didn't we almost have it all...

Some people have called our fans spoiled.  I disagree.

I would call them blessed.

I would call my family incredibly blessed, as well.  Blessed beyond all reasonable understanding.  Blessed to the point that to look at it in its full scope is completely overwhelming.  I've met the President of the United States twice, the First Lady once, and stood in the same airspace as the Vice President and Second Lady.  I've been to Paris, Rome, Honolulu, and everywhere in between.  I can call some of the greatest athletes and coaches in the world my friends.  Blessed is the only word I can use to describe what we are.  I mean, for God's sake, this is the FIRST TIME I've had to talk about a loss in the Postseason in 2+ years of blogging.  That is insane. 

We are blessed to the point that when things like Sunday night happen, we don't know how to deal with it.  Okay, maybe it's just me who doens't know how to deal.  Life isn't fair.  But you go on, right? There's so much stuff in the world that is far, far worse than losing a basketball game.  But when you are in the frame of mind that these girls were in on Sunday, it does really feel like the end of the world.  I can't even begin to parse what they went through emotionally, and I'm sure my little pity party had absolutely nothing to compare itself to with their feelings.  But this is what it feels like to lose in the Postseason, from someone who doesn't experience it too often.  I will quote my Nonna.  "This sucks."

It does.  I'm sorry if that makes me a spoiled brat.  But it sucks.  It really sucks.

Sunday seemed straighforward enough.  I walked to the mall with my family and looked over some of the offerings at the Gap, deciding not to buy anything after hemming and hawing over a nice game outfit when I realized I had already packed something pretty nice to wear.  I went back to the hotel, ate lunch, and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And got nervous.  Really, really nervous.

Something that perked me up was the arrival of Diana! I hadn't seen her since last summer, so I was thrilled to reunite with her and catch up.  She had come in the night before and went straight up to my parents' room to surprise Nonna and see the baby.  Nonna was thrilled, and the baby clearly adored her.  That kid will flirt with anything.  I also got to see her agent, Lindsay, a really good friend of mine.  We had a blast just hanging out in my parents' room and it helped to have that kind of camaraderie in the air before we headed out to the game. 

After picking up some pregame food and watching the first half of the first semifinal, the family and I walked over to the arena.  Something that made me realize this game might be different was that we had forgotten the semifinal tickets and had accidentally taken the championship tickets.  A bad omen?

Another bad omen was the lack of my pre-game ritual.  After the sad events in Tampa in 2008, I've taken to 'pre-packing': as in, before we leave for the semifinal game, I repack all of my clothes just so I don't have to deal with it after the game in the event of a loss.  I don't know why, but I didn't prepack this time. 

At the game, I got to the seats a little late due to the ticket snafu and a quick bathroom trip, and I found myself sitting next to Diana, who was sitting next to Penny Taylor.  Then I found out Jamelle Elliot was going to sit in back of me.  I told myself "Alysa Auriemma, you are probably going to be on TV a lot since D is right next to you.  So make sure you don't do anything stupid." Boy, that came back to bite me in the ass.  About midway through the first half, my phone lit up.  The first few said stuff along the lines of "You were just on TV" and then several came through shouting "Spit out your gum!"

Crap.  The one time the ESPN cameras were on me, I went from popping my gum like a 50s greaser to staring at Diana while she talked, wide-eyed as a Japanese cartoon.  I think the entire nation thinks I'm a gum-chewing texting anime character.  Not very kawaii.  I promise I have other facial expressions.

Right before the game I got a fantastic surprise.  I was tapped on the shoulder and turned around to see Mel Thomas! Now, if I were to come out and say which girl on the team I've gotten the closest to, it would be Mel.  We are only a month apart in age (she's older) and we have a lot in common, and I haven't seen her since she took the DOBO job at Florida Gulf Coast.  I was completely thrilled to see her.  I believe during our starting lineups you can see me hugging the life out of her.

Then the game started. 

The first half went okay enough.  We made some great plays but got into a bit of foul trouble.  Not to worry.  We'd be okay.  But I started to get a nagging feeling in my stomach.  I kept thinking about 2001.  We were up by 15 at halftime, and lost.  I tried to shake the bad feeling, but it just kept coming back.

The second half started, and then it all slid.  I thought going to the bathroom would save me, but just like in Tampa, they were pumping ESPNRadio through the speakers so I couldn't escape the gameplay.  I tried to plug my ears, but Beth Mowins dug through my fingers into my cochlea.  I couldn't hide.  Maya kept making shots, but then we couldn't defend the three.  Fouls were called left right and center. Then, we fouled to stop the clock. 

And that's when I knew it was over.

I could feel my heart breaking, piece by piece.  I really only lost my composure when Beth Mowins began speaking about Maya and her "brilliant career ending".  I realized it would be the last time Maya would play in a UCONN uniform.  And Lorin.  The Little One and the Great One, ending their careers, some would say too early.  All the credit in the world to Notre Dame for executing their game plan and throwing us off ours to such a lofty extent.  They deserved to win that game. 

I began to cry in the bathroom stall as the clock wound down.  I couldn't help it.  It was a pain in my gut that I've felt only a few times before.  1996.  1997.  1998.  1999.  2001.  2008.  Dreams cut short.  Careers ending before they should. 

(the regional final games in 05, 06, and 07 didn't make me sad, they pissed me off more than anything.  They were games we simply could not win, with the exception of the Duke game in 2006.)

I can't explain the feeling of losing when you don't do it very often.  If I may be permitted to be unbelievably geeky, it's like the moment in The Fellowship of the Ring where Gandalf is thrown by the Balrog off the Bridge of Khazad-Dum and Legolas has a look on his face of utter confusion and disbelief.  He doesn't know how to process death because it's never happened to him before or to any of his comrades.  So when he's face with a loss, he can't understand it.  That's kind of how it felt.  Like, "What now?"

After the game, Jenna came up to the bathroom to make sure I was okay.  I said I was fine, but knew that if i didn't do some damage control on my face, I would be confused with Bert the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins.  I scrubbed down my eyes, put my game face on, and walked back outside.  Lindsay put her arm around me and tried to console me with horror stories of her own sporting career.  We joked that Indianapolis needed to be put on the "Cities We Hate" list, along with Charlotte and Tampa; St. Louis, we decided, got a reprieve because we lost there in 2001 but won in 2009.  Diana said that anything discussed post-losing would not be talked about on Twitter or my blog.  So I will stay silent about the other things we talked about.  But just know, a LOT of laughter echoed through the streets of Indianapolis that night, and for that I will always be thankful.

