Friday, January 25, 2013
Coming together for Valparaiso
On the same night that the Miami Hurricanes beat a number one-ranked basketball team for the first time in school history, a much less noticed game in the midwest propelled a basketball team nobody wants to play come March into undisputed possession of first place in the Horizon League. In Coral Gables, Florida, the Miami Hurricanes crushed Number One Duke, 90-63, and took over first place by itself in the tough ACC. In Valparaiso, Indiana the hometown Crusaders beat back a late surge by Green Bay with a last-minute blitz of their own, and scored an impressive 73-61 victory that enabled them to take sole possession of first place in the Horizon. The Crusaders, who beat back Butler and Detroit to claim the regular season crown last season - the final year that powerful Butler played in the Horizon before jilting it for the Atlantic 10 - had beaten previous frontrunner Wright State last weekend. Wright State lost its second straight on Tuesday night to Youngstown State.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
A Paradise for Fools
The year is 2013 and the United States, a fast-fading leader of the Western World, a nation formerly known by rational men for its generosity, innovations, technological superiority, military preparedness and Christian Values, has inexplicably inaugurated a shallow, arrogant, vapid and vain man for a second term as president. The backbone of his success, the foolish, shallow, vain and vapid western press, is on full display at the inauguration, praising its titular leader for accomplishments that are not accomplishments (because there are no actual accomplishments) while expressly ignoring the countless failures of the first term. These media bimbos - and believe me, "bimbo" is not a gender-specific term - swoon over the foolish attire of reputed societal leaders while ignoring the central societal story, the economic catastrophe that has robbed America of its vitality and ability to provide moral and economic leadership to the likewise fast-fading western world.
In this foolish, indeed ridiculous "celebration" of philosophical assignation, the thought that a grand opposition would be prominent in both its number and its outrage is indeed a false hope. The so-called loyal opposition has in large part co-opted itself in the sad and embarrassing hope of assimilation into the mass of the lemur-like "majority party." (Better to be praised by the drones than to speak actual truth to debauched power, right?) The majority party, formerly made up of working folk, liberal academics and enlightened philosophers, all seeking ways to better society, was itself lately infused with far-leftists, anti-American radicals, anarchists, buffoons, imbeciles, open racists and anti-semites and, mostly, Marxists (There are, admittedly, some redundancies in this list). Unfettered by a vigilant press, any actual moral anchor or patriotic purpose, the majority party has begun a wholesale dismantling of America's duel promises of liberty and economic freedom. The underpinnings of America's greatness - democracy, free market capitalism, personal freedom and liberty, the ability to pursue one's happiness without government interference (save for those few instances when one's pursuit posed real threat and danger to others), and the promise of an armed forces and constabulary capable of defending these primary values - have been diminished and, indeed, ridiculed by the now-ruling far left mob. The radical president has restricted access to primary energy sources, slashed military preparedness, utility and stability, intentionally compromised American economic vitality by restricting economic activity, enacting unsustainable and morally questionable entitlement programs that were sold to the public by a series of planned misinformation campaigns, and enacted with a series of untoward legislative practices that would have even embarrassed many despots. Without the fear of another election campaign, he now speaks openly of avoiding the legislative branch and instead ruling by dictatorial fiat. Hence the designation: American Nero. And well-deserved it is.
It was downright nauseating to watch these people loose in the streets at the second coronation of his highness. Good God what have we allowed to happen?
In this foolish, indeed ridiculous "celebration" of philosophical assignation, the thought that a grand opposition would be prominent in both its number and its outrage is indeed a false hope. The so-called loyal opposition has in large part co-opted itself in the sad and embarrassing hope of assimilation into the mass of the lemur-like "majority party." (Better to be praised by the drones than to speak actual truth to debauched power, right?) The majority party, formerly made up of working folk, liberal academics and enlightened philosophers, all seeking ways to better society, was itself lately infused with far-leftists, anti-American radicals, anarchists, buffoons, imbeciles, open racists and anti-semites and, mostly, Marxists (There are, admittedly, some redundancies in this list). Unfettered by a vigilant press, any actual moral anchor or patriotic purpose, the majority party has begun a wholesale dismantling of America's duel promises of liberty and economic freedom. The underpinnings of America's greatness - democracy, free market capitalism, personal freedom and liberty, the ability to pursue one's happiness without government interference (save for those few instances when one's pursuit posed real threat and danger to others), and the promise of an armed forces and constabulary capable of defending these primary values - have been diminished and, indeed, ridiculed by the now-ruling far left mob. The radical president has restricted access to primary energy sources, slashed military preparedness, utility and stability, intentionally compromised American economic vitality by restricting economic activity, enacting unsustainable and morally questionable entitlement programs that were sold to the public by a series of planned misinformation campaigns, and enacted with a series of untoward legislative practices that would have even embarrassed many despots. Without the fear of another election campaign, he now speaks openly of avoiding the legislative branch and instead ruling by dictatorial fiat. Hence the designation: American Nero. And well-deserved it is.
It was downright nauseating to watch these people loose in the streets at the second coronation of his highness. Good God what have we allowed to happen?
