Admit it.  You do it.  I do it.  Everyone does.  We all complain about our favorite team’s beat writer.  Either they’re not giving us enough information, or they’re not being hard enough on the team, or they’re not praising the right players.  We all know better than they do.

I decided to put this theory to the test.  The folks at Sportsbubbler were kind enough to furnish me with a press pass for the Bucks-Nuggets game on Wednesday night at the Bradley Center, so I went undercover to see what being a major sports beat writer was all about.  (This was fortuitous, since Denver happens to be my 4-year old son’s favorite team.  He absolutely cannot believe an NBA team is named after chicken nuggets.)

The first thing I did in preparation for this test was to e-mail a friend of mine who’s a beat reporter for a major league baseball team.  I told him that I had no clue what I was doing, and asked him for tips.  He said I should definitely go to the morning shoot-around to get the feel for the place first.

So there I was, at 10:45 AM, wandering around an empty Bradley Center.  As it turns out, shoot-around had ended ten minutes earlier, and all the coaches and players had gone back into the locker room.  So it was just me and the ghost of Paul Mokeski in the whole building.  It was completely empty – a spooky sight, given that in just a few hours, literally dozens of people would be in the stands watching the Bucks play.

Not wanting to waste the opportunity, I just started walking through the “House that Herb Built But Now Wants to Remodel,” gazing at the sights.  In one of the hallways, there’s a giant poster of Brian Winters with the NBA’s “Where Amazing Happens” tagline.  There’s 50 dollars in it for anyone who can get the team to change that poster to “Where Amazing Beards Happen.”  Mostly, I just walked around the court, staring at the banners and retired numbers, with my mouth open.  If someone saw me walking around by myself in there, I wanted to project an aura of wonderment, and not an aura of “I wonder where the best place to hide the explosives would be?”

Finally, I ran into the Bucks’ Director of Media Relations, Dan Smyczek.  I explained what I was doing there, and he couldn’t have been nicer.  He gave me a quick guided tour of the stadium’s underbelly.  He said the Nuggets hadn’t shown yet, since teams that play the night before generally don’t have a shoot-around the next morning.  (The Nuggets had barely beaten the Bulls in a nailbiter on Tuesday night.)  He pointed out where the locker room was, where the media room was, and generally when and where interviews take place before and after the game.  He said that it’s not so bad that I missed shoot-around, since it’s hard to really get any in-depth material there anyway. (So my story on “What Makes Luc Richard Mbah a Moute Cry Himself to Sleep?” will have to wait.)

He then sent me on my way, telling me to return at 5:00.  On the way out, I passed a very weary-looking Joe Alexander, and walked out the door about the same time he did.  For some reason, I couldn’t figure out how to get out of the bolted exit door, so I stood there, pulling on it for a good 30 seconds.  I finally gave up and exited through the players’ parking lot, almost getting run over by Alexander.  Admittedly, that would have made for a better column.

When I get back to the Bradley Center at 5, it’s bustling with activity behind the scenes.  While the stands are still fairly empty, the tunnels under the seats are full of people with walkie talkies every 10 feet.  Everyone seems to be in a hurry, scurrying to get to whatever it is they do.

I find press row down on the floor and meet up with a guy named Adam, who takes me into the Press Room.  This is where all the media members can stuff their faces and shoot the breeze before game time.  I spot Craig Coshun, Jon McGlockin, Tony Smith, and other “celebrities” in the room. (Although, admittedly, these guys are “celebrities” in much the same way that Levi Johnston is a “celebrity.”)  This also happens to be the room where media members get their wireless internet password.  I get mine and return to my seat.

(Important note: For the people reading this 30 years from now, Levi Johnston was a young man who has gained national prominence by vaguely insulting a major presidential candidate, then proving he should be taken seriously by allowing magazines to photograph his wiener.)

It comes time to conduct the pregame interviews with the head coaches.  Apparently, the visiting coach is supposed to go first, but Denver’s George Karl is twenty minutes late.  When he appears from the locker room, he backs up against a brick wall, giving his interview the look of a hostage video.  Karl answers some fairly tepid questions.  He thinks Carmelo Anthony needs to win more playoff games before he’s considered an elite player.  He supports instant replay in some cases, but doesn’t think it should take so long.  Many of his answers are drowned out by the stadium’s PA system, which appears to be playing some hip-hop version of a Bob Dylan song.  Karl seems very comfortable with the Milwaukee media (as he coached in Milwaukee for five years), and he graciously stays until the very last media member is done asking questions.

By then, the small throng of reporters has moved down the hall to where Bucks coach Scott Skiles has begun giving interviews.  Skiles has a reputation for being a Grade A red ass – cranky, irascible, and short with the media.  On TV, you get the idea that he’d one day pull the spine out of a reporter if it were only legal.

But in person, Skiles was actually very calm and kind and answered questions as they came.  Sure, he’s not going to win “America’s Funniest Comic” any time soon, but even when he got a question he didn’t like, he politely declined to answer.  Still dressed in his black Bucks t-shirt and warmup pants, his demeanor and candor were impressive.