I got back the hotel and asked Mom for a bottle of wine and a funnel.  Unfortunately, the bar wouldn't allow me to do that so I settled for a glass of Merlot.  We settled in and watched the people in the bar talk about the game, and I talked to my sister and Mom about the game plan for the next day.  We knew we'd be flying out early, we just didn't know when.  We were still discussing the details when we heard a round of respectful applause and whistles go up in the bar.  I looked over to the door and saw Caroline come in and hug her mom.

They were back.

I stood up and made my way over to the hotel doorway, tears starting to come back as I saw our girls make their way to their parents.  I managed to get to Caroline first, and whispered in her ear, "Denver.  Let's do this." She nodded and hugged me tight before going with her Mom.  I managed to retain my composure, but it was hard seeing all of these girls look so broken. 

The fans in the bar and in the hotel were absolutely lovely, with one or two horrifying exceptions.  There are boundaries in these instances that you do not cross, and some boundaries were indeed crossed that night in the post-game milieu.  While 90 percent of fans were respectful and kept their distance, there are 10 percent that makes things incredibly difficult for fans, families, and personnel to do their jobs and keep level heads.  Chris and CD and Marisa are excellent in getting them to disperse, but really, they aren't bodyguards and shouldn't have to act like them.  There are things you do, and things you don't do.  Please remember that.  I won't go into details but those who acted out know it, and hopefully they will take what I'm saying to heart and not do it again. These aren't automatons that you plug in and play for your amusement.  These are living, breathing, bleeding, hurting girls.  Let them have some peace.

[NOTE: my sister wanted to do a guest posting on family privacy and fan violations, but decided against it.  I want her to do it because she is an extremely talented and witty writer in her own right and would have a lot of great things to say on the subject; not only is she my sister and therefore shares a lot of my experiences, she's a new mother herself.  Here's hoping I can convince her!]

I looked around for my dad and in the meantime tried to hug as many of the girls as I could.  I even had to hug Mel, who looked gutted that they lost.  She, of course, knows all too well what it's like to lose in a Final Four, and seeing Caroline watch the loss on the bench reminded her of that night.  You can read about it in her book Heart of a Husky, available at all fine bookstores.  (Happy, Mel? I plugged your book. ;)

I got to say hi to Kelly's mom, who was bummed her daughter wouldn't be around for a few more days.  I really liked her little 'About Me' tag on ESPN before the game, about how she's a hometown girl.  She did a great job.

After a while of hugs and tears, another small round of applause went up.  I looked over and saw Dad wave to the bar and sling his jacket over his shoulder.  He looked tired.  Mom hugged him and he said "It's all right.  I'm okay.  This is fine."  And he was. 

He didn't look sad, or angry.  Just a man in need of a long nap.

Like last year after we won in San Antonio, I gave him a hug.  And, like last year, I cried.  What a difference a year makes.  No cameras.  No confetti.  No jubilations.  No nets to be cut.  Just us.

I ended up staying up until around 3 in the morning, not being able to sleep.  Last year on championship night, I stayed up until 4, jacked up with joy.  This time, I was more stunned and sorrowful.  And, of course, I had to pack.  That was a pain.

Then, it was over.  We flew home, and after a quick grocery store stop, I found myself back on my couch, planning my next day of classwork and paper writing.  Like nothing had happened. 

Of course, now the men have won their championship.  That is a saving grace.  The rioting that occured on campus last night leaves a very bitter taste in my mouth, to be sure.  But that's to be expected.  The complete lack of press on our arrival home was to be expected as well. 

I can't even begin to explain the ride Maya Moore has given us over the past few years.  She has truly been our everything.  The amount of love I have for her and her family is inexpressible.  Her humility, her grace, her unbelievable track record and the hardware she collected...I don't think it will ever be surpassed.  Of course, never say never.  But it'll be hard to top what Maya Moore has done.  Nor should anyone go into college with that mindset.  There's just so much she has done for UCONN and for the game.  Her and Lorin Dixon, or "Little One", will always be deep in my heart.  From the first time we got friendly in that trip to the Virgin Islands in 2007 (where I first heard Maya sing and Lorin fell asleep on me on the plane) to this past weekend, everything has just been a wonderful, incredible journey. 

Two things to put all of this into perspective:

1. We did this with SIX used players.  SIX.  That is almost unheard of.  (And the first person to jump on the 'Blame Heather/Michaela/Lauren' train will be cyber-annihilated.)
2. When I woke up on Monday it was grey, cold, and pouring down rain.  I felt pretty bummed, I won't lie.  Then, I went into the other room and greeted Todd and the baby.  Lovebug was rolling around on the bed without a care in the world, looking up when I entered.  He gave me a great big smile and giggled, like nothing was wrong.  And indeed, nothing is.

Despite the loss, I hope you all stick with me.  2011 is just getting started.  And 2012? You ain't seen nothing yet...

ally

And Then There Were Four.

[note: this was written before I left for the Notre Dame game.  I did not press 'publish' because my computer internet was a bit wonky.  look for my post about the ND game in the next week.  brain is still trying to process everything.  but enjoy this calm before the hurricane.]

We have arrived.  Indianapolis, 2011.  The site of the Women's Final Four.  It's almost game time.  Can you handle it?

This trip never gets old for me.  There's so much stuff to do, so many people to see, and this year with the addition of the baby, everything feels fresh.  

Last year at this time, I was sunning myself in the San Antonio heat.  This year...I am in weather that is exactly the same as CT, although without the dusting of snow we seem to have gotten back home.  April Fools, indeed.  Good work, Mother Nature.

But first, let's back up.  Georgetown.

Last weekend for the East Regional I managed to hitch a ride with the team to watch the Georgetown game in person with my family, but afterwords I drove home with Jenna and Lovebug in order to make my 9:30 class the next morning.  I knew that if we were to make the Final Four, I'd be missing those seminars, and I'd be much better off missing just one Monday's worth of class instead of two.  Besides, due to my teaching commitments next year I won't be able to go on any trips, so I wanted to make this year count.  

