A bit of a prelude to my next piece about football (soccer) in America, this one is a response to a mate of mine who had the audacity to insinuate that football was “just a game.” After I had suitably admonished him for uttering such blasphemy in my presence, I narrated to him my pilgrimage to Highbury, former home of my beloved Arsenal Football Club.

***

Fist clenched above his head in celebration, a lone Frenchman stands imperiously before a gallery of adoring fans. As one, a 30,000-strong wave surges forward to acclaim their hero.

A deafening roar sweeps the ground as scenes of wild celebration ensue in all but one of the four corners of this coliseum of football.  In this one corner sit about 6,000 Juventus fans, disbelief etched on their faces. For you see, things haven’t exactly gone as planned. This was supposed to be their night, they were the ones supposed to be lording it over their jubilant hosts. Fortunately for the majority gathered, fate  had other plans.

***

View of the Highbury Pitch

Such is the power of sport; while one set of people sits about looking and feeling utterly dejected and the other experiences wild euphoria. On this occasion I had the joy of being part of the victorious 30,000 packed into Highbury (home to Arsenal football club from 1913 to 2006) and bore witness to the compelling spectacle of Arsenal’s triumph over Juventus in the UEFA Champions League.

That morning I had awoken with a sense of excitement hitherto reserved for the mornings of my birthday. The day I had long awaited was finally here, for you see, today was a day like no other. My mate Garry had, after months and months of trawling questionable websites on the Internet, secured us two tickets to watch Arsenal play Juventus.

We took a flight down to London from Aberdeen in Scotland where upon our arrival we hoped on the tube and commenced our pilgrimage through London and on to the home of football.

As the train neared its destination, it slowly started to fill with other like-minded souls. My nervous excitement cranked up a couple of notches, like a foreign anthropologist in the heart of the Amazon, witnessing a sacred tribal ritual, I wondered whether they would notice a stranger in their midst or would my presence go unremarked upon.

Suddenly, from the back of the tube car, a lone voice broke out into a rendition of the terrace classic “Arsene Wenger’s Red and White Army.”

Others around me joined in and the noise slowly built to a nice dull roar. My ears picked up a familiar baritone voice. You can imagine my surprise as it dawned on me that I was singing along, with all the gusto of an Olympian at the podium as his nations flag is being raised. All feelings of nervousness now effectively banished, I proceeded to engage my compatriots in lively conversation about the upcoming game.

Soon, though, the train came to a stop at the aptly named Arsenal station, at which point me and my newly found comrades went our separate ways. For Garry and myself were on a mission; Highbury was an old style stadium, and as such did not have the hidden player entrances of its more modern counterparts. This meant that the buses carrying the players were obliged to empty their precious cargo onto the street adjacent to the majestic marble hall on the North side of the stadium.

It was here that we were slowly making our way and were soon enough engaged in a good-natured jockeying for position with other fans in a bid to get a good vantage point from which to glimpse our heroes. A few well-aimed elbows later we were front and centre, poised anxiously for the players’ arrival.

The first bus to arrive was that of the visiting Italian champions. Their arrival prompted the Juventus fans in our midst to break into song as their players made their way into the ground. Each player was greeted with applause from the Juventus fans and a muted silence from us Arsenal fans.

One player though, disembarked from the bus to great fan fare from both sets of fans. The footballer was Patrick Vieira, former club captain who after nine years of dedicated service at the heart of our midfield had been sold on to the Turin based club the previous summer. This was his first game back in London since his transfer and the fans made sure he knew he was still loved in this part of London.

A wave of excited whispers suddenly swept through the crowd. The Arsenal team bus had arrived! First off was our manager Arsene Wenger and erstwhile master of ceremonies, and whose name I had earlier been chanting on the train down. Calmly accepting the fans applause with his customary grace he continued on into the stadium followed by his team.

It is fair to say that by this point I was totally overawed by the whole event. Here were my heroes, gladiators on whose broad shoulders rested my hopes and dreams of European triumph. Lacking any other way to express my happiness, I burst into a fit of unmanly giggles more at home in a gaggle of prepubescent girls than in the midst of hardened football fans. A look of utter horror on Garry’s face sorted me out sharpish though!

