The Day Lee Corso Lost His Mind

by Adam Metz 

What I remember most about attending the 50th annual Thanksgiving Day football game in Detroit back in 1989 was the Cleveland Browns hearse that was in the tailgating lot. You read that correctly – an orange and brown hearse decked out with a white stripe down the middle. I can't be certain, but there's a pretty good chance that it is the same Cleveland Browns hearse that was for sale on Craigslist earlier this year. (Can there be more than one?) Anyone who has ever attended a big-time sporting event can attest to the bizarre things fans will do to show their support for their team. From awkward tattoos to hilarious obituaries to all out riots, sports can bring out the best, the worst, and the weirdest in us all.

As a high school football official for the past ten years, one of things I have realized about sports is that it makes people irrational. My football crew and I have had pleasant conversations with coaches who seem completely sane before the game, only to watch them turn into rude, degrading, and screaming imbeciles in a matter of minutes. Coaches, players, and, especially fans, under the intoxicating influence of sports can quickly do or say things that they will regret - sometimes for the rest of their lives. 

Sports not only affects our actions, however; our minds are just as susceptible to its influence. In January 2003, my wife and I were in Tempe, AZ with another couple to watch Ohio State take on the University of Miami in the National Championship game. If you remember it, this was one of the greatest college games ever played, and Ohio State won in double overtime. If you are a Miami fan (as was the other couple attending the game with my wife and I), you certainly remember that the first overtime was extended by a controversial defensive pass interference call against Miami. You can relive the drama in this fine piece of Buckeye propaganda. With my friend and I rooting for opposing outcomes of this game, it was fascinating to watch the "thrill of victory" and the "agony of defeat" live itself out in the two of us, as Ohio State was recognized the victor. The difference between our two experiences could not have been greater. 
 
It wasn't just the feeling of victory and defeat however, that made for contrast in our reactions. As we talked after the game, it became apparent that we saw a different game. A close call that had to be made (in my opinion) was a total miscall and display of incompetence (in my friend's opinion). And yet, we’d sat right next to one another; we saw the same game. We're both intelligent and generous people, not quick to make accusations against others. How could he be so wrong?

I finally found some answers when I ran across a psychology study that had been published nearly 60 years ago and examined a situation just like this. The name of the study is "They Saw a Game: A Case Study" and studies fans who attended the November 23, 1951 Dartmouth-Princeton football game. They asked fans from both schools questions about the dirty play in the game and who was responsible for starting it. Across the board, students were more likely to believe that the other team’s players initiated it, and that their team was simply (and justifiably) responding. Even the way the two schools' newspapers reported the game differed greatly. The findings led authors Hastorf and Cantril to conclude, "the 'game' actually was many different games and . . . each version of the events that transpired was just as 'real' to a particular person as other versions were to other people."

The study highlighted what is known as "selective perception," and the anecdotal references of ugly tattoos, NFL colored hearses, and sports biases highlight the fact that sports often has a power over all of us - even over our minds. Sports fanatics often live completely different lives at the office or at home in the "real world." The arena or the stadium is a place where they can "let it all hang out" and "blow off some steam." 

Sports allegiances can also blind us, however. It does more than alter our perception of close calls. They can sometimes lead us to cheer when a player goes down with an injury. They can make us say things we would never say on the street or in any other setting. The first football chant I remember hearing as a kid was, "Elway's a faggot." Really, I heard 80,000 fans chant that in unison. In short, our sports allegiances can cause us to lose who we are. 

That's the only way I can explain what happened on this past Saturday's episode of the wildly popular College Game Day. If you aren't familiar with Game Day, it is basically a televised tailgate party that travels each week to different locations in order to help get the country excited about upcoming college football games. Each week, the show builds suspense as the personalities make their picks for the big game, and climaxes when former college football coach Lee Corso makes his "head gear" pick for the game from which they broadcast by putting on the mascot of the team he is picking. This past Saturday's game was in South Carolina for the Florida State - Clemson game, and Corso picked Florida State. You have to see it to really capture what happened next; you can watch it here. 

