Record-Press
Matt Kiebus
June 27, 2008
WESTFIELD- One year from now, Westfield High School pitcher Chris Jenkins might be a first round pick in the Major League Baseball draft.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Despite sky-high expectations, Jenkins keeps a level head
What's worse than watching Packers-Giants alone? Watching alone in a country that doesn't care at all
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 1/29/08 Section: Sports
ROME -- Greetings. I'm in a foreign land where wine is cheaper than a bottle of water, and the natives play the wrong type of football. The Mitchell Report, Roger Clemens, steroids -- baseball in general -- are not talked about, watched or even acknowledged.
On my first day I watched a handball match between Germany and Montenegro on TV. The German-speaking announcers were beyond enthusiastic; they gave Spanish soccer announcers a run for their money.
To put it simply, it's another world over here, and it's really hard to keep up with the American sports scene because of the six-hour time difference, lack of televised games and Internet.
However, I'm lucky my host family has a package called SKY sports. Basically it shows a lot of soccer, European basketball, volleyball, taped NBA games and amazingly live feeds of the NFL playoffs.
Yes, Joe Buck is just as annoying.
I was awake until 4:15 in the morning watching the Giants-Packers game because I feel morally obligated to watch my father, Brett Favre, play anytime he is on TV. (Favre is second only to Bruce Springsteen on my list of false idols.) I was decked out in my flannel shirt and Wrangler jeans; I didn't shave for a week in anticipation.
As the night wore on, and the "gunslinger" was slinging in the direction of the weak Giants secondary, I prepared myself for what I felt was an eminent Giants-Patriots Super Bowl.
Then Lawrence Tynes missed a field goal. Then he missed again. A brutal death surely awaited upon his return to New York (or the Giants sideline).
Then the Packers won the toss in overtime. All was right with the world; the most rugged man alive was heading back to the mountain top, and he was going to carry the Packers to a monumental victory over the Patriots.
Then the Giants won.
Picture the scene. Me. Alone. I was lying on the couch -- getting cold just watching the game -- munching on bad potato chips and sipping a Coca-Cola that I paid five euro for. I knew Loyola's campus was erupting, and thanks to the late-great Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., you had into the early morning to celebrate.
On my first day I watched a handball match between Germany and Montenegro on TV. The German-speaking announcers were beyond enthusiastic; they gave Spanish soccer announcers a run for their money.
To put it simply, it's another world over here, and it's really hard to keep up with the American sports scene because of the six-hour time difference, lack of televised games and Internet.
However, I'm lucky my host family has a package called SKY sports. Basically it shows a lot of soccer, European basketball, volleyball, taped NBA games and amazingly live feeds of the NFL playoffs.
Yes, Joe Buck is just as annoying.
I was awake until 4:15 in the morning watching the Giants-Packers game because I feel morally obligated to watch my father, Brett Favre, play anytime he is on TV. (Favre is second only to Bruce Springsteen on my list of false idols.) I was decked out in my flannel shirt and Wrangler jeans; I didn't shave for a week in anticipation.
As the night wore on, and the "gunslinger" was slinging in the direction of the weak Giants secondary, I prepared myself for what I felt was an eminent Giants-Patriots Super Bowl.
Then Lawrence Tynes missed a field goal. Then he missed again. A brutal death surely awaited upon his return to New York (or the Giants sideline).
Then the Packers won the toss in overtime. All was right with the world; the most rugged man alive was heading back to the mountain top, and he was going to carry the Packers to a monumental victory over the Patriots.
Then the Giants won.
Picture the scene. Me. Alone. I was lying on the couch -- getting cold just watching the game -- munching on bad potato chips and sipping a Coca-Cola that I paid five euro for. I knew Loyola's campus was erupting, and thanks to the late-great Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., you had into the early morning to celebrate.
After the deflating Favre loss, I was fortunate enough to have a three-hour ethics class on less than four hours of sleep. My mind wandered (we were studying Plato). I sat there angrily, questioning a world that not only let Brett Favre lose, but could allow a Giants-Patriots Super Bowl.
Are you kidding me? What in the name of Don Shula did we do to deserve this? OK, it'll probably be a great game, and will attract one of the biggest markets ever for a Super Bowl. It takes the New York-Boston rivalry to another level. But, for all the non-Giants and Patriots fans in the world, we are forced to choose between the lesser of two evils. I can only think of two reasons to root for the Patriots: remember how much we all hate Miami, and Teddy Bruschi, the nicest linebacker alive.
I'm a Buffalo Bills fan. (Feel free to laugh.) Trust me, the games just aren't that exciting when your last playoff memory was the Music City Miracle 10 years ago. We also lost to the Giants once. Ever heard of Scott Norwood, or wide right?
Pardon my cynicism, but Patriots fans are the most obnoxious on the planet, narrowly beating out Eagles, Yankees and Duke fans. They also narrowly beat the Bills this season by a combined 94 to 17.
Bill Belichick is great coach and also of other things that aren't appropriate to print. Tom Brady's ascots and velvet jackets get on a lot of people's nerves and Rodney Harrison likes steroids.
Giants fans are almost hilarious in their ridiculousness. I've never seen a group of fans hate everything about their team more than Giants fans at different points in the season. Tom Coughlin was supposed to get fired about 15 times by now, according to astute fans and the New York tabloids.
Eli Manning? The "awe-shucks" son of the NFL first family has been the most hated man in New York for a couple years now. Frankly, Isaiah Thomas would even admit that.
Of course this all changed after his victory over the Packers. Eli beat Favre in Green Bay when it was negative- four degrees out. Before Week 15, Giants fans were calling for his head. All season, when the New York Football Giants had a commanding lead in the division, fans wanted him traded.
"He doesn't have the killer edge;" "Eli sucks" -- that was the normal public opinion. Well, he just led your team to the Super Bowl. Be happy for once, but just hope he doesn't channel Kerry Collins, your last NFC Championship quarterback.
All that being said, I like Eli and the Giants by three over the Patriots.
I've probably made a good amount of enemies with this article, and I'm quite upset that I'm missing the hype leading up to the game, but I'll settle for my Venice trip this weekend.
As for the Super Bowl, the most watched American sporting event each year, I'm going to be in Tuscany, wine tasting with my class.
If anyone would like to send me a nacho platter and some buffalo wings, it would be much appreciated.
Are you kidding me? What in the name of Don Shula did we do to deserve this? OK, it'll probably be a great game, and will attract one of the biggest markets ever for a Super Bowl. It takes the New York-Boston rivalry to another level. But, for all the non-Giants and Patriots fans in the world, we are forced to choose between the lesser of two evils. I can only think of two reasons to root for the Patriots: remember how much we all hate Miami, and Teddy Bruschi, the nicest linebacker alive.
I'm a Buffalo Bills fan. (Feel free to laugh.) Trust me, the games just aren't that exciting when your last playoff memory was the Music City Miracle 10 years ago. We also lost to the Giants once. Ever heard of Scott Norwood, or wide right?
Pardon my cynicism, but Patriots fans are the most obnoxious on the planet, narrowly beating out Eagles, Yankees and Duke fans. They also narrowly beat the Bills this season by a combined 94 to 17.
Bill Belichick is great coach and also of other things that aren't appropriate to print. Tom Brady's ascots and velvet jackets get on a lot of people's nerves and Rodney Harrison likes steroids.
Giants fans are almost hilarious in their ridiculousness. I've never seen a group of fans hate everything about their team more than Giants fans at different points in the season. Tom Coughlin was supposed to get fired about 15 times by now, according to astute fans and the New York tabloids.
Eli Manning? The "awe-shucks" son of the NFL first family has been the most hated man in New York for a couple years now. Frankly, Isaiah Thomas would even admit that.
Of course this all changed after his victory over the Packers. Eli beat Favre in Green Bay when it was negative- four degrees out. Before Week 15, Giants fans were calling for his head. All season, when the New York Football Giants had a commanding lead in the division, fans wanted him traded.
"He doesn't have the killer edge;" "Eli sucks" -- that was the normal public opinion. Well, he just led your team to the Super Bowl. Be happy for once, but just hope he doesn't channel Kerry Collins, your last NFC Championship quarterback.
All that being said, I like Eli and the Giants by three over the Patriots.
I've probably made a good amount of enemies with this article, and I'm quite upset that I'm missing the hype leading up to the game, but I'll settle for my Venice trip this weekend.
As for the Super Bowl, the most watched American sporting event each year, I'm going to be in Tuscany, wine tasting with my class.
If anyone would like to send me a nacho platter and some buffalo wings, it would be much appreciated.
Loyola students expect big things for consistent attendance and fan support
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 1/27/09 Section: Sports
Loyola College in Maryland is not known for our sports, we never have been, but as our school is gaining popularity and notoriety our sports program has been receiving more attention. Whether we deserve it or not is up for debate, but recently there have been complaints about our student body's attendance at our sporting events, most specifically men's basketball. While the pleas for bigger crowds are understandable, so are the reasons for people not being there.
Loyola lacks tradition, I'm completely aware we have been around for 157 years, but we have undergone many drastic changes in the last quarter century and are still cementing our identity. The sports scene is behind the curve. The school's goal is to become one of the premier catholic universities in the United States; we need an athletic department to match. In a recent Loyola Magazine article was a ranking of the top 10 moments in Loyola Basketball's 100 years. Our number one moment was making the NCAA tournament and losing in the first round. Granted that was a special team, lead by the late Skip Proser and point guard Tracy Bergan, but what progress have we made since then? Wake Forest's basketball team has been ranked No. 1 in the country this year. Their coach is Dino Gaudio, Loyola's men's coach in the late-90s. He was an under 500 coach at the Evergreen, now he's no longer coaching in empty gyms, he's in packed houses. He's obviously a good coach, but why couldn't he succeed in Baltimore? A better question is can anyone?