Tickets in hand, we finally made our way through the turnstiles and into the belly of this magnificent old stadium. The steward directed us to a set of stairs that would lead us up to our seats.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs, the weight of what I was about to experience giving me reason to hesitate. Years and years of dreaming of this moment… Would it live up to my expectations? Could it? Or would I be doomed to disappointment?

Garry broke my rapidly debilitating train of thought with a simple bit of logic: “If you never climb these stairs you will never know what lies on the other side.”

So on I went. Now, from the bottom of the stairs, all I could see was a dark blue square slice of sky. As I stepped up each step, more of the stadium was revealed. First the tops of the stands on the other side of the ground and then the famous massive clock that hung down from the top of the east side of the stadium.

Suddenly and without any warning, Highbury was there spread out in all its magnificence for me to see. From my vantage point high in the stand, I suddenly had a breathtaking panoramic view of the entire ground.

Speechless, I looked down at the immaculately manicured emerald-green turf. I had arrived! With the trepidation of a pilgrim who had unwittingly stumbled into the inner sanctum of his chosen deity, I let my gaze wander across the stadium. I was there!

As we took our seat to await the coming battle, the seats around us in the north bank behind the goal started to fill. The players then came out to do their pre-match routine warm-ups.  Garry and I were fortunate enough to witness the great Denis Bergkamp limber up with his comrade in arms, the aptly named King of Highbury, Thierry Henry.

At this point the stadium was filled to about halfway, and each player was serenaded with applause from those gathered in the stands. In the far corner, the Juventus fans had also started to take their seats. We traded chants back and forth as the players finished their warm-ups and returned to the changing rooms for a final word from their respective managers.

By this point, the ground was packed to its 38,000 capacity and the atmosphere was fantastic. For here, on this hallowed ground, people from all walks of life had gathered and were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder eager to partake in the coming spectacle. Quickly making friends with those sitting around me, I proceeded to talk shop. The general consensus seemed to be that we were most definitely the underdogs here but at the same time there was an air of expectation that an upset was on the cards as well. An enthralling match in prospect all round then!

The next two hours passed with a pace that can be attributed to the fact that I was entirely overawed by the whole event. The roar to which the players’ arrival was greeted sent my heart racing. Pulse thudding insanely in my head I cheered the team on with the ardor of a zealot. A comprehensive summary of the game will have to be read if one searches for an informative guide on the tactical maneuverings, for I was so enraptured at this point that the mere glance in the direction of the ball by an Arsenal player was greeted with a standing ovation and manic clapping by yours truly.

Fabregas Celebrates

A few incidents, though, stand out in my memory and are I believe worthy of special mention. In the build up to the first goal, Robert Pires (our mercurial French maestro) dispossessed our former captain Vieira with a well timed tackle before laying off a pass to our new captain Thierry Henry who then laid off a sublime pass to Cesc Fabregas, the 17-year-old midfield prodigy upon whose young shoulders had fallen the task of replacing our former captain.

Shrugging of the attentions of a Juventus defender (none other than the majestic Lilian Thurman), Cesc Fabregas calmly slotted the ball in the bottom corner of the goal. One nil to the arsenal and pandemonium rained in the stands. Delirious with joy, we danced wildly in celebration.

In the second half, a break in play allowed Thierry Henry to come racing to the North Bank where Garry, about 16,000 other arsenal fans, and I were sitting. Beseeching us to turn up the noise by lifting his hands repeatedly in the air, his efforts were greeted with a crescendo of noise as we redoubled our efforts to blow the roof off the stadium.

Ten minutes later our efforts were rewarded when the self same player latched onto a pass from the magnificent Cesc Fabregas, pirouetted with the grace of a Russian ballet dancer, and rifled the ball past a diving Buffon. Two nil to the Arsenal and I was literally in dreamland.