Friday, January 18, 2013
The Bootlickers Shangri La
When Barack Obama was coronated some four years ago, the only American sounding a public caution was Rush Limbaugh. Naturally, he was roundly vilified by an American Press that was goo-goo eyed over the young, extremely radical and shockingly un-American President. When Limbaugh brazenly said he hoped Obama would fail, the cacophony of criticism was deafening.
Well, thank God for Mr. Limbaugh. Sadly, obama has succeeded in nearly destroying the United States economy. Sadder still, the American Press, instead of warning of the ongoing disaster, actually enhanced it by acting as if good things were happening. Except no one could name even one good thing. These days, Limbaugh sounds as if he is almost forlorn. Normal Americans consider the requiem at Benghazzi and the lies of obama, the shallow reason for those lies and the obscene conspiratorial role of the press in protecting him, and shake their collective heads. The Republicans in Congress are so cowed by obama that they spend their days thinking of new ways to capitulate. The idea that someone besides Limbaugh would actually speak truth to power seems foreign to them. Well that the lads at Valley Forge, the Somme and at Normandy had straighter, more substantial spines. In truth, Limbaugh has a few compatriots: Hannity, Levin, Hewitt, Stein. There's a lad in Kansas who represents some of the Jayhawks in Congress, Tim Huelscamp is his name. He seems to have some hutzpah. In truth: these fellows do make a lot of gutty noise, very gutty, in fact. Many listen, few take up the torch. No one in my party seems able to see the forest for all of those sinister trees in the way.
Meanwhile, the destruction of America continues unabated.
Well, thank God for Mr. Limbaugh. Sadly, obama has succeeded in nearly destroying the United States economy. Sadder still, the American Press, instead of warning of the ongoing disaster, actually enhanced it by acting as if good things were happening. Except no one could name even one good thing. These days, Limbaugh sounds as if he is almost forlorn. Normal Americans consider the requiem at Benghazzi and the lies of obama, the shallow reason for those lies and the obscene conspiratorial role of the press in protecting him, and shake their collective heads. The Republicans in Congress are so cowed by obama that they spend their days thinking of new ways to capitulate. The idea that someone besides Limbaugh would actually speak truth to power seems foreign to them. Well that the lads at Valley Forge, the Somme and at Normandy had straighter, more substantial spines. In truth, Limbaugh has a few compatriots: Hannity, Levin, Hewitt, Stein. There's a lad in Kansas who represents some of the Jayhawks in Congress, Tim Huelscamp is his name. He seems to have some hutzpah. In truth: these fellows do make a lot of gutty noise, very gutty, in fact. Many listen, few take up the torch. No one in my party seems able to see the forest for all of those sinister trees in the way.
Meanwhile, the destruction of America continues unabated.
Great Players can be Great Coaches
The old adage that great players don't turn into great coaches is demonstrably untrue in some circumstances. At small Valparaiso University in northern Indiana. former NCAA and NBA star Bryce Drew is proving it. In reality, Drew and his father and brother are also seemingly proving that coaching ability is a hereditary trait. Homer Drew was the coach at Valparaiso for forever, and for a small school, the Crusaders won so many conference titles they lost count.
When Bryce came out of high school all the big schools recruited him like he was the greatest thing since sliced bread He turned them all down and played for his dad. Together they won a bunch more conference titles and quite a few will recall the 1998 version of March Madness when Drew took a length of the floor pass and nailed a long three point shot at the buzzer to beat Mississippi. ESPN still ranks that play and the ensueing celebration as one of the greatest sports moments of all time. It was the embodiment of unrestrained joy. With Drew leading the way, the Crusaders fought their way all the way to the sweet 16. He went on to be the 16th player taken in the NBA draft and played six seasons in the Big Show. In one game he hit nine straight three-point shots. He interned for the top coaching job by assisting his father for six years. In his first year at the helm he was named Horizon League Coach of the Year after leading the Crusaders to 22 wins. This initial coaching campaign was headed for the NCAA tournament after the Crusaders won the Horizon League regular season title, beating out Butler and Detroit, among others. Valpo whacked Butler in the tournament semifinals and were up on Detroit in the title game until disaster struck. Horizon League Player of the year Ryan Broehkoff sprained his ankle just before the half, and with Detroit and its huge front line the opposition, he was the one player the Crusaders could not afford to lose. To his credit, Broehkoff played in the second half but was only a shadow of his athletic self and Detroit, with Ray McCallum, Jr., son of the Titan Coach and a doyen of NBA scouts, rallied to win. Scurry forward from that March night to this January night, move from Valpo's gym to Callahan Gymnasium at Detroit, and put the Titans up 22 points with 17 minutes left. the ESPN announcers had moved on to other topics but on the Crusader Bench, Drew wasn't in panic mode. Neither were his Crusaders. Suddenly Ken Van Wijk and Broehkoff started hitting their shots. Matt Kenney hit four three point shots and the 17 point lead started a quick shrinking act. When Broehkoff nailed two free throws with 17 seconds left, the Crusaders had their first lead. The Valpo defense then had its turn to come up big and they didn't disappoint. Drew, for his part, switched to a zone for this final act and it worked to perfection. The final: Valpo 89, Detroit 88.
Bryce Drew's brother, if you didn't know, is Scott Drew, the head basketball coach at Baylor. They play in the tournament almost every year and have made the final four recently. It's in the genes.