I worked my way back to my seat following the coach interviews.  By the stickers on our seats, I saw I was seated between a writer for the Spanish Journal and the Sports Bubbler’s own Bucks guru, Paul Imig.

About ten minutes before the game started, I was sitting at my laptop at courtside, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was a man I didn’t know, who said he had a nephew that just graduated from the University of Missouri, and who was looking to get into sports journalism.  He asked me, thinking I was a sports writer, what the best way to break into sports media was.  I explained to him that I normally write about politics, and that I was just there for that one night covering the game.  So I guess my only advice to his nephew would be, “write about politics.” (In actuality, his nephew better be willing to write a lot.  For free.)

And it’s tip off time!

Before the game, the most appealing storyline dealt with how the Bucks’ young rookie point guard, Brandon Jennings, would fare against the Nuggets’ cagey veteran, Chauncey Billups.  But for all the talk of Jennings vs. Billups, the real test early in the game was how well Jennings got the ball down low.  Bucks center Andrew Bogut scored 11 of the team’s first 19 points, with Jennings assisting on 3 of them.  It was clear from the outset that the plan was to pound the Nuggets underneath the hoop with the Bucks’ big guys. (Bogut and forward Hakim Warrick took 15 of the Bucks’ first 25 shots.)

And this is why I believe Scott Skiles is a good coach.  From a fan’s perspective, it would seem that the Nuggets’ big guys, Kenyon Martin and Nene (a 6-foot-11 Brazilian who changed his name early in his career – it used to be “Dick Whitman,”) would be a tough matchup for Bogut.  Anyone who watched the Nuggets’ blood war with the Lakers in the playoffs last year knows that Denver’s big bodies deliver plenty of bruises.

Yet Skiles clearly saw something that us fans didn’t.  Maybe Bogut’s strengths played into specific weaknesses in Martin or Nene.  Or maybe Skiles knows that big men have a harder time recovering from back to back games. (The Nuggets are finishing up the last game of a six game road trip.)  But whatever it was, Skiles saw it, and I clearly didn’t.  And that’s why he’s a coach and I’m sitting here scarfing down a hot dog.

On comes the ENERGEE dance team, dressed in Veterans’ Day outfits that have about as much fabric in them as one of my socks.  Nothing says “thank you for your service and sorry about losing that arm” better than killer abs.

I am of several minds regarding the whole “dance team” phenomenon.  First, I would love to meet the guy who first convinced women that they should dance half naked in front of big crowds at sporting events.  And actually get them to enjoy doing so.  It’s a crime that Milwaukee has a statue of the Fonz, but none commemorating the inventor of the sports bra, the first guy to put mayonnaise on a hamburger, or the inventor of cheerleaders.  Let’s correct this.

On the other hand, I have to say that I’ve never actually been watching a game and said to myself “boy, I’m really not enjoying this competitive athletic match – what it really needs is some near-nude women!”  (Although I have said that about going to the grocery store.)

Anyway, they’re right in front of us here in press row, and they have provided us all with an angle that I will not soon un-see.  I’m pretty sure I can see what they had for lunch.  Back to the game.

The game stays close early, with the first quarter ending tied at 27.  I read Imig’s column online, where he quotes Brandon Jennings as saying Chauncey Billups is a Hall of Famer.  In order to ensure Billups’ place in the hall, Jennings exercised his option to not defend him, and Billups drains two three pointers on him in the span of two minutes.

One of the first things that’s noticeable from up close in press row is how fast Brandon Jennings actually is.  This gives me much consternation, as my wife has always told me I was the fastest man in Wisconsin.

Hey, wait…

And by the way, as long as we’re here, what is it with Wisconsin excellence and the name “Jennings?”  Greg Jennings of the Packers makes the Pro Bowl.  Brandon Jennings becomes an immediate rookie sensation.  If I were the Brewers, I would make sure I drafted any high school player in America with the last name “Jennings,” just to ride the wave.  Somewhere in Southeast Wisconsin, there’s a dentist named “Ernie Jennings” that gives fillings that make all your food taste like lobster.  There’s a garbage man named “Buford Jennings” that cleans the whole block in half the time.  You get the idea.

Being a beat writer is clearly much different now than it has been traditionally.  In days of yore, fans had very limited access to information about their teams – in some cases, the only way you could see your team on television was if they were playing a national game on a major network.  But now, with every game on television and a preponderance of websites, daily game recaps are almost superfluous.  Who wants to read about something they already watched with their own eyes?  And if they want to read about it, why don’t they just go to one of the blogs that likely has already broken down each player’s performance within 3 minutes of game’s end?

This is what makes the job so difficult – finding new and interesting ways to inform people about something they’ve already witnessed.  And it’s why sports writers take such a beating.  Gone are the days of Grantland Rice banging out erudite verbal masterpieces on a daily basis, composing orchestras of words to inform the public.  Now, the deadlines are seconds, not hours.  And everyone has an opinion – and if it doesn’t measure up to what the reader thinks, the reporter can expect to see their name disparaged on a blog somewhere.  (Although some of them are jerks, so they deserve it.)