The rest of the match passed all too quickly as we serenaded out all conquering hero’s to many a song filled with a litany of their exploits over the last few years. The final whistle came too soon and as the whole stadium rose as one, in an ovation that lasted a full five minutes as we applauded our conquering heroes, I reflected back on a passage from Nick Hornsby’s  Fever Pitch:

“I had discovered after the Swindon game that loyalty, at least in football terms, was not a moral choice like bravery or kindness; it was more like a wart or a hump, something you are stuck with. Marraiges are nowhere as rigid – you won’t catch any Arsenal fans slipping off to Tottenham for a bit of extra-marital slap and tickle, and though divorce is a possibility (you can just stop going if things get too bad), getting hitched again is out of the question. There have been many times over the last twenty-three years when I have poured over the small print of my contract looking for a way out, but there isn’t one. Each humiliating defeat (Swindon, Tranmere, York, Walsall, Rotherham, Wrexham) must be bourne with patience, fortitude and forbearance; there is simply nothing that can be done, and that is a realization that can make you simply squirm with frustration.”

Or for those who still have the temerity to believe that our religion is just a game, I leave you with the words of one of the most iconic managers in football:

“Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it’s much more serious than that.”

-Bill Shankly

Zachary Ssebuliba Ssebatindira is a 22-year-old Ugandan. He is currently in his third year of five at Drexel University, majoring in Biomedical Engineering.

It’s just about Spring Training time.  As a baseball enthusiast, I’d usually be keyed up right about now.  However, there are certain feelings of disappointment, betrayal, and desperation that come with being a true sports fan.  Following my favorite team doesn’t make me an exception.  I believe it’s fair to say that I’ve ridden the Oakland Athletics roller coaster during my stint as an avid fan.  There have been many ups over the last nine seasons (I know that doesn’t sound that long, but I’m only 21).  Over the last three, though, it feels like we’ve gotten stuck at bottom, and I don’t know if we’ll be climbing back up anytime soon.

As sad as that sounds, I found someone to blame.  His name is Billy Beane, and he’s the much-acclaimed general manager of the A’s.  In 2003, Michael Lewis wrote a book about Beane and titled it, Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game.  The book attempts to explain why the A’s, as one of the most financially-challenged teams in baseball, had been winning so many games.  Lewis gave Beane all the credit.  The Sporting News also recognized him as Executive of the Year in 1999 and so did Baseball America in 2002.  He’s also been named one of Baseball’s Heavy Hitters and one of the top 40 Under 40 by Street & Smith’s Sports Business Journal.

None of those titles are what I would call him.  As successful as the A’s may have been early on in his career as GM, he hasn’t put together a consistently strong team since he was formally praised.  It’s true that baseball is unfair, and his job is difficult.  However, it was frustrating to look at him as he gathered accolades, knowing that he was the reason for my heartache.  In reality, the team hasn’t done as well since Moneyball was published.  It makes me wonder if Lewis jumped the gun in even writing it.

Don’t get me wrong. I do realize, on one hand, that baseball has grown into more and more of a business than just a game.  Some factors are out of Beane’s control because, in Lewis’ words, “For more than a decade the people who run professional baseball have argued that the game was ceasing to be an athletic competition and becoming a financial one.”  Some trading and releasing is to be expected, but it has to stop at some point.  I know that, with the Athletics’ limited payroll, it’s much harder for Beane to make deals.  But, on the other hand of the business argument, fans bring in a lot of revenue, and we definitely get attached to our favorites.  So, shouldn’t we be considered at some point too? All I know is that, right now; he has made the A’s really hard to root for.

I don’t want to sound like a fair-weather fan, and I vowed never to become one.  However, this situation is a little different.  To me, “fairweatherness” means not rooting for the players on your team when they’re not doing as well as they “should.”  My issue is that, when I look on the field, absolutely none of my players are still there.  Since I began following the A’s in 1998 (a year after Beane took his general manager position) I studied the roster and learned everything I could about my favorites.  I knew every meaningless bit of information from the colleges they attended to their favorite cereals and types of pillowcases.  I knew Eric Byrnes had two English Bulldogs names Bella and Bruin; that Barry Zito guest-starred in an episode of JAG.

