Sunday, October 9, 2016

Salt Lake City Is No Place for All That Jazz


Countless professional sports teams have relocated when their financial situations became untenable in their hometown. It is a reality nearly as old as professional sports itself. Yet relatively few peregrine franchises choose to bring their nickname with them. And why should they? Sure, the Brooklyn Dodgers, New York Giants, Baltimore Colts, and Minneapolis Lakers possessed franchise monikers that were too deeply ingrained in the fabric of their sport—and too valuable in their marketability—to be rechristened, but owners are often eager to rename their incoming team something with indigenous appeal that will bring locals into the arena.

After all, why would the NHL’s Colorado franchise retain “Rockies” when moving to swampland whose most mountainous feature is the New Jersey Turnpike rising over the Hackensack River? Just as Denver would have proved très stupide to keep the Nordiques nickname in its new mile-high home.

And the Dallas Texans would have been dang suicidal not to have switched to the “Chiefs” upon arrival deep in the heart of Kansas City.

So it is perplexing that the NBA’s Utah franchise retained its Big Easy–born Jazz nickname.

Utah, and specifically Salt Lake City, is both the temporal and spiritual home of Mormonism. Mormonism, like most religions, is—at least in principle—a strictly codified belief system. In Mormonism’s case, guided by its 13 Articles of Faith. Its Book of Mormon contains a “history” far older than Christianity and is supplemented by lengthy scriptures such as the Doctrine and Covenants and the Pearl of Great Price. All in all, the Book of Mormon seems—from its own sources as well as interviews with “average” members of the Church of Latter-Day Saints—to be a highly regimented template of conducting one’s life righteously and steering clear of sin (even though Mormonism’s founder, Joseph Smith, and his polygamous congregation lived lives that made themeven by standards of their dayoutcasts of mainstream Christianity).

So, it goes without saying that straight-laced Salt Lake Cityhome of the Utah Jazzbears no cultural resemblance whatsoever to vivacious, hedonistic New Orleans. More to the point, jazz is the spiritual antithesis of religion—this most improvisational of art forms thrives on its lack of boundaries and its emphasis on personal expression. Whereas religion arose to curb the chaos of an uncivilized populace, jazz embodies, musically, that very chaos. Frankly, jazz never could have evolved in a button-down town such as Salt Lake City or a state as conventional as Utah—only the melting-pot, loose-moraled, devil-may-care streets of a city such as N’awlins could have birthed this deeply emotive and unpredictable art form. 


One need only look upon one of the great practitioners of personal expression on the basketball court, Pistol Pete Maravich—perhaps the John Coltrane of the hardwood—whose freewheeling style of play personified New Orleans and its Jazz franchise. Considering both that Pistol Pete was hardly the poster boy for Salt Lake City’s reverential atmosphere when he and his Jazz arrived in 1979 (Maravich was quoted in a biography of the same name as having no interest in Christianity during his playing days) and that, by 1979, Maravich’s days as a basketball virtuoso were behind him, it’s beyond baffling that Jazz owner Sam Battistone, Jr., didn’t rename the franchise.

So, why weren’t the Utah Jazz redubbed something closer to the city’s—and by extension, the state of Utah’s—heart?

Such as for what Salt Lake City is truly knowneven more than its homegrown religion and choir:

Salt, of course.




Long in the vanguard of team names utilizing a collective noun, Battistone could have continued that fashion by rechristening his NBA franchise the Utah Salt. After all, the Great Salt Lakesitting just west of the city founded by Mormon bigwig Brigham Youngis larger than Rhode Island and, on occasion, Delaware, providing both Utah’s capital and the state, itself, with its foremost secular identity.

And the marketing opportunities didn’t end there. The Utah Salt would be ripe for a third jersey: the “NaCl.” Similar to “NOLA” of New Orleans renown, “NaCl” would represent both the chemical formula of table salt and, when either read or spoken as a quasi-nickname for the team, a hip phonetic reference to Salt Lake City’s famous Mormon TaberNACLE Choir.

Such a marketing plan even could have included the rallying cry “Get the NaCl” to capitalize on the Get the Knack album and its single, “My Sharona,” that debuted just four months before the Utah Jazz played its first game and were each massive No. 1 hits by then. A lawsuit likely would have ensued, but a quick settlement would have provided invaluable buzz for the fledgling team and been well worth the legal wrangling.

Who could have predicted that young jazzmen going west would culminate in such a lost opportunity?


Thursday, October 6, 2016

A Tris Speaker Sing-along


(They Call Me) Tris Speaker

Click the YouTube link at bottom and sing along...

I’ve clubbed them for pairs
I’ve slugged the most doubles
I’ve hit almost as many
As stars seen by Edwin Hubble

They call me Tris Speaker
I’ve been roundin' first so spry
I won’t get the fame that I’m after
’cause of a guy named Ty

I asked Stengel, Charles Dillon
Who was Speaker’s equal?
He perfessor’ed back to me
There was only one Gray Eagle

They call me Tris Speaker
Ive been roundin’ first so spry
I won’t get the fame that I’m after
’til the Hall opens in ’39

People tend to rate me
In the middle of the pile
As I ransack their fields
And ruin