Without the context of college football, it's difficult to imagine anyone not seeing the offensive nature of this 60-second clip. This goes too far even for a Saturday Night Live sketch. But, since it was all in the spirit of college football, it passes with hardly a blip.

I scarcely side with the hyper-sensitive, politically correct world that is often forced upon us. Every year when my family attends the Opening Day festivities in Cleveland, OH, I am reminded that my favorite baseball team has bigoted roots. Having seen many misuses and overreactions, I tend to be slow and methodical in crying "racist," but this episode highlights the blinding power of sports. If Corso's getup wasn't enough to trip the sensitivity wire by the ESPN suits, didn't the body slamming by the white man (Bill Murray) at the end do it for them? That we can be so blind highlights yet again just how powerful sports can be.

This is a complicated topic and I'm making no claim to solving the issues with a single blog post. The discussion regarding the Washington Redskins continues to grow (the Huffington Post has an entire page devoted to stories about the controversy), Florida State is regularly in conversation with the Seminole Indians and are trying to appease their detractors, and I suppose discussions will broaden regarding the fates of the Cleveland Indians and Atlanta Braves and other similarly named teams. While the complex debate continues, a good place to begin is by acknowledging how sports clouds our judgment. We need to have these conversations, and we need to begin them by acknowledging that we are talking about people - a people who have been victimized and ignored as much as any civilization in the history of the world. And in a more perfect world, we would be having these conversations about football and baseball mascots because we had already acknowledged their painful past, restored dignity to their people, and assigned the value that is due to their civilizations.

Adam is the minister of the Alum Creek Church of Christ in Lewis Center, OH where he lives with his wife Mary Beth and their three children: Clark, Clementine, and Cecilia. You can find more of his writing at Theological Vacillation and you can follow him on Twitter @CrasslyYours. 

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.
 
You might also like:  

• Finding Holiness in the Pigskin
• What If Denominations Formed Athletic Conferences
• Opening Day: The Spectacle of Sport as Religious Festival
• The Top 25: Bigger, Better, Faster, Farther (Or, The Idiocy of Rankings)

Einstein: A Tale of Cats and Eschatology

by JaneAnn Kenney

Now, I’m not one of those Left Behind sort of eschatology nuts, although not having read the books or watched any movies (are those movies out yet, Nic Cage?), I don’t suppose I can say for certain. I am pretty certain though. In any case, I’m not a Chicken Little or anything. What I can say about eschatology is that sometimes in the now we get glimpses of the not-yet. These glimpses fascinate me and fill me with hope, and often with tears. One such glimpse was given to me by a very old man and a cat.

Whether consciously or not, I have avoided writing about cats. I do not think I’m a crazy cat lady in the making, but I admit that my sister and I have a plan for our widowed days. This plan alternatively involves hiding neighborhood baseballs found in our yard in the dark recesses of our old house and forbidding their young owners into our yard, or else inviting the ball players onto the porch for freshly-baked cookies. The non-negotiable in either scenario is the cats. We both adore them—for entertainment value, for snuggle value (when they so decide), for not having to walk them or take them outside in a manner akin to the Postal Service’s sun, rain, or snow policy value.

I’ve avoided writing about them for what I think are now obvious reasons. It gets a little intense. Since I was born, there has not been a time when my family did not own at least one kitty, and most of the time we’ve had at least two around. Needless to say, we have all kinds of stories about the critters. However, I’ll only tell one, and then I’ll give you my pithy proverb, and then I’ll be through, at which point you can decide whether I am a crazy cat lady (but not before, please).

Our cat Einstein was the proverbial scaredy cat. Mom always said he was born near a big, mean dog under a porch, but now that I’m older and wiser, I suspect he was born inside a meth house (this was West Virginia, after all; Go ‘Eers!). In any case, he spent most of his life afraid. I think that my energetic nature was terrifying to him, being rather reminiscent of his chaotic kittenhood, which is why instead of being my kitty, he adopted my brother, Scott, as his human.

