hasn’t ever, and will never, solve or eliminate. Now they have this twisted, abhorrent display of racism as another rotten bulletpoint in the argument for Greek Life’s obsolescence. Tear it all down, they will say.

And the most frustrating part is that the logical, rational part of me absolutely agrees. How can it not? How can anyone in 2015 that has a shred of humanity watch that video and not come away certain that being in a fraternity is what allowed that kid to feel safe in giving voice to his racism?

The worst of Greek Life is filled with the kind of people that use organizations as a blanket of entitlement to further their own agenda. I don’t know if some fraternities are worse than others; if some regions are worse than others; if some campuses are worse than others. In the end, I suppose, none of that matters. Hate is hate.

But I never found anything remotely as sinister or bigoted in my four years in SAE. That’s not why I joined or what I encountered. It never played a role in my status as an active member. It simply wasn’t there.

Instead, I experienced personal and collective trials and triumphs with a group of guys that are now my permanent friends. I’ve seen them grow into men with careers and fiancees and fulfilling jobs across the country. One of my brothers is black. More than one is gay. We’re rich and poor, smart and dumb, but we’re all brothers.

And the cliches are true too. They’ll be at my wedding. I’ll be at theirs. There’s a mutual respect and a certain understanding that goes beyond words and taps into a tribalism essential to human nature. I love those guys. Always will.

Today, March 9, is Founders Day, a day to celebrate the precepts upon which SAE was established. The irony is palpable. The days ahead will not be bright for anyone in Greek Life. A wound has been opened that may never heal. And still, at the bottom of all my convictions and testimonials, there’s one question I can’t shake.

When will we be better than this?

Across three exhilarating years, Marcus Mariota authored the greatest career in Oregon football history.

He’s bound for the NFL now, but Carli and I wanted to pay him a farewell tribute by imagining what his theoretical trophy case might look like. One of us graduated from Oregon and the other lives there, so even though he’s gone, we’re not about to forget Mariota’s legacy or accomplishments.

But here they are anyway.

I can almost picture this bookshelf tucked away in a shady corner of a study in Honolulu, mellowing in the sun and sweet wind…

And yes, Buckeye fans, we know there’s one glaring omission to this collection. All we can say is, hope we see ya next year.

Go Ducks & Mahalo, Marcus

Marcus Mariota’s Trophy Case
From left to right, top to bottom:

+ Sports Illustrated cover (Nov. 4, 2013)
+ 2014 Davey O’Brien Award
+ 2014 Johnny Unitas Golden Arm Award
+ 2014 Pac-12 Championship Game MVP Trophy
+ 2014 Manning Award
+ Sports Illustrated cover (Dec. 29, 2014)
+ 2013 CFPA Quarterback Trophy
+ 2013 Valero Alamo Bowl Trophy
+ 2012 Fiesta Bowl Trophy
+ 2013 Valero Alamo Bowl Offensive MVP Trophy
+ 2012 Pac-12 Freshman Offensive Player Of The Year
+ 2012 Fiesta Bowl Offensive MVP Trophy
+ Sports Illustrated cover (Aug. 19, 2013)
+ 2014 Maxwell Award
+ 2015 Rose Bowl Offensive MVP Trophy
+ 2014 Walter Camp Player Of The Year Award
+ Sports Illustrated cover (Sept. 22, 2014)
+ Lei from Heisman Trophy ceremony
+ 2012, 2013, 2014 Pac-12 All-Conference First Team
+ 2014 Associated Press Player Of The Year
+ 2015 Rose Bowl Trophy
+ 2014 Pac-12 Championship Game Trophy
+ 2014 Heisman Trophy

** Additionally, he earned a host of team recognitions throughout his career, as well as more assorted Player Of The Week designations than any bookshelf can hold.

I wrote this five years ago for a creative writing class. It’s better than most of what I write, but it’s got a few holes. For one, I ripped a line wholesale from John Irving. Also, the goal was to limit multisyllable words, and I didn’t quite get there. 

But I’m proud of it. It’s the first time I ever took fiction seriously.

We have to do it. That’s what Tim says, and no one says no to Tim. But the more I think on it, the more I think he’s right. What they did to Gibs was messed up.

Tim and I went to see him last night at St. James, and he’s still banged up bad, lots of beeps and boops doing his living for him. His neck was wrapped tight, but I know what’s there. Tim says it’s called a Harlem sunset. I thought it should have a worse name than that, but no one says no to Tim.

I’m not as tough as the rest of the Four Swords think I am, but at least I know that. I don’t think I could do what Paul did to that kid he caught messing with his cousin. That night, as the rain soaked my feet through my shoes, he told me it was a piece of cake.

“All it took was a bat,” he said, grinning and swinging at me. But I saw it took guts. He’s a strong kid, and now no one will mess with his cousin. I wish I could do that. I wish I had the fire in me that guys like Tim and Paul have.

“Why did they cut up Gibs?” I asked Tim on the drive home.

“Hate to ask you this, kid, but do you got a smoke?” I fished in my coat for my cloves and lit one for both of us. He was trying to quit smoking, and I was trying to start.

“I think it had to do with Kate,” he said.

“Who’s Kate?”

“Mike D’s girl.”

“Who’s Mike D?”

“He’s a Duke.”

“Oh.” I gave Tim a grim nod, apt for the rare use of the D-word.

“You’re in tonight, right?” I knew what he would want me to say.

“We have to do it,” I said.

“That’s my guy,” he said, ruffling my hair. “We have to do it.”

The rest of the ride went quick, my head buzzed with smoke and fear and the sound of Gibs breathing through tubes.

“Meet at Paul’s at eight,” Tim said when he dropped me off. “Bring your dancing shoes.”

Mom had left for work by the time I got home, so I knew it was at least six. I called Syd and Jack to see if they would play some ball with me to calm my nerves, but both calls went straight to voicemail.

I went up to my room and locked the door. I dug my dad’s old Ray Charles disc out from my desk and put it in my boom box. I wished I had Georgia on my mind like old Ray. I layed on my bed and tried to sleep, but when I closed my eyes I saw Gibs.

What will I feel? The guy that got Gibs, what did he feel? Did he know who Gibs was or just that he was a Sword?  I felt my hate for the Dukes well up, and, remembering what Tim said, I reached under my bed.

The 6-inch switch caught the light from my lamp when I clicked it. The back of the blade was scraped up from rubbing it on the brick wall next to my house; no Sword’s knife is new.

Seeing it was ten to eight, I locked the house and left for Paul’s. In the warm air, my fear was close to gone. My steps were light on the walk. I would make the Dukes pay for Gibs, and then I’d smoke a clove with Tim and go to St. James to tell Gibs the whole story. And then it would all be done.