One of the first things that you notice sitting next to the Nuggets bench are all the tattoos they have.  This has to be the most inked team in sports history.  Chris “Birdman” Anderson has completely run out of skin on his body to tattoo – he might have to start renting space on other people’s arms.  (As Steven Wright once joked, I’m looking into getting a full body tattoo of myself, only taller.)

And yes, it looks horrible – but I kind of appreciate it from a motivational perspective.  It really is kind of like going “all in” in poker.  Basically, he has to hustle his tail off in basketball now, because he is virtually unemployable in the real world.  It’s not like his fallback job is working at H&R Block or something.  He’s got to make a go of hoops.  Anyway.

(Later in the game, Birdman throws a towel to a little kid sitting in the stands.  As Imig remarked, it’s really easy to root for a guy who seems to appreciate the position he has.)

Following a blocking call on Ersan Ilyasova that would embarrass Tim Donaghy, the Bucks lead at the half 53-47.  Near the end of the half, Jennings makes a long pull-back jumper that has the Nuggets bench glancing at each other with incredulity.  Nuggets reserve forward Malik Allen, sitting three feet from us, looks over and says “If Jennings makes a shot, the next time the Bucks have the ball, he comes down and shoots it automatically.”  This is called foreshadowing.

One of the most noticeable things in the Bradley Center tonight is the section of 100 tickets purchased by Andrew Bogut that he has dubbed “Squad6.”  For each home game this year, Bogut has bought tickets and given them away to the most boisterous Bucks fans he could find.  I decide that after the game, I will suggest to Bogut that he instead give away his 100 tickets per game to homeless people.  How great would that be, to essentially have a soup kitchen in the middle of the arena?  Plus, it would save the Bucks money, as they wouldn’t have to hire anyone to clean up the Bradley Center after games.  You think there would be any curly fries, popcorn, or half-eaten hot dogs laying around after SquadHomeless exits the building?  The Bucks are free to send me a check for all the money I save them.  I have a million of \’em.

The second half begins, and it’s immediately a stark contrast to the first.  Jennings appears to be rolling, hitting a layup and two jumpers.  Things get testy under the Nuggets’ basket as Bogut and Carmelo Anthony get tied up, leading to a double technical foul.  Yet it’s Jennings that’s the first one to go over and make peace with Anthony.  In his sixth game in the league, he already appears to be a leader.  He should probably go ahead and file the restraining order paperwork against me now.

After the third quarter, the ENERGEE dancers walk right next to me to go throw junk into the stands.  I almost pass out from sucking in my gut for 3 straight minutes.

By the fourth quarter, the Bucks have built a lead as large as 12, but the Nuggets come roaring back to make it close. However, with just under four minutes left, with Denver appearing to have seized momentum, Jennings works his way off a screen and hits a big three pointer.  I remember Malik Allen’s cursory scouting report on Jennings – and sure enough, the next time down the floor, he hits another backbreaking three pointer to crush the Nuggets.  Even if you know it’s coming, you can’t stop it.  The Nuggets keep fighting, but Bogut hits a floater in the lane and Jennings knocks down six consecutive free throws to seal the 108-102 win, moving the Bucks’ record to 4-2.

After all the excitement, it seems to dawn on the crowd what had just happened.  They just saw a wispy point guard go for 32 points and nine assists in his sixth game in the NBA. And it’s not like those 32 points were an Allen Iverson-style 32 – Jennings shot 11 of 19 from the field.  And he didn’t score them in a lopsided game – he scored them when his team needed them the most, against a team who had been 6-2 before tonight.

For so long, the Bucks have been marketing their past in order to get fans interested.  They even changed their uniform colors back to the original red and green in order to reconnect with days of glory.  (In a truly retro move, the team has decided women shouldn’t be allowed to vote for the NBA all star teams.) But now, with this one performance, Brandon Jennings has given Bucks fans a reason to look to the future.  No longer do fans have to reminisce about the Junior Bridgeman era – there might actually be a reason to come see this new phenomenon.

And it was at this moment that I realized why I could never be a good sports beat writer.  I simply can’t extricate myself from the game going on, in order to provide a balanced account of the game.  I’m just too much of a fan.  People seeing me on press row probably noticed the occasional fist pump or shout “yes!”  Being a beat writer for one day is like being a gynecologist for a day – you haven’t had enough practice to be dispassionate about what you’re viewing.

After the game, I fought the crowd to go see if I could get in on a couple interviews.  You almost have to pick one side or the other to cover, since the teams are fairly separate.  I see a group of reporters by the Nuggets locker room, waiting for Karl to come out to talk.  As I’m standing there, I see the same reporters I saw before the game, and… Greg Jennings?  Green Bay Packer Greg Jennings holding a microphone?  Here he is, standing three feet from me, ready to start interviewing George Karl?  What in the hell is going on here?  Did I hit my head on the way out?

