Silent Partner

Players and owners talk late into the night, discussing ways to split the substantial pot that constitutes National Football League profit. The weeks-long owner-imposed lockout gave rise to union decertification, litigation and, most recently, a new round of labor talks. While uncertainty surrounds the upcoming NFL season, few seriously believe that the games will not be played. There is too much money at stake, too much to be lost at a time when the impact of a cancelled mid-1990’s World Series and a cancelled mid-2000’s NHL season remains fresh in all minds.

The NFL season will be played. After weeks of media and negotiating room battles, players and owners will eventually put aside differences and announce to the world that they have entered into a partnership for the coming years. All’s well that ends well, as Shakespearean scholars might say. Backs will be slapped, hands shaken, greenbacks exchanged, and players will march onto the field in full uniform, secure in their share of the billions that ticket sales, television and advertising revenue provide annually to the sport of football.

Neglected in this scenario is the fan – the third party to the contract that makes possible the sharing of wealth between players and owners. If sport is purely entertainment, as many insist when justifying high player salaries (if rockers and actors can make millions, why shouldn’t professional athletes?), the fan is a necessary part of the show.

There is a reason why games are played in front of packed stadiums, with cameras spanning the rabid crowds and quarterbacks’ calls unheard over crowd noise. It makes for better television, and football, above all sports, is very much a creature of the tube. Sundays are no longer days of rest; they are days of football doubleheaders (tripleheaders, if we count the league’s Sunday night entry), replete with pre-game shows that open with the rising sun and commercials that pad the pockets of players and owners with advertising revenue.

Would the effect be the same if the stadiums were empty? Would players elevate their performance to their present levels if the cheers were not there? Would home viewers tune in to watch games played with “canned” background crowd noise?

As an integral part of the broadcast product, the fan is very much a partner in the business that is professional football. Without the fan’s contribution (both financial and spiritual) to the sport, football does not exist.

Yet, when the time comes to negotiate finances, the fan is a silent partner. He is not privy to the numbers exchanged between players and owners and has no say in the gathering or distributing of revenue. His principal role in the partnership is that of investor, and he will never see a penny of the billions of dollars he pours into the industry. His benefit from this partnership will be unquantifiable - a vague notion that somehow, by investing money and emotion into the NFL season, the quality of his life will improve (a questionable premise for fans of the Detroit Lions, whose teams are routinely amongst the worst in the league).

The fan has not been invited to NFL labor talks. He sits outside the meeting rooms while players and owners discuss how they will divide the money he will invest. Eventually, when players and owners reach agreement, he will be told how much he will pay for a ticket to a Sunday game. And he will accept his fate reluctantly because, in a world where only the loudest are heard, no one will listen to one who has no voice.

Major Gomez

He walked into my office in full military regalia. There was a large display of medals on the front of his uniform jacket. His face bore the stone-cold look of determination.

It was the late 1980’s, and I represented the Forces of Defense of Panama in a commercial matter involving letters of credit, contractual disputes, and what was reputed to be the private jet of the then leader of the nation, General Manuel Noriega. Noriega had recently fallen out of favor with the United States, which questioned the legitimacy of his government. I had therefore been compelled to begin communications with representatives of the government of Panama in exile, individuals recognized by the United States as the true leaders of the nation. Because I represented a governmental institution that would survive the dispute between the factions fighting for control, it was important that I maintain contact with both sides, since the result of the lawsuit would affect whichever side happened to be in power when the case ended.

A few days before, I had received a call from Panama, seeking to set up a meeting. I was told that a certain officer named Major Gomez would come to the office to discuss the direction of the case.

From the moment he walked through my door, I could tell that Major Gomez was someone used to having things his own way. When I inadvertently referred to him as “General” he cut me off, declaring that there was “only one General in Panama.” He then proceeded to tell me, in no uncertain terms, what we needed to do to win the case.

