I love the NIT

I have been watching the ‘other’ NCAA tournament. And it pains me to say that the Cincinnati Bearcats would have been bounced early. I saw Bradley dominate Pitt the other day. Pitt absolutely blasted UC and they did it with ease. Bradley would KILL UC. Wichita St. would beat UC. Every Sweet 16 team beats UC on a neutral court. Every one. Handily.

UC has a 7-man rotation. Barely. Their 7th man is a football player. In NCAA tournament play, the referees call the games tighter. Watch any game – at least 3 guys are in foul trouble by half time. The Bearcats cannot afford to have one guy in foul trouble.

Tournament teams have size. Poor Eric Hicks would have to contest every shot and track down every rebound while banging against large trees and fighting off double teams. Big teams would swallow the Cats.

Long story short, the Bearcats were going down. Deep, battle-tested teams (see Michigan State, North Carolina, Kansas) were plucked from the playoffs. The last strange days of Andy Kennedy would have ended when the bars were still serving green beer on St. Patrick’s Day. But now, thanks to the wonders of the NIT, they live on.

The Bearcats are still playing. They have gotten three more home games out of this deal. The fans get to see the four seniors, and maybe Devan Downey, in person for the last time. It is cold right now in Cincinnati and baseball is two weeks away – basketball is center stage. There is nothing else. Give me bonus basketball.

And the field is good. At least, the names look good. Michigan, Maryland, Louisville. If you did not know what year this is, you could mistake it for the real thing.

And yes, I am reaching. No one cares about the NIT. ESPN.com only gives it one page of coverage that lists the scores and is probably updated by an intern who got a poor review. But I got to go see the Cats last night and despite a crowd of less than 6,000 fueled only by soda pop, the place was loud and alive. The Bearcats are in postseason play and 100 other teams are watching at home. There are basketball games to be played and they are keeping score. That’s better than nothing. That’s probably even better than being dumped in the first round by Northwestern St. (right, Iowa?)

Arroyo for Pena

FORT MYERS, Fla. (AP) - The Boston Red Sox traded pitcher Bronson Arroyo to the Cincinnati Reds for outfielder Wily Mo Pena on Monday.

For the Reds, this is a good move. The last thing Cincinnati needs is another outfielder with ‘5-tool’ potential who in reality plays lousy defense and strikes out too much. The Reds certainly improved their pitching. And any time they can do that and only lose one suspect player, the deal should be made.

Every time I see Pena’s age (24) listed, I giggle a little.

Here is the Reds current starting outfield:

Freel – played 103 games in 2005. Injury prone and has a penchant for driving while intoxicated.
Kearns – played 112 games in 2005. He averaged 86 games from 2003-05. He MUST produce this year. He has been given every opportunity and made every excuse. I am tired of hearing how ‘fundamentally sound’ he is. If he does not play 130 games and bat AT LEAST .285 with 25 HRs and 90 RBI, he is dead to me.
Griffey – played 128 games (his most since 2000) and put up great numbers. He has averaged 83.5 games from 2002-05. I will die a little every time he chases a ball into the alleys.

I think Cincy is short an outfielder. Calling Freel an every day player is a stretch. One of these guys will be out for a considerable stretch of games and maybe all three.


Despite all that mumbo jumbo, it was a good deal. Wily is twenty-something-towards-thirty years old, so he should be peaking NOW. So, in essence, we have seen him at the top of his game. And his ceiling is this: a physical specimen who can hit a fastball 1000 feet yet is clueless in the outfield and cannot hit a curveball if he knew it was coming. He’s Cerrano. Furthermore, I am 98% sure that the guy has been on the juice. And with MLB cracking down, he is either going to get caught or will have to stop using the stuff. Either way, his numbers suffer.

I just hope to God Arroyo has gotten rid of his awful corn rows.

UNFATHOMABLE

I was going to rant about Cincinnati not making it but I no longer have the strength. It's over. I have gone through the 5 levels of loss - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance (the only reason I remember each stage is because they were referenced in a Simpsons' episode. That is either really interesting or really sad). I just was not prepared for this. I was not ready.

Cincy had their chances. They should have beat Xavier. They were up 7 on a Seton Hall team that was ready to roll over. They led Villanova by a basket with less than a minute to play. They could not cover Gerry McNamara for 6 seconds. So there.

Life lessons. You never want to put yourself in a situation in which an unchallengeable 3rd party decides your fate. You never want to be standing in front of the judge. You never want to depend on a lottery. And you never want to be in the hands of a selection committee.

Now I find myself printing out NIT brackets and wondering how the Bearcats are going to compete next year with 4 scholarship players and a new coach (Kennedy is gone). I think I may have just slid back to stage 4.

