Prior to Thursday nights game, we went to dinner at a downtown establishment. I drank a Bud Light, ate a burger, and enjoyed some chips. When we got to the game, I enjoyed two glasses of Pabst Blue Ribbon. As for the game itself, there were 48 turnovers and 50 fouls.
Why do I tell you these things? Because something in the above paragraph made me queasy, and I'm honestly not sure what. It could have been any or all of the above; its up for debate, honestly. What's known for sure is that with 7:19 to play in the game, my stomach started speaking in unrecognizable tongues. These were not the dog whistle-esque rumblings that only people with ears attuned to a certain frequency can hear, either -- my buddy sitting next to me heard it, asked if I was alright, and was concerned for the continuation of my life precious when I dropped my beer to the ground and literally ran up the steps to the concourse while the game continued behind me. I spent the next several minutes in a vortex between Earth and some nether region, only vaguely aware of my surroundings.
Its at this point that I would like to apologize to anyone who happened upon the men's bathroom by the Wild Kingdom display at any point from the 6 minute mark until the final horn. If it makes you feel any better, know that a potential clothing disaster was averted, and that the Atomic Dump did not exit stage right too soon.
You think I'm making this up, but its true. And while it takes a big man to admit to having this happen to them, it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man. So congratulations, big man.
Sitting at the bar after the game, someone who hadn't been there asked me how the Jays had done. I replied that they'd won, but when asked how they won, I struggled for an answer. After hemming and hawing for a couple of moments, ultimately I replied that I didn't know.
"What do you mean you don't know?", my buddy asked, confused. I answered, "The Jays got outrebounded by 12, they shot poorly, they were losing by double digits most of the game, and every borderline call went against them. But somehow they won, and I can't explain it right now."
Think about those things, and it does seem absurd to be talking about a Jays win, doesn't it? New Mexico spent the first half pushing Creighton around, and by all rights should have been blowing them out. The Jays were outrebounded 26-13, shot just 7-24 (29%) while allowing the Lobos to shoot 16-33 (48%), turned the ball over 8 times, and were outscored on second-chance points 15-0.
When I first came to Creighton in the fall of 1997, there was no bigger villain in the Missouri Valley than Steve Alford, especially in and around Omaha. Rivalries and great coaching showdowns are part of what makes college basketball great, and for my first two years here, Dana Altman and Steve Alford had some epic, EPIC battles.
You see, back in those days, Alford was more like his mentor Bob Knight than he is now. He was easily excitable and often temperamental, and when urged on by rowdy students and/or bad refereeing, he would pout, complain, swear, throw clipboards, and rack up technical fouls. It was all very entertaining for home and visiting crowds alike, who egged him on with equal vigor.
It was fun to root against a guy like that, especially when the rumors surfaced in January of 1998 that "someone" at SMS had asked the NCAA to investigate whether Creighton forward Nerijus Karlikanovas had accepted payment for playing overseas before enrolling in school. These allegations mysteriously cropped up days after Karlikanovas shot 4-5 from three-point range and torched the Bears for 20 points and 8 rebounds in a huge 72-70 win in Springfield.
Nerijus missed the next two games while the NCAA investigated, and his absence was a huge factor in the Jays suffering a one-point defeat at home to Indiana State, which may have cost them the regular season championship.
Whether it was sour grapes or he was acting on what he believed to be good information, Alford was no longer just the coach everyone loved to hate; his status as Public Enemy Number One in Omaha was cemented. He was booed lustily when his Bears came to Omaha in late February that year, and a big (for the time) crowd of 5300 cheered as the Jays stormed out to a 16-point lead, before nearly blowing it and holding on for a 79-76 win. A clearly rattled Karlikanovas shared barbs back and forth with the SMS bench all day, much to the delight of the student section.
In March, the teams met again in the semifinals of the MVC Tournament, and the Jays got big games from Rodney Buford and Ben Walker, taking a 12-point lead into the half. Alford was T'd up shortly after the second half began, upset with both his team's play and a perceived abundance of bad calls from the refs. The Jays beat them a third time, 78-70, as everyone in Omaha yukked it up over beating the coach they loved to hate.
After Alford took that SMS team to the Sweet 16, he bolted for Iowa, which was highly amusing to me having grown up in northwest Iowa as a Hawkeye fan. When
Alford brought his Iowa team to Omaha for the return game of a home-and-home that previous coach Tom Davis had signed, Alford made no bones about the fact that he was unhappy with the game. A column in the World-Herald by Tom Shatel even paraphrased Alford as saying he would never bring a team to Omaha again.
The game drew 9,374 to the old Civic, which at the time was the fifth largest crowd in Creighton history. Iowa was fresh off an upset of #1 UCONN in Madison Square Garden, and came into the game ranked 23rd. Best of all, our old friend didn't disappoint: Alford was T'd up as the game slipped away late in the second half. Star forward Jacob Jaacks even got in on the act, taunting the student section all day before yelling obscenities and having to be restrained after fouling out. It was one of the classic games of the Civic, and as I stormed the court with most of the student section behind me, I swore I heard Alford mutter he would never come back to Omaha.
On Sunday, he returns. The coach we loved to hate is back, and frankly, I can hardly contain my excitement.
You bet.
A couple of weeks ago, I traveled to Minnesota to see family and use sweet corporate tickets for the Vikings-Texans game. The NFL is all about excess, and my day at the game was no exception. Early morning tailgating in the parking lot outside the Metrodome, complete with breakfast bratwurst, fire-grilled pizza, and a plethora of other good stuff. Many beverages were also enjoyed.
Then we went into the game, and continued eating. First it was a Dome Dog, which for some reason tastes better at a Twins game than at a Vikings game even though its the same dog at both events. Then it was some Famous Dave's BBQ. Cotton candy, peanuts and one of those little frozen ice cream cups followed.
Why am I telling you this? When I got back to Omaha on Election Tuesday, I wasn't feeling the best. I voted, and upon returning to the office, visited the restroom and discovered through the miracle of backwards digestion that I had also consumed a shoe, or at least, something roughly that size and weight. I was sick for a week with some sort of virus that I am convinced entered my body in its weakened state due to over-consumption of foodstuffs. See, normally viruses know better than to disrespect me with their company. They're not welcome guests, and they know it. I'm strong, they are weak, and that's the way it is. But when I voluntarily weakened my defenses by consuming 15,000 calories in a matter of hours, it was like dropping a drawbridge over the moat -- a very nasty virus, angry at years of being denied access to the treasure which is my body, took up residence.
The period of time in which this "squatter" inhabited my body without paying rent included the exhibition game Sunday against Central Missouri, which I attended solo because one of the chief side effects of whatever virus I was fighting was the loss of my voice. Oh, I could have invited someone to go with me and use my second ticket, but they would have had to sit there in silence next to me for two hours. True, we could have exchanged text messages to converse, or maybe updated our Twitter feeds. But can you imagine how lame that would be? Worse yet, can you imagine how lame it would be if I came here today to tell you that actually happened? Lets pretend I never brought this up.
Here's the weird thing: by Sunday, except for the lack of voice, I felt great. Best I'd felt since the moments right before I consumed calories 14,059 and 14,060 the previous Sunday in Minneapolis. But by the end of the afternoon, I felt sick to my stomach. I wondered why; I'd walked past the Mini Donut and Katie's Gyro stands, respectively, both of which are always awfully tempting. Then I remembered:
The Jays looked like crap. Against a Division II team with no height, no depth and no three-point shooters, the Jays struggled to rebound, failed to dominate the paint and turned the ball over 17 times.
That's enough to make anyone sick, regardless of what they ate.
You bet.