When Bryce came out of high school all the big schools recruited him like he was the greatest thing since sliced bread He turned them all down and played for his dad. Together they won a bunch more conference titles and quite a few will recall the 1998 version of March Madness when Drew took a length of the floor pass and nailed a long three point shot at the buzzer to beat Mississippi. ESPN still ranks that play and the ensueing celebration as one of the greatest sports moments of all time. It was the embodiment of unrestrained joy. With Drew leading the way, the Crusaders fought their way all the way to the sweet 16. He went on to be the 16th player taken in the NBA draft and played six seasons in the Big Show. In one game he hit nine straight three-point shots. He interned for the top coaching job by assisting his father for six years. In his first year at the helm he was named Horizon League Coach of the Year after leading the Crusaders to 22 wins. This initial coaching campaign was headed for the NCAA tournament after the Crusaders won the Horizon League regular season title, beating out Butler and Detroit, among others. Valpo whacked Butler in the tournament semifinals and were up on Detroit in the title game until disaster struck. Horizon League Player of the year Ryan Broehkoff sprained his ankle just before the half, and with Detroit and its huge front line the opposition, he was the one player the Crusaders could not afford to lose. To his credit, Broehkoff played in the second half but was only a shadow of his athletic self and Detroit, with Ray McCallum, Jr., son of the Titan Coach and a doyen of NBA scouts, rallied to win. Scurry forward from that March night to this January night, move from Valpo's gym to Callahan Gymnasium at Detroit, and put the Titans up 22 points with 17 minutes left. the ESPN announcers had moved on to other topics but on the Crusader Bench, Drew wasn't in panic mode. Neither were his Crusaders. Suddenly Ken Van Wijk and Broehkoff started hitting their shots. Matt Kenney hit four three point shots and the 17 point lead started a quick shrinking act. When Broehkoff nailed two free throws with 17 seconds left, the Crusaders had their first lead. The Valpo defense then had its turn to come up big and they didn't disappoint. Drew, for his part, switched to a zone for this final act and it worked to perfection. The final: Valpo 89, Detroit 88.
Bryce Drew's brother, if you didn't know, is Scott Drew, the head basketball coach at Baylor. They play in the tournament almost every year and have made the final four recently. It's in the genes.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
A game for the ages
It is easy to get excited about an NFL game. And since Saturday's amazing showdown between the Ravens and the Broncos was only a second round affair, one doesn't want to put things out of proportion. Yet anyone who was privileged to watch the double-overtime war in arctic conditions on the frozen tundra at Colorado's Mile High, replete with Hall of Famers and breakout heroes, stunning reversals of fortune and last second heroics in a team's most desperate hour, wouldn't hesitate to agree that this was a football war for the ages. Two outstanding teams, each led by two of the game's legendary players, collided head-on and the outcome was in doubt until the last play. There was a time near the end of regulation time that Denver had the game won, had the Raven's knocked down and gasping, but then, out of the dark and numbing cold appeared the stunning "Mile-High Miracle to smite down the best team in the NFL over the course of the regular season. Easy Joe Flacco, whose almost languid demeanor disguises a determination few can match, produced this miracle along with the Ravens' number three receiver: Jacoby Jones. The Ravens had taken over possession of the ball deep in their own territory without any timeouts remaining, and when the clock was under 40 seconds, they were still in their own territory near the 35-yard-line. On third down, Flacco took the snap and tried to throw from the pocket. He said later he had noticed the Broncos deep backs a bit too close to the line considering the game situation. Jacoby Jones ran down the right side of the field, hesitating only briefly to throw the Bronco's pass defenders off their stride. Flacco had to scramble up in the crumbling pocket as Jones continued down the field. Finally he heaved a long high pass that, against all of the odds, flew over the heads and leaping outstretched arms of the Broncos' two defenders and into the waiting arms of Jones. Endowed with world-class speed, Jones had no trouble loping into the endzone for the TD that came officially with but 31 seconds on the clock. With Justin Tucker's conversion kick, the game was now tied, 35-35, and the battle was perpetuated, overtime ensued, and the legend was forever enhanced.
When the game at last ended in the second sudden death overtime period the Ravens had somehow pulled out a 38-35 win over Peyton Manning and the top-seeded Denver Broncos. This was a game that began with the temperature on the field standing at 13 degrees. When it ended nearly four hours later, the mercury had dropped to eight degrees and the wind chill to minus three degrees. And yet the huge stadium was jammed full of fans who howled until Justin Tucker's 46-yard-field-goal ended it in the second overtime. At that point, the fans were still there, but the stadium was engulfed in utter silence, save for the Ravens. Ray Lewis, a defender for the ages, the best Middle Linebacker the game has ever known, and the only player left from the Ravens' 2001 Superbowl Winner, had announced his retirement in the week leading up to the start of the playoffs. Of course, he added that it would take effect after the playoffs ended for his team. For the second game in a row he saw his playing career extended. After Tucker's winning FG, he was down on his hands and knees, sobbing. Ray Rice, who first endured a kiss from his coach, John Harbaugh, next embraced Lewis and helped him to his feet. Justin Tucker leaped and howled, flinging his fist and pointing to the heavens above.