It soon became apparent that, despite his bravado and desire for results, Major Gomez knew nothing about the American legal system. He also was not used to hearing the word “no.” He was therefore shocked when I told him that what he suggested could not and would not be done. I then laid out for him what would necessarily occur in the case, and I could see his brow furrow each time I responded in the negative to one of his “instructions.”

After a couple of hours, Major Gomez’s jacket was off and he was perspiring profusely. He was not hearing what he wanted to hear, and I could tell that he was struggling with how he would break the news to his superiors back home. At the end of our meeting, he left our offices, jacket draped over his arm, with a look of concern.

The case settled at around the time that the United States’ military removed General Noriega from power. I received authority to settle the case from both Noriega’s government and the government-in-exile.

I neither saw nor ever heard from Major Gomez again.

A Crying Shame

Sports columnists are having a field day. When Miami Heat coach Erik Spoelstra disclosed during his post-game news conference Sunday that several Heat players were crying in the locker room, in the aftermath of the team’s fourth consecutive loss (a heartbreaking and gut-wrenching one-point home defeat to conference rival Chicago), the gates opened to a flood of criticism.

The team is soft and lacks leadership, critics said. Many opined that Spoelstra would not survive this latest crisis, just as they questioned his job security when the team opened the season with a less-than-stellar record of 9-8.

The Heat followed their early-season struggles with a string of victories that elevated them to elite status in the Eastern Conference, briefly surpassing Boston as the top team in the East before this latest losing streak saw them drop to third in the Conference (yet still atop their division). The players are clearly frustrated by their inability to defeat the better teams in the league, and Spoelstra’s honest comments, while ill-advised, simply highlight the competitive nature of those players.

The sporting press reacted to Spoelstra’s revelation with combined incredulity, cynicism, outrage and ridicule. Their unsympathetic (and, in some cases, mean spirited) comments brought to mind Tom Hank’s rant in director Penny Marshall’s 1992 film A League of Their Own. Hanks, playing Jimmy Dugan, a down-on-his luck, alcoholic ex-baseball player who has been made manager of a women’s team during World War II, has just reamed one of his players for sloppy execution when she suddenly bursts into tears. Hanks looks on in horror and exclaims: “Are you crying? There’s no crying! There’s no crying in baseball!”

This belief that professional sports are somehow above human emotion has been almost universally embraced by media commentators after Spoelstra’s comments. Yet the commentators are wrong.

Crying is very much a part of competitive sports. Just ask Jim Leyland, the fiery manager of the Detroit Tigers and former leader of the 1997 World Series champion Florida Marlins. Despite his rugged tactics and macho bravado, Leyland will sometimes cry at the drop of a hat, succumbing to emotion when faced with emotional moments. Long-time players retiring from their sport are also regularly reduced to tears when confronted with the realization that their careers are things of the past. Brett Favre’s breakdown during a year-end news conference, when he announced his retirement (the latest in a series of such Favre announcements, believed by many to be his last) is the most recent example of end-of-career tears.

Sports are emotional activities played by emotional people. Success by some is always achieved at the expense of failure by others, and such failure is regularly followed by second-guessing, “what if” scenarios and, in many cases, tears. That is why I question the overwhelming negative reaction to Spoelstra’s comments.

LeBron James and the Miami Heat set themselves up for ridicule when, after James’ ill-conceived ESPN special, “The Decision,” the team held an over-the-top event at the American Airlines Arena likened by many to a championship celebration. I therefore do not begrudge anyone the right to root against the Heat or gloat when the team falls short of expectations (although I will say that it is far too early for such gloating, with the Heat in first place and assured of a spot in the playoffs). But I do take issue with the reaction to Spoelstra’s comments.

Spoelstra’s disclosure that his players gave in to emotion humanized the team. And we should not ridicule anyone’s efforts to put a human face on athletic competition, even when the face is dampened by tears of frustration.

The Girl With The Pixar Formula

How would Pixar do it?

They would first grab your attention by introducing intriguing characters. You would know little of their background, yet the prospect of learning more would keep you glued to your seat. The characters would have to be unique – say a toy cowboy with links to a dated television show, or a flying spaceman who does not realize he is a toy.