As it turns out, it appears Jennings, a Bucks season ticket holder, has signed on to do post-game interviews with the Milwaukee Fox affiliate.  For five minutes, I just stood there next to him, as he read the box score.  I wanted so badly to have him sign something for my son, but I was there as a reporter, not for personal reasons.  I thought I would be breaking reporter etiquette to ask for an autograph.  Plus, I am chicken.

It appears Karl left the locker room through a different door, as he actually walks up behind the throng of reporters, startling them.  He’s wearing the beleaguered look of a coach who has lost 645 professional games, and he moves slowly into place.  Six-foot-eleven Nuggets broadcaster Scott Hastings offers to lend Karl his sport coat, to cover up the green golf shirt Karl has changed into.  Karl demurs.  Then the interviews go on.  You can barely hear the coach’s voice, so everyone’s shoving their microphones as close to his face as possible.  Behind the coach, Nene destroys some of the pizza left out for the players.  The television lights seem like they’re roasting the top of Karl’s bald head.  And he does this 82 times a season.

I expected the mood to be much better in the Bucks’ locker room, and it was.  The room is bright, with high ceilings and wooden lockers – although it seems smaller than I expected.  All the players are there, in various stages of undress, with many of them talking to reporters while completely naked.  (Let’s just say if you wanted, you could see plenty of Mbah a Booty.)

Andrew Bogut stood in the right of the room, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and two giant ice bags strapped to his knees.  There was also an ice-filled yellow janitor’s bucket in front of his locker, presumably to soak his feet.  He answered question after question, then eventually crept away to hit the showers.

On the other hand, Brandon Jennings was leaning up against a corner of the locker room, fully dressed.  He seemed to be answering questions almost sheepishly, as if he were embarrassed about what he just accomplished.  Up close, it’s easy to see that he just turned 20 years old.  He talked with his chin down, hands fidgeting with things in his locker.  When asked whether Billups gave him any pre-game advice, he chuckled and said no.  “Just go slow for me, young fella,” is all Billups said to him before the game, according to Jennings.

By that time, ace reporter Greg Jennings had made his way into the locker room, and he was interviewing Charlie Bell.  Both guys are from Michigan (although Bell is 4 years older), so it seemed like they knew each other.  When the cameras stopped rolling, Bell asked Jennings if he was going out on the town – Jennings said no, since he had to get back to the wife.  So it’s nice to see Jennings and I have more in common than our selections as alternates to the 2008 Pro Bowl.

My work having been done, I wandered out into the night air at about 10:00.  By that time, the Nuggets were loading up onto the team bus, which was presumably taking them back to the hotel.  Had I been a real reporter, I would have been back in the press room, furiously banging out my story.  I’m just guessing that at some point, that story would have included Brandon Jennings.  Perhaps in sonnet form, professing my eternal love for him.

Some buddies and I made the frigid jaunt to Lambeau Field yesterday to watch the Packers catapult themselves into the playoffs with a 48-10 beatdown of the hapless Seattle Seahawks. It appears I still have all my toes – and I may have even picked one or two up from someone else.  Not sure how that happened.

The first thing I noticed was that there were entirely too many Favre jerseys still being worn at Lambeau Field.  I know that in the past 20 years, most Packer fans only owned one jersey, and it was usually Favre (I owned one myself.)  But for the love of God, what exactly is Favre going to have to do to get Packer fans to stop wearing his jersey?  Go on a shooting spree through Brookfield Square Mall?  Get caught urinating on the statue of Vince Lombardi?  (Even then, people would blame Ted Thompson for putting the statue in the way of Favre\’s stream.)

But here’s what I have come up with to fix this problem.  Remember those stories about how they take all the pre-printed Super Bowl champion t-shirts from the losing teams and send them to impoverished nations in Africa so the kids have something to wear?  (For instance, the kids in Nigeria are all running around in Chicago Bears 2006 World Champions t-shirts and hats.)

I say we start a foundation where Packer fans can donate their Favre jerseys, and have them shipped off to poor African nations, so the kids there have something to wear.  We’ll airlift them thousands of Packer #4 jerseys, along with some granola bars.  Then, on the next flight, we’ll airlift them some DVDs of the 1996 Super Bowl win against the Patriots.  It’s perfect – in some little Sudanese villages, the reputation of the ‘Ol Gunslinger will live on intact, untouched by the recent self-inflicted stains on his reputation.  Then we can send all the Favre jock-sniffers over there as aid workers to tell the kids stories about Favre’s glory years and how the evil Ted Thompson cast him aside in favor of… another pro bowl quarterback who is going to be around for a decade longer.

(This idea is almost as foolproof as my idea to create facemasks that stick out like three feet, and extend down to the player’s waist – then, it would be impossible to tackle them without being called for a facemask.  The Packers would just march down the field, 15 penalty yards at a time.  It’s an airtight strategy, if you ask me.  Here’s a prototype that I’ve developed:)

As always, much of the fun of going to Lambeau is seeing all the obscure Packer jerseys on display.  But yesterday, we saw a feat that may never be matched – three guys walking together wearing the jerseys of Chris Jacke (#13), Don Majikowski, (#7), and… Jeff Query (#85.)  Let me repeat that – a guy was wearing a JEFF QUERY jersey.  You may recall Query being drafted in the 5th round of the 1989 NFL draft, then starting zero games for the Packers in his three years on the team.  In 1990, Query caught 34 passes, although he was used primarily as a kick returner.  He moved on to the Bengals in 1992, played three more seasons, then called it a career.  Yet he lives on in Lambeau thanks to the young man wearing his digits.