I know it seems ridiculous, but it was something that I loved doing and I put a lot of stock into it.  It wasn’t until 2006 that things started to change.  That was the last year the A’s made the playoffs.  They finished in first place in the American League West, but they haven’t even come close since.  When they used to struggle, I could still look to “my guys” and hope along with them that they’d eventually pull through like they had for me so many times before.  But, out of the 40 men on the roster today, only three of them are left from that 2006 team.  That means over about three seasons my team, as I knew it, disappeared.  So, what am I supposed to do now?

Am I supposed to bet that Beane’s new “elite” prospects will be able to get the job done?   I have a hard time believing that a completely overturned roster filled with young players much in need of veteran guidance (that they won’t come by) will be able to fill the roles of those who came before.  For now, I guess all I can do is continue to hope, but my gusto is definitely fading away.

Katrina Gaudier is a senior at Drexel University. She is studying English and Philosophy and is expected to graduate in June of 2010.

Lebron James is the best player in the NBA right now. There will be those who argue for Kobe Bryant or maybe even Dwayne Wade, but simply look at Lebron’s numbers for this year. He is shooting the best percentages of his career (50% FG, 36% 3FG), while averaging closer to a triple-double than any player since Magic Johnson averaged 18-9-9 in the 1981-82 season (James is 29-7-8). Lebron’s Cavaliers are sporting the best record in the NBA and the second most talented player on his team is a 37-year-old broken-down Shaq. The Cavs swept the Lakers in their two meetings this season as Lebron took Kobe’s crown. The one thing Lebron still has to do to be the consensus best player in the league is win a title.

The way the Cavs have been playing the last few months, it seems that this might be their year, but even if they win the championship, Lebron will still have three fewer rings than Kobe, and five fewer than Michael Jordan. Lebron wants to be the best ever, and to be that he’s going to need to win. And win some more. Cleveland just doesn’t seem like the most likely place for that to happen.

With the economy where it is, some teams (Knicks, Nets) probably aren’t going to be able to put together a good-enough package in the free agent market of 2010 to entice Lebron. Miami and Chicago (and Cleveland, only if they can grab a Chris Bosh, or do a sign and trade for a Chris Paul) seem to be the leaders of the pack in the Lebron sweepstakes, but here are four other teams that could potentially give Lebron a better chance to chase Jordan’s six rings.

1. The Houston Rockets – Whether or not Yao Ming ever comes back or can stay healthy, the Rockets are a perfect team for Lebron. Thanks to Tracy McGrady and a few other players, the Rockets have almost 40 million dollars coming off the books next year. Even if every free agent left the Rockets, they would still be able to pair Lebron up with just the kind of role player arsenal that he needs. Houston took the Lakers to seven games last year with their two best players watching from the sidelines. Aaron Books is a speedy point guard who can wreak havoc on any team forced to double team Lebron. Trevor Ariza was a key part of that Lakers championship team from a year ago — he can defend, shoot the three, and gets at least two steals resulting in layups each game. Shane Battier is one of the most underrated players in the game and he fulfils a role that every NBA champion has had over the past ten years. Everyone needs a lockdown perimeter defender who can shoot the three. LA had Ariza, San Antonio had Bruce Bowen, Boston and Miami each had James Posey. You pair Lebron with Brooks, Ariza, Battier, whatever other free agent they sign with their 40 million dollars, and whatever’s left of Yao, and suddenly Houston becomes the best team in the West.
2. The Los Angeles Clippers – No player in his right mind would actually want to play for Donald Sterling, the worst owner in all of sports, but it is LA, and it might be attractive to Lebron to come into Kobe’s house and steal the entire city right out from under him. The Clippers have almost 30 million dollars coming off their books, and Lebron would be teamed up with Baron Davis, who can still play amazing when he feels like it, and with Lebron, he’d feel like it. Chris Kaman should have been an all-star this year, and he’s staying. But the crown jewel of the Clippers is Blake Griffin. Imagine Lebron and Blake running towards you. Scary.
3. The Oklahoma City Thunder – If this happens, I’m moving to OKC.  They only have 9 million dollars coming off the books next year, but they are one of only four teams under the cap this year. This is more of a stretch than the first two teams listed, considering they are going to need to re-sign Kevin Durant, Jeff Green, James Harden, and Russell Westbrook in two years, but think about KD and Lebron on the same team. Those two years would be magical.
4. The Washington Wizards - Wouldn’t it be ironic if the Wizards dismantle their team, giving Antawn Jamison to the Cavs for some expiring contracts and then have enough cap space after buying out Gilbert Arenas to steal Lebron James? Lebron would be paired with Caron Butler, Randy Foye, Andray Blatche, DeShawn Stevenson’s beard, and would get to give Barack Obama a high-five after every dunk. That has to sound appealing to him.