In a game of unlikely heroes and unlikely happenings, Tucker's successful kick was one of the few predictable events. He had missed only three field goals all season long, and had made several of over 50 yards. The winning kick was good from the time it left his foot. It was set up when Corey Grahm intercepted Manning for the second time in the game. Manning was running for his life, chased relentlessly by Raven Sack Monster Paul Kruger. The pass that the second-greatest quarterback ever (don't you dare compare Manning or anyone else to Johnny Unitas) managed to throw lacked true zip, but it didn't appear to matter as Graham had shadowed the Bronco receiver for an extended time period as Manning broke from the crumbling pocket. As soon as Manning threw it, Grahm jumped the route and kept the intended receiver from getting near it. It was Grahm who pulled a deflected pass out of the air and ran some 30 yards for a first quarter TD.
Did I mention that Denver's Trindon Holliday ran back a kick-off and punt for touchdowns? Did I mention that Manning threw three touchdown passes? Did I mention that Denver rookie running back Ronnie Hillman ran for nearly 100 yards and didn't even start? Yet the Ravens persevered. They did so after a very short week and a west coast flight. They did so without their best cornerback - Ladarius Webb - out injured since early in the season. The two heroes - Jacoby Jones and Joe Flacco - are great stories themselves. Until the shocking catch, Jones had endured a bad game on top of a terrible playoff game last year that led to his trade from the Texans. Jones had flubbed, then re-flubbed the kickoff return after Denver's first touchdown by first fumbling it twice before falling on it at the Ravens' six-yard-line. Then, on what many thought was the Raven's last chance drive with three minutes left in regulation and Denver ahead, 35-28, he dropped a third-down pass that hit him in the hands.
Flacco is Baltimore's favorite whipping boy for reasons that are completely beyond rational thought. He is a premier quarterback who has led the Ravens into the playoffs for five straight years while never missing a start. His threw for nearly 300 yards against the Colts in the first round win and over 300 again on Saturday. The Mile High Miracle pass to Jones came after Flacco scrambled up in the pocket. The pass stunned the Broncos by not only going over their deep backs' heads, but hitting Jones in stride some 70 yards down-field from where Flacco threw it.
There were other heroes: Ray Rice ran for over 100 yards without fumbling in the terrible weather. He played nearly the entire game after his brilliant young understudy, Bernard Pierce, re-injured his ankle early in the game. The Ravens' offensive lines, reconfigured for the playoffs to make room for a resurgent Brian McKinney, did not allow a single sack. The wide receivers, Anquan Boldin and Torey Smith, were sensational in the cold. Smith had two critical touchdown catches, including one just before the half that tied the score. The much-maligned linebacking corps, replete now with Lewis, who returned to the lineup in the first playoff round after missing almost three months with a torn arm muscle that required major surgery, was exceptional. Lewis had over a dozen tackles himself, but he got tons of help from Terrell Suggs, who had one and one-half sacks, and Donnell Ellerby, the up and coming stud many assume will replace Lewis. If you count Kruger as a linebacker, which is what he is, you get the picture that other offenses would rather not see.
Now come the Patriots, who won undeservedly last year in the AFC title game when two thought-to-be-dependable-former-Ravens: Lee Evans and Billy Cundiff, screwed up on the decisive drive. Trailing by three in the final minute, Flacco decisively drove the Ravens down the field with three passes to the courageous Anquan Boldin and one to Dennis Pita. On first down from the 11, Flacco threw a sensational pass to a tightly covered Evans in the endzone. Evans caught it then had it batted out of his hands as he turned around. Replays showed a winning touchdown, but for reasons never understood, the play was not reviewed to the incredulous howls of Harbaugh and thousands of Ravens followers. On fourth down, Cundiff flubbed a short field goal.
It will be chapter three of the Lewis retirement tour in Foxboro this weekend. Chapter Four will be the Superbowl. Right?
When the game at last ended in the second sudden death overtime period the Ravens had somehow pulled out a 38-35 win over Peyton Manning and the top-seeded Denver Broncos. This was a game that began with the temperature on the field standing at 13 degrees. When it ended nearly four hours later, the mercury had dropped to eight degrees and the wind chill to minus three degrees. And yet the huge stadium was jammed full of fans who howled until Justin Tucker's 46-yard-field-goal ended it in the second overtime. At that point, the fans were still there, but the stadium was engulfed in utter silence, save for the Ravens. Ray Lewis, a defender for the ages, the best Middle Linebacker the game has ever known, and the only player left from the Ravens' 2001 Superbowl Winner, had announced his retirement in the week leading up to the start of the playoffs. Of course, he added that it would take effect after the playoffs ended for his team. For the second game in a row he saw his playing career extended. After Tucker's winning FG, he was down on his hands and knees, sobbing. Ray Rice, who first endured a kiss from his coach, John Harbaugh, next embraced Lewis and helped him to his feet. Justin Tucker leaped and howled, flinging his fist and pointing to the heavens above.
In a game of unlikely heroes and unlikely happenings, Tucker's successful kick was one of the few predictable events. He had missed only three field goals all season long, and had made several of over 50 yards. The winning kick was good from the time it left his foot. It was set up when Corey Grahm intercepted Manning for the second time in the game. Manning was running for his life, chased relentlessly by Raven Sack Monster Paul Kruger. The pass that the second-greatest quarterback ever (don't you dare compare Manning or anyone else to Johnny Unitas) managed to throw lacked true zip, but it didn't appear to matter as Graham had shadowed the Bronco receiver for an extended time period as Manning broke from the crumbling pocket. As soon as Manning threw it, Grahm jumped the route and kept the intended receiver from getting near it. It was Grahm who pulled a deflected pass out of the air and ran some 30 yards for a first quarter TD.