They would place these characters in situations conducive to growth. You would not only learn about them as you followed their adventures, you would sympathize with their plight, fear for their safety and yearn for their happiness. The characters would become real to you, transcending their computer-animated origin. They would come to life on the screen.

And then, to keep things interesting, they would introduce variety. The characters would be placed in shifting situations, and their storylines would follow different genres of the film and literary industries.

That is the formula Pixar used to make Toy Story (with apologies to Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings) possibly the best big screen trilogy ever filmed.

The first film, Toy Story, belongs to the “Buddy” genre. Its focus on the developing relationship between Woody and Buzz Lightyear is reminiscent of Ridley Scott’s Thelma and Louise and Martin Brest’s Midnight Run.

Toy Story 2 is a “Rescue” film in the style of Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan, only without the Germans. Its focus is on the efforts by Andy’s toys (Buzz, Mr. Potato Head, Slinky Dog, etc.) to retrieve the stolen Woody from the Toy Collector’s would-be museum of classic toys.

Toy Story 3 is an “Escape” film. From the moment Woody and company begin to hatch their plan to flee the Day Care Center From Hell, the film joins the likes of Franklin J. Schaffner’s Papillon and John Sturges’ The Great Escape as a classic of the genre.

The formula that makes Toy Story great is used by the late Swedish writer Stieg Larsson to success with the Girl With The Dragon Tattoo literary trilogy. Larsson’s novels, while flawed, struck a chord with readers and made them an international sensation.

The first novel, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, introduces the two principal characters. Mikael Blomkvist, a crusading journalist with the quasi-underground publication Millennium, is patterned after Larsson, himself a writer for an alternative magazine. However, it is the titular character, Lisbeth Salander, who elevates the series. She is a ninja in the body of a schoolgirl: small, brilliant, tattooed and pierced, with a tortured past that threatens her future. She is unique amongst literary heroines and is largely the reason for the series’ success.

Like Pixar, Larsson takes his principal characters through a wild, genre-bending ride, revealing something new about his protagonists with each book.

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo begins as a classic locked-door mystery, Blomkvist and Salander joining forces to investigate the decades-old disappearance of a teen girl from a small village. As the novel (and the relationship between the protagonists) progresses, the story leaves the safety and predictability of the “Mystery” genre and enters the sphere of “Horror.” It is Agatha Christie meets Hannibal Lecter, with a climax that shocks and surprises.

Larsson’s follow-up, The Girl Who Played With Fire, belongs to the “Chase” genre, much like Robert Ludlum’s Bourne novels. It is the best of the trilogy because of its focus on Salander’s intriguing character. She dominates every scene in which she appears and makes the reader long for her return when she is absent.

The last of the trilogy, The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest, is essentially a “Spy” novel, filled with back-door high jinks and political intrigue. It is Larsson’s most ambitious work, with a large array of characters fighting with conviction for what they believe. Yet it is also the weakest of the three because, for most of the novel, Salander is relegated to the background.

Larsson died before his first novel was published, and never witnessed the success of his series. The writing he left behind evokes a cinematic quality that has been noticed by film makers both in his native Sweden and the United States. His novels became a Swedish film trilogy, with Noomi Rapace delivering amazing performances as Salander – performances that caught the attention of Hollywood, which is wooing her with “mainstream” roles. A Hollywood version of Larssen’s first novel is also being adapted for the big screen by The Social Network director David Fincher. The film is due to be released this year, with young actress Rooney Mara assuming the role of Salander.

It remains to be seen whether the Girl With The Dragon Tattoo films ever approximate the success of the Toy Story trilogy. If they do, it will bear further proof that the Pixar formula works. Character and variety equal success – on both the screen and the printed page.

The Neglected Holiday

There was a time when the day after Thanksgiving was a universal “working day” in the United States. After a Thursday filled with turkey, family gatherings, turkey, football and turkey, we all got up the next morning, feeling tired and bloated from the prior day’s events, and staggered into our workplaces, where we feigned productivity.