Philadelphia proved to me that this year would be different than any other - the addition of a baby in our travels, after all, makes things just slightly more complicated.  In no other year have I been drafted to change a diaper at a Regional gym site, or skipped a shootaround to bounce a child on my lap while his Mommy takes a much needed nap or heads to grab a quick dinner downstairs.  We ended up going to a very nice restaurant on the Philly waterfront and watched the men's Regional final games on TVs the wait staff had placed at strategic points around the room.  Nothing like a quiet dinner punctuated with screams of "GO TO WORK, KEMBA" ricocheting around the restaurant.  

The Georgetown game, as you all know if you read my Twitter (@alysamarsiella), was just short of traumatizing for me.  We couldn't hit water if we fell off a boat, whereas the entire Hoya team seem to be possessed by the ghost of Pete Maravich.  It was psychotic to watch.  I ended up stress-eating a giant Philly soft pretzel covered in honey mustard sauce and when that didn't work I ended up running for the bathroom just to get away and collect myself, something I know my uncle also did, in case you all wonder where I get my panicky nature from.  At least I came back down for the last five minutes of the game...poor Uncle Ferruccio didn't even feel relief enough to do that.  He ended up coming back into the arena about five minutes after the final buzzer, just to be safe.  The person who suffered the most was my Nonna, who did not leave the arena but that doesn't mean she wasn't anxious.  Her stomach was in so much pain from the nerves she didn't eat the entire day, and by the end of the game my cousin Marsi was shoving Utz pretzels down her throat just to get her some carbohydrates.  

Thank goodness for Lorin Dixon.  She came in and reinvented our offense, something we desperately needed at that point of the game.  By taking Stefanie out, our game plan sped up exponentially and the pace worked to our advantage.

Monday night after my classes were over, I met up with Jenna and Todd to watch the night of Regional Final games.  The Tennessee game was amazing to watch.  For the first time in a long, long time, I found myself rooting extremely hard for Notre Dame to win.  I even pulled out a Kelly green fleece and rocked it for the majority of the game.  Now, I know what you all are thinking - why wouldn't I want a Tennessee/UCONN rematch? That's what everyone and their uncle wants.  Not me.  It would be a media circus, and I don't even like regular circuses.  I don't want my Dad or the players to deal with that hoopla, and despite how badly I wanted us to destroy Tennessee, I couldn't bring myself to root against Notre Dame.  That being said, I would be lying if I said a fourth matchup with Notre Dame didn't make me apprehensive.  It's the fourth time we're playing them, for crying out loud!  But they deserved to win that game, and for one reason only: they proved extremely effective in isolating the weaknesses of Meghan Simmons as a freshman guard.  She is their leading scorer and when the Irish took her out of the game with those two quick fouls, you knew the Vols were doomed.  Add to that the almost superhuman efforts of Brittany Mallory, Skylar Diggins, and Natalie Novosel (along with the play of the game by Devereaux Peters), and the experience trumped passion.  Also, something that trumps intensity? A solid game plan.  And execution of that game plan.  Talent can only take you so far.  It takes actual X's and O's to win a game.

We arrived Thursday after a pretty standard plane ride.  The airplane crew took a big liking to Lovebug, and even had some great advice on how to handle cabin pressure upon landing (just let the kid scream.  It pops the air).  After a picture opportunity at Conseco Fieldhouse in front of a Formula 1 car dressed in the NCAA logo, the team and the family headed to the hotel for food and rest.  We were welcomed at the hotel by a coterie of fans and high school students, and the leader asked Dad to come up and say a few words.  She then proceeded to call up a player to wave and get her picture taken.  I know what you all are thinking.  But it wasn't Maya.  Wasn't Tiffany.  Wasn't Stefanie.  Wasn't even Lorin Dixon.  Nope, the player everyone wanted to have a spotlight moment was the hometown girl, Kelly Faris.  It was the best moment of the day for me.  That, and walking in and seeing complimentary fruit and granola bars laid out for us.  I immediately stuffed two apples and several oatmeal raisin bars into my purse.  I'm a sucker for free food.

Friday was a lazy day.  I hung out at the hotel with Jenna and the baby for most of it, helping out when I could.  Todd wasn't due to come in until that night, so I was drafted to take care of the little things so Jenna wouldn't tear her hair out.  He is an incredibly well-behaved baby, so it wasn't too hard.  Although he does like to pull hair.

Friday night was the Salute Dinner and Presentation and I took Mom's seat so she could stay and greet my Nonna, uncle and aunts as they came in from Philly.  This year at the Salute we had great food; the inclusion of salmon was a welcome sight for us Catholics who were observing Lent Friday. Thank goodness, because last year Kelly Faris and I were staring at plates full of potato chips, trying to figure out what else we could eat that wouldn't damn us to hell.

For the actual Salute part of the evening, the theme was Cirque du Soleil (or Cirque du Salute).  As well as offering us tons of props to play with (I immediately snagged a boa), the presentation itself was a full on circus. Lots of clowns, contortionists, hula hoopers, balancers, and one incredible aerialist with insane biceps who performed a beautiful routine on silks while "The Power of the Dream" played.  I still really dislike that song, but kudos to that country singer who keeps on coming back year after year to sing it for us.  This year they added the Indianapolis Children's Choir, which I thought was a sweet touch.

The presentation was hosted by Sage Steel, and she did a good job and was very funny but I wish she had talked less and let the players/coaches talk more.  The stories about her daughter becoming inspired to play basketball from watching our Baylor game were cute, but I would've liked to hear more from Gary, Tara, Muffet and Dad (maybe not as much from Dad). 

There were a few moments of awkward flirting between Sage and Gary Blair, as well as a moment where Dad told her he had gotten his toenails painted Husky blue because Muffet had gotten an Irish green manicure ("I got them professionally done," he deadpanned, causing the ND team to roar with laughter).  

Saturday morning was again very lowkey, after the announcement of the State Farm All-America team.  I was pretty happy with the picks and THRILLED with the addition of Courtney Vandersloot.  I was even more excited about that, I think, then Maya winning her 3rd Wade Trophy.  Courtney is one of the most talented point guards I think I've ever seen, so to see her finally get her due was wonderful.  Of course, Maya picking up her hardware was pretty great, too.  