I'm one of the few non-fair-weather Greyhounds fans; I've seen the 15 person crowds and yes it is sad. The real question is why so few people? The student body and alumni expect more from our current teams. The type of student Loyola attracts are winners, and lets face it, we aren't winning. Students don't care when our teams lose, but we desperately want something to be proud of. In my four years I have encountered one team that played and acted like winners. This year's soccer team had confidence, they had swagger, they fought their way to the No.6 team in the nation, and then fell flat on their face in the NCAA tournament. I tip my hat to their season, but we expected more. Basketball goes to the MAAC semi's last year and blows a 17-point second half lead to Siena. The same team we beat twice in the regular season and embarrassed at our home gym. Siena went on to the NCAA tournament and made it to the second round. Again I tip my hat to the basketball team, we've come a long way, but we expect more.
Loyola lacks tradition, I'm completely aware we have been around for 157 years, but we have undergone many drastic changes in the last quarter century and are still cementing our identity. The sports scene is behind the curve. The school's goal is to become one of the premier catholic universities in the United States; we need an athletic department to match. In a recent Loyola Magazine article was a ranking of the top 10 moments in Loyola Basketball's 100 years. Our number one moment was making the NCAA tournament and losing in the first round. Granted that was a special team, lead by the late Skip Proser and point guard Tracy Bergan, but what progress have we made since then? Wake Forest's basketball team has been ranked No. 1 in the country this year. Their coach is Dino Gaudio, Loyola's men's coach in the late-90s. He was an under 500 coach at the Evergreen, now he's no longer coaching in empty gyms, he's in packed houses. He's obviously a good coach, but why couldn't he succeed in Baltimore? A better question is can anyone?
I'm one of the few non-fair-weather Greyhounds fans; I've seen the 15 person crowds and yes it is sad. The real question is why so few people? The student body and alumni expect more from our current teams. The type of student Loyola attracts are winners, and lets face it, we aren't winning. Students don't care when our teams lose, but we desperately want something to be proud of. In my four years I have encountered one team that played and acted like winners. This year's soccer team had confidence, they had swagger, they fought their way to the No.6 team in the nation, and then fell flat on their face in the NCAA tournament. I tip my hat to their season, but we expected more. Basketball goes to the MAAC semi's last year and blows a 17-point second half lead to Siena. The same team we beat twice in the regular season and embarrassed at our home gym. Siena went on to the NCAA tournament and made it to the second round. Again I tip my hat to the basketball team, we've come a long way, but we expect more.
The lacrosse team is the most recognized Loyola sports program. Under former head coach Dave Cottle we were a force, a perennial top 5 team, reaching national semi-finals and making the national championship in 1990. Now we're celebrating just making the tournament. This generation of Loyola students doesn't want to settle for mediocrity, quite frankly we just won't. What the school needs to realize is that we aren't a school that kids grown up rooting for, Greyhound green is not Tar Heel or Duke blue. This is a school where students root for other colleges more than for the one we attend. Of my closest friends there is a Pitt Panthers fan, Arizona Wildcats fan, and a Maryland Terrapins fan. They are all proud Loyola students who love sports, but Greyhound games never captivated them.
Seniors long for Andre Collins hitting 40-foot trey-balls, one senior said, "I'd rather watch Andre Collins vie for the national scoring title than our current team. I miss the days when the 'safe staff' didn't ruin all the fun of the basketball games." In countless interviews of the current student body, many people couldn't name five players on the basketball team. The amount of people that can talk intelligently about Loyola basketball is pathetically minuscule. I feel as though I'm maybe one of 20. I wish I were joking. How many people know that Jamal Barney has scored 40 points twice this season? A feat no one in school history has accomplished, not even Collins and Gerald Brown.
How do we solve this? Win. Want to get the student body excited? Win more. Want to see crowds like the season opener in basketball more often? Keep winning. It's easy to say Loyola students are bandwagon fans, but sports are comprised of bandwagon fans from high school to profession ranks. How many were Arizona Cardinals fan before the playoffs? How many people rooted for the Tampa Bay Rays before the World Series? Philadelphia shortstop, Jimmy Rollins, criticized his own city calling them bandwagon and fair-weather fans. Guess what? He was right, but how many of those same fans euphorically celebrated at the World Series Championship parade?
Like many Loyola students I went to a high school with a powerhouse sports program, and I went to all the games, I had pride in them. People just don't feel that way about Loyola. Once we got a taste of winning, we got spoiled. There are higher expectations, so are the goals. In a recent Greyhound article, Loyola was depicted as aspiring to be a Gonzaga or Villanova. I'm sorry but we aren't them, we will never be them. Even if, God willing, we build a basketball powerhouse, we will do it the Loyola way.
We want to be inspired. We want packed houses and national attention. But criticizing students for not going to games isn't going to help. We will never be too proud, however, to hop on the bandwagon.
Seniors long for Andre Collins hitting 40-foot trey-balls, one senior said, "I'd rather watch Andre Collins vie for the national scoring title than our current team. I miss the days when the 'safe staff' didn't ruin all the fun of the basketball games." In countless interviews of the current student body, many people couldn't name five players on the basketball team. The amount of people that can talk intelligently about Loyola basketball is pathetically minuscule. I feel as though I'm maybe one of 20. I wish I were joking. How many people know that Jamal Barney has scored 40 points twice this season? A feat no one in school history has accomplished, not even Collins and Gerald Brown.
How do we solve this? Win. Want to get the student body excited? Win more. Want to see crowds like the season opener in basketball more often? Keep winning. It's easy to say Loyola students are bandwagon fans, but sports are comprised of bandwagon fans from high school to profession ranks. How many were Arizona Cardinals fan before the playoffs? How many people rooted for the Tampa Bay Rays before the World Series? Philadelphia shortstop, Jimmy Rollins, criticized his own city calling them bandwagon and fair-weather fans. Guess what? He was right, but how many of those same fans euphorically celebrated at the World Series Championship parade?
Like many Loyola students I went to a high school with a powerhouse sports program, and I went to all the games, I had pride in them. People just don't feel that way about Loyola. Once we got a taste of winning, we got spoiled. There are higher expectations, so are the goals. In a recent Greyhound article, Loyola was depicted as aspiring to be a Gonzaga or Villanova. I'm sorry but we aren't them, we will never be them. Even if, God willing, we build a basketball powerhouse, we will do it the Loyola way.
We want to be inspired. We want packed houses and national attention. But criticizing students for not going to games isn't going to help. We will never be too proud, however, to hop on the bandwagon.
Scholz shines in Beijing, returns to LC amid praise, adulation
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 10/14/08 Section: Sports
One year ago Phil Scholz and Taxi walked the Evergreen campus in anonymity. He was a blind student lead by his yellow Labrador retriever. People knew who Scholz was, but no one knew Phil, the talented student-athlete who was about to take the campus by storm.
Flash forward one year later.
Now Scholz is one of the most well known students on campus. In the past year his story has been featured on ESPN.com, in the Baltimore Sun, and local TV stations. He threw out the first pitch at a Baltimore Orioles game. He was nominated for an ESPY in the category of Best Male Athlete with a Disability. He has set American swimming records almost every time he jumped in a pool. After his publicity and record swim times, Scholz earned a spot on the U.S. Paralympic team. From anonymity to limelight, Scholz found himself swimming in "The Cube" in Beijing one week after Baltimore's golden child Michael Phelps proved he isn't human and actually a fish.
Scholz's last year has been a fairytale, and the trip to Beijing was the pinnacle.
"Someone really had to pinch me," joked Scholz.
Before Scholz flew to Beijing, he ventured to Colorado where he met the U.S. Paralympic team. Scholz spent three days in Colorado, getting oriented to his eight new coaches and thirty-seven teammates, before flying across the world to compete in Beijing against world class athletes in a venue that is truly one of a kind.
However, Scholz's next stop on his Paralympic journey was Kadina Air Force base in Japan where he and the rest of the U.S. team got adjusted to the 12-hour time difference between Baltimore and Japan. Here, the team continued to bond and build chemistry. Scholz was one of the many Paralympic rookies on the team, which roughly made up one third of the team. He was one of three legally blind swimmers on the team; however, he was the only completely blind swimmer.
The Paralympic games take place one week after the Olympic games conclude. The Paralympic athletes are treated the same as Olympic athletes. They live in the Olympic village with athletes from countries all around the world. Scholz met athletes from Poland, Ukraine, Japan and, of course, China. While he lived in the Olympic village, Scholz and the other athletes traded their countries pins, and Scholz came back to the United States with around 50.
The opening ceremonies at the Paralympic games also took place in the "Bird's Nest." If you recall the four hour ceremony with the amazing synchronized dancers and visually stunning pyrotechnics, this is the same venue. The American Paralympic team walked out waving to the crowd in the same Ralph Lauren outfits that Phelps, Katie Hoff and the Redeem Team sported during the opening ceremony.
Loyola swim coach Brian Loeffler and his family also went to Beijing to cheer on Scholz.