He became a big, beautiful cat, all dark stripes with white accents at his feet, the tip of his tail, and belly. Though never fat, he was a solid cat. Unlike fluffy cats who sometimes look quite heavy, Einstein looked deceptively light. He was built. As a result, it was ironic that everything terrified him. Any natural predators to be found would have to think twice about such a heavy beast, and—let’s be honest—we weren’t in the wild parts of West Virginia, i.e., no bear spottings for days on end.

Life was sometimes hard for Einstein. He didn’t much like other cats and got into the habit of spraying pee inside the house whenever new cats arrived, marking his territory. This made him an outdoor cat. Following a family move, he hid underneath our new clawfoot tub for three days. (We both miss that tub…) When his human went away to college, no one was willing to sit with him calmly for hours and deal with his slobber and claws.

Then my family made another move, this time to Indianapolis. For months my parents lived in a rental apartment and couldn’t keep any of the cats with them. So they got farmed out to family. Einstein went immediately to live with my grandparents in Columbus, Ohio.

Now my grandparents in Columbus are—unsurprisingly—also cat people. They used to have exclusively Siamese cats but became more equal-opportunity with the years. Einstein entered the house as the third cat and was meant to stay until my parents found a permanent house. When they found it, however, he did not leave promptly.

For the last years of his life, my grandfather suffered a lot and in many ways. He had emphysema from years of smoking. He had dementia, which eventually robbed him of his independence. He couldn’t remember how to drive home from his usual haunts around town, and he relived painful war memories he’d spent years avoiding. Once quick-witted, he would now repeat the same questions over and over, circling back to what had already been said. He even began watching football. And enjoying it. All those years in Buckeye country and he didn’t care about football till 2011.

You think I’m kidding. I am not kidding.

It progressed to the point that Grandpa would leave the house for doctor visits and not much else. It was at this time that Einstein came to be fostered in his house. My brother and I were nervous; the cat didn’t like new situations and definitely didn’t like new cats (the spraying bit again).

I think Einstein lived in Columbus for about a year and a half. In that time, he and my grandpa became inseparable. They were old men together. Grandpa would lie in bed watching TV or sleeping while Einstein lay beside him, being constantly and carefully petted, purring, and leaving only for the litter box or food.

My grandpa died last October. We had expected it for a long time, and he’d been predicting it for maybe my whole life. I held myself together pretty well for a little while, talking on the phone to my mom and my grandma. It wasn’t until I heard about Einstein that I lost my cool. It was my grandma who told me.

That cat lay by my grandpa’s side to his dying day. Einstein stayed by his side even after Grandpa had stopped breathing. He was the warm spot when Grandma found Grandpa in the morning. With Grandpa’s bed empty, Einstein wandered the house looking for his person. He cried. He was lost.

I’m not saying that we adopted Einstein eighteen years ago so that he could go comfort my grandfather in his twilight. I’m not even saying God orchestrated a move for my parents so that the cat would have to go live with my dying grandfather. What I am saying is that when my grandfather’s body and mind betrayed him, the cat gave him comfort, day in and day out. I know it’s not a lion and a lamb story, but for me the tale of Einstein and my grandfather is an echo from eternity, whispering about what will be.

Now I take care of Einstein. When he’s stinky, or he tracks cat litter through the house and leaves dirty paw prints all over from sneaking into my brother’s bathtub, I remember the happiness Einstein brought to my grandpa, and I go pet that old cat. I deal with the slobber and the claws, because he did a good thing for a man who needed him.

You can ask JaneAnn about: Nashville, theology, cats. Baseball. Glacial rivers. Her stance on the color purple, and then again the existence of the word "purple." General frivolity and terrible music (for the DANCING!!). Old Stephen King novels, time zones, and toll roads in Oklahoma. She will not, however, answer any questions about that thing living in her fridge. You can follow her on Twitter @JAKof3Ts.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.
 