Before the game, naturally, we tailgated in balmy 20 degree weather.  By the time I hit the port a potty and got back to the tailgate, my friend had put down four beers.  I had been fighting a cold for a full week, and decided to not drink at all – and it was the best decision I could have made.  I have a Dimaggio-like streak of drinking in the afternoon and things going badly.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – I don’t understand the idea of getting completely hammered before a sporting event.  Not to get all philosophical, but once the game is over, aren’t our memories of it all we really have to keep?  And if you’re plastered, don’t you lose your memory of the game?  So what’s the point?

Try this – imagine two scenarios:

1.    You get to make sweet, sweet love to Jessica Alba for three hours, although once you’re done, you don’t get to remember any aspect of it for the rest of your life; or
2.    You don’t get to touch Jessica Alba, but you think you did, and you get to carry that memory with you for the rest of your life.

Which one would you choose?  I’d take the lifetime memories, for sure.  What good would options number one be if you can’t remember anything?  (Other than the three hours at the time – or in my case, the sixty seconds of pleasure, and two hours and 59 minutes of crying.)

In any event, I was happy I didn’t drink.

Perhaps the best non-football highlight of the day occurred when American Idol finalist (and Milwaukee native) Danny Gokey showed up to sing “Roll Out the Barrel.”  He showed up on the jumbotron, to milquetoast applause.  Then, before he started singing, he invited the audience to purchase his new album, coming out this week.  At that point, he was serenaded by cascading boos from the crowd.  “BOOO!  BOOOOOOOO!”  The Lambeau faithful weren’t there to be sold a bunch of junk – which is ironic, since there appears to be no fan consternation about having to pay $6 for a bottle of Miller Lite. (Gokey was also flanked by SIX security guards – which is reason #6,983 the terrorists hate us.)  Later in the game, with the Packers blowing out the Seahawks, my buddy Jay suggested they put Gokey back to return punts.  I can’t think of any reason why this wouldn’t have been a good idea.

At some point during the game, after another shanked punt, my buddies deemed Jeremy Kapinos “The Greek God of Feminine Hygiene Products.”  I don’t even really know what this meant, but it made me laugh.

After the game, we stood down near the tunnel where the players exit the field.  Several players – led by Charles Woodson –  ran around the field, hi-fiving fans in the stands.  When Woodson made his way back around our way, we started a chant of “MVP!  MVP!”  When Greg Jennings came our way, the chant changed to “YOU’RE PRETTY GOOD!  YOU’RE PRETTY GOOD!”

The ride back to Madison was rough – especially on Highway 41 heading South.  I’m generally fairly sympathetic to people who get in car accidents, but I swear to God we should fine anyone $5,000 that spins off the road after a Packer game.  It costs thousands of people 45 minutes of their lives while traffic grinds to a complete halt.  Someone call the Legislature.

So while we were stuck in the car for hours, we listened to the Packer postgame show on the radio.  This is one of those things that I find highly entertaining about Wisconsin life, but sincerely hope nobody outside the state can hear.  For instance, about 10 years ago, I remember listening to people call in to a Packer post game show, and one guy said the following:

“I think if he stays healthy… and only if he stays healthy… Billy Schroeder could put up Jerry Rice-type numbers.”

He was, of course, referring to Bill Schroeder the white Packer wide receiver, and not the large-domed former Brewer catcher and current baseball announcer.

But what blew me away about this guy was that he thought he was being reasonable by throwing in the caveat – “If he stays healthy.” He thought he was downplaying his statement by adding qualifiers.  He didn’t realize that even with his attempt at reasonableness, what he was saying was clinically insane.  Such are Packer post-game callers.

Anyway, so this guy calls in yesterday to talk to ‘The Big Unit” Bill Michaels, and the caller’s fumbling around, not making any sense.  So in order to get out of the conversation, he just yells “GO PACK” and hangs up.

This got me thinking – I think Wisconsin is the only place where “GO PACK” is actually used as a punctuation mark.  You can end any sentence with it, and it makes total sense to people.  It doesn’t make any difference what news the preceding sentence delivered – if you slap on a “GO PACK” at the end, you can say pretty much anything.

Here’s a sampling of sentences that could easily be softened with a well placed Packer cheer:

Judge: “Mr. Smith, how do you plead in the twenty six counts of touching little boys for which you are charged?”

Mr. Smith: “Not guilty, your honor.  GO PACK!” (Jury nods in approval.)

Or:

Doctor: “Mr. Gallagher, I have some bad news – it’s inoperable.  You have three months to live.  GO PACK!”

Mr. Gallagher:  “That is bad news – but Aaron Rodgers is really coming around, huh?”