After the AA team announcement and a workout, I met up with Nonna, Aunt Anna, and Todd along with Jenna and Mom and the baby for lunch at Panera.  Bellies full of Thai Chopped Chicken Salad, we headed to Conseco to watch our open practice.  It was pretty straightforward.  Lots of drills.  There was one hilarious moment where a guy came up to Nonna asking for her autograph. Those of you who know my Nonna's story know that she cannot read or write, so she just said "No." Well, Jenna and I felt really bad for the guy so we proceeded to chase him through Conseco Fieldhouse and finally flagged him down around the autograph line.  We tried to explain to him the situation, but he stopped us.  "I KNEW that!" he exclaimed.  "When I left, I remembered, and I thought to myself 'Eric, you are such an asshole!'" We got a kick out of it.

Last night we dined at a very nice steakhouse near the hotel.  The restaurant is an Indianapolis institution with a very famous shrimp cocktail.  What makes it so special? The sauce is hot enough to blow your eyebrows off.  I thought Lorin was going to die.  Still delicious, though! I sat closest to Lorin, Caroline, Stefanie and Michaela and we had a great time.

The TVs were set up for us, which was great because this time I could actually look at the TV without getting a sprained neck.  We stayed for the first half of the men's game, and then I headed back to watch the baby and check out the ending.  We are on one of the higher floors of this hotel, and to hear people screaming that loudly from the bar downstairs warmed my heart.  Here's hoping they're as energetic as that tonight!

Some other fun things to consider:

1. The people of the Midwest are incredibly nice.  To the point where I feel like an asshole just by being a Yankee.

2. Starbucks in the hotel? Good.  Starbucks in the hotel that closes at noon on Saturdays and Sundays? BAD.  Poor Shea.  I thought she was going to cry.

3. Having a Panera across the street from the hotel is deadly.  On Friday, they had to give me a shopping bag for all of the stuff I ordered for Mom, Jenna and myself.  Big eaters for the win.

4. Shock resistant treadmill.  Enough said.

5. Stefanie Dolson knows how to work an opera mask.

6. No matter how many Final Fours I go to, no matter how many tournaments I witness, every single one is new and different.  I am incredibly blessed, I'm aware.  I appreciate and value every moment of this journey and nothing escapes my gratitude.

7. Babies sleep remarkably well during a thrilling semifinal victory.   It's only after the game is over that they get fussy.  Athlete in training, much?

Off to hang out with the baby and try not to get nervous...fourth time, hopefully, will not be the charm for the Irish...

ally

PS. I got recognized at the Salute dinner.  It was really weird, but kind of awesome.

[that last sentence is haunting me!]

My dinner with Dad.

Let's be honest.  This week hasn't exactly been the greatest, PR-wise, for dear old Pops.

He's said a few things in the media over the past several days that have caused those close to him, as well as ESPN commenters and pundits, to headdesk multiple times.  There is one thing I will say on the subject: First of all, Dad already got the riot act read to him by my mother (Her reaction was not unlike Nancy Kerrigan - "Why? WHY?!"), so he's not out of the red yet.  Secondly, It is a collision of factors.  Lack of attendance can be blamed on several causes, all of which are easily fixed.  So let's get butts back in the seats.  We all can be instrumental in this change.  That means the building management/treatment, the fans, the school.  All of it can help.  Let's do this.

Moving on.

There were a few fantastic things about this week that managed to slip their way under the radar due to some untimely comments by certain people in my family.  First off, it was Dad's 57th birthday on Wednesday, and I managed to give him a pretty good present - I got into the English graduate program of my choice.  I found out that morning and managed to get Dad on speakerphone as he drove into work.  His reaction nearly broke my Blackberry.

(In case you were wondering, yes, I will be attending UCONN.  This past year was a 'catch-up' year, in which I took triple the average course load in order to obtain the credits necessary to feel confident in a Masters program.  I am attending UCONN for the following reasons: It's close to home, it's a great university, and they have an English program that is not only challenging, it's a little bit more realistic for me than stretching for an out of state program that requires more experience than I have at the moment.  It's also where I did my undergraduate work, so I'm familiar with the campus.  Also, because of my non-degree study this year, I can matriculate the graduate credits into the Master's program. I could have my Masters as early as the spring of 2012 instead of 2013.)

This weekend marks the Eastern Regional, which just happens to take place in my father's hometown of Philadelphia.  Well, technically his hometown is Montella, and then after that it's Norristown, PA, but Norristown is a close suburb to Philly.  My mother, sister, brother-in-law, and Lovebug drove down yesterday morning so that our extended relatives could meet the baby.  I will be driving down with Dad and the team this afternoon, however I will not be staying for the Elite Eight game if we are blessed to make it past Sunday.  I will be driving home with my sister after the Sweet Sixteen, because I have a little thing called "two three-hour seminar classes" on Monday.  If I'm going to miss any classes, I will miss due to the Final Four (knock wood).  Priorities, people.

Because my mom and sister drove down already, last night would be just me and Dad for dinner.  Dad.  And I.  Alone.  For dinner.  Lord, help me.

This is what I want you all to think about whenever you hear my Dad spouting off at the press conferences next week.  Think about the insanity I endure, be thankful you don't have to live with it, and pray for me.

My father and I have completely separate palates.  He's a meat-pasta-potatoes guy with a profound hatred of garlic, whereas I just recently have transitioned to a mostly gluten and dairy-free diet due to allergies.  A dinner we could both enjoy without killing each other or setting the kitchen on fire would be a magnanimous feat.  Factor in the knowledge that Dad usually looks at my dinners like I'm about to enjoy a bowl of owl pellets, and I was worried he'd set me on fire.

I told Dad I'd be out of my yoga class at around 6, and he told me he'd be home around 8.  I usually take the 6 PM class but I knew Dad wanted to have dinner and 7:30 would have been pushing it.  Plus, I wanted to make a really nice dinner for us and I wanted that time.

After my practice I hopped on our elliptical machine in the basement for about twenty-five minutes, just to kill some time, and thought about what to make for Dad and I that we'd both like  The options were limited.  I came upstairs from the basement and stared into the abyss of our fridge.  Chicken.  Potatoes.  Soy cheese.  Asparagus.   God, help me.

I slowly started seasoning a piece of chicken with a rub that was laced with garlic.  I had no idea what Dad wanted on his chicken but I knew if I put garlic on it he'd go postal, so I left it uncooked.  I also stuck some asparagus in the oven.  By this time, it was around 7:30, and I was getting to the point of hunger where you start thinking about choking people for no reason.  Dad was nowhere in sight.  I dialed his number numerous times.