"To see him compete in such an amazing facility was a once in a lifetime experience," said Loeffler. "The Chinese did everything to make it look and feel like the Olympics."
Many of Scholz's German family also flew out to Beijing to root him on.
"They were excited for me and really excited for Taxi," said Scholz.
Scholz qualified for five events at the swimming competition: 100 meter butterfly, 400 meter freestyle, 100 meter freestyle, 100 meter backstroke and 50 meter freestyle. The big difference between swimming in the Olympics and Paralympics was that the finals in the Olympics were held in the morning because of the star power of Michael Phelps; the time difference let his races air live in prime time. The Paralympic qualifying races were held in the morning, and the finals were at night.
Scholz qualified for the finals in the 100 meter butterfly and the 400 meter freestyle. He finished eighth in the 100 meter fly and fifth in the 400 meter freestyle. Scholz led the 400 free after the first 100 meters and was in medal contention after 300 meters. Although Scholz didn't medal during his first trip to the Paralympics, the journey was still a fulfilling experience.
"The games were an experience I'd never trade for the world." Said Scholz
Outside the competition, Scholz got to experience some sight-seeing in China. The Paralympic team made a trip to visit the Great Wall of China, the only manmade structure you can see from space and the Beijing Silk Market.
"The builders of the Great Wall probably never thought a group of Paralympic athletes would be trying to navigate the Great Wall," said Scholz.
Scholz always shows a good sense of humor with his disability. On the flight home he was seated in the exit row. When the flight attendant noticed this, he responded he might not be the best person to sit there in case of an emergency.
The next step is London in 2012, where Loeffler believes Scholz should be in medal contention in the 100 meter butterfly and 400 meter freestyle.
But for now, Phil Scholz is just another sophomore at Loyola College, with one hell of a story.
Flash forward one year later.
Now Scholz is one of the most well known students on campus. In the past year his story has been featured on ESPN.com, in the Baltimore Sun, and local TV stations. He threw out the first pitch at a Baltimore Orioles game. He was nominated for an ESPY in the category of Best Male Athlete with a Disability. He has set American swimming records almost every time he jumped in a pool. After his publicity and record swim times, Scholz earned a spot on the U.S. Paralympic team. From anonymity to limelight, Scholz found himself swimming in "The Cube" in Beijing one week after Baltimore's golden child Michael Phelps proved he isn't human and actually a fish.
Scholz's last year has been a fairytale, and the trip to Beijing was the pinnacle.
"Someone really had to pinch me," joked Scholz.
Before Scholz flew to Beijing, he ventured to Colorado where he met the U.S. Paralympic team. Scholz spent three days in Colorado, getting oriented to his eight new coaches and thirty-seven teammates, before flying across the world to compete in Beijing against world class athletes in a venue that is truly one of a kind.
However, Scholz's next stop on his Paralympic journey was Kadina Air Force base in Japan where he and the rest of the U.S. team got adjusted to the 12-hour time difference between Baltimore and Japan. Here, the team continued to bond and build chemistry. Scholz was one of the many Paralympic rookies on the team, which roughly made up one third of the team. He was one of three legally blind swimmers on the team; however, he was the only completely blind swimmer.
The Paralympic games take place one week after the Olympic games conclude. The Paralympic athletes are treated the same as Olympic athletes. They live in the Olympic village with athletes from countries all around the world. Scholz met athletes from Poland, Ukraine, Japan and, of course, China. While he lived in the Olympic village, Scholz and the other athletes traded their countries pins, and Scholz came back to the United States with around 50.
The opening ceremonies at the Paralympic games also took place in the "Bird's Nest." If you recall the four hour ceremony with the amazing synchronized dancers and visually stunning pyrotechnics, this is the same venue. The American Paralympic team walked out waving to the crowd in the same Ralph Lauren outfits that Phelps, Katie Hoff and the Redeem Team sported during the opening ceremony.
Loyola swim coach Brian Loeffler and his family also went to Beijing to cheer on Scholz.
"To see him compete in such an amazing facility was a once in a lifetime experience," said Loeffler. "The Chinese did everything to make it look and feel like the Olympics."
Many of Scholz's German family also flew out to Beijing to root him on.
"They were excited for me and really excited for Taxi," said Scholz.
Scholz qualified for five events at the swimming competition: 100 meter butterfly, 400 meter freestyle, 100 meter freestyle, 100 meter backstroke and 50 meter freestyle. The big difference between swimming in the Olympics and Paralympics was that the finals in the Olympics were held in the morning because of the star power of Michael Phelps; the time difference let his races air live in prime time. The Paralympic qualifying races were held in the morning, and the finals were at night.
Scholz qualified for the finals in the 100 meter butterfly and the 400 meter freestyle. He finished eighth in the 100 meter fly and fifth in the 400 meter freestyle. Scholz led the 400 free after the first 100 meters and was in medal contention after 300 meters. Although Scholz didn't medal during his first trip to the Paralympics, the journey was still a fulfilling experience.
"The games were an experience I'd never trade for the world." Said Scholz
Outside the competition, Scholz got to experience some sight-seeing in China. The Paralympic team made a trip to visit the Great Wall of China, the only manmade structure you can see from space and the Beijing Silk Market.
"The builders of the Great Wall probably never thought a group of Paralympic athletes would be trying to navigate the Great Wall," said Scholz.
Scholz always shows a good sense of humor with his disability. On the flight home he was seated in the exit row. When the flight attendant noticed this, he responded he might not be the best person to sit there in case of an emergency.
The next step is London in 2012, where Loeffler believes Scholz should be in medal contention in the 100 meter butterfly and 400 meter freestyle.
But for now, Phil Scholz is just another sophomore at Loyola College, with one hell of a story.
Swimming and diving open the new season in style
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 10/14/08 Section: Sports
Loyola's swim team opened the year with a major splash. It was an exciting day at the Mangione Aquatic Center on Saturday, as nine records fell in a quad meet against Boston College, Catholic University of America and the U.S. Naval Academy.
Two Loyola school records were broken, the men's 100m backstroke and the women's 200m individual medley.
Three pool records were broken, women's 50m freestyle and women's 1 and two meter diving. Phil Scholz set four more American records as he continues to set Paralympic marks.
Loyola's men defeated both Boston College and Catholic University, while the Greyhound women were victorious over Catholic.
Navy came out on top of the meet, defeating Loyola, Boston College and Catholic University on both the men's and women's side.
"It was thrill to see how fast our men swam in the first relay," said Loyola coach Brian Loeffler. "They set the tone for what was a great first meet for us."
"I know they were excited to win the relay and almost break the school record. We do not typically break school relay records until MAAC's."
In her first collegiate meet, Courtney Trivino made waves, not only in the pool but on the Loyola record book. Trivino set a school record in the 200-yard individual medley, winning the event in a time of 2:10.77.
"Courtney had 4 great races today. It was very impressive for her to break a school record in her final event of the day, after some challenging swims earlier." Said Loeffler
Sam McQuaid was the other Loyola school-record setting swimmer on Saturday. McQuaid smashed his own Loyola mark in the 100-yard backstroke, winning the event in 51.72. Knocking .39 off his previous best of 52.11, set last season.
Loyola's Philip Scholz set four more American Paralympics Records in the S11 category- bringing his total to 19 for his career.
"Philip has picked up where he left off last season, rewriting the American record books for blind athletes," Loeffler said. "I expect more will fall as the season continues."
Other winning Greyhounds on the afternoon were sophomore Ozzy Torres, who took the 100-yard butterfly, sophomore Matt Fralinger who won the 100-yard breaststroke, and the 200-yard freestlyle and medley men's relay teams.
The Greyhounds continue their season on October 25 for their annual Alumni Meet at 1 p.m.
Two Loyola school records were broken, the men's 100m backstroke and the women's 200m individual medley.
Three pool records were broken, women's 50m freestyle and women's 1 and two meter diving. Phil Scholz set four more American records as he continues to set Paralympic marks.
Loyola's men defeated both Boston College and Catholic University, while the Greyhound women were victorious over Catholic.
Navy came out on top of the meet, defeating Loyola, Boston College and Catholic University on both the men's and women's side.
"It was thrill to see how fast our men swam in the first relay," said Loyola coach Brian Loeffler. "They set the tone for what was a great first meet for us."
"I know they were excited to win the relay and almost break the school record. We do not typically break school relay records until MAAC's."
In her first collegiate meet, Courtney Trivino made waves, not only in the pool but on the Loyola record book. Trivino set a school record in the 200-yard individual medley, winning the event in a time of 2:10.77.
"Courtney had 4 great races today. It was very impressive for her to break a school record in her final event of the day, after some challenging swims earlier." Said Loeffler
Sam McQuaid was the other Loyola school-record setting swimmer on Saturday. McQuaid smashed his own Loyola mark in the 100-yard backstroke, winning the event in 51.72. Knocking .39 off his previous best of 52.11, set last season.
Loyola's Philip Scholz set four more American Paralympics Records in the S11 category- bringing his total to 19 for his career.
"Philip has picked up where he left off last season, rewriting the American record books for blind athletes," Loeffler said. "I expect more will fall as the season continues."
Other winning Greyhounds on the afternoon were sophomore Ozzy Torres, who took the 100-yard butterfly, sophomore Matt Fralinger who won the 100-yard breaststroke, and the 200-yard freestlyle and medley men's relay teams.