I finally arrived back in Madison around 8:15 PM – which made for a long day, considering I had left my house at 6:30 that morning to pick up friends and get to the game.  Granted, not everyone is coming from Madison, but you have to wonder whether there will ever be a tipping point where fans like me decide it just isn’t worth it to make the trip to Green Bay.  On the one hand, you get to experience an event unlike any other in sports – a Packer game in Lambeau.  But on the other hand, it’s become an all day affair – and with ticket prices going up as fast as they are, and with high definition televisions bringing you closer to the game, aren’t a lot of people going to decide that watching the game at home is just as enjoyable as freezing to death all day in December?  (The answer to my question, of course, is that if people decide to stop going, there are only about 60,000 people on the waiting list that would happily grab those tickets.)

Finally, one thing that’s worth noting that I haven’t seen covered, is that yesterday may very well have been Mark Tauscher’s last game in Lambeau.  It’s a great story for a Wisconsin kid to live out his dream by playing for both the Badgers and the Packers, and now it might be over.  So we should all be thankful for the time we had him.

Finally finally, my favorite Facebook status update of the week, from my friend Ryan:

[My son] is two years old. he’s watching my father-in-law and me fry perch and we are teaching him how. We are the Wisconsin equivalent of “Jersey Shores.”

Oh, and I should mention – after the Packers lost to the Steelers, I sent an angry tweet to Greg Bedard at the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, who had pointed out that Mason Crosby’s missed field goal ended up being the difference.  I generally dislike saying things like that, because had Crosby made it, the game would have played out completely differently – you can’t just plug in his three points and say the game would have been identical.  Anyway, I should institute a post-Packer loss cooling off period before I approach my computer.  So my bad. (Not that anyone really cares.)

As Americans, we’re very selective about the women we allow on TV.  When it comes to our viewing habits, we go to extraordinary lengths to save ourselves from the horrors of having to see average looking women.  As a general rule, if you’re a woman who happens to not be hot, you are only allowed on TV under the following circumstances:*

1. Your child has flown 200 miles in an out of control balloon.
2. You are a prostitute with a debilitating drug addiction, and hilarity ensues while you proposition an undercover police office on “COPS.”
3. You are Nancy Pelosi. (Or Harry Reid.)
4. We just found out your neighbor is a serial killer, and there are cameras at your front door ready to ask you if you ever saw anything suspicious – like your neighbor carrying dead bodies to the curb on trash pickup days.
5. You are confused about which one of the possible 23 men fathered your child, and you have turned to the nation’s leading paternity authority, Maury Povich, to settle it in the privacy of national television.
6. You are in the WNBA.

Lately, the last one has been in question.  America’s basketball league for women, the WNBA, is foundering financially.  Propped up for more than a decade by the NBA, attendance is nearly nonexistent. (If Osama bin Laden wanted to guarantee he’d never be found by U.S. authorities, he could just regularly attend Atlanta Dream games.)  Some teams have outright folded, while other teams have resorted to playing in casinos and turning their uniforms in corporate billboards.  It appears the league is on its last legs.

The prospects for a viable women’s basketball league in America weren’t always so dour.  In 1978, the first wave of young girls reaping the benefits of federal Title IX legislation began to grow up, and sought a place to continue their athletic careers. (This was only a couple of years before Sarah Palin started showing off her fresh moves for the Wasilla High girl’s basketball team.)  During this period, women’s basketball specifically was at a high point, with the U.S. women winning a silver medal in the 1976 Olympics in Montreal (finishing second only to the powerful Soviet Union team.)

This provided the impetus to start the what is believed to be the first Women’s Professional Basketball League (WBL) in 1978 – and Milwaukee was at the forefront of the movement.  At the time, Brew City was a basketball hotbed – Milwaukee was only a year removed from Marquette’s national championship, and the Bucks had lost in the Western Conference Semifinals the year before. The Milwaukee Does (obviously a play on the “Bucks” of the NBA) were one of the league’s founding franchises.  In fact, the WBL’s first game was played before 8,000 fans at the Milwaukee Arena, with the Does losing 92-87 to the Chicago Hustle.

Even in its nascent days, the WBL carefully cultivated its image for the American public.  Despite being 40% African-American, black players were rarely seen in league advertising and promotional items.  The players’ sexuality was often used in an attempt to draw viewers.  Even the Milwaukee Does’ logo featured a mascot in short shorts sticking her tail invitingly in the air. (Sadly, the Milwaukee Bucks were never able to capitalize on the raw sexuality of Paul Mokeski.)

Perhaps the most stark example of the league selling sex to draw viewers was demonstrated by comely 1979 league co-MVP Molly “Machine Gun” Bolin of the Iowa Cornets.  Bolin, an Iowa schoolgirl legend and teenage mother who once scored 83 points in a high school game, also sought to be the league’s pinup girl.  She caused a controversy around the WBL when she posed for a Farrah Fawcett-like poster that featured her in short shorts and a mini-tank top, obviously an attempt to catch the attention of more male fans.  Later, Bolin appeared in a poster in which she menacingly toted a machine gun while wearing her Cornets uniform.