I just wish the Bearcats had known that the Syracuse game was a play-in game. I bet that would have been worth a couple points.

Friday Night at the Fights

Cincinnati has a rich boxing tradition, spanning decades and weight classes. Former world champions Ezzard Charles, Aaron Pryor and Tony ‘TNT’ Tubbs all hail from the Queen City. Cincinnati has also been a major player in the amateur ranks – this is the only city to produce two boxers for Team USA in three different Olympic Games (1992, 2000, 2004). Despite this distinguished history of boxing greatness, few consider Cincinnati a boxing town - including people who live in Southeastern Ohio. Buddy LaRosa and the Cincinnati Athletic Club look to open a few eyes and promote boxing in the area with the first installment of ‘Friday Night at the Fights’, held this past Friday night in the downtown men’s fitness club.

I have never been to a live boxing match, though claim to be a fan, and so was compelled to witness this exhibition in person.

The Cincinnati Athletic Club is located in an alley behind the Shilito Apartment off of Race St. I have been in this alley before, and never knew the place existed. $25 got me valet parking and entry into the club. The place had the smell of popcorn and drafty hallways that made it feel like a YMCA. It felt like the type of place where you work out with medicine balls, cinder blocks and pulleys. There was a member’s lounge to the left of the front desk that looked exactly like every clubhouse on an average golf club. $2 got me a Miller High Life Lite and I toted it around the front room – a leather-sofa filled lounge lined with dusty trophies in glass cases.

The third floor was the site of the fights. A classic gymnasium with a suspended running track. The elevated ring stood imposing at center court. Rows of chairs rippled out from the ring. Free LaRosa’s pizza and beer tubs commanded the four corners. It was truly a venue from the past. The only thing missing was dimmer lights and a blanket of stale cigar smoke hovering over the tops of our heads.

The crowd was a collection of Cincinnati’s semi-connected. Lawyers and member’s of the athletic club mixed with boxing aficionados and family members of the young boxers. Buddy LaRosa was making the rounds with his south-Florida tan. What looked to be his brother sported a hip, old-man mullet and copper-colored leather pants. He was the prize. What looked to be one of the Ruby’s sat near this twosome with Donald Trump’s haircut that he bought off eBay. Heavy hitters all around.

The boxers fell in an age range from 10 – 16. The young men hailed from a variety of places including Price Hill, Millville, Dayton, Indiana and Kentucky. The Price Hill boxing club came in force with a contingent of trainers including a wiry old-timer who looked like he lived in a gym his whole life. I expected him to be carrying a spit bucket. I thought of Mickey from the Rocky movies.

After 3 slices of pizza, I settled in for some controlled violence. The first two fighters ran out to the ring amidst a surge of cheers. I marveled at the composure of these 10-year old boys, ready and willing to take punches to their faces on center stage. The kids were in tremendous shape and I could not help thinking about how bad they would have both kicked my 10-year old ass. The first fight was great – wild haymakers with serious intentions. This was not like the fights my friends and I had in childhood. These kids knew what they were doing.

As the age group and skill level increased, the fights grew more disciplined and technically sound. The kids wore headgear and large gloves to minimize sharp impact to the skull. There were no knockdowns. The refs kept the fighters on a short leash and would carry out mandatory eight counts if a boxer was staggered by a blow. The rounds got longer (the first fights were limited to 1 minute rounds, the latter were 2 minutes) with each level and each fight stopped after 3 rounds. Winners were declared (there were 3 judges, stationed around the ring) and each boy received a parting trophy and rousing applause from the crowd.

Despite the intense nature of the sport of boxing, the parents were surprisingly calm. I half expected an outraged parent to go bounding over the ropes to save their child from a beating. However, the parents and family members displayed perfect sportsmanship. I’ve seen spelling-bee parents much worse than this.

There were 8 fights, and as the night rolled into fight 6, I started to doubt the 10-16 year old age range printed on the fight program. A couple of the fighters were bald and at least 5 of the 16 fighters would not get carded for buying cigarettes. There were two white guys, both from Kentucky. This seemed to make perfect sense to me. The first one entered the ring in what looked like brown, leather bowling shoes. I could not take my eyes off his feet. His punches were slow and were thrown without purpose.

It was a good night. The organizers did a good job keeping the pace of the fights moving. There was little down time between rounds and fights. Constant action. Eight fights, 24 rounds – all in a tight 90 minutes. I left feeling like I had been a part of something.


Two women were sitting next to me. They saw me taking notes and asked me if I was a scout. I told them I was a journalist and the words felt like honey coming out of my mouth. They bought me a beer. This is happiness.