This has changed over the past two decades. Today, employers routinely close their offices on Thanksgiving Friday, providing employees the opportunity to recover from the prior day’s fowl activities. Black Friday has unofficially become a “holiday,” the near mid-point of a four-day weekend that marks the beginning of the December holiday season.

We call the day “Black Friday” because it is when the holiday shopping season gains momentum. Retailers, who routinely struggle during the first eleven months of the year, rely on December sales to turn their year around. “Black Friday” marks the beginning of a period of surging sales that will hopefully bring retailers “into the black,” thus justifying the moniker.

Still, if we put aside financial considerations, the day after Thanksgiving is principally a day of rest. Thanksgiving is a full-day event, with familial and clean-up activities often stretching late into the evening. Most of us need more than a few hours of sleep to recover, and not having to get up and drag ourselves into work the next day aids the recovery process.

I bring this up because last night, as the clock approached midnight and my wife and I completed the clean-up from our Super Bowl gathering, we both expressed regret that, in a few hours, we would be up and getting ready for work. This needs to change.

Super Bowl Sunday has, over the past several decades, become an unrecognized holiday, trailing only Thanksgiving and Christmas as a day of festivities. The day begins early, with ESPN’s Sportscenter leading things off at 9:00 A.M. Eastern – the first of the pre-pre-pre-pre-pre-game shows that will occupy our airwaves until the 6:30 P.M. kickoff. Most of the day is spent preparing for the Big Event, stealing glances at Terry Bradshaw and company while we cook and clean and make sure that everything is ready for the crowd that will begin gathering in front of our big-screen TV’s at about 5:00 P.M.

When the game begins, all extraneous activity ceases. We sit transfixed before our televisions, listening to the commentators and watching the action on the screen. It does not matter whether or not we follow the teams playing for the title (or whether we have watched even a single football game all season). Watching the Super Bowl has become part of an American tradition that rivals anything that occurs on “official” holidays. We root and we cheer, regardless of whether we know the reason why.

Having established this annual ritual, we need to recognize it for what it is: Super Bowl Sunday has become one of the most important “holidays” of the year, yet we stubbornly refuse to acknowledge it as such. The day after the Super Bowl should be a day of recovery, much the same as the day after Thanksgiving. After a day of gathering, munching and worshipping (football has surpassed baseball as our national past-time, and is often treated with the same deference we accord some of our deities), we need time to regroup and refocus our energies.

We should cease pretending that anything of value happens on Super Bowl Monday. The day is filled with water cooler conversations about the game, office employees dispersing only when the boss (himself tired from the prior day’s activities) is in view.

Let us end the charade. It is time to make Super Bowl Sunday an official holiday, part of the three-day weekend that officially kicks off our year.

All Is Not Bono

It is not easy rooting for the Florida Marlins. Sure, they have won as many World Series titles as anyone in baseball, except the New York Yankees, since they came into existence in 1993. And sure, they field competitive teams each year, despite payrolls that rank consistently near the bottom. And sure, they feature one of the great young pitchers in the game, fireballer Josh Johnson, and the most promising young slugger to reach the majors in many summers, 21-year old Mike Stanton, who last year belted 21 home runs in 51 minor league games before being promoted to The Show and swatting an additional 22 four-baggers for the major league team.

The Marlins are young, talented and fun to watch. Yet something happens each year to remind us that, until they inaugurate their new stadium in 2012, they will remain second-class citizens. Last year, the team moved several of its home games to Puerto Rico, depriving the loyal 5,000 fans who regularly attend games in South Florida of a three game home series against the New York Mets. This year they are again moving a home series, but the reason is different from last year’s efforts to tap the San Juan market.

Earlier today Major League Baseball announced that the weekend series scheduled in South Florida between the Marlins and the Mariners to commence June 24 is being displaced by a U2 concert. The games will be moved to Seattle where, despite facing what will assuredly be a pro-Mariners crowd, the Marlins will be the “home” team.