Finally, I hopped into the shower, came back down to the kitchen, and started cooking my own piece of chicken.  I also threw together a big salad for us to share with some spinach and red onion.  I topped my share of the greens with a strawberry balsamic, something I really like but I didn't think Dad would.  I didn't know if he wanted rice or a potato, and our loaf of ciabatta bread had been sitting out and had gotten stale to the point where you could easily beat up a burglar with it.

Around 8 PM, I was so hungry I considered spraying Pam into my mouth.  I cooked my piece of chicken, topping it with some roasted red peppers and a slice of soya cheddar.  I had just sat down to my dinner when Dad walked in.

"Hey! Did you make anything for me?"

"There's asparagus in the oven," I said quickly, housing some of it as I spoke.  He looked over at the stovetop.  "Is that the chicken?" he asked.

"Yes, I didn't know what you wanted me to do with it, so I didn't cook it.  Just throw it in the skillet."

"Okay.  Can you just put some oil and salt and pepper on it?"

I got up and did so.

"Can you put it on the skillet? Do we have any potatoes?"

"Yes, I'll put one in the oven for you." I opened the oven.  But wait! His asparagus! "Do you want some of this?" I asked, waving the pan in his face.  He shook his head.  Ah, well, more for me.  I dumped it onto my plate after poking the potato with a fork, washing it, and shoving it into the oven for about an hour.  Dad proceeded to take over the chicken cooking on the skillet so I could have a few more bites of my dinner.  He stared at the salad I had cobbled together.

"What kind of lettuce is this?"

I looked up.  Disbelieving.  "It's spinach."


"Oh.  Is it good?"

"I eat it all the time." Which is true.  I practically buy out the supermarket's supply of Olivia's Organics.

"What do you put on it?"

"...Dressing?"

"Oh.  Okay.  Do you want wine?"

Can I put a straw in the bottle?

I think by this point you can see what happened next.  I got slightly schnockered and proceeded to coach Dad through the preparation of his chicken and salad.  If you follow my Twitter (@alysamarsiella) you can see that all of the above events are true and did in fact happen.

I tease, but Dad actually did a great job.  He put some of his fra diavolo sauce on the chicken, as well as some hot pepper flakes and chili powder (I had a bite and I'm shocked I didn't immediately get an ulcer). He also had the brilliant idea of putting roasted chestnuts into his portion of the salad, along with some balsamic vinegar and olive oil.  It actually turned out to be an amazing dinner, despite some hiccups.  He was very proud of himself, and I think he should get a gold star and an extra ten minutes at nap time.

The potato looked done about 45 minutes into cooking, so I took it out of the oven and presented it to Dad.  He cut it open and looked as if he had been given a piece of raw fish.  "This isn't cooked! Put it back in the oven! It's raw!"  I did, but I may have shot him a look that would level several Vulcans.  It was a bit of a blessing in disguise, however...the potato, when cooked sliced open, had the consistency and flavor of a large French fry.  I may have found a new favorite way of cooking potatoes, and Dad loved it.

Aside from a slightly awkward moment at the beginning of the meal as Dad attempted to convince me to go on to PHd after I receive my Masters (one step at a time, Pops), we managed to get through the meal with laughter and good feelings.  And wine.  Obviously.

After dinner, Mom called, and I overheard Dad say to her "Dinner was great! I made some chicken and  a baked potato." To which I emphatically yelled "I PUT IT ON THE SKILLET."

Silence.  Then - "Yeah, Ally helped."

Glug glug.

We settled into the couch and watched the end of the UCONN game as well as the beginnings of the Duke and Butler games.  We finished off the night with wine, Ben and Jerry's (for him), chocolate-flavored tea and fruit(for me...gave up dessert for Lent because I'm a masochist, and trust me I was craving some chocolate), and several viewings of e*trade baby commercials I found through youtube that caused us to huddle around my laptop, howling with laughter.  Dad's favorite one is the 'Solitary' spot, where the baby is given a time-out for riding the family dog around like a horse.  Apparently it's 'frowned upon in this establishment'.

About halfway into the Butler game, Dad looked at me with concern.  "You're up late! Shouldn't you be in bed?" I looked at the clock.  10:30.  I'm usually upstairs and in bed around 9.  Which says a lot about my social life.  Although in my defense, I go upstairs around 9 and then just sit around watching reruns of Criminal Minds and The Late Late Show until midnight.  Wait, did I say that? I meant I study.  All night.

I nodded, and got up to give him a hug.  He gave me a kiss on the cheek, thanked me for dinner, and said the best birthday present he got this year was the call telling him I'd gotten into grad school.

And suddenly...a frantic night, a carafe of wine, a nearly-exploding potato, and a demanding/picky eater didn't seem so bad after all.

Happy birthday, Dad.

ally

PS.  I did get Dad a tangible present as well as the announcement of my continuing education.  I purchased him a jar of roasted chestnuts.  It seemed right.  I almost put a bow on it, but that would have been too on the nose.

PPS.  The quote of the night comes from Dad telling me about the young man who won the National Wrestling Championship, despite only having one leg.  "Ally.  He can do an 8 minute mile on crutches.  I can't even do an 8 minute mile on a bike."

Beware the Ides of March.

Quick thoughts on the Big East Tournament:

Man.  There's lousy refing and then there is lousy refing.  Every single game I've attended this year has been marred by atrocious calls.  But aside from that, I only have one complaint: The MVP of the tourney was Stefani Dolson.  Maya got the hardware.  But Stefani earned a place in the hearts and minds of every person, whether a spectator or journalist, who watched those three games.  She is going to be something special.  In fact, she already is.

Now, on to the task at hand.  It's MARCH.  Oh, March.

It's my favorite time of year.  It's the best time for anyone who's a fan of spring, but when you like basketball as much as I do, March is the golden age.  Thank God I look good in green.

I wish every month were as jampacked with awesome as March is.  However, if there is one thing to be sacrificed in the name of March, it's sleep.  The time of March Madness is always a little bit...well..mad in the Auriemma house.  Lots of traveling, hotels, raised blood pressures, and excuses to eat concessions soft pretzels for dinner.  

And Chinese food.  Lots and lots of Chinese food.  We've basically kept Manchester China running over the past several years.  It isn't March Madness until Dad's had his mushu pork at least three times in a single week.  My personal poison is General Tso's, but different strokes for different folks.