The Greyhounds continue their season on October 25 for their annual Alumni Meet at 1 p.m.
Emotion is key for college sports outdoing the pros
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 9/2/08 Section: Sports
elcome back to another year of shenanigans and good-hearted foolishness in the Charm City. This is the time of the year when old friends reunite, summer fades, leaves change color, the Mets hopefully don't choke, and most importantly, football season starts.
The return of college football and the NFL help create the man-weekend-paradise. No longer do I have to watch Aaron Heilman and the rest of the Met bullpen implode. Now I get to watch the Buffalo Bills consistently disappoint me.
Call me old fashioned, but my heart lies on the college gridiron rather than with the corporate NFL. Imagine being at the Big House in Ann Arbor and hearing "Hail to the Victors" while being surrounded by a sea of maize and blue. For one second, think of being a sousaphone player (it looks like a tuba) who grew up in Ohio, and on one glorious Saturday afternoon you are sent out to the middle of the field at the Horseshoe in Columbus in front of 100,000
people with the honor of dotting the 'I'.
You can't help but admire the commitment and creativity of the student sections that drink for hours in advance at intrepid paces and then proceed to scream their lungs out in unison. From the whiteouts at Beaver Stadium at Penn State, to the orange crush at Neyland Stadium in Tennessee, the massive crowds and school spirit leave me awestruck.
Waking up on Saturday mornings to watch the ESPN Game Day crew and the minor riot that occurs behind them is the perfect way to nurse the Friday night hangover. Lee Corso dons mascot heads while growing moderately more senile with each new season. Kirk Herbstreit wows TV audiences across the nation with his charm and winning smile. The ever-steady Chris Fowler, who is excited to get away from announcing Breeder's Cup races and tennis, likes to unnecessarily throw in his opinions. Desmond Howard, well he's just happy to be there.
Don't get me wrong; I enjoy watching the NFL, and it gives men the viable reason to drink on Sundays while ignoring their wives/girlfriends/family/kids. When your favorite NFL team is the Buffalo Bills, the only losers of four straight super bowls, who haven't been to the playoffs since 1998, you'd be little bitter too. My early season hope always turns into late season misery.
The return of college football and the NFL help create the man-weekend-paradise. No longer do I have to watch Aaron Heilman and the rest of the Met bullpen implode. Now I get to watch the Buffalo Bills consistently disappoint me.
Call me old fashioned, but my heart lies on the college gridiron rather than with the corporate NFL. Imagine being at the Big House in Ann Arbor and hearing "Hail to the Victors" while being surrounded by a sea of maize and blue. For one second, think of being a sousaphone player (it looks like a tuba) who grew up in Ohio, and on one glorious Saturday afternoon you are sent out to the middle of the field at the Horseshoe in Columbus in front of 100,000
people with the honor of dotting the 'I'.
You can't help but admire the commitment and creativity of the student sections that drink for hours in advance at intrepid paces and then proceed to scream their lungs out in unison. From the whiteouts at Beaver Stadium at Penn State, to the orange crush at Neyland Stadium in Tennessee, the massive crowds and school spirit leave me awestruck.
Waking up on Saturday mornings to watch the ESPN Game Day crew and the minor riot that occurs behind them is the perfect way to nurse the Friday night hangover. Lee Corso dons mascot heads while growing moderately more senile with each new season. Kirk Herbstreit wows TV audiences across the nation with his charm and winning smile. The ever-steady Chris Fowler, who is excited to get away from announcing Breeder's Cup races and tennis, likes to unnecessarily throw in his opinions. Desmond Howard, well he's just happy to be there.
Don't get me wrong; I enjoy watching the NFL, and it gives men the viable reason to drink on Sundays while ignoring their wives/girlfriends/family/kids. When your favorite NFL team is the Buffalo Bills, the only losers of four straight super bowls, who haven't been to the playoffs since 1998, you'd be little bitter too. My early season hope always turns into late season misery.
What holds college football back is the postseason format. Where the BCS goes wrong, the NFL does right: playoffs.
The playoffs are the most exciting time of the year for every professional sports league, be it the NFL, NBA, MLB; and the NCAA tournament in college basketball might be the most exciting of all. However, university presidents love the money given to schools through the bowl system. They don't care about discovering the best team in college football, but hey, the Music City and Humanitarian Bowls make students and alumni giddy with excitement right?
The NFL overtime system is frankly ridiculous, and the fact that there is a possibility of a tie is such a blatantly bone-headed rule.
The college vs. pros argument stretches farther from the format of the seasons and postseason, past the fans and pre-game shows. It includes the players as well. In college, the athletes are playing for their schools, the names on their helmets, and their free educations. The percentage of college football players that go on to play professionally, whether it be in the NFL, NFL Europe, or Arena football is minuscule. College players don't play better during contract seasons. NFL players have no clue what it means to be a fan of their team.
Sure, NFL players appreciate fans' support, but do they really feel the anguish of generations of failure? Or do they even know the pain of their own defeats?
The college vs. pros argument stretches farther from the format of the seasons and postseason, past the fans and pre-game shows. It includes the players as well. In college, the athletes are playing for their schools, the names on their helmets, and their free educations. The percentage of college football players that go on to play professionally, whether it be in the NFL, NFL Europe, or Arena football is minuscule. College players don't play better during contract seasons. NFL players have no clue what it means to be a fan of their team.
Sure, NFL players appreciate fans' support, but do they really feel the anguish of generations of failure? Or do they even know the pain of their own defeats?
The college athlete knows their fan base; they live with them, go to class with them. They know what it means to be a fan. This is before they completely loose their innocence, before Escalades and mansions.
Look at football players at division three schools: they practice just as much as USC, but do they get any glory? They mostly play with fewer fans in the stands than high school teams, but the game is pure. There are no illusions of grandeur, no salary caps, no fantasy teams. Most importantly, you never have to worry about your mid-market team moving to Toronto.
Look at football players at division three schools: they practice just as much as USC, but do they get any glory? They mostly play with fewer fans in the stands than high school teams, but the game is pure. There are no illusions of grandeur, no salary caps, no fantasy teams. Most importantly, you never have to worry about your mid-market team moving to Toronto.
Matt Kiebus returns to States; final comments for the year
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 4/29/08 Section: Sports
I'm back to Loyola, first time in four-and half-months, and it feels more like home than home itself. I ate Wendy's, I played a pick up basketball game at Boy's Latin, and I was not honored at the Intramural banquet, even though I wrote a phenomenal article on it. Frankly I'm disappointed, Eric I'm talking to you.
My parents greeted me at the airport, camera in hand, capturing my jet-lagged foolishness. I have tried to do every Jersey thing you can think of, I've bought pizza (not as good as Roma), started talking gangsta', consumed a few sub sandwiches, ate a nice juicy steak, cut people off while driving, disappointedly watched the Mets blow a game to the Phillies, and thankfully have not gelled my hair.
I slept until two p.m. on Monday, I still don't have a job or internship, and at this rate I'm going to be living at home until I'm 30 years old. In fact I fully expect it.
I now am able to watch sporting events; I have been home since Sunday and have stared at ESPN for the last four days. I have not seen Kenny Mayne yet, it upsets me.
Since I have been gone Darryl Strawberry of all people has joined the Sports New York booth, and the infamous Harold Reynolds is now a part of the SNY crew as well. The New Jersey Nets are still playing at the Meadowlands; and the Baltimore Orioles were in first place when my plane landed.
The night of my return to the USA none of my friends were near me, I stumbled upon the freshman facebook for the class of 2009, noticing my friends, enemies, people I have met recently, and the unfortunately few that I never met at Reefers.
It was a nostalgic trip; I went on to look at my past yearbooks and grew upset. I'm done with classes, technically I'm considered a senior, and I'm supposed to be career oriented. The real world is one year away and I'm terrified, as is 90 percent of the rest of the class of 2009, I hope.
While jobs and internships breathe down our necks, I pass the time by thinking about Luis Castillo hitting in the "two-hole" for the Mets. I am enraptured with Lute Olson recapturing his job with the THE University of Arizona Wildcats. The Buffalo Bills selected Leodis McKelvin from Troy State University with the 11th pick in the NFL draft, a classic example of a great combine leading to a high draft pick. I am sure Leodis has been tested plenty of times by the phenomenal receivers of the Sun Belt conference.
My parents greeted me at the airport, camera in hand, capturing my jet-lagged foolishness. I have tried to do every Jersey thing you can think of, I've bought pizza (not as good as Roma), started talking gangsta', consumed a few sub sandwiches, ate a nice juicy steak, cut people off while driving, disappointedly watched the Mets blow a game to the Phillies, and thankfully have not gelled my hair.
I slept until two p.m. on Monday, I still don't have a job or internship, and at this rate I'm going to be living at home until I'm 30 years old. In fact I fully expect it.
I now am able to watch sporting events; I have been home since Sunday and have stared at ESPN for the last four days. I have not seen Kenny Mayne yet, it upsets me.
Since I have been gone Darryl Strawberry of all people has joined the Sports New York booth, and the infamous Harold Reynolds is now a part of the SNY crew as well. The New Jersey Nets are still playing at the Meadowlands; and the Baltimore Orioles were in first place when my plane landed.
The night of my return to the USA none of my friends were near me, I stumbled upon the freshman facebook for the class of 2009, noticing my friends, enemies, people I have met recently, and the unfortunately few that I never met at Reefers.