Obviously, I hope none of these scenarios happen, and Lebron James comes to the New York Knicks as was predicted by my psychic, even though a Lebron theft of Los Angeles would be oh so sweet.

Matthew Strickland is a senior at Drexel University. He studies English and Philosophy, and is anticipated to graduate in March of 2010.

On December 11^th, I published an article about how the NBA was finally emerging from the dark period of the Artest mêlée and the league’s waning fan support. Then, just 13 days later, a story broke about the Wizards’ point-guard Gilbert Arenas and his gun debacle, which has since, sadly, become the biggest NBA story of the season. After a card game on the Wizards’ touring plane got out of hand, words were exchanged between Arenas and guard Javaris Crittenton. Crittenton threatened to shoot Arenas in his kneecap. A few days later, Arenas displayed three of his guns in the Wizards locker room and, in jest, asked Javaris to “pick one.”

As an avid NBA fan, it upsets me when anything like this happens, because all it does is bring bad press to the league, which I love like my own imaginary son. Though, if I had to choose between my imaginary son and the NBA, I would probably choose the NBA (don’t tell my imaginary wife). The NBA has long had public image problems and has recently taken steps to improve, instituting the controversial dress code for players on the bench (in large part due to Allen Iverson’s dress) and very harsh suspension rules for leaving your own bench (due to the aforementioned malice at the palace). Now prepare for another intense look at the rule book by commissioner David Stern.

After I was able to calm down, my anger at Gilbert turned to sadness, because if you read his recent tweets and look at his behavior, he just doesn’t get it. Most NBA players own guns, but guns are serious. Many NBA players come from less-than-nice areas of our country. When they return to their old neighborhoods everyone there knows exactly how much money they make. How do you think that makes them feel? Safe? There are rumors around the league that many players are quietly supporting Arenas’ suspension because the locker room is supposed to be a safe haven. Arenas crossed a line. Owning a gun is a right in this country, but it is a responsibility of gun owners to act with a certain level of self-awareness.

Gilbert Arenas was one of the most interesting and fun players in the NBA. He had a very fan-friendly game, a sweet nickname (Agent Zero), and is on Twitter more than Ashton Kutcher. His behavior as of late, in just the way he has been dealing with the media, makes me sad more than anything else. This picture has been one of the most incriminating, showing him in a team huddle making light of the whole issue. He has also been referring to himself as a “goofball,” as if that makes everything okay. Simply from a PR standpoint, even if he didn’t believe that he did anything wrong except tell a bad joke, there was definitely a way to deal with this situation so it would go away as quickly as possible.  Agent Zero did not choose the smart way out, and that’s bad, not only for himself, but for David Stern, the league, and the fans.

FALLOUT: This story has so many angles to it that its influence is going to be felt for a long while, and might even be a deciding factor in who wins the next few championships. Yes, it’s that important. I expect two main developments to occur.

1.  Player gambling has been a thorn in Stern’s side for twenty years, but for 15 millionaires spending hours on buses and planes, what else is there to do but play cards? There is an old NBA joke that there are only two reasons players fight: over women or over cards. There are those conspiracy theorists who believe Michael Jordan’s two-year stint in baseball was a cover-up for his gambling issues. Stern has quietly been trying for years to ban gambling among his players (while ironically trying to use public gambling to create more revenue for the suffering league). This may be the clincher he needs to put the kibosh on gambling during team travel once and for all (while postponing his legalization of public gambling on the NBA).