I have not done my bracket yet because to be quite honest, I don't know how to do it with the additions made in the men's tournament.  There are a bunch of new games to squeeze into the bracket and the absence of several quality teams from the field this year has many people rankled across the board, both on the layman level and on the professional level.  I thought Jay Bilas' head was going to explode when the bracket was announced.  Rage.  RAGE.

My general analysis is as follows for the men's bracket.

1. Thank God Villanova got in.  The bracket got a lot more handsome with their inclusion.  Joking aside, Dick Vitale was right: Look out for Villanova.  They always find a way to shock (although not in the best way last year, I nearly had a heart attack during the Franklin Pierce game last year).  When they're good, they are very, very good.  I can see them stunning a few teams on their way to Houston.

2.  UCONN as a 3 is justified after both the not-so-great two months they've had and the nothing short of miraculous run they had last week.  5 wins in 5 nights? Jeff Jacobs of the Hartford Courant was right when he tweeted a few nights into the tournament that Kemba Walker may have been locked in a hyperbaric chamber overnight in order to retain his energy levels.  What an incredible accomplishment.

3. The JIMMER.  I'm a sucker for baby-faced sharpshooters.  Jimmer Fredette's career is nothing short of extraordinary.  He has the range of JJ Redick and the muscularity of Tyler Hansborough.  My father and I were watching the BYU/Arizona game and Dad pointed out Jimmer's ability to square up as he elevated towards the basket.  I'm structuring my bracket to make it BYU's year to run the table.  If they don't, it will be a consequence of the suspension of Brandon Davies for 'relations' with his girlfriend.  Either that, or someone overdoses on tea and ruins everything for the Cougars.  Go Mormons!

As for the women's bracket, I was pretty positive that we would get Hartford as our 16 seed (although had Delaware won their conference, it would have been pretty interesting to see if they had landed in the Philly region).  I was thrilled, however, to see Depaul as our 3.  It would be a bit uncomfortable, sure, to play them in the final game before Indianapolis.  But what a great way to close out the season.  DePaul is no small pickings, might I add.  With their glut of seniors-some of them in their 5th year-they have a lot of experience and will prove heavy competition for any team that stands in their way.  The Big East is very well-represented, as it should be.  

How about Baylor and Texas A&M in the same bracket? In Dallas, no less? That will be a showdown for the ages.  Reminds me of when we got Rutgers as a 2 seed back in the '08 Greensboro Regional.  

There are a few glitches.  I'm incredibly surprised at the low seeding of Temple, and it's surprising Syracuse didn't get in since they defeated a few high-profile teams.  But you can't win every battle, and thank goodness for other tournaments like the NIT/WNIT.  Lots of games no matter how you slice it.  There are a lot of changes this year and we all must ride the wave.

Speaking of change...

There have been a lot of resignations and firings this week.  One of them struck me to the core.

There are certain people that you cannot imagine living your life without their influence.

Debbie Ryan is one of those people. 

Debbie announced her resignation as head coach at Virginia this week.  I was stunned, as was most of my family.  At first, I thought it was because of failing health (Coach Ryan, as most of you know, dealt with pancreatic cancer about a decade ago and is in remission), but that was quickly put to rest with her statement to the press about the nature of her decision: she didn't feel the program (or her coaching) lived up to her expectations, and she chose to walk away rather than keep at it.  I have a tremendous amount of respect for this decision.  Some people don't know when to walk away and the joy of your profession turns into repeated flogging of a dead horse.

While Ryan stated this is not a retirement from the game, it did cause me to think about what might happen if my father were to retire any time soon.  Not like that's happening.  He's got far too much on his plate to even consider it.  But it does give one pause.  It's not like he can coach until he's 97.  Although the visual is pretty hilarious if you think about it hard enough.  Instead of throwing clipboards, he throws a walker?

I cannot overstate the importance of Debbie Ryan to the game of basketball.  Her team came four points shy of ending our 1995 championship season two games early if you remember.  The players that have come out of her program are household names to women's basketball fans.  Dawn Staley is the only player from a losing team to ever be named MOP of a Final Four (1991, UVA lost to Tennessee in the championship game...after defeating us in the semifinal).  And of course, Tonya Cardoza came out of that program.  

The fact that she suggested my Dad when UCONN came calling for the head coaching job back in 1985 is important, obviously, but not the entire story.  Debbie Ryan part of the old guard which includes my father as well as Pat Summitt, Jim Foster, and Leon Barmore.  She will be sorely missed if this is the last season we see her on the sideline.  I hope that's not the case and that another school recognizes her talents and snaps her up.

If there is one thing I've learned over the past few years, but especially over this week, it is this:

Nothing is permanent.  

And that's a horrendous segue into what I implore of you now, but that's the way I'm swinging today and this needed to be commented on.

The catastrophe in Japan last week are an all too real reminder of the temporality of life.  These buildings we live in, the laptop I'm typing on, the very skins we inhabit - all, ultimately, have an ending date on them.  My heart breaks for the people affected by the Japan quake and tsunami, and I hope all of you can open your hearts and lend your support.

Please give as much as you can to the Red Cross effort to help those devastated by the Japan earthquake and tsunami.  Text 'JAPAN' to 90999 and donate $10 from your phone, or go to redcross.org and donate there.

Pray for Japan.  Pray for Libya.  Pray for all.

ally

PS: Happy birthday Gina!

The Adjustment Bureau. 3/4 stars.

Yesterday I got dolled up and went to the picture show!

Well, strike that.  I actually rolled into the movie theatre in Manchester, CT, still sweaty from my morning workout.  I also snuck an iced coffee into the theater.  Sorry, Rave Cinema.  I understand you need to make your coffee more expensive.  So you must understand my need to sneak in a venti decaf Americano in my purse.  Yes, I hid a giant iced coffee in my purse.

I went to see the aforementioned film, The Adjustment Bureau, not only because I have a thing for Matt Damon (which I do and have one even more so after seeing the film) but also in the hopes that it would be as thought provoking as Inception.  It was, but in a totally different way.