(Bolin was coached in the WBL by former Marquette standout Dean Meminger, and the Cornets franchise was owned by George Nissen, who owned a trampoline business.  Nissen purchased a customized $30,000 Greyhound bus for his players that he called “The Corndog.”)

(Editor’s note – In 1981, Sports Illustrated writer Roy S. Johnson wrote a glowing article about Bolin, saying “if beauty were a stat, Molly Bolin would be in the Hall of Fame.”  Let’s not get crazy, Roy S. Johnson.  Bolin was attractive, but attractive in a “’70s women’s basketball player kind of way.”  Much like people think Shaquille O’Neal is a world class comic just because most other NBA players are misanthropes, Bolin was certainly aided by the plain looks of her peer group.  In any decent high school, she still would have been the girl all the hot girls call to go out just because they need someone to drive.)

Double editor’s note – in the ‘70s, you couldn’t be considered a super babe until you showed up on a poster.  Certain women became household names solely because of their presence on high school boys’ walls.  We need to bring back the babe poster, for the sake of our youth.)

The league’s attempt to sell its players’ sexuality had a flip side, as well.  Many franchises went to great lengths to hide the fact that their players were lesbians.  It is undeniable that lesbians played a historically vital role in promoting women’s basketball. Yet in 1978, America obviously wasn’t nearly as accepting of homosexuality as it is now.  When the WNBA’s Sheryl Swoopes announced in 2008 that she partook of the Love that Dare Not Speak Its Name, it was about as shocking as Dwyane Wade announcing he’s black.  (That doesn’t mean that the WNBA isn’t still trying to shake the perception that its players and fans are lesbians – some teams in the league still won’t do the popular “kiss cams” on their jumbotrons for fear that young fans might actually see women kissing. Which is really the only reason people still get Cinemax.)

But in 1979, gay female basketball players weren’t accorded the privilege of living their lives in the open.  In “Shattering the Glass: The Remarkable History of Women’s Basketball,” authors Pamela Grundy and Susan Shackleford detail the travails of Mariah Burton Nelson, who was released from the San Francisco Pioneers for merely attending a gay pride parade.  She never played regularly in the league again.

As the authors point out, the WBL was a double-edged sword for these players: it gave them the opportunity to do what they loved for a living, but at the cost of having to publicly hide who they really were. (Semi-interesting trivia: the Pioneers were partly owned by Alan Alda.)

Despite the excitement over the first league game in Milwaukee, the Does remained mired in the league’s cellar for their two years in the league.  In 1978-79, they went 11-23, following up with a 10-24 season in 1979-80.  For a portion of the second year, the team was coached by Larry Costello, who also coached the Bucks in their inaugural season, winning an NBA championship with the team in 1971.  Costello later resigned, saying he wasn’t being paid by the franchise.

Yet despite being the home to minor stars like Olympians Anne Meyers and Nancy Lieberman, the league struggled mightily to draw fans.  It didn’t help that reporters were banned from locker rooms (since they were almost always male), leading many to simply ignore the league altogether.  Meyers, with the richest contract in the WBL at $100,000 per year, would later garner media attention for attempting to try out for the Indiana Pacers of the NBA.

During the league’s first two years, several teams folded in mid-season, as franchises were hemorrhaging money.  The league’s players were subjected to long bus rides, empty arenas, and their paychecks bouncing.  The Does attempted to fold in the middle of the 1979-80 season, but the league deemed them too important to fail, so the WBL came up with money and new ownership to save the franchise.

But it wasn’t enough.  The Does folded after the ’79-80 season, and the WBL as a whole lasted only one season beyond that.  The league’s financial troubles came to a head in 1981, when members of the Minnesota Fillies walked off the court in Chicago to protest the fact that they weren’t being paid.

It didn’t help that the WBL suddenly faced competition from the Ladies Professional Basketball Association (LPBA), which stole a chunk of the WBL’s market and players even as their teams were already struggling financially.  Bolin took her 32.8 points per game to the Southern California Breeze of the LPBA, which agreed to pay her the princely sum of $30,000.  Ironically, the LPBA folded after only a few games, and many of its players returned to the WBL.

The league finally closed its doors after the 1981 season.  As it turns out, the Does ended up being groundbreaking in one respect – they donned uniforms of purple and forest green well before the Bucks changed to those colors in the 1990’s.  In fact, the Bucks have recently begun holding “basketball basics for women” seminars featuring former Does player Joanne Smith.**  (Bucks fans are hoping the team changes these seminars into tryouts, as the Bucks badly need a shooting guard.)

As for the WNBA, their league is learning many of the same lessons taught to us by the WBL.  It appears the market for professional women’s basketball hasn’t grown, even with the substantial financial backing of the NBA.  (And, presumably, because not enough of their players have been posing with machine guns.)

For more information on the WBL and Milwaukee Does, check out the WBL Memories Webpage and  “Shattering the Glass: The Remarkable History of Women’s Basketball,” by Pamela Grundy and Susan Shackleford.