Did I mention that Denver's Trindon Holliday ran back a kick-off and punt for touchdowns? Did I mention that Manning threw three touchdown passes? Did I mention that Denver rookie running back Ronnie Hillman ran for nearly 100 yards and didn't even start? Yet the Ravens persevered. They did so after a very short week and a west coast flight. They did so without their best cornerback - Ladarius Webb - out injured since early in the season. The two heroes - Jacoby Jones and Joe Flacco - are great stories themselves. Until the shocking catch, Jones had endured a bad game on top of a terrible playoff game last year that led to his trade from the Texans. Jones had flubbed, then re-flubbed the kickoff return after Denver's first touchdown by first fumbling it twice before falling on it at the Ravens' six-yard-line. Then, on what many thought was the Raven's last chance drive with three minutes left in regulation and Denver ahead, 35-28, he dropped a third-down pass that hit him in the hands.
Flacco is Baltimore's favorite whipping boy for reasons that are completely beyond rational thought. He is a premier quarterback who has led the Ravens into the playoffs for five straight years while never missing a start. His threw for nearly 300 yards against the Colts in the first round win and over 300 again on Saturday. The Mile High Miracle pass to Jones came after Flacco scrambled up in the pocket. The pass stunned the Broncos by not only going over their deep backs' heads, but hitting Jones in stride some 70 yards down-field from where Flacco threw it.
There were other heroes: Ray Rice ran for over 100 yards without fumbling in the terrible weather. He played nearly the entire game after his brilliant young understudy, Bernard Pierce, re-injured his ankle early in the game. The Ravens' offensive lines, reconfigured for the playoffs to make room for a resurgent Brian McKinney, did not allow a single sack. The wide receivers, Anquan Boldin and Torey Smith, were sensational in the cold. Smith had two critical touchdown catches, including one just before the half that tied the score. The much-maligned linebacking corps, replete now with Lewis, who returned to the lineup in the first playoff round after missing almost three months with a torn arm muscle that required major surgery, was exceptional. Lewis had over a dozen tackles himself, but he got tons of help from Terrell Suggs, who had one and one-half sacks, and Donnell Ellerby, the up and coming stud many assume will replace Lewis. If you count Kruger as a linebacker, which is what he is, you get the picture that other offenses would rather not see.
Now come the Patriots, who won undeservedly last year in the AFC title game when two thought-to-be-dependable-former-Ravens: Lee Evans and Billy Cundiff, screwed up on the decisive drive. Trailing by three in the final minute, Flacco decisively drove the Ravens down the field with three passes to the courageous Anquan Boldin and one to Dennis Pita. On first down from the 11, Flacco threw a sensational pass to a tightly covered Evans in the endzone. Evans caught it then had it batted out of his hands as he turned around. Replays showed a winning touchdown, but for reasons never understood, the play was not reviewed to the incredulous howls of Harbaugh and thousands of Ravens followers. On fourth down, Cundiff flubbed a short field goal.
It will be chapter three of the Lewis retirement tour in Foxboro this weekend. Chapter Four will be the Superbowl. Right?
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Preview: Ravens v Broncos
It is sometimes so difficult to be a follower of the Baltimore Ravens. It was only one month ago that they literally stunk out their own stadium in losing to the Denver Broncos. The final margin was 17 points but it was not that close. The loss to Denver was their third straight. And then, in a week's time, they rebounded to crush the Giants, clinching the AFC North in the process. While they lost a meaningless game to the Bengals in the last regular season game, they came out yesterday and crushed another good team, the Colts. The final score was 24-9 and so-called analysts can sing the praises of Andrew Luck all they want, the fact is that when it counted the most, he couldn't even lead his team to a touchdown against the playoff-seasoned Ravens.
Now they get another shot at Peyton Manning and the Broncos. And despite the early line - a ridiculous nine points - I believe the Ravens can win. In fact, I think they will win. Joe Flacco has played some of his best football in the playoffs. Last season, in the AFC Championship, he had New England beaten at Foxboro when two thought-to-be dependable teammates let him and the Ravens down. First, Lee Evans, who may well be headed to Canton after a stellar ca dropped a touchdown pass after Flacco had cooly driven the Ravens down the field in the final minute to a first down at the Patriot 11-yard-line. The first down pass to Evans threaded a needle between two overmatched defensive backs and landed right in Evans' hands. He got his feet down and was wheeling around to shield the ball when one of the backs swatted at the ball and knocked it free. An official called it incomplete but tens of thousands of Ravens' fans thought they deserved at least a review. After a second down pass to Dennis Pita fell incomplete (Pita was held and blatantly interfered with but the refs blew that call, also), Flacco was sacked on third down. Still, a short field goal was all the Ravens needed to tie the game but Billy Cundiff missed it.