 You might also like:  

• Reflections on Ecclesiastes at a Gazillion Feet (Approx.)
• Laments for Lent
• A Place in Sedona

The Championship Myth

by Ben Howard

Even though I grew up in central Ohio about an hour outside of Columbus, I've had a circuitous root to my Ohio State Buckeyes fandom. When I was little (read: until college), I was defiantly anti-Ohio State. I mean, everybody at school was a fan of the Buckeyes. Everybody at church was a fan of the Buckeyes. Everybody in my family was a fan of the Buckeyes. I had to be an individual. So I told people I rooted for Michigan, but I actually just rooted against Ohio State.

You must be saying to yourself, “I can't believe it! I've never known Ben to be calculatingly opposed to something just because it's popular. I've never known him to be stubbornly iconoclastic! This must all be balderdash!” It's a surprise, I know, but it's true.

I didn't really start rooting FOR the Buckeyes until I went to college. Somehow through a combination of reactionary state pride (Oklahomans and Texans are crazy annoying about college sports) and trying to find a reason to hang out with a girl from Ohio who happened to be an Ohio State fan (I have done many stupider things for a pretty girl's attention), I became a real true Ohio State fan.

I'm glad I became a fan, because this season Ohio State has made me realize something that's fundamentally true about sports. Championships don't matter. At least, they don't matter as much as you think they do or as much as you're told they do.

You see, this season due to a scandal involving players exchanging memorabilia for tattoos (a NCAA no-no) and a respected head coach then lying to cover it up (a major NCAA no-no), the Buckeyes find themselves banned from the postseason. However, I still find myself finding a way to watch the game every Saturday and I'm still enjoying watching my favorite team go undefeated to this point in the season. According to what I've always been taught by sports writers, announcers and the like, I'm supposed to care less because my team can't win a title.

But it's just not true. I care the same amount.

In fact, I assume most people who watch sports really only care about the one game they're watching. They want their team to win that game. They want to be entertained and happy about that one game. For instance, the Premier League is huge in England. 44 teams compete in the two highest levels of English soccer. 20 of those teams compete in the highest level, which is one of the most popular and lucrative sports leagues in the world. Of those 20 teams, 6 have won a championship in the past 20 years and maybe only 3 or 4 teams are legitimate threats to actually win the title on a year to year basis.

If the myth of the championship holds true, then the fans of all those other teams shouldn't care at all because they can't win the league. They can only achieve different levels of mediocre.

But that's not why fans watch the game. They watch to see their city, state or alma mater represented. They watch because they enjoy the style, the strategy and the athleticism of the game. In the same way that you don't read a novel or watch a movie because it has a good ending, you don't root for a sports team because they win a title. You enjoy the story, the thing itself.

The Christian story falls victim to this myth of the championship, this myth of victory. It's not just the conservatives or the liberals, it's everybody. Whether the “championship” in question is saving the lost, getting to heaven, eliminating poverty or maybe destroying some disease that causes suffering all over the globe, the church has become obsessed with winning. We have to achieve the “big goal” at the end of the road.

Here's the problem: that understanding of Christian achievement, of winning, fundamentally misunderstands the reason for faith and the reason for the church.

Faith isn't about winning. It's about the process of belief and doubt, the ebbs and flows wherein we encounter God and then find ourselves at a distance. It's about the dynamic relationship with the God who created us, whether it's good, bad, or confusing.

You see, there's another flaw to the championship myth. It ends. And as St. Benedict so beautifully said, “Always we begin again.” There is always another season and another champion.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't aim for these lofty goals, but I am saying they do not define our faith. We are simply called to do our best in the next play, the next game, the next season. We are called to encounter the task set before us. If we win, we learn and if we fail, we learn as well. The process is not about being perfect, though it is something we hope to achieve and something we aspire to, even if only for a moment.

So dream your dreams and aspire to your goals, but if you find that you cannot reach them, do not fear. Your live is not measured in your championships, it is measured in your quests.

Peace,

Ben

You can follow Ben on Twitter @BenHoward87 or email him at benjamin.howard87 [at] gmail.com.

Also, you can subscribe to On Pop Theology via RSS feed or email on the top right corner of the main page.