Wow! What a great weekend.
An amazing, unexpected town. An atmosphere rich with tradition. A fanbase united behind its Rolls-Royce basketball program. A dynamic team, hitting on all cylinders.
Unfortunately, none of it belongs to us.
As the Illini season wound to a close, a bank of KU fans, thousands in unison, began quietly singing their chanson victoire. Their reverie blinded them to irrelevant baskets desperate Illini continued to finger roll, below.
Old hands will know what I mean. But I’d never seen it before. I’ve never seen anything like it before. We have I-L-L / I-N-I; but everybody has one of those, from O-H-I-O to that crippled “nnnnn-SOTA” thing they do in the frozen north.
Yeah, I knew they had a stupid slogan. I knew you can see it on youTube. But microphones could not possibly capture the eerie quality of mass human euphony rising upward, filling rafters.
We do not have a euphoric participation ritual.
Two days in Tulsa taught me a lot about Bill Self. Or maybe it’s Cindy Self that’s at issue. Bill and Cindy lived in Tulsa for eight years before moving to Champaign.
Who knew “The Buckle of The Bible Belt” could provide so much sin and decadence?
It’s an eight-hour drive from Chambana. Maybe that’s too far for a casual visit. But if you’re traveling southwest, make Tulsa your stop off. And stop off for a whole day and night.
Oil profits built one hell of a town. Neighborhoods are museums of old money. Apart from the neighborhoods, Tulsa does professional tourism well. They have splendid fine art and anthropological museums, too. Plus vast parks, and a world-class aquarium.
The sinners outnumber the saved, no matter what they’re preaching. It’s 3.2 beer in all the stores, other than those which close at 9 p.m. by law and can’t be owned by the same family as any other licensee. So if you want a drink after dark in Tulsa, you have to go out for it, and that means driving.
Jesus.
But because they hate taxes and gubmint, the booze is CHEAP when you can buy it. (Never on Sundays.)
We happened upon the Villa Philbrook toward the end of brunch, early Sunday afternoon. They seated us without a reservation. (Well, they may have had reservations. We didn’t.)
Chef Alex Forsythe made sure all the staples were there. Oysters Rockefeller and prime rib for the old money, hand made biscuits and gravy for the new. And for us, the creative class, Alex prepared a ginger and sesame seared tuna and calamari served on a bed of crispy fried kale. It was doughnuts meets spanakopita, while still maintaining a hyper-nutritional value. Exquisite.
Alex describes his creation in this otherwise narcissistic short. (No basketball content.)
Anyway, back to my Self-analysis. After eight years living in a vibrant city, Cindy found her Self trapped in a Midwest backwater.
Yes, we are that backwater.
But the Selfs didn’t skedaddle back to Tulsa. They moved to Kansas. What does Lawrence have that we don’t?
Kansas City. And environs.
Both Tulsa and the KC metro area have everything a young millionaire could want from a big city, except spontaneous flights to Paris. If you’re really rich, you probably want to live in a nice house with a nice garden (English and vegetable, but why not two of each?) and a serene veranda for your morning latte.
Tulsa has this, for miles. In Champaign, only block-long Country Lane provides this setting, and those eleven families aren’t moving. Even Greencroft looks seedy compared to Tulsa’s Bryn Mawr neighborhood.
After three years here, I suspect Cindy was ready to live someplace relevant again. Her husband now makes $3 million per year. They can afford the good life.
We will not pay a coach that kind of money. If we did, we wouldn’t have anything for him to spend it on. The good life simply can’t be bought in Champaign-Urbana. We’re a factory town. Our infrastructure involves blocks of high-density, low-rent prefabricated eyesore. Downtown is a Harley Rally with bookstores.
The Jayhawk fans seemed mighty serene.
They sang a siren song, lulled us to our peaceful death. It recalled the people of Krikkit. I felt like Rikki-Tiki-Tavi, locked in Nagaina’s hypnotizing gaze. (If my references were classical rather than popular, I’m sure there’d be a lotus-eater involved.)
Unfortunately, that’s not how I’ll remember the end of the 2011 season.