Now, its one year later and the Ravens will probably have to beat Denver and New England to get to the Super Bowl. Can they do it? Yes. Will they? I might be way off, but I think the answer is also Yes. They have too much talent and too much momentum not to. Ray Lewis, the world's greatest middle linebacker, has announced that this is his "last ride."
The Ravens were superb against Luck and the Colts. Paul Kruger is getting better by leaps and bounds as a pass rusher and Lewis will already have a game under his belt returning from a serious arm injury. He had 13 tackles against the Colts, the most of the Ravens. Meanwhile, Flacco was throwing the long ball against the Colts, who were learning the hard way what it was like to face an NFL quarterback who knew a little bit about playoff football. Flacco completed just 12 passes, but those twelve accounted for 287 yards. Anquan Boldin had five of those catches, most of the spectacular variety.
Flacco has been a starter since he took over the Raven job directly out of University of Delaware. In five NFL seasons - while never missing a start due to injury - he has led the Ravens into the playoffs five times. In each of those five trips to the playoffs he has led the Ravens to at least one victory. The celebrated Mr. Luck will never be able to say that.
Now they get another shot at Peyton Manning and the Broncos. And despite the early line - a ridiculous nine points - I believe the Ravens can win. In fact, I think they will win. Joe Flacco has played some of his best football in the playoffs. Last season, in the AFC Championship, he had New England beaten at Foxboro when two thought-to-be dependable teammates let him and the Ravens down. First, Lee Evans, who may well be headed to Canton after a stellar ca dropped a touchdown pass after Flacco had cooly driven the Ravens down the field in the final minute to a first down at the Patriot 11-yard-line. The first down pass to Evans threaded a needle between two overmatched defensive backs and landed right in Evans' hands. He got his feet down and was wheeling around to shield the ball when one of the backs swatted at the ball and knocked it free. An official called it incomplete but tens of thousands of Ravens' fans thought they deserved at least a review. After a second down pass to Dennis Pita fell incomplete (Pita was held and blatantly interfered with but the refs blew that call, also), Flacco was sacked on third down. Still, a short field goal was all the Ravens needed to tie the game but Billy Cundiff missed it.
Now, its one year later and the Ravens will probably have to beat Denver and New England to get to the Super Bowl. Can they do it? Yes. Will they? I might be way off, but I think the answer is also Yes. They have too much talent and too much momentum not to. Ray Lewis, the world's greatest middle linebacker, has announced that this is his "last ride."
The Ravens were superb against Luck and the Colts. Paul Kruger is getting better by leaps and bounds as a pass rusher and Lewis will already have a game under his belt returning from a serious arm injury. He had 13 tackles against the Colts, the most of the Ravens. Meanwhile, Flacco was throwing the long ball against the Colts, who were learning the hard way what it was like to face an NFL quarterback who knew a little bit about playoff football. Flacco completed just 12 passes, but those twelve accounted for 287 yards. Anquan Boldin had five of those catches, most of the spectacular variety.
Flacco has been a starter since he took over the Raven job directly out of University of Delaware. In five NFL seasons - while never missing a start due to injury - he has led the Ravens into the playoffs five times. In each of those five trips to the playoffs he has led the Ravens to at least one victory. The celebrated Mr. Luck will never be able to say that.
Monday, January 7, 2013
The Greatest Writer at Christmas
The greatest writer in the history of the English Language, some would argue, is John Milton. He lived in the seventeenth century (1608-1674), and was active in almost every phase of English Life during his adult years, including in the Realm's government, its cultural life and its spiritual life. The seventeenth century was a time of great upheaval in England. During Milton's life the English Throne was briefly thrown aside in favor of Oliver Cromwell's Commonwealth of England. But he also was in the Royal Government before and after the civil war that lead to Cromwell's ascension to power.
Milton's output as a writer is prodigious, and it reflects the many facets of life that he participated in. Although there is, naturally, a wide variety of opinions, I believe the two works for which he is best remembered are: his political/philosophical work "Areopagitica," written in 1644, when Milton was 36, and his epic poem "Paradise Lost" written in 1667.
Milton was a Christian and was moved profoundly by the Birth of Christ. His work entitled "Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity" celebrates Christmas and provides an insight to why he was so moved by the idea of God having his son born to a virgin in a stable where animals were housed. Powerful too are the verses which celebrate the victory won over the world's evil clients.
Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity
by John Milton
This is the month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring:
For so the holy sages once did sing
That He our deadly forfeit should release,
And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty
Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside, and, here with us to be,
Forsook the courts of everlasting day.
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal day.
Say, heavenly muse, shall not they sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse,no hymm, or solemn strain
to welcome Him to this His new abode,
Now while the heaven, by the sun's team united,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
So how from far, upon the eastern road,
The Star led wizards haste with odours sweet:
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode
And by it lowly at HIs blessed feet;
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
And join they voice unto the Angel choir
From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
Milton's output as a writer is prodigious, and it reflects the many facets of life that he participated in. Although there is, naturally, a wide variety of opinions, I believe the two works for which he is best remembered are: his political/philosophical work "Areopagitica," written in 1644, when Milton was 36, and his epic poem "Paradise Lost" written in 1667.
Milton was a Christian and was moved profoundly by the Birth of Christ. His work entitled "Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity" celebrates Christmas and provides an insight to why he was so moved by the idea of God having his son born to a virgin in a stable where animals were housed. Powerful too are the verses which celebrate the victory won over the world's evil clients.
Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity
by John Milton
This is the month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring:
For so the holy sages once did sing
That He our deadly forfeit should release,
And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty
Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside, and, here with us to be,
Forsook the courts of everlasting day.
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal day.
Say, heavenly muse, shall not they sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse,no hymm, or solemn strain
to welcome Him to this His new abode,
Now while the heaven, by the sun's team united,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
So how from far, upon the eastern road,
The Star led wizards haste with odours sweet:
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode
And by it lowly at HIs blessed feet;
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
And join they voice unto the Angel choir
From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
THE HYMM
It was the winter wild,
While the heaven-born Child,
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature in awe to Him
Had doff'd her gaudy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathize:
It was no season then for her
To wanton with the sun, her hasty paramour,
Only with speeches fair
She woos the gentle air
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
And on her naked shame,
Pollute with sinful blame,
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
But He, her fears to cease,
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace:
She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphere,
His ready harbinger,
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing.
And waving wide her myrtle wand,
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
No war, or battle's sound
Was heard the world around:
The idle spear and shield were high uphund;
The hook'd chariot stood
Unstain'd with hostile blood,
The trumpet spake not to the armed throng
And kings sat still with awful eye,
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of Peace upon the Earth began:
The winds, with wonder wist,
Smoothly the waters kist,
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean=
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
The stars, with deep amaze
Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
Heading one way their gracious influence;
And will not take their flight,
And hid his head for shame,
As his inferior flame
The now enlightened world no more should need;
He saw a greater Sun appear
Than his bright throne, or burning axletree could bear.
The shepherds on the lawn,
Or ere the point of dawn
Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;
Full little thought they than
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them below;
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts to busy keep.
When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet,
As never was by mortal finger shook-
Divinely-warbled voice
Answering the stringed noise.
As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
Nature, that heard such sound
Beneath the hollow round
Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling.
Now was almost won
To think her part was done,
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling:
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.
At last surrounds their sight
A globe of circular light,
That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;
The helmed Cherubim
And sworded Seraphim,
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
Harping in loud and solemn choir,
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.
Such music (as 'tis said)
Before was never made
But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
While the Creator great
His constellations set,
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung,
And cast the dark foundations deep,
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out, yo crystal spheres!
Once bless our human ears,
If ye have power to touch our sense so;
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time;
And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
For if such holy song
Enrap our fancy long,
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold,
And speckled Vanity
Will sicken soon and die,
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould,
And Hell itself will pass away,
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea, Truth, and Justice then
Will down return to men,
Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
Mercy will sit between
Robed in celestial sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
And Heaven, as at some festival,
Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
But wisest Fate says No;
This must not yet be so;
The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy,
That on the bitter cross
Must redeem our loss;
So both Himself and us to glorify;
Yet first, to those yehain'd in sleep,
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.
With such a horrid clang
As on Mount Sinai rang
While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
The aged Earth aghast
With terror of that blast,
Shall from the surface to the centre shake;
When, at the world's last session,
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.
And then at last our bliss
Full and perfect is,
But now begins; for from this happy day
Th'old Dragon under ground
In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurped sway,
And wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swings the scaly horror of his folded tail.
The Oracles are dumb;
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance or breathed spell,
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o'er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament:
From haunted spring and dale
Edged with poplar pale,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
With flower-inwoven tresses torn
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
In consecrated Earth,
And on the hold hearth,
The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint,
In urns, and altars round,
A drear and dying sound
Affrights his Flamens at their service quaint;
And the chill marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.
Peor and Baalim
Foresake their temples dim,
With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine,
And mooned Ashtaroth
Heaven's queen and mother both,
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
The Lybie Hammon shrinks his horn,
In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
And sullen Moloch, fled,
Hath left in shadows dread,
His burning idol all of blackest hue,
In vain with cymbals' ring,
They call the grisly king,
In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.
Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove, or green,
Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest,
Nought but profoundest Heli can be his shroud,
In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark
The sable-soled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.
He feels from Juda's land
The dreaded Infant;s hand,
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eye;
Nor all the gods beside,
Longer dare abide,
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our BABE, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.
So, when the sun in bed,
Curtain'd with cloudy red,
Pillows hishead upon an orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale,
Troop to the infernal jail,
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
And the yellow-skirted fays,
Fly after the night-steeds leaving their moon-loved maze.
But see! the Virgin blest,
Hath laid her Babe to rest;
Time is, our tedious song should here have ending;
Heaven's youngest teemed star
Hath fix'd her polish'd car,
Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:
And all about the courtly stable,
Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.