David Norris is a politician of the people.  He's got youth and good looks, he's running against a professed 'tool', he's all about the grassroots, a passionate community organizer, charisma out the yingyang.  Unfortunately, thanks to some party boy antics in his younger days, he loses his first major election. He accidentally runs into contemporary ballet dancer Elise (Emily Blunt) while prepping his concession speech.  They spark an instant connection.  He ends up seeing her again a few months later and she gives him her phone number, but after witnessing a strange event in his office he is visited by The Adjustment Bureau-whose job is to make sure your life goes according 'to the plan'.  The head of his team of Adjusters, played by John Slattery, warns him that if he doesn't stick to his set plan and forget about Elise, he have his memory wiped away, or 'reset'.  "Your family will think you've gone crazy.  You won't think anything at all."  But love finds a way, as it always does.

The rest of the movie propels forward the way you would think it does; David returns strong to politics, and Elise skyrockets in the dance world.  But all they can think about is each other.  The Bureau tries to keep them apart because they are on different 'life paths' but one Adjuster (Anthony Mackie) has a change of heart and attempts to help David after seeing his dogged determination to see Elise again.

This movie's romance is what makes it special.  From the moment they meet, you completely buy the romance between David and Elise and root for them to be together.  Their first meeting in a men's bathroom (a scene less convoluted than it sounds) ricochets with chemistry, and Matt Damon and Emily Blunt are totally credible as two strangers who meet and fall in love at first sight.  It's not a white-hot heat that generates between them, but more of a slow burn which grows as the film progresses.  Elise, as a passionate, eccentric and ballsy dancer, represents boundless freedom from the stagnant life David has recently found himself in, and David represents safety and comfort to Elise.  There's a moment where one member of the Bureau says "If he sees her dance, it's over." Contemporary dance is one of the ultimate forms of pure freedom of movement in the arts.  When David spies Elise practicing her solo, he can't help but be entranced.  Neither can we.

This is a great piece for Matt Damon, who is perennially underrated.  What's not to like about him? He won a screenplay Academy Award for a film he was also up for Best Actor in, and he's only gotten better since.  His appearance on Inside The Actor's Studio is one of my favorites, considering he said the best piece of advice he ever got about acting was from the Farrelly Brothers ("Suck less").  He's proven he can be in intellectual fare such as The Rainmaker, funny films like Stuck On You, Oscar bait like Invictus, and also high octane action thrillers.  This is Jason Bourne, after all.  Here, he plays a very good guy, perhaps a great guy, who's thrown into a situation he can't understand and can't follow.  It's not an 'aw shucks' role (David has a lot of strength and agency, despite the movie's attempts to tell us otherwise) and he will stop at nothing to get Elise back.  He's also able to display some humor...unlike Inception, David is completely aware of the insanity going on around him and he uses a 'WTF' face to great effect throughout the film.

As for Emily Blunt...I wish she were a bigger star than she is.  Although now that she's Mrs. John Krasinski her stock will go up, but hopefully people will go see this movie based on her acting abilities, which are very big.  The last time I saw her in a contemporary piece it was back when she was in The Devil Wears Prada, and she stole the movie right out from under Anne Hathaway's Blahniks.  In this film, she soars.  From her first entrance, you immediately know this chick is a dancer.  Natalie Portman gave a phenomenal performance in Black Swan but Emily Blunt's version of things is more realistic and with less paranoia or desire to be 'perfect' (and, honestly, much less lesbian sex and stabbing).  She had wonderful lines, great technique, and pure emotion.  One scene which nearly made me stand up and cheer was a moment where Elise, on the brink of a major decision, goes to her dance studio in warmup clothes.  The front desk asks why she's there.  She shrugs and says "I just needed to be on the floor." That feeling of finding peace in art is something any artist can relate to.

The members of the Bureau themselves are all good, but they aren't given a whole heck of a lot to do other than run around and look menacing in fedoras.   Sometimes John Slattery's role merely requires him to stand still, look at David and Elise together in the middle distance, and mumble "Son of a bitch" or "That bastard!" Which was hilarious, but it lacked character development.  The standout of the team is Anthony Mackie, whose performance as an Adjuster with a conscience is quiet, reserved, and well-calibrated.  The film also gets a big boost with the introduction of Terrence Stamp into the proceedings as the Bureau's most dangerous worker.  He doesn't look like it, but you quickly find out why his nickname is "The Hammer."

If I had any problems with the film it would be the ending, which lacks direction and feels very rushed.  It's as if the editors realized they only had ten minutes to wrap up the storyline so they introduced a deux ex machina to get the plot squared away.  It's an excuse for Matt Damon and Emily Blunt to run around New York City and throw open as many doors as he can.  This is where the special effects department really outdid themselves.  The Bureau travel through doorways and shortcuts (the secret to their success is hilarious but you kind of buy that as the movie goes along) and once David is taught the secrets, he utilizes them to full effect.

All in all, however, the romance is what sold me.  The question of defying your fate was an interesting one, and one I did ponder over on the drive home.

I must confess, though, that the entire movie, I may have been thinking about this.

Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright, In The Forests Of The Night.

So.  Charlie Sheen.

I have been known to be quite a Twitter connoisseur.  If you follow me (@alysamarsiella), you can see I love to Tweet, and indeed, I had a bit of a freakout during this past weekend's Oscar telecast.  I'm calling it the "2011 Oscar Night Twitter Meltdown."  I believe I got a bit nuts and I do apologize (I believe one of my finer moments was frantically typing "F##K YOU RANDY NEWMAN" when his song beat the one from Tangled for Best Song).  But I'm pretty sure me freaking out over Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law's undeniable bromantic chemistry is a hell of a lot more soberly satisfying than watching the meltdown of one of Hollywood's most promising stars.

I was first aware of Charlie Sheen in the Major League films, and I thought he was a goodlooking, charismatic, funny guy.  I had no idea his real name was Carlos Estevez, or that he was Gordon Bombay's younger brother.  (For the tragically unhip, Gordon Bombay -> Emilio Estevez).  Then I saw one of his earliest appearances as a young criminal who makes out with Jennifer Grey in Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  Even with circles under his eyes and a cracked out appearance, I thought he was still very goodlooking and had a good sense of comic timing.  One of my favorite lines from that movie ("You wear a lot of eye makeup.  My sister wears a lot of eye makeup.  People think she's a whore") comes from Mr. Sheen.

When the whole thing with Heidi Fleiss happened, I wasn't exactly paying attention.  I was at the impressionable age where I thought a hooker was something you threw to a fish.  Then he got married to Denise Richards and they seemed genuinely happy, and despite starring in one of the shittiest shows on television (apologies to everyone who likes Two and a Half Men.  All four of you.), he seemed as if he was getting his life together.  I wished him well and moved on.

