Shump, Whiplash, and Viking Fever: While We’re Waiting…

Good morning. In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world. And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind. “Mankind.” That word should have new meaning for all of us today—

Whoops, sorry about that. Thought I was talking to someone else.¹ Happy Wednesday, faithful readers. I trust that you’re staying warm out there, and not letting the temperature take your spirits down with it.

Let’s not muck about. It is my pleasure to present a few thoughts to start your day.

Shump

J.R. Smith came over in the Dion Waiters trade too, but Iman Shumpert is the new Cavalier about whom I am most excited. He’s 6-foot-5 and 220 pounds. He’s only 24 years old. He has cut off and since brought back his high-top fade. He has done enough to develop a reputation as a mean defender; whether or not he has lived up to it this year is a different story.

He’s out with a dislocated shoulder right now, but he looks to be the athletic wing that the Cavs have needed. If Smith can approximate Dion’s scoring while neither cold-cocking nor cuckolding a teammate, this trade will have been gravy.

Also, Shump might dunk on people. I miss seeing Cavs dunk on people.

All Aboard the Viking Ship

As you already know, Cleveland sports have been nuts this winter. The Browns finished the season in typically bizarre fashion, no one knows who their quarterback will be, and one potential starting quarterback is more closely associated with TMZ than QBR. The Cavs are weird, LeBron and Kyrie are hurt, David Blatt is being given votes of confidence that aren’t actually votes of confidence, and now Smith and Shumpert have entered the fold.

It’s just too much sometimes. The stories pile up on top of each other like past-due bills until you don’t know where to begin. It’s easy to forget that you’re supposed to enjoy this stuff.

With that in mind, I humbly suggest that you reserve a portion of your sporting attention for the Cleveland State Vikings.² I have had the pleasure of covering the Vikes this season, and I am encouraged by recent events. They scuffled in the early going, but they won their last two games—their first two conference games—and I am tempted to say that they have turned a corner.

They’re ostensibly a defensive-minded team, often pressing opponents with a three-guard lineup, but their offense the past couple games has been unusually awesome. In their last contest, against Illinois-Chicago, they shot 59 percent. Their shooting in the previous game against Milwaukee wasn’t quite as good, just 57 percent, but they made 82 (!!!) percent of their field goals in the second half.

They won’t shoot the lights out all the time, but they’ll get after it as long as the lights are on. They play hard and they’re good kids. I have yet to see a player not hustle back on defense, stare down a teammate, or ignore the coach. They’re an easy team to like. They can be frustrating, sure, but not nearly on the Cavaliers’ level.

I don’t expect everyone to jump on the Viking ship right away. But they’ll be there for those days when watching the Cavs feels like walking the plank.

Whiplash

I enjoy going to the cinema. I’ll go by myself or I’ll go with company. I’ll see good movies and bad ones. I love the ceremony of it all: Declaring your choice of film and showtime, having your ticket torn, buying a bathtub-size popcorn and an oil drum-size beverage, cracking jokes during previews, and talking about the flick afterwards. I’m not a film buff by any means, but I get romantic about going to the movies.

It’s sad, then, that American movie theater attendance in 2014 was the lowest it’s been since 1995 in terms of tickets sold.³ It makes sense given the advent of Netflix, On Demand, and other media enjoyed from home, along with the fact that going to the pictures ain’t that cheap. It’s easier and less expensive to stay home, and I imagine those factors become even more significant if’n you have offspring running around the house.

I digress. I bring up movies because I saw one recently that absolutely, positively blew me away, and that I cannot recommend enough: Whiplash.

Written and directed by Damien Chazelle, Whiplash is the story of a first-year jazz drummer (played by Miles Teller) at a fictional, Juilliard-inspired music conservatory, wherein he comes under the tutelage of a mysterious, legendary, profane, manipulative, and possibly career-making conductor (played by J.K. Simmons).

I have come to realize that the premise doesn’t grab everyone. Jazz can be seen as haughty and esoteric. The film itself is something of an indie, and it lacks a traditional attention-grabbing star. I’ve told many folks about it, only to be met with some “Mmm, well that sounds…interesting.”

But holy crap, please go see this movie. It is more thriller than art house. Simmons’ performance has rightly earned comparisons to that of R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket. His character, Terence Fletcher, is violent and vindictive and awful in the most compelling ways. He breaks down his charges in hopes that they are strong enough to build themselves back up. If they are unwilling or unable to do so, he has no qualms about dispensing with a player who he thinks to be deliberately sabotaging his band. Simmons owns this role.