For the record, I found this version in an old Anthology entitled "Immortal Poems of the English Language," edited by Oscar Williams, himself an outstanding poet and credited with being America's finest anthologist, although some may believe others can lay claim to that title also (Mr. Bloom, perhaps?). Those who favor Mr. Williams will get no serious argument from me inasmuch as he included at least one poem from the most overlooked British poet, Rupert Brooke (1887-1915). Brooke died young and sullied his reputation by also writing and submitting for publication some really bad poems. Be that as it may, some of his poems are about as good as poems can be. The 1952 Anthology I refer to here included Brooke's poem, "The Great Lover." If you are rolling your eyes at this reference to an obscure poet, let me interject that he wrote the words to the Fleetwood Mac song, "Dust." As good as Fleetwood Mac is, they sullied their own reputation by using Brooke's words without so much as mentioning his name. Strangely enough, the song leaves out the second half of the poem, and it is the second half that makes the work one of the greatest poems ever. The first half of the poem is almost morbid in its description of lovers post-mortem. It is on the older Mac album, "Bare Trees," and is sung at a slow pace without the guitar work one expects from Mac - even here in the pre-Nicks and pre-Buckingham portion of their history. And yet I find the song compelling. The song seems a tribute to the inevitability of death. Brooke's poem is anything but. The second half of Brooke's powerful poem wonders if two humans whose lives define love will be able to take that powerful human condition into the afterlife. The last verses wonder if dust from one dead lover, exposed after death to dust from the other, will somehow recognize each other because of love, thereby triumphing over death. Don't let the sober phrasing of this paragraph discourage you from finding Brooke's poem, which is one of the great Romantic poems of the English language. Brooke died young, as i said, at age 28, of sepsis which developed after a mosquito bite became infected. He was with the British Expeditionary Force bound for Gallipoli, which claimed thousands of allied dead and wounded. His actual death was aboard a French hospital ship anchored at Skyros, Greece, and he is buried on the island in a marked grave.
The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy,
That on the bitter cross
Must redeem our loss;
So both Himself and us to glorify;
Yet first, to those yehain'd in sleep,
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.
With such a horrid clang
As on Mount Sinai rang
While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
The aged Earth aghast
With terror of that blast,
Shall from the surface to the centre shake;
When, at the world's last session,
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.
And then at last our bliss
Full and perfect is,
But now begins; for from this happy day
Th'old Dragon under ground
In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurped sway,
And wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swings the scaly horror of his folded tail.
The Oracles are dumb;
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance or breathed spell,
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o'er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament:
From haunted spring and dale
Edged with poplar pale,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
With flower-inwoven tresses torn
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
In consecrated Earth,
And on the hold hearth,
The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint,
In urns, and altars round,
A drear and dying sound
Affrights his Flamens at their service quaint;
And the chill marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.
Peor and Baalim
Foresake their temples dim,
With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine,
And mooned Ashtaroth
Heaven's queen and mother both,
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
The Lybie Hammon shrinks his horn,
In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
And sullen Moloch, fled,
Hath left in shadows dread,
His burning idol all of blackest hue,
In vain with cymbals' ring,
They call the grisly king,
In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.
Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian grove, or green,
Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest,
Nought but profoundest Heli can be his shroud,
In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark
The sable-soled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.
He feels from Juda's land
The dreaded Infant;s hand,
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eye;
Nor all the gods beside,
Longer dare abide,
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our BABE, to show his Godhead true,
Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.
So, when the sun in bed,
Curtain'd with cloudy red,
Pillows hishead upon an orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale,
Troop to the infernal jail,
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
And the yellow-skirted fays,
Fly after the night-steeds leaving their moon-loved maze.
But see! the Virgin blest,
Hath laid her Babe to rest;
Time is, our tedious song should here have ending;
Heaven's youngest teemed star
Hath fix'd her polish'd car,
Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:
And all about the courtly stable,
Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.
For the record, I found this version in an old Anthology entitled "Immortal Poems of the English Language," edited by Oscar Williams, himself an outstanding poet and credited with being America's finest anthologist, although some may believe others can lay claim to that title also (Mr. Bloom, perhaps?). Those who favor Mr. Williams will get no serious argument from me inasmuch as he included at least one poem from the most overlooked British poet, Rupert Brooke (1887-1915). Brooke died young and sullied his reputation by also writing and submitting for publication some really bad poems. Be that as it may, some of his poems are about as good as poems can be. The 1952 Anthology I refer to here included Brooke's poem, "The Great Lover." If you are rolling your eyes at this reference to an obscure poet, let me interject that he wrote the words to the Fleetwood Mac song, "Dust." As good as Fleetwood Mac is, they sullied their own reputation by using Brooke's words without so much as mentioning his name. Strangely enough, the song leaves out the second half of the poem, and it is the second half that makes the work one of the greatest poems ever. The first half of the poem is almost morbid in its description of lovers post-mortem. It is on the older Mac album, "Bare Trees," and is sung at a slow pace without the guitar work one expects from Mac - even here in the pre-Nicks and pre-Buckingham portion of their history. And yet I find the song compelling. The song seems a tribute to the inevitability of death. Brooke's poem is anything but. The second half of Brooke's powerful poem wonders if two humans whose lives define love will be able to take that powerful human condition into the afterlife. The last verses wonder if dust from one dead lover, exposed after death to dust from the other, will somehow recognize each other because of love, thereby triumphing over death. Don't let the sober phrasing of this paragraph discourage you from finding Brooke's poem, which is one of the great Romantic poems of the English language. Brooke died young, as i said, at age 28, of sepsis which developed after a mosquito bite became infected. He was with the British Expeditionary Force bound for Gallipoli, which claimed thousands of allied dead and wounded. His actual death was aboard a French hospital ship anchored at Skyros, Greece, and he is buried on the island in a marked grave.
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