What In The Name Of Love is going on here? The Marlins will travel nearly 3400 miles to the farthest point of the continental United States to face a hostile crowd and will be considered the “home” team? Let us put this in perspective. The Marlins will be the “home” team in a city they seldom visit. They will undoubtedly be unfamiliar with the area surrounding Safeco Field. As far as the Marlins are concerned they will be playing Where The Streets Have No Name – at least no name they recognize.

One could understand the management of Sun Life Stadium, which the Marlins usually call home, agreeing to host a concert on a date when there will assuredly be no conflicts, say New Year’s Day - but in the middle of the baseball season? Clearly the Marlins are being disrespected. In their present stadium they will always play second fiddle to the Dolphins (Miami will always be primarily a football city) no matter how much they Desire something different.

I keep waiting for the day when things will change, when the Marlins franchise will get the local respect it deserves. Yet, after seventeen years of waiting, I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.

Perhaps the change will come next year, when the team moves into its new, retractable-roof stadium in Little Havana. Until then, however, our roving band of wanderers will have to accept the baseball gods’ decision to send them packing to a “home” in enemy territory. And, if they are swept by the Mariners in what is likely to be the Marlins’ only home series ever in the state of Washington, and miss the playoffs by a single game, they may look back with regret to the final game of the series and wonder whether, if circumstances differed, they might have been able to avoid what may become their Sunday Bloody Sunday.

Scared Straight

His monsters are our monsters. They come not from myth but from the human psyche.

Two of the best horror films of the new millennium are devoid of extraterrestrials, creatures lurking in the shadows and knife-wielding boogeymen chasing unfortunate teens. They are unconventional in that they avoid most of the familiar trappings of the genre, choosing instead to focus on human fallacy as the ultimate source of terror. The two films have one other thing in common: director Darren Aronofsky, one of the best and most creative filmmakers of our era.

Requiem for a Dream (2000) deals with the horrors of drug addiction. It depicts the deteriorating lives of four people who become increasingly dependent on both legal and illegal drugs. The horror is concentrated on the impact that drugs have on those lives, and the drugs themselves become characters in the film, enticing, seducing and ultimately destroying all. It is a powerful, disturbing film, whose images haunt the viewer long after the credits roll. It is, in many ways, the quintessential anti-drug film, one which should perhaps be shown to every teen contemplating experimenting with narcotics.

The film effectively depicts the impact of drugs on a very personal level. Aronofsky makes us care for his flawed protagonists. We feel their longing for better, happier lives, their surrender to drugs as a means of attaining those lives, and the ultimate destruction that follows surrender. The viewer is both engaged (Aronovsky’s films have always contained elements of voyeurism) and horrified by what he sees. The closing sequence, which cuts from scene to scene with increasing speed, depicting the destruction of each character, leaves the viewer gasping for breath, trying to fathom the meaning and impact of the images on the screen.

Aronofsky’s most recent film, Black Swan (2010), takes a different approach. Here, horror comes not from without (drugs) but from within (the mind). The film depicts the descent into madness of a young ballet dancer (memorably played by Natalie Portman, who is certain to earn an Oscar nomination). By the devastating conclusion of the film, when the descent is complete, and the screen fades to black to the deafening music of Swan Lake, we realize that Aronofsky has been toying with our emotions, employing cinematic tricks to stir in us feelings of paranoia, confusion, dread and regret. Yet we do not care because his use of those tricks is seamless and effective. We know we are being manipulated by a cinematic master.

At the conclusion of the film, I turned to my daughter and mouthed the word: “Wow.” It accurately described my reaction to what I had just witnessed. Black Swan may or may not be the best American film of 2010 (David Fincher’s The Social Network, for example, has been given that title by many) but, with apologies to Christopher Nolan’s enigmatic Inception, it may well be the most memorable.

Requiem for a Dream and Black Swan have, in many ways, redefined the “horror” genre. Their appearance at the beginning of the new millennium bodes well for the future of American film, whose path over the coming decades will be shaped, in large part, by the intelligence and creativity of gifted filmmakers such as Aronofsky.