Teller asserts himself as well. His Andrew Neyman is not a hotshot know-it-all. He’s just an awkward 19 year-old who happens to be really good at hitting things in rhythm, and who discovers that he has a chance to be much more. His aloofness will ring true for anyone who has been through late teenagehood.

I especially enjoyed Whiplash because of its tight scope. Touches of romance and familial exposition are included, but no extraneous plot is shoehorned in. The focus is on the two stars, and the music, throughout. Wide swathes of the action take place in rehearsal halls and auditoriums, Simmons and Teller expressing much of their characters without speaking. The shots are bold and lively, many cut in sync with the thunderous drumming. It’s an appropriately high tempo movie, and the 106 minutes fly by.

The hardcore drilling of Simmons’ Fletcher drives the young performer to the brink, drumming until his hands bleed and casting aside would-be distractions in the name of honing his craft. He immerses himself in the music and obsesses over his abrasive mentor. It gets a little dark, yet I found myself smiling most of the time.

Whiplash raises questions: of whether or not ends justify means; of how hard one must work to be great; of how much suffering is a prerequisite for success; of if psychotic behavior can be condoned in the name of yielding virtuosic results.

It’s nearing the end of its run in the theaters—I saw it at the Cedar Lee because that was the only place showing it—but I encourage you to find a way to see this movie.

Miscellany

These thoughts, which are designed to be jokes, have no other home, and thus I offer them here:

• Sometimes I consciously decide to do a mindless activity. Feels like I’m breaking the rules.
• I tried shadowboxing on a cloudy day.
• My friend scratched my back, but I don’t know how to repay him.
• Remember when you were too young to reminisce?
• My work has never been about the money, is how I’ve decided to explain myself.
• I took a deaf friend to a silent movie. We enjoyed it equally.
• I think there are a lot more than two kinds of people in the world, and you either know that or you don’t.

Thank you, you’ve been wonderful. No, really, thank you. Tip your bartenders, please.

Stuart Scott

At risk of closing on a melancholy note, I would be remiss if I did not share my thoughts on the passing of Stuart Scott.⁴ He and his peers—especially Rich Eisen, Dan Patrick, and Kenny Mayne—were formative voices of my sports fan adolescence. I will never know how many hours I spent watching those gentlemen lead SportsCenter as a youth, but I know that I can picture those 1990s sets as clearly as my childhood bedroom.

It’s easy to forget this now, but SportsCenter used to be the coolest TV program on the planet. For years it was the best thing going, the go-to when you didn’t know what else to put on. The day’s sporting highlights, brought to you by funny, charming hosts who legitimately loved sports and enjoyed each other’s company—what’s better than that?

Scott was an original, and his brand of commentary resonated with me from the jump. “Boo yah” became his most famous line, but his simply introducing a highlight was appointment viewing. He could turn a phrase as well as anyone, and each was distinctly is. His narration made a game matter, which is the greatest compliment you can pay a sportscaster. He wove his words with a different fabric.

Again, I watched more of Scott on SportsCenter than I can imagine. Most of that came from roughly third to eighth grade, especially over the summer and on weekends when I tried to stay up as long as I could, often with the help of those late-night reruns.

Thanks to Stuart Scott, those nights were never wasted. I learned and laughed thanks to him. Thanks to him, I could recite statistics and recall alma maters. I especially remembered North Carolina players thanks to Stu’s shout outs. It is perhaps no coindience that my first favorite hoops team was the Antawn Jamison/Vince Carter/Ed Cota Tar Heels.

Stuart Scott is among the reasons that I am a sports fan today. I hope you all have people who did the same for you. His colleague Rich Eisen said it better than I ever could:

Have a good one, gang. Thanks for reading.

1. “Someone else” being a ragtag bunch of pilots fighting against alien invaders in the events of the landmark documentary film Independence Day. [↩]
2. Am I suggesting this in part because I write about them? Yes. Yes I am. [↩]
3. Notable films of ’95: Toy Story, Apollo 13, The Usual Suspects, Se7en, Heat, GoldenEye, Clueless, Casino, Jumanji, and Friday. [↩]
4. Craig shared his thoughts Monday. [↩]