Ron Artest, Role Model?

In case you don't know who Ron Artest is, he's a basketball player who hasn't had a very good reputation. He's caused problems on some of the teams he's played for, he spent 10 days in jail because of a domestic abuse charge, and he's best known for being part of a brawl in which he punched a fan at a game. So why am I saying that he is now a very important role model?

We're used to hearing athletes after a victory thanking their mothers, coaches, and sometimes even their teammates. They often thank God, and that always seems weird to me to think that God was rooting for one team rather than the other. I'm not even sure He's a sports fan. So when the Los Angeles Lakers recently won the NBA championship, it was a little shocking to hear Ron Artest saying, "I want to thank my psychiatrist."

Artest seems to have turned his life around. He hasn't gotten in trouble lately, he's involved in some philanthropic causes, and he has started a program called Xcel University to help high-risk kids. Maybe his deciding to see a psychiatrist was another step in turning his life around.

I was somewhat amused by Artest's thanking his shrink, but a week or so later, a friend of mine said what a great thing it was that Artest made that statement. My friend, Sandra, pointed out that it was good for an athlete like Artest to admit that he was seeing a psychiatrist.

I realized that Sandra couldn't have been more right. Here was a tough, manly, macho guy telling the world that he was getting psychiatric help -- and that it was working. That's why I think, at least because of that moment, that he is an important role model.

Most male athletes -- and maybe most males -- have learned to keep their emotions to themselves. Think about the famous movie line, "There's no crying in baseball." There's also no admission of fears, anxiety, or depression in any big-time sport. Players are taught to "man up" when something bothers them. When helmets were first mandated in hockey, many players said they didn't really need them. If they have to act like they don't care about their heads getting hit by a puck, they certainly aren't going to feel comfortable admitting that something is bothering them inside their heads.

When they turn pro, athletes suddenly earn more money than they ever dreamed of. Strangers cheer their every move. And before you know it, they're in a Holiday Inn with two hookers and enough drugs to sedate the entire population of Rhode Island.

I think teams should have a therapist on the payroll and make it mandatory that rookies see him or her at least once. After that, they should know that they can go to therapy as much or as little as they want. Maybe if they see that the veterans aren't embarrassed to get help, they won't be, either.

Like many people, athletes generally only get help after they've messed up big time. Maybe Ron Artest wouldn't have been in that brawl if hehad already admitted to himself that he needed help. Maybe some of those athletes who take their guns with them to nightclubs would stay home with their families if they got help for their unspoken insecurities. Who knows? Maybe Tiger Woods would have behaved himself -- or at least stopped at two or three.

Athletes are heroes to many people, especially kids. It's refreshing that for once the message from a big time athlete is not that it's cool to drive a car 100 miles per hour, that graduating is for geeks, or that the rules of marriage only apply to women. The message was that it's cool to get help if you need it.

If a six-foot, seven-inch sports figure feels that there's no reason to be ashamed about seeing a therapist, maybe at least a few people who are shorter than he is will feel the same way. Even if it's silly, people still seem to believe that truly manly men are big, strong guys. I guess society hasn't evolved enough to realize that the real manly men are those who look fear in the eyes and man up as they grind out a column every week, without even wearing a helmet.

Just A Game?

If it had been a movie, Butler's Gordon Hayward's last shot would have gone in.

But it wasn't a movie, it was real life.

It was the NCAA Championship game and real life spoiled things for an amazing Butler team, for about 60,000 (out of the 70,000) people in the arena, and for millions of people the country who were rooting for the little school that almost could.

The score was close the whole game, and Duke’s winning 61-59 probably made the defeat all the more painful for Butler.

It was an excitingly emotional game. Up and down, tied, up and down some more. It was the kind of game you didn't want to end. Butler University, a school only a few miles from the arena, a school with about 4,000 students, was considered the underdog this season no matter whom they played and no matter how high their ranking soared in the national polls. People love an underdog. In sports and in life. We get much more excited to hear a success story about someone who started with nothing rather than one about a kid who was born rich and then succeeded.

The non-sports fans always seem to ask why people who are seemingly mature in other ways will get so involved in a game. They don't understand that getting so involved in sports, getting so wrapped up in watching a game, is a great break from the realities of life. In those last few minutes of the Championship game, I guarantee you nobody there was thinking about the economy, foreign policy, or whether their kid had married the right person. They were either rooting for a team they had cheered on for years or for a team they felt symbolized the optimistic mantra of "Anything's possible." And maybe then they felt that anything's possible for them. Maybe they can solve those problems in the "real world," maybe they can get a job or a promotion, maybe they can get that person at work to smile at them.

It was fitting that Butler's Hayward took that final half-court shot. Butler has often been compared to the school in the movie "Hoosiers." If so, then Gordon Hayward was "Jimmy," the kid who could do almost anything with the basketball, a kid who looked so very Middle American in this sport that had its origin in Middle America.

After the game, I felt a little depressed as reality was slowly creeping into my mind. "I have to pack, would I make my plane connections tomorrow? (I didn't), I have a lot of work to do when I get home," etc.

Reality can be an annoying thing. It disturbs our dreams. It often spoils our good times. But for reality to join fantasy -- like during an "unreal" basketball game -- is a wonderful gift for those who are lucky enough to be present for it.

I was at that championship game in Indianapolis, and sitting behind me was a very tall man who looked like he had definitely played basketball. He turned out to be the Olathe, Kansas girls high school basketball coach (and science teacher) Joel Branstrom. A couple of months before this game, he had been in the news because of something that happened at a pep rally at his school. Some kids blindfolded him, then told him that if he could make a half-court shot, he'd win tickets to the Final Four. Branstrom, a former basketball walk-on for the University of Kansas, made the half-court shot blindfolded. The kids were shocked, and then admitted that they didn't have any tickets for him. It was just a prank. There was that annoying reality again.

But somehow, the NCAA got wind of this whole thing and sent Branstrom tickets for the championship weekend. So there he was, sitting behind me with his family, a big smile on his face, watching one of the most exciting games in history. For him, reality had joined fantasy.

If it worked for him, if one of his dreams could come true, maybe it can work for the rest of us, too. Let's face it: making a half-court shot blindfolded sounds impossible. It is impossible in the world of reality, but not in the world of sports.

By the way, when Gordon Hayward missed that long shot at the buzzer, I wonder if Branstrom was thinking, "How could he have missed that? He wasn't even blindfolded.