It was a nostalgic trip; I went on to look at my past yearbooks and grew upset. I'm done with classes, technically I'm considered a senior, and I'm supposed to be career oriented. The real world is one year away and I'm terrified, as is 90 percent of the rest of the class of 2009, I hope.
While jobs and internships breathe down our necks, I pass the time by thinking about Luis Castillo hitting in the "two-hole" for the Mets. I am enraptured with Lute Olson recapturing his job with the THE University of Arizona Wildcats. The Buffalo Bills selected Leodis McKelvin from Troy State University with the 11th pick in the NFL draft, a classic example of a great combine leading to a high draft pick. I am sure Leodis has been tested plenty of times by the phenomenal receivers of the Sun Belt conference.
The USA is completely different than Rome, there are no more Bangladesh people trying to sell me "magic rocks," there are houses instead of strictly apartment buildings, and Primo's STILL SUCKS.
Abroad was outrageous, our normal nights are more ridiculous than my most absurd at Loyola. Senior year is around the corner, while it is unfortunate that it is my last year on the Evergreen campus, I promise to write real hard-hitting articles, I am excited for Intramural flag-football, pick up basketball, messing with countless freshmen and enjoying the last year that my parents have to pay for.
I am excited for Loyola athletics: soccer team, after this season, if you don't win a NCAA championship I'll be disappointed. Greyhound basketball, I know you're young, but the expectations are high, show us a post-season appearance, I beg of you.
Loyola baseball, oh wait we don't have a team.
I was told we are probably changing our name to Loyola University, thanks for not distinguishing ourselves from the other three Loyola's across the States; we totally appreciate it (sarcastic).
To all my readers, all 5.4 of you, I thank you for continually dealing with my terrible grammar and stream of consciousness writing, the fact that people read what I have to say continues to amazes me.
This summer act as men and women for others and live the Jesuit ideals.
Actually visit the Jersey shore, laugh at everyone wearing sleeveless shirts, and if you see a clown trying to surf and failing miserably, that would be me, send your salutations.
Enjoy the break; I'll catch you around the corner.
Abroad was outrageous, our normal nights are more ridiculous than my most absurd at Loyola. Senior year is around the corner, while it is unfortunate that it is my last year on the Evergreen campus, I promise to write real hard-hitting articles, I am excited for Intramural flag-football, pick up basketball, messing with countless freshmen and enjoying the last year that my parents have to pay for.
I am excited for Loyola athletics: soccer team, after this season, if you don't win a NCAA championship I'll be disappointed. Greyhound basketball, I know you're young, but the expectations are high, show us a post-season appearance, I beg of you.
Loyola baseball, oh wait we don't have a team.
I was told we are probably changing our name to Loyola University, thanks for not distinguishing ourselves from the other three Loyola's across the States; we totally appreciate it (sarcastic).
To all my readers, all 5.4 of you, I thank you for continually dealing with my terrible grammar and stream of consciousness writing, the fact that people read what I have to say continues to amazes me.
This summer act as men and women for others and live the Jesuit ideals.
Actually visit the Jersey shore, laugh at everyone wearing sleeveless shirts, and if you see a clown trying to surf and failing miserably, that would be me, send your salutations.
Enjoy the break; I'll catch you around the corner.
From 'foot fairies' to soccer superfan, I'm a changed man
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 4/15/08 Section: Sports
OME - As I write this, study abroad officially ends for me in 10 days, and before next Friday I must complete two 2,000-word ethics papers, one 3,700 word paper for Pope Pius VI, one 1,500 word paper for travel writing and a 2,000 paper on Jesus. Why, you may ask, does he have so much work abroad? Frankly I haven't done anything but travel, drink and eat the last two months. It's been wonderful.
I've traveled the canals in Venice, wine tasted in an ancient castle in the Florentine hills, watched the sun set on the Amalfi coast, met the buffalos that supply our mozzarella cheese. I soaked up the rays in the Costa del Sol in Spain, I downed Guinness with high-school buddies in Dublin, and, oh yeah, I went to Amsterdam (wonder how that slipped my mind).
I schooled Italians with my basketball wizardry, Italian class schooled me -- I set record lows for my inability to speak Italian. I bought a fedora, slammed some limoncello, got lost in Rome repeatedly and fell in love, with a bar called Scholars.
One thing, however, will stick with me from Rome that I never thought would happen: I became a soccer, sorry, futball fan.
Now, this is completely out of character. Growing up, I hated "foot fairies." When people criticized baseball for being too boring I came back with, "Have you ever watched soccer?" I despised it more than lacrosse. (To clarify, I was a baseball player growing up; it was a rivalry about what was the real spring sport.)
Unless Spanish or Mexican announcers were doing the game, nothing about the "European cult" interested me. The game was slow and the players cry more than T.O. Sure, I would watch the World Cup and was bitterly disappointed at Poland, but that's about it.
Then I came to Rome. No SportsCenter, no Sports Illustrated, no ESPN, no Greyhound basketball, no Buffalo Bills football, no Arizona Basketball, no New York Mets baseball. Only AS Roma.
So it began. Games were always on the TV at dinner, and my host's boyfriend was a season-ticket holder, a Superfan of sorts. When Champions League play started I watched a city rejoice over their upset of Real Madrid. All this time I knew the game, but now I know the clubs, their histories, the players, their contracts, their absurdly attractive girlfriends. You thought being an athlete in the States got you tail? Imagine if the United States only had one sport. Life is good.
I've traveled the canals in Venice, wine tasted in an ancient castle in the Florentine hills, watched the sun set on the Amalfi coast, met the buffalos that supply our mozzarella cheese. I soaked up the rays in the Costa del Sol in Spain, I downed Guinness with high-school buddies in Dublin, and, oh yeah, I went to Amsterdam (wonder how that slipped my mind).
I schooled Italians with my basketball wizardry, Italian class schooled me -- I set record lows for my inability to speak Italian. I bought a fedora, slammed some limoncello, got lost in Rome repeatedly and fell in love, with a bar called Scholars.
One thing, however, will stick with me from Rome that I never thought would happen: I became a soccer, sorry, futball fan.
Now, this is completely out of character. Growing up, I hated "foot fairies." When people criticized baseball for being too boring I came back with, "Have you ever watched soccer?" I despised it more than lacrosse. (To clarify, I was a baseball player growing up; it was a rivalry about what was the real spring sport.)
Unless Spanish or Mexican announcers were doing the game, nothing about the "European cult" interested me. The game was slow and the players cry more than T.O. Sure, I would watch the World Cup and was bitterly disappointed at Poland, but that's about it.
Then I came to Rome. No SportsCenter, no Sports Illustrated, no ESPN, no Greyhound basketball, no Buffalo Bills football, no Arizona Basketball, no New York Mets baseball. Only AS Roma.
So it began. Games were always on the TV at dinner, and my host's boyfriend was a season-ticket holder, a Superfan of sorts. When Champions League play started I watched a city rejoice over their upset of Real Madrid. All this time I knew the game, but now I know the clubs, their histories, the players, their contracts, their absurdly attractive girlfriends. You thought being an athlete in the States got you tail? Imagine if the United States only had one sport. Life is good.
I heard the stadium from my house last week when they played Manchester United in the round of eight in the Champions League. I watched as Cristiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney shattered the dreams of Roma fans. I sulked in the bar while they played depressing music after Roma was eliminated.
There was a heart to the game, a soul. It's a culture here, like football in Green Bay or basketball in Indiana. Easy to follow and play, there are soccer pitches all over the city, from school yards to along the Tiber River. Romans and Italians are passionate about it.
I have been lucky enough to attend a game, against a small-town team, in the rain, with the cheapest seats in the stadium. It was an event. The Roma diehard fans were behind the goal waving their flags unceasingly. Their scarves are worn with pride, a badge of honor.
Win or lose, they are always there to support their team. Futball is life.
I have legitimately enjoyed every minute I've spent in Italy. Anyone reading this who is contemplating going abroad, trust me -- go. It'll be the time of your life.
It's another shot at reinventing yourself, or finding out who you really are.
I've had homemade Italian meals every night for dinner. I walk past the Spanish steps everyday for class. Michelangelo sculpted a urinal I frequent on Thursdays. I now dance -- like a fool -- but I dance none the less. I'm friends with a kid nicknamed Slayer, who has an alter-ego known as Destroyer. You can't make this stuff up.
I grew long hair. It does make you feel cooler; you were right Pete. I was introduced to a card game called superlatives. I mastered Rome's public transportation system. I listened to the Gladiator theme song in the Colosseum.
Read a John Grisham book in the Circus Maximus. Visited a brothel in the bustling city of Pompeii. Lost my keys. Met ex-Celtic Allen Ray in a bar. Found my keys. Didn't do my laundry enough. Laughed a lot. Became a little nicer.
I'm going to walk away with plenty of new friends, priceless memories and a healthy share of embarrassing moments.
I also found out that no ocean or distance can stop me from being frustrated with my sports teams. Thank you New York Mets, Arizona Wildcats and Loyola Greyhounds basketball for pissing me off once again.
Right now, I'm going to rock my fedora, possibly buy some stunna' shades and hit the town. But I'd request for someone to alert the Wendy's staff on Central Avenue in Clark, N.J., that my flight gets in at 1:30 p.m. on Sunday the 20th. Be ready.
There was a heart to the game, a soul. It's a culture here, like football in Green Bay or basketball in Indiana. Easy to follow and play, there are soccer pitches all over the city, from school yards to along the Tiber River. Romans and Italians are passionate about it.