And now look at him.

Aside from the fact that people have seemed to forgot he held a knife to his wife's throat, they are actively participating in one of Hollywood's greatest tragedies.

I think of Charlie Sheen as the Britney Spears of 2011, back when Britney was clubbing with Paris Hilton and shaving her head.  Everyone was throwing shade at Britney, laughing hysterically, and I thought to myself "This girl needs help or she is going to die."

Which is why I won't watch any interview Charlie Sheen does or follow him on his Twitter, despite his new record as the fastest person to ever get to 1,000,000 followers.  People are dying of laughter, reposting the things he says and hashtags (#tigerblood and #WINNING being main among them), and once again, I think to myself, "This person is going to die."  

Hollywood loves a comeback story, but I'm pretty sure this is not the comeback they had in mind for Charlie Sheen.  This is a comedown.  This is a full scale meltdown.  We are witnessing the implosion of a mind for public consumption, and the public is eating it like vultures after an ambush.

The difference between Britney Spears and Charlie Sheen is that Britney has a family that roped her in, got her straightened out, and rehabbed her career.  You would think President Bartlet would be doing something right about now, but the fact of the matter is, Charlie's 45 years old.  Britney was 26 when her meltdown happened, and young enough for her father to retain a conservatorship over her, making sure she would be protected and watched.

The number one problem I have with both cases is that children are involved.  Britney had an almost-newborn son and a 1 and a half year old son.  Charlie Sheen has twin boys who are barely under the age of two, and two girls with Denise Richards.  Jayden and Preston Federline seemed to have adjusted since Britney's meltdown.  But I walked into my family room the other day and watched on Extra! as Sheen's children were forcibly taken away from him.  And my heart broke.

Charlie doesn't require a conservator.  He requires a padded cell.

Instead of a family unit to surround himself with, what does he have? Two girlfriends he calls 'Goddesses'.  One of whom is a porn star.  I don't mind that she's a porn star so much as I mind that she's a working porn star.  And he spends the time he should be using getting his children back and his life in order doing what? Drinking chocolate milk, ranting on Twitter about how he goes down on five girls at once, exploiting his ex-wife, and systematically ruining his career, if he really had any to begin with.

Craig Ferguson, my favorite late-night talk show host-and indeed, one of my favorite people on planet Earth-has come out to say he will not make fun of Sheen anymore, comparing it to the 1800s British tradition of going to Bedlam Hospital and paying a nickel to look at the mentally ill through a peephole.  Craig Ferguson, as some of you may know, spent the majority of the 1980s as a drunk and junkie and has spent nearly the last 20 years clean and sober.  He talks about his struggles in his autobiography American On Purpose: The Confessions of an Unlikely Patriot and after reading his story I respect the hell out of him.  When Craig Ferguson, who had the balls to make fun of his boss David Letterman after his sex scandal, says you're too sad and mentally ill to make fun of anymore? Then you know you have a problem.  He also stopped making fun of Britney Spears after she shaved her head.  "She's 25 years old.  She's a baby," he admonished his audience.

Charlie Sheen isn't a baby, but he's sure as hell acting like one.  He's a 45 year old manchild who has had plenty of chances to grow up.  It's time we left him alone and let him do that.

Let's get our minds off of people who are seriously mentally ill and delusional and focus our efforts on other areas that truly need our attention.

In conclusion...where is Duckie when you need him? Come on, Jon Cryer.  Get on this and fix it.  Team Duckie.

Oh, and "tiger blood"? Sorry, Sheen.  Brian Fantana did it better with Sex Panther.  It's made from bits of real panther.  So you know it's good...

ally

PS. If you'd like to see when Craig Ferguson announced he wouldn't be making fun of Charlie Sheen go here. If you'd also like to see when he talked about Britney, go go here.

is it obvious, by the way, that I'm going through a humongous Craig Ferguson appreciation phase?

Info-Dump.

People want me to talk about things other than myself on the blog? Well, you got it in spades with this post.

I didn't want to talk about the crisis in Libya and Bahrain.  I wanted to keep my mind focused on happier things.  But the pictures I've seen and the stories I've heard must be told, and passed on.

I don't know about all of you, but I have spent the last three days glued to my computer, frantic with information and worry about the people of Libya and the fight for revolution over there.  I've been attempting to compile a list of links so that everyone can stay up to date.

This is an Up To Date link so that you all can catch up and also read the 'why where how's' of what is going on over there.  Just be careful when clicking to pictures, because what is seen can never be unseen.

I also found a huge list of links to interviews, news updates, and opinion pieces.  You can find that at  Pantsless Progressive.

This is genocide.  I can't stress that strongly enough.

Qadaffi is exacting a massacre that could become something we haven't seen since Pol Pot or the deaths in Rwanda.  Right now the US is silent because to intervene would not only be a horrible idea, it's also technically illegal.  Unless Libya or Bahrain asks for intervention, we can't give it to them.

In case you needed another reason to get angry, get involved, or just get going, I will show you a picture of a .52 caliber bullet.

This bullet, which as you can see spans the length of a human hand, is mostly used for construction and demolition.  It can tear the walls of buildings apart.

Currently, Qadaffi is using these bullets to shoot protestors.  It was an accident, but I have seen pictures of what these bullets do to people, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life.

This is not Egypt 2.0 and Mubarak is not nearly on the same level as Qadaffi.  Mubarak had the sense to leave when he knew he had to.  Qadaffi is hiding in Tripoli and ordering his soldiers to kill male protesters and rape the female ones.  The army has responded by defecting to the side of the revolutionaries.

Libya is a smaller country run by a much more dangerous man in Qadaffi and his son, "the principle", is growing more unhinged by the day.  The Sultans have ordered anyone who sees Qadaffi to shoot on sight.

And yet people over there fight.  They fight for change, they fight for justice, they fight for freedom.

Here, we only get pissed off if someone threatens to give us health care.  We're taking away PBS and spending it on NASCAR.  And in Libya, people are literally dying for the gifts we take for granted.

Don't waste a second.

Politics break.

Vive Libye.

ally

PS. If you want to show your support on Twitter or on another system where you can change your font color, change it to green, because red is the color of Qadaffi's Libya.

And because it's something I found unbelievably awesome, here: a man in Egypt ordered a pizza for the protestors in Wisconsin.