2.  The incident does have a silver lining for the Wizards. Arenas has one of the worst contracts in the league. Coming off two injury-plagued seasons, he was rewarded with a six-year $111 million dollar contract. With the Wizards underperforming, his contract only looked worse and was so huge that he was untradeable. The Wizards do, however, have moderately priced contracts with two exceptionally talented wingmen: Caron Butler and Antawn Jamison. For the past two years the Cleveland Cavaliers have been trying to acquire Jamison at the trade deadline, hoping the Wizards would be in rebuilding mode and therefore willing to break up their core – a scenario which seems to be happening. If the Wizards decide to void Arenas’ contract and start rebuilding, it is now more likely that they would trade Jamison to Cleveland for Zydrunas Ilgauskas’ expiring contract, which would provide the Cavs with a big player who can post up and who is currently shooting 37% from the three-point line. This would make Cleveland a very strong team. As a Knicks fan, this is my worst-case scenario, because if the Cavs suddenly become strong enough to beat Boston and LA and win the title, the chance that Lebron will come to New York falls immensely. So thanks a lot, Gilbert Arenas. You may have just ruined my chances of having a winning basketball team for once. I repeat, Why, Gilbert, Why?

Matthew Strickland is a senior at Drexel University. He studies English and Philosophy, and is anticipated to graduate in March of 2010.

When I was a pre-teen, I briefly ventured into the world of girls’ basketball.

To anyone who knows me, this is laughable.

I’ve been known to trip on my own two feet. I throw and catch like my arms are made of limp, overcooked spaghetti. I don’t like to run. And I’ve always been somewhat of a pacifist, a peace advocate, and frankly, a huge wimp. Competition makes me shudder and curl up in the fetal position.

What, then, compelled me to join “MLGBA,” a local basketball league for girls with an overly long acronym?

I think it was the height thing.

I’ve always been tall for my age. Now, as a 20-year-old college student, people do not frequently comment on my extra inches. But growing up, the fact that I towered over all the girls and boys my age (and older than me) was a huge deal.

In middle school, sports were the cool thing to do. Every girl I knew played field hockey, soccer, softball, lacrosse, or basketball. Basketball. Well, I thought, I am tall. Let’s give it a shot!

Soon I realized I had drastically overestimated myself. At the very first practice, my lack of skills was noted. The assistant coach took me aside to a faraway half-court and forced me to practice my layups until I wanted to throw myself into that stupid, unreachable basket.

“Aim for the backboard!” she encouraged.

I watched my teammates do elaborate drills that involved yelling out names and passing several basketballs at once. I didn’t want to be doing that – too scary – but I didn’t want to be the loser who needed extra help, either.

Still, I kept with it. Unlike ballet, girl scouts, and Hebrew school (dropped ‘em all), I decided not to be an instantaneous quitter this time around.

One of the strict rules of this basketball league was that everyone had to get game time, no matter how bad they were. At the first game, my coach yelled out five names of five girls: five athletes, five mini-basketball pros, five girls I found myself despising.

I sat on the bench with the other rejects, the cold bottle of water my mom had packed me clutched in my hand. I glanced up and saw my parents’ smiling faces in the bleachers: they knew I sucked, but they didn’t care. And I loved them for that.

Eventually, I was called in to play. I couldn’t believe it. Finally, my height was working to my advantage: my position was center.

I was an immovable object in the middle of the center circle. I fouled people left and right – the referee was constantly blowing his whistle because of me. I was always forgetting some crucial rule about where I could and couldn’t stand, what I was supposed to do, where I needed to be. I would have my back turned for what felt like a mere moment, and the next thing I knew, everyone else would be on the other side of the court.

None of my teammates ever talked to me or even acknowledged my existence at future practices and games. During one game, a talented point guard, Lena, who seemed to be on the court 90 percent of the time, jogged over to the bench, sweaty and accomplished, when it was finally her turn to swap with someone else.

She left an enormous space between us on the bench. If I weren’t so humiliated, perhaps I would’ve found this funny. It was as if the girls thought that my lack of skills was contagious, fearing if they sat too close to me, they might suddenly become the worst player on the team.

…

A Saturday several weeks later was another game day. I had been practicing with my dad all week.

I was 11 years old. And I had my game face on.

The first half went well. I didn’t do anything outrageously awful, and so my coach put me back in during the second half.