*For some reason, this same aesthetic standard doesn’t apply to men on TV.  They’ll let any guy on TV, no matter how ugly.  Here’s proof:

** – My friends and I have always had debates about whether it’s better to date a girl who knows a lot about sports versus one that knows nothing. (An argument stated magnificently by Davy Rothbart in this GQ column.)  I’ve always believed I’ve been more compatible with girls who didn’t know anything about sports. (Actually, I couldn’t be very picky – I generally decided I was “compatible” with a girl if she had a pulse, more than three teeth, and wasn’t on parole.)  It sounds great in theory – having something as important as sports to relate to with your girlfriend – but isn’t it nice if your significant other has the ability to make you a more complete person by illuminating new areas of your life? And big boobs?

If a guy walks into a bank and steals $100 million with a gun, he goes to prison.  If he steals it with a syringe, apparently all he has to do is shed some tears and all is forgiven.

Yesterday, Mark McGwire sat in front of Bob Costas for an interview in which he admitted what he had denied for nearly a decade – that he used steroids and human growth hormone during his record-setting major league career.  (In other equally shocking news, Liberace announced yesterday that he is still dead.)

During the Costas interview, McGwire kept repeating how much he’s wanted to come forward and admit his “mistake” ever since his disastrous testimony before Congress in 2005.  Yet he has only come forth because he’s been offered the opportunity to be the St. Louis Cardinals’ hitting coach.  Apparently this desire to come clean wasn’t quite strong enough until Tony LaRussa offered him a job. (Incidentally, LaRussa is the only one in contention with Barry Bonds for the title of “Biggest A-hole in Baseball.”  You’d be better off having Kim Jong Il vouch for you.)

McGwire would have you believe that this whole ordeal is all about him – how hard it has been on him to hang on to this “secret,” how hard it was to tell his son and father, etc.  But it stopped being about him a long time ago.  He’s hoping people view his steroid use a victimless crime – a mere boneheaded youthful transgression that allowed him to heal his bad back.  (“OOOPS!  Sorry I accidentally erased all your record books, baseball!  My bad!”)

But McGwire’s steroid use has a further reach than he apparently can grasp.  For one, he is a common thief.  Records show that McGwire made approximately $74.7 million in baseball salary in his career – over 2/3rds of which was earned after he is alleged to have taken steroids to repair his bad back.  Without them, he could have easily been out of the game. (See 1991, when McGwire played in 154 games, yet hit only .201 with 22 home runs – numbers that couldn’t get you playing time as a Brewer middle infielder.)

Those salary numbers don’t even include endorsement money, which could easily have doubled his income.  And it’s safe to say that the lion’s share of it was earned because of his use of illegal performance enhancing drugs.  That’s money that comes out of the pockets of fans, who believed that what they were seeing on the field was a genuine artifact.

Furthermore, what’s being lost in all the steroids talk is that what McGwire did actually altered the competitive balance of the game. (And yes, this also goes for everyone else that was doing steroids at the same time.)  But games were won and lost because of steroid use, which made major league baseball a contest of test tubes, rather than hard work and skill.  Won/loss records are sacrosanct in sports – it’s all they have to separate themselves from scripted events like “Jersey Shore” episodes.  (The only place on TV where you might be able to see more steroids in use than on a baseball field. And that’s the SITUATION.)

(Incidentally, I said the same thing in 2007 about the Brewers signing steroid user Eric Gagne.  Gagne stole our money by signing a contract based on fraudulent numbers. And I thought it should have been obvious that Fernando Vina was on the juice – nobody can maintain such a perfect goatee without performance enhancers.)

So if you want to have sympathy for anyone, have sympathy for the fans of teams who lost because McGwire was hitting 15% more home runs in a year than anyone had before.  Have sympathy for the marginal player who couldn’t get a major league contract because of McGwire’s bloated salary.  Have sympathy for the family members of Roger Maris, who were used as pawns in the great McGwire/Sosa charade of 1998.  Have sympathy for Milwaukee’s favorite son, Hank Aaron, whose records have been wiped off the books for good.

I’ve heard some people argue that McGwire should be given sympathy because his tearful apology seemed so much more genuine than Alex Rodriguez’.  Unfortunately, we don’t judge the validity of baseball records based on the activity of a player’s tear ducts.

But what’s truly sad is that Big Mac still clings to the chimera that steroids didn’t help him hit home runs.  This fallacy is only believed by the people who are still running around the globe looking for Barack Obama’s birth certificate.

It appears that Hall of Fame voters have taken the common sense approach and seem poised to ban McGwire from the Hall for life.  They could build three more Halls of Fame and McGwire wouldn’t get in.  He says he regrets playing in the “steroid era,” apparently oblivious to the fact that he helped create the era. (Conceivably, no players could be inducted to the Hall of Fame for 10 to 15 years, given the fact that they shared the “era” with Bonds and McGwire.)

So we get that McGwire is sorry.  But is he sorry enough to give back the $100 million he stole from us?  Is he sorry enough to decline entry back into the game as a hitting coach?  Is he sorry enough to have his numbers wiped from the books or to suffer the consequences for criminally taking illegal substances?  I think we know the answer.