I have been lucky enough to attend a game, against a small-town team, in the rain, with the cheapest seats in the stadium. It was an event. The Roma diehard fans were behind the goal waving their flags unceasingly. Their scarves are worn with pride, a badge of honor.
Win or lose, they are always there to support their team. Futball is life.
I have legitimately enjoyed every minute I've spent in Italy. Anyone reading this who is contemplating going abroad, trust me -- go. It'll be the time of your life.
It's another shot at reinventing yourself, or finding out who you really are.
I've had homemade Italian meals every night for dinner. I walk past the Spanish steps everyday for class. Michelangelo sculpted a urinal I frequent on Thursdays. I now dance -- like a fool -- but I dance none the less. I'm friends with a kid nicknamed Slayer, who has an alter-ego known as Destroyer. You can't make this stuff up.
I grew long hair. It does make you feel cooler; you were right Pete. I was introduced to a card game called superlatives. I mastered Rome's public transportation system. I listened to the Gladiator theme song in the Colosseum.
Read a John Grisham book in the Circus Maximus. Visited a brothel in the bustling city of Pompeii. Lost my keys. Met ex-Celtic Allen Ray in a bar. Found my keys. Didn't do my laundry enough. Laughed a lot. Became a little nicer.
I'm going to walk away with plenty of new friends, priceless memories and a healthy share of embarrassing moments.
I also found out that no ocean or distance can stop me from being frustrated with my sports teams. Thank you New York Mets, Arizona Wildcats and Loyola Greyhounds basketball for pissing me off once again.
Right now, I'm going to rock my fedora, possibly buy some stunna' shades and hit the town. But I'd request for someone to alert the Wendy's staff on Central Avenue in Clark, N.J., that my flight gets in at 1:30 p.m. on Sunday the 20th. Be ready.
I thought the Air Jordan brand made basketball a universal sport -- apparently Rome didn't get the memo
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 2/26/08 Section: Sports
ROME -- If you are a middle-of-the-road pick-up basketball player with limited high school experience, a vertical leap of two centimeters and looking for a self-esteem boost, consider playing against some Italians.
Now, to clarify, by "Italians" I mean "Romans," who dribble a lot better with their feet than their hands.
Everywhere you go in the United States you can find a basketball court, especially in a city. In fact, the game is so diverse in the States you can find various levels of competition suitable to your skill level and experience.
There are the up-tempo games with young, athletic, good players, to half-court games with middle-aged balding guys. And for the novices out there, there's always a "jungle-juice" court with a little bit of everything: skill level, gender, age, color, creed. (This is normally a favorite court because of the satisfaction people receive from swatting an 8-year-old girl's shot into the street where a car proceeds to run the ball over. True story.)
But I digress.
It is impossible to find a public court inside the city walls of Rome. A few days ago I strolled through my neighborhood for over two hours looking for a place to shoot around. I walked the streets with my new European outdoor basketball and the Space Jam soundtrack thumping on my iPod. I was so ready, and so American. I might as well have been wearing the stars and stripes as a cape.
Jogging and dribbling around the neighborhood resulted in confused glares from the natives.
A couple Italian teens actually took my basketball to demonstrate their "Ronaldino-like football skills." Basically, they played "keep away from the American" then proceeded to punt the ball 30 yards - - wait, 27.1 meters. We then exchanged pleasantries, meaning I introduced them to a few of my favorite English words. We all had a good chuckle.
I even considered telling them soccer was stupid.
All of a sudden -- my useless movie knowledge kicking in -- I was reminded of Canadian Bacon: The scene at the hockey game during the Canadian national anthem when John Candy's friend remarks that Canadian beer sucks, and then everything stops and an entire nation starts fighting with four Americans.
Now, to clarify, by "Italians" I mean "Romans," who dribble a lot better with their feet than their hands.
Everywhere you go in the United States you can find a basketball court, especially in a city. In fact, the game is so diverse in the States you can find various levels of competition suitable to your skill level and experience.
There are the up-tempo games with young, athletic, good players, to half-court games with middle-aged balding guys. And for the novices out there, there's always a "jungle-juice" court with a little bit of everything: skill level, gender, age, color, creed. (This is normally a favorite court because of the satisfaction people receive from swatting an 8-year-old girl's shot into the street where a car proceeds to run the ball over. True story.)
But I digress.
It is impossible to find a public court inside the city walls of Rome. A few days ago I strolled through my neighborhood for over two hours looking for a place to shoot around. I walked the streets with my new European outdoor basketball and the Space Jam soundtrack thumping on my iPod. I was so ready, and so American. I might as well have been wearing the stars and stripes as a cape.
Jogging and dribbling around the neighborhood resulted in confused glares from the natives.
A couple Italian teens actually took my basketball to demonstrate their "Ronaldino-like football skills." Basically, they played "keep away from the American" then proceeded to punt the ball 30 yards - - wait, 27.1 meters. We then exchanged pleasantries, meaning I introduced them to a few of my favorite English words. We all had a good chuckle.
I even considered telling them soccer was stupid.
All of a sudden -- my useless movie knowledge kicking in -- I was reminded of Canadian Bacon: The scene at the hockey game during the Canadian national anthem when John Candy's friend remarks that Canadian beer sucks, and then everything stops and an entire nation starts fighting with four Americans.
I pictured everyone from little children to old Italian grandmothers coming in droves from houses, buildings and cars to attack me for disgracing their favorite pastime.
The scene wouldn't have been pretty, so I bit my tongue and continued my unsuccessful search for a few feet of concrete and a hoop. I found nothing.
Isn't this the same city that gave rise to the recent No. 1 pick in the NBA draft, Andrea Bargnani? Where did he learn to play? European basketball is all over TV, a place where former college stars reign supreme.
In the last month-and-a-half I have seen Allen Ray of Villanova, Scoonie Penn of Ohio State, Andre Hudson of Michigan State and Travis Best of the Spike Lee joint, He Got Game. Our very own Andre Collins is averaging 19.3 points per game for Carife Ferrara, which is currently No. 1 in their division.
Of course, the games are sometimes played with the intensity of a bad pick-up game. The younger Americans play with blank expressions, seemingly befuddled by where their dream brought them as they suit up for teams named after sponsors instead of cities. Their vision is always beyond Italy, a dream of donning the Lakers' purple and gold or the Celtics' green. It's a goal very few will ever reach.
Now, I have been able to play basketball a couple times since arriving in Rome with some locals (who speak better English than I do). We played at their college in the hills of northeast Rome, where the outdoor court was separated at half court by a volleyball net.
It was a little two-on-two action, Italians versus Americans. My teammate was some girl from Catholic University, who had not played basketball since eighth grade. It didn't matter. Let's just say we didn't keep score for their sake, because it would have been embarrassing.
It was like the old Saturday Night Live skit of Bill Schwartzky's "Superfans" -- "prediction Dictka, 312, 'da other team, 2."
Nevertheless, the entertainment value was high, and my self-esteem got a brief boost before deflating in Italian class that afternoon.
As we left the court -- wearing shorts and a T-shirt in February - my Italian companions left me with a few choice words: "Next time we play soccer. Then we see who is embarrassed."
The scene wouldn't have been pretty, so I bit my tongue and continued my unsuccessful search for a few feet of concrete and a hoop. I found nothing.
Isn't this the same city that gave rise to the recent No. 1 pick in the NBA draft, Andrea Bargnani? Where did he learn to play? European basketball is all over TV, a place where former college stars reign supreme.
In the last month-and-a-half I have seen Allen Ray of Villanova, Scoonie Penn of Ohio State, Andre Hudson of Michigan State and Travis Best of the Spike Lee joint, He Got Game. Our very own Andre Collins is averaging 19.3 points per game for Carife Ferrara, which is currently No. 1 in their division.
Of course, the games are sometimes played with the intensity of a bad pick-up game. The younger Americans play with blank expressions, seemingly befuddled by where their dream brought them as they suit up for teams named after sponsors instead of cities. Their vision is always beyond Italy, a dream of donning the Lakers' purple and gold or the Celtics' green. It's a goal very few will ever reach.
Now, I have been able to play basketball a couple times since arriving in Rome with some locals (who speak better English than I do). We played at their college in the hills of northeast Rome, where the outdoor court was separated at half court by a volleyball net.
It was a little two-on-two action, Italians versus Americans. My teammate was some girl from Catholic University, who had not played basketball since eighth grade. It didn't matter. Let's just say we didn't keep score for their sake, because it would have been embarrassing.
It was like the old Saturday Night Live skit of Bill Schwartzky's "Superfans" -- "prediction Dictka, 312, 'da other team, 2."
Nevertheless, the entertainment value was high, and my self-esteem got a brief boost before deflating in Italian class that afternoon.
As we left the court -- wearing shorts and a T-shirt in February - my Italian companions left me with a few choice words: "Next time we play soccer. Then we see who is embarrassed."
Super Bowl? In Italy? Not a chance
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 2/5/08 Section: Sports
ROME -- The Super Bowl has already been played; the NFL season is over. This frees up Sundays for men everywhere to spend quality time with girlfriends and significant others, and unfortunately, it no longer gives people a viable reason to drink at 1 p.m. The gridiron is left dormant for the next few months.
Here in Italy, the locals could care less. The only recognizable name in Phoenix, Ariz., last Sunday was Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Italians love American music. They just have no clue what the lyrics mean.
At home, people of all shapes, colors and creeds got together to watch the one thing that binds (and perhaps defines) us as Americans -- The Super Bowl.
That is what I used to believe and hold dear: Most people in the United States take the Super Bowl more seriously than their respective church doctrines. "It is more than a game, it is an event," we are told.The pre-game analysis consists of all-hair and all-wardrobe teams. Stuart Scott's eye starts to bother you more than ever. Chris "Boomer" Berman is way too excited. The Fox crew is making fun of Terry Bradshaw's illiteracy. The CBS crew is mocking Shannon Sharpe's speech impediment. Tiki Barber is pouting.
And I'm missing it all, the wonderful pageantry that is the Super Bowl.
In Europe, and specifically in Italy, people know every American presidential candidate, from Clinton and Obama to Huckabee and McCain. However, no one could pick Tom Brady out of a lineup of one-legged dwarfs. Many people in Rome care about American politics more than Americans. Someone has to tell these Italians to get their priorities straight.
The quest for the Italian football fan in Rome was nothing more than a complete failure. Whenever I asked the question, "Who do you want to win the Super Bowl?" I received the same perplexed look, as if I asked if I could've kidnapped their daughter.
From the Metro to the bus system, from Italian teachers to pizzeria workers, the answers came back the same: "Who?", "What?", and the ever-popular, "Why?"
Here in Italy, the locals could care less. The only recognizable name in Phoenix, Ariz., last Sunday was Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Italians love American music. They just have no clue what the lyrics mean.
At home, people of all shapes, colors and creeds got together to watch the one thing that binds (and perhaps defines) us as Americans -- The Super Bowl.
That is what I used to believe and hold dear: Most people in the United States take the Super Bowl more seriously than their respective church doctrines. "It is more than a game, it is an event," we are told.The pre-game analysis consists of all-hair and all-wardrobe teams. Stuart Scott's eye starts to bother you more than ever. Chris "Boomer" Berman is way too excited. The Fox crew is making fun of Terry Bradshaw's illiteracy. The CBS crew is mocking Shannon Sharpe's speech impediment. Tiki Barber is pouting.
And I'm missing it all, the wonderful pageantry that is the Super Bowl.
In Europe, and specifically in Italy, people know every American presidential candidate, from Clinton and Obama to Huckabee and McCain. However, no one could pick Tom Brady out of a lineup of one-legged dwarfs. Many people in Rome care about American politics more than Americans. Someone has to tell these Italians to get their priorities straight.
The quest for the Italian football fan in Rome was nothing more than a complete failure. Whenever I asked the question, "Who do you want to win the Super Bowl?" I received the same perplexed look, as if I asked if I could've kidnapped their daughter.
From the Metro to the bus system, from Italian teachers to pizzeria workers, the answers came back the same: "Who?", "What?", and the ever-popular, "Why?"
No one knew the game was on a Sunday. Tom Brady is known as Gisele's boyfriend.
No one knows the rules. No one cares to learn them.
After unscientifically polling Italian teachers, host families, Metro workers and bus co-passengers alike, I came to the following conclusion: People in America are more likely to watch cricket than Italians are to watch the Super Bowl.
Not even the Manning family's witty commercials translate over the Atlantic Ocean. Manning? The gap in communication is larger than the one between Michael Strahan's teeth.
By the way, the game ended around 4:30 a.m. over here. No one was interested in staying up until dawn to watch grown men in tight pants and extensive pads release their childhood frustrations on each other.
Nevertheless, I held out some hope that Rome, one of the most well-known cities in the world, would at least show some interest in America's most famous sporting event, especially with a glut of out-of-towners like myself scattered here and there. I can only imagine what the people of Tuscany would've thought if I was there on Sunday evening. In case you don't know, Tuscany is home to wine and beautiful hills. Not exactly the best atmosphere for American football.
You will be hard pressed to meet an Italian who knows the names of the cities the teams are from, let alone the names of the teams themselves. However, I suspect if an Italian were to watch the Super Bowl, they would probably watch it for the same reason as those girls you go to respective Super Bowl parties with: the halftime show and the commercials. Both are worthless. Sort of like trying to watch American football in Italy.
No one knows the rules. No one cares to learn them.
After unscientifically polling Italian teachers, host families, Metro workers and bus co-passengers alike, I came to the following conclusion: People in America are more likely to watch cricket than Italians are to watch the Super Bowl.
Not even the Manning family's witty commercials translate over the Atlantic Ocean. Manning? The gap in communication is larger than the one between Michael Strahan's teeth.
By the way, the game ended around 4:30 a.m. over here. No one was interested in staying up until dawn to watch grown men in tight pants and extensive pads release their childhood frustrations on each other.
Nevertheless, I held out some hope that Rome, one of the most well-known cities in the world, would at least show some interest in America's most famous sporting event, especially with a glut of out-of-towners like myself scattered here and there. I can only imagine what the people of Tuscany would've thought if I was there on Sunday evening. In case you don't know, Tuscany is home to wine and beautiful hills. Not exactly the best atmosphere for American football.
You will be hard pressed to meet an Italian who knows the names of the cities the teams are from, let alone the names of the teams themselves. However, I suspect if an Italian were to watch the Super Bowl, they would probably watch it for the same reason as those girls you go to respective Super Bowl parties with: the halftime show and the commercials. Both are worthless. Sort of like trying to watch American football in Italy.
Intramurals are last stop before athletic careers expire
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 11/20/07 Section: Sports
Intramural athletics is a safe haven for the average or marginal athlete. If you never played a varsity sport in high school, this is your chance to become a hero.
From the time any athlete steps on a basketball court, baseball diamond or football field his/her ultimate goal is to make it professionally (at least in third grade it is). Some people hold on to these dreams longer than others, some don't hold onto their dreams long enough, but frankly I'm still holding out hope to become the first astronaut-MLB-baseball-player-NFL-coach in recent memory (I think Deion Sanders did it though).
The intramural scene is filled with a variety of athletes: you have your neighborhood street football players, backyard basketball players and the high school benchwarmers. Then there's the special ones who are only playing intramurals because the New York Knicks didn't have enough roster spots open or they turned down a football scholarship to USC because Loyola has a better academic reputation. Yes, believe it or not, your classmates are that athletically gifted, or so some will tell you.
Professional sports dreams may have ended years ago for the legions of student-athletes at Loyola. By default, intramurals have become our NFL, NBA and MLB, but without the cheerleaders, coaches or mascots.
The love of competition is what drives most people to intramurals, not the camaraderie or friendly bonding with classmates. You play to win the glorious white Fruit of the Loom T-shirt that has screen-printed "Loyola Intramural Champions" on it. Friendships are formed and broken. Best friends endure strained relationships after losses. Like all sports, there are pitfalls and podiums. People take pride in intramurals; they play for the sense of accomplishment.
Everyone takes it seriously. Intramural sports aren't treated like middle school gym classes; they're intense like Sunday morning men's basketball leagues. You remember your triumphs and failures.
From the time any athlete steps on a basketball court, baseball diamond or football field his/her ultimate goal is to make it professionally (at least in third grade it is). Some people hold on to these dreams longer than others, some don't hold onto their dreams long enough, but frankly I'm still holding out hope to become the first astronaut-MLB-baseball-player-NFL-coach in recent memory (I think Deion Sanders did it though).
The intramural scene is filled with a variety of athletes: you have your neighborhood street football players, backyard basketball players and the high school benchwarmers. Then there's the special ones who are only playing intramurals because the New York Knicks didn't have enough roster spots open or they turned down a football scholarship to USC because Loyola has a better academic reputation. Yes, believe it or not, your classmates are that athletically gifted, or so some will tell you.
Professional sports dreams may have ended years ago for the legions of student-athletes at Loyola. By default, intramurals have become our NFL, NBA and MLB, but without the cheerleaders, coaches or mascots.
The love of competition is what drives most people to intramurals, not the camaraderie or friendly bonding with classmates. You play to win the glorious white Fruit of the Loom T-shirt that has screen-printed "Loyola Intramural Champions" on it. Friendships are formed and broken. Best friends endure strained relationships after losses. Like all sports, there are pitfalls and podiums. People take pride in intramurals; they play for the sense of accomplishment.
Everyone takes it seriously. Intramural sports aren't treated like middle school gym classes; they're intense like Sunday morning men's basketball leagues. You remember your triumphs and failures.
"I went 1-13 from the field freshman year in the basketball Spring Semester Semifinals," said junior Jeff Lordi, who embodies the intramural passion. "I still lose sleep over it. I'll take that with me to my grave."
In many ways this is the last chance to play for an athletic team, except adult softball, but that's 10 years and about 58 pounds away. College upperclassmen are entering the twilight of their respective athletic careers.
Growing up it's all about the trophies, and they came in bunches (heck, they gave them away for participation). Track meets even give out sixth-place ribbons. Nevertheless, our quest in life is the pursuit of these trophies, but the older you get the more they elude your grasp.
Most of our athletic careers start in second grade at the ripe age of 7, before we learned cursive, and they basically end at 22 when the last horn sounds. At the end of these 15 years we seek self affirmation about our past. It's proof that we did something worth being proud of. As odd as it may seem at 20 years old, our athletic career are almost over. We may have our whole lives ahead of us to balance our checkbooks and worry about our college loans, but right now the opportunity to play ball with reckless abandon like we did as kids is getting smaller by the moment. The pick up games to 11 p.m. are treasured, the Monday and Tuesday night intramural contests are cherished.