My trance broke when a woman started screaming from the Illini section, directly behind press row. I’d never seen her before. Maybe she was a player’s aunt, or a coach’s cousin. Kind of ruddy, built like a barrel, stringy reddish hair. Trailer chic.
Set off by the whistling of Mike Davis’s fourth foul, she exploded at the nearest referee. The string of invective, only mildly profane, contained something about “national championship game” but coherence was not the signifying element. Her point was clear.
The guy hadn’t even whistled that foul call. But then, I can’t think of any controversial calls in the game. Certainly Kansas beat Illinois because they were better, and not just a little bit better.
Way past the point of competitive play, her salvo seemed out of place, unnecessary. Who needs the hate? We lost already. Enjoy the warm evening air and blossoming dogwoods.
I watched her harangue, bemused.
I looked to little Jerrance Howard, Jr., observing from his mom’s lap, four seats removed from the epithets. Was he freaked out by this woman? Was he parroting her?
He waved a tiny fist, and spun around to fawn affectionately at his mother. He didn’t seem angry or frightened.
It was at this point that I realized someone was yelling at me. It was Mrs. Weber!
I’ve never had a conversation with Mrs. Weber. But then I’ve never had a conversation with her husband. (Whatever “regular guy” stories you’ve heard circulating on the web, these interactions must take place away from media or at least away from me.)
“Stop laughing!” and “it’s not funny!” she screamed repeatedly, finally drawing my attention.
I turned around to see that she was on her feet, yelling at me from the front row.
Hruh?
“Stop laughing! It’s not funny!”
“I’m looking at little Jerrance?” I quavered.
“Turn around” she ordered me. “Watch the game!”
Weird.
I wondered if she’s been reading my stuff. I never thought I was all that important, but would she lash out at just anyone in this moment of dudgeon?
Until Saturday, I’d have described her as “demure” or “composed,” and otherwise nondescript. If pressed, I’d say that she does a fine job of maintaining an outward appearance bridging the treacherous gap between fashionable and folksie.
Illini families are generally peaceful, and friendly.
Are the families off-limits, or public figures?
I think of them as semi-public. They may be mentioned or even quoted, but it shouldn’t be accusatory or confrontational.
Heather and I discussed the opprobrium of the situation. As The Kindergarten Teacher, Heather has Strong Opinions about public countenance, especially in the presence of small children. She calmly expressed Views about the behavior of these two women.
We also discussed our role, as observers of the proceedings.
Do I have a right to be bemused, even amused by the courtside shenanigans of Illini fans, friends, family or anything involved in making college basketball the billion dollar entertainment behemoth it’s become?
You bet I do.
Does Mrs. Weber have the right to express her frustration at me? I say she can do whatever she wants. If it’s outrageous, exciting and in public, then she can plan to read about it the next day.
Some frustrated Illini fans grouse about the coach. Some lash out at the players. The Outraged Aunt evidently blames officiating for all our sorrows. Perhaps Mrs. Weber believes it’s the media’s fault. Clearly I failed to observe the proceedings with the solemnity she felt due.
Yes, Mike Davis cried. But is the moment really sad? If so, why do we inflict it on young persons every spring? This same tragedy is bound to befall another 66 out of 67 teams in the field.
No, these kids are the lucky ones.
At the same time, on the other side of the world, a mortar shell ripped the arms from small children south of Tripoli. And theirs is the liberal despot; he didn’t intend to hurt them. Next door in The Sudan, the more religious despots employ shards of broken bottles to carve the clitorises from young girls on purpose. On the coast of Japan, thousands wonder what will happen next, and whether they’ll survive it.
I have a sense of proportion when it comes to the tragedy of college basketball. I view it as light entertainment. Sometimes, I’m even caught laughing at the spectacle.
The good news for Mrs. Weber is that whatever happens from here on out, she still gets the $5 million and the house. Those of us who travel remora-like with the team will get a weekend in Tulsa, every other year or so.
We may never enjoy the riches of a Rolls-Royce basketball program. We may never live in houses with English gardens. But our limbs are attached, and we travel for leisure rather than survival.
Life is good.