And then:

I was standing on the court. My teammates were passing the ball to each other. Suddenly, someone yelled, “Julia!” and I caught the ball roughly against my chest.

I dribbled it once. I looked up at the net. My coach was yelling “Aim for the backboard!”

So I did.

Swoosh. The ball bounced off the backboard and neatly into the net.

My teammates erupted into astonished cheers. My parents stood up and screamed my name. I couldn’t believe it. Like the total dork that I was, I stared at the net, completely flummoxed, while everyone else ran to the other side of the court and continued with the game.

…

During my year-long basketball career, that was the only shot I ever made. I tried a few other times – sometimes narrowly missing, usually sending the ball skyrocketing in a bizarrely wrong direction. But I had scored that one time, somehow. Was it dumb luck? The basketball gods shining down on me for a single, glorious moment? I’ll never know.

Though my foray into contact sports was brief, it was long enough for me. Ever since then, it’s been all books and solitaire… and maybe some Scrabble, if I’m feeling adventurous.

But only maybe. I’m not really a fan of competition.

Julia Perch is a junior at Drexel University studying English. She is currently the editorial co-op student for the Drexel Publishing Group and the managing editor of DPG Online. She can be reached at pg@drexel.edu

I’m going to do my best to not sound sexist in this article, but I’m sure some will take my comments that way, and I apologize to those people in advance.

I love basketball. I love all kinds. The NBA is my personal preference, but if there’s basketball on TV I will watch it. I live for March when the college madness is on everybody’s mind and the NBA playoffs are right around the corner. I even salivate during fall watching the pre-season games. The summer is the only time of year when I feel a serious basketball deficiency. It is during this time that “White Men Can’t Jump” and “Hoosiers” are in constant rotation on my DVD player. However, there is no reason that this should be the case. In June, just as the NBA finals are coming to a close, the WNBA season is starting up. In fact, the WNBA finals just finished. Why has the WNBA continued to play to half empty stadiums and why has it been unable to capture the hearts and minds of even the most ardent basketball fans?

I’m sure sexism has something to do with the low attendance rates, but there are many women and men, like myself, who view sports as sports regardless of who’s playing. The only thing I demand is that my sports be exciting and the WNBA makes the mistake of not allowing the most exciting part of the game: the slam-dunk.

To be clear: there is no rule on the books that says the players are not allowed to dunk; it’s just that most women in the league can’t dunk. According to the 2007-08 player survey, the average height of an NBA player is 6′7”. According to the same survey for the WNBA the average height of a female player is 5′11”. The men have an average of eight inches on the women, yet they still play on the same size hoop and both leagues use a ten-foot basket. That just doesn’t make any practical sense.

Some may argue that changing the rules of the game to suit the smaller players would be sexist treatment of the women athletes, and that they should compete with the same rules as the men. I disagree completely. In softball they use different equipment and a different pitching style, and women’s lacrosse and field hockey have different rules from the men’s equivalent of those sports. The WNBA itself uses a smaller ball to suit women’s smaller hands. It’s not a question of gender equality; it’s a question of practicality. If everybody in the NBA was the size of Shaquille O’Neal, Yao Ming, and Dwight Howard, I would suggest that they change the height of the rim to 11 or 12 feet.

The fact is that the WNBA players are shorter, so it makes sense that the rim be adjusted for this fact. In the history of the WNBA only two players have dunked in a regular season game, Lisa Leslie in 2002 and more recently Candace Parker in 2008. If the rim was lowered 6-8 inches, women would be able to throw down, the same way as the men, and in turn I guarantee you would have more viewers (as well as this one right here).

Sports are supposed to be exciting for the fans. That’s why we watch. Changing the size of the ball, but not the height of the rim doesn’t make any logical or, more importantly for the league, fiscal sense. When sports aren’t exciting they just become competitions between the players, which I support wholeheartedly but have no interest in watching. Ms. Orender, if you want to have fans of your sport, make it something worth being a fan of. To paraphrase Marie Antoinette, “Let them eat shoe sole…when they get dunked on.”

Matthew Strickland is a senior at Drexel University. He studies English and Philosophy, and is anticipated to graduate in March of 2010.