"There's definitely a sense of urgency; everyone on the court knows that we don't have many games left," Lordi said. "So we go out there and play for each other, pride and bragging rights."
College intramurals give everyone a chance to feel special; even Charlie Brown would've benefitted. It is a challenge you don't face in your Calc 4 class, but rather a battle against your peers. It brings back the feeling of hitting a home run off of Rob McDaniels in fifth grade, and making the school basketball team in sixth, except now we have a more interesting vocabulary to express anger when the outcomes don't go our way. Granted, the buzzer-beaters and walk-off home runs are not normally televised, and the crowds are significantly less than those old Expos games, but the rush of playing for something -- whether it be pride, glory, women or T-shirts -- is what keeps each person coming back for more.
In many ways this is the last chance to play for an athletic team, except adult softball, but that's 10 years and about 58 pounds away. College upperclassmen are entering the twilight of their respective athletic careers.
Growing up it's all about the trophies, and they came in bunches (heck, they gave them away for participation). Track meets even give out sixth-place ribbons. Nevertheless, our quest in life is the pursuit of these trophies, but the older you get the more they elude your grasp.
Most of our athletic careers start in second grade at the ripe age of 7, before we learned cursive, and they basically end at 22 when the last horn sounds. At the end of these 15 years we seek self affirmation about our past. It's proof that we did something worth being proud of. As odd as it may seem at 20 years old, our athletic career are almost over. We may have our whole lives ahead of us to balance our checkbooks and worry about our college loans, but right now the opportunity to play ball with reckless abandon like we did as kids is getting smaller by the moment. The pick up games to 11 p.m. are treasured, the Monday and Tuesday night intramural contests are cherished.
"There's definitely a sense of urgency; everyone on the court knows that we don't have many games left," Lordi said. "So we go out there and play for each other, pride and bragging rights."
College intramurals give everyone a chance to feel special; even Charlie Brown would've benefitted. It is a challenge you don't face in your Calc 4 class, but rather a battle against your peers. It brings back the feeling of hitting a home run off of Rob McDaniels in fifth grade, and making the school basketball team in sixth, except now we have a more interesting vocabulary to express anger when the outcomes don't go our way. Granted, the buzzer-beaters and walk-off home runs are not normally televised, and the crowds are significantly less than those old Expos games, but the rush of playing for something -- whether it be pride, glory, women or T-shirts -- is what keeps each person coming back for more.
The wiffleball revival: restoring a college tradition
The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 10/30/07 Section: Sports
When packing for my freshman year of college the highest priority items on my checklist -- before school supplies, TV and super-cool wall decorations -- were about six fresh, white wiffleballs and a couple brand new wiffleball bats.
Like many others across the country, I developed a love for wiffleball at an early age, playing with neighborhood kids back when the Power Rangers were cool. The sport is thrilling, heartbreaking, and even life changing. Every walk of life can play it -- no matter if you're short or tall, an Olympic athlete or an out-of-shape college student.
While touring colleges before I chose to attend Loyola I saw wiffleballers all over quads, in front of residential halls, in frat houses, in parking lots and on rooftops (not really). If baseball is America's pastime then wiffleball should be college's pastime.
This raises the question: Where have the wiffleballs gone at Loyola? Walking around the Evergreen campus we see green grass everywhere, Frisbees being thrown, overachievers reading whatever overachievers read, and, on good days, girls tanning. It seems Loyola students like to be outside enjoying the seemingly endless perfect fall weather. Yet the classic skinny-yellow bat and perforated-white wiffleballs are nowhere to be seen.
This semester, there were more people trying out for the club badminton team than people playing wiffleball in the last two years. No disrespect to badminton, but it's a shame that wiffleball is heading towards extinction in our small corner of Baltimore.
But there is hope. Hidden near the back entrance to Campion Tower some young freshmen are breathing new life into Loyola's wiffleball lungs. Dan Camargo and Andy Cevasco are roommates from New Jersey, and their love of the game stems from backyard rivalry games with siblings.
"I've been playing wiffleball with my brothers in my backyard since I was 5 years old," Cevasco said. "There are permanent dirt patches at home plate and the pitchers' mound made over the last 14 years. In fact, you can see them from Google Earth.
Like many others across the country, I developed a love for wiffleball at an early age, playing with neighborhood kids back when the Power Rangers were cool. The sport is thrilling, heartbreaking, and even life changing. Every walk of life can play it -- no matter if you're short or tall, an Olympic athlete or an out-of-shape college student.
While touring colleges before I chose to attend Loyola I saw wiffleballers all over quads, in front of residential halls, in frat houses, in parking lots and on rooftops (not really). If baseball is America's pastime then wiffleball should be college's pastime.
This raises the question: Where have the wiffleballs gone at Loyola? Walking around the Evergreen campus we see green grass everywhere, Frisbees being thrown, overachievers reading whatever overachievers read, and, on good days, girls tanning. It seems Loyola students like to be outside enjoying the seemingly endless perfect fall weather. Yet the classic skinny-yellow bat and perforated-white wiffleballs are nowhere to be seen.
This semester, there were more people trying out for the club badminton team than people playing wiffleball in the last two years. No disrespect to badminton, but it's a shame that wiffleball is heading towards extinction in our small corner of Baltimore.
But there is hope. Hidden near the back entrance to Campion Tower some young freshmen are breathing new life into Loyola's wiffleball lungs. Dan Camargo and Andy Cevasco are roommates from New Jersey, and their love of the game stems from backyard rivalry games with siblings.
"I've been playing wiffleball with my brothers in my backyard since I was 5 years old," Cevasco said. "There are permanent dirt patches at home plate and the pitchers' mound made over the last 14 years. In fact, you can see them from Google Earth.
My dad can't even grow grass there it's so worn down."
The majority of the members of our generation played the game at some point in their lives, like when we were carefree, pre-puberty, pre-awkwardness, right around our "cooties" years. Wiffleball has been a tool to teach baseball to children, but it shouldn't be forgotten as we grow older.
"There's a lackluster attitude towards wiffleball here," said a rather upset Camargo, who was proudly wearing a grizzly-bear sweatshirt that he won in a grammar school contest to remind himself to stay young at heart and always have fun. "When the ball wanders foul, people just seem to kick it farther away."
Consider this: All sorts of majors have a direct correlation to wiffleball. Physics majors can ponder the gravity defying pitches. Finance majors can discuss the outrageous contracts that superstar wiffleball players are now receiving. Communications majors can practice the art of communicating with their teammates. And classics majors can -- well, OK, maybe not all majors.
Wiffleball is a relatively safe sport for healthy people ages 2-102. There have not been any known fatalities suffered in wiffleball, except the Krakow conflict of 1732, but that is a whole other story (which involves sex, drugs, and international intrigue). For all of you pacifists out there, wiffleball is for you!
Party animals, wiffleball can be played no matter your stage of inebriation. You can't say the same thing about hockey, downhill slalom, or curling.
Now some people think that wiffleball is not important; that there are world issues we should worry about more than the lack of wiffleball on campus. Al Gore (inventor of the Internet) thinks we should worry about global warming. The late Mother Teresa said to feed the hungry and spread God's love.
Here's a compromise: Let's start making a better world right here at Loyola by reviving wiffleball. Why not be a man or woman for others and enjoy the great weather -- while our glaciers melt -- and pick up a wiffleball and bat ($4.24 at Amazon.com) and practice hitting those swooping curveballs? Don't let wiffleball become another great sport that falls by the wayside like Jai-Alai and fly-fishing.
The majority of the members of our generation played the game at some point in their lives, like when we were carefree, pre-puberty, pre-awkwardness, right around our "cooties" years. Wiffleball has been a tool to teach baseball to children, but it shouldn't be forgotten as we grow older.
"There's a lackluster attitude towards wiffleball here," said a rather upset Camargo, who was proudly wearing a grizzly-bear sweatshirt that he won in a grammar school contest to remind himself to stay young at heart and always have fun. "When the ball wanders foul, people just seem to kick it farther away."
Consider this: All sorts of majors have a direct correlation to wiffleball. Physics majors can ponder the gravity defying pitches. Finance majors can discuss the outrageous contracts that superstar wiffleball players are now receiving. Communications majors can practice the art of communicating with their teammates. And classics majors can -- well, OK, maybe not all majors.
Wiffleball is a relatively safe sport for healthy people ages 2-102. There have not been any known fatalities suffered in wiffleball, except the Krakow conflict of 1732, but that is a whole other story (which involves sex, drugs, and international intrigue). For all of you pacifists out there, wiffleball is for you!
Party animals, wiffleball can be played no matter your stage of inebriation. You can't say the same thing about hockey, downhill slalom, or curling.
Now some people think that wiffleball is not important; that there are world issues we should worry about more than the lack of wiffleball on campus. Al Gore (inventor of the Internet) thinks we should worry about global warming. The late Mother Teresa said to feed the hungry and spread God's love.
Here's a compromise: Let's start making a better world right here at Loyola by reviving wiffleball. Why not be a man or woman for others and enjoy the great weather -- while our glaciers melt -- and pick up a wiffleball and bat ($4.24 at Amazon.com) and practice hitting those swooping curveballs? Don't let wiffleball become another great sport that falls by the wayside like Jai-Alai and fly-fishing.
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