Phear the whalerz

Typically there are two types of days in your life -- the days when you feel obliged to wear a hockey jersey to work, and the days you don't. Today is, stunningly, one of the former. I dug my Hartford Whalers jersey (danke, daethkow) out of the depths of the closet and put it on this morning, to celebrate their successor franchise's Stanley Cup victory (was surprised to find that Whale jerseys are scarce, due to Hartford's ownership of the copyrights). Am mildly disappointed that the weather today will not be cooperative (high of 97? That's not hockey weather!), but not surprised. Stoopid nonobliging Kansas weather, ignorant of the joys of hockey and its blessings upon this world.

Also under sports-pain, the K-State women's basketball team loses two (registration still required? Grrr). Their departure said to be for personal reasons. And by being simultaneous, not at all suspicious. *headdesk*

This morning looks to be decent. I have Pez, Pop Tarts, Haribo raspberrys/blackberries and Nutty Bars. Picspam seems inevitable. Be thus warned.

Len Bias: Twenty Years Later

A sports fan knows the name Len Bias. A Bostonian fan cringes. You could say that the Celtics drafting Bias in 1986 would be the Celtics' jump-the-shark moment -- they fell from defending champs to a shell of a franchise -- but that's just crass, considering what was lost. He was, as a college player, mentioned in the same breath -- and rightfully so -- as Michael Jordan, with potential to surpass even that lofty standard. But the day after Bias was drafted in the first round by the Celtics, he was found dead of a cocaine overdose.

Only half of the story is what ended -- a career of unfathomable and forever unfulfilled potential. The rest is the shockwave that went through the sports world, even through American culture. Bias became a cautionary tale, a worst-case scenario -- young supremely-gifted athlete felled by cocaine. Some, including his mother, argue that his death has meant more than his finest career could have. It was an unambiguous message to a country flirting with cocaine and rolling its collective eyes at the "Just say 'no'" mentality:

The Celtics jersey had nothing behind it but the specter of death stained with cocaine. On a trivial note, it was an artifact of the beginning of the end of the last Celtics dynasty. Even though Bird and McHale were still in their primes and Parish was the youngest old man in the NBA, the Celtics reached only one more NBA Finals (in 1987) after Bias died.

More significantly, that Bias jersey meant death. Not death in an unimportant, metaphorical way. It meant eyes that would never blink again, cheeks that would never rise again to make a smile, and a heart that couldn't beat because it was choking on blow.

After more thought, it was clear that cocaine was the reason I had to have the jersey, the reason I had to wear it, the reason people needed to see it.

Without question, Len Bias has influenced my life and the lives of my generation more than any other. He might be the most influential athlete of the 20th century.

Picspam: Wild ride to oblivion

( Thirty images, one sequel.... )

Picspam: Evening edition

( Clearing out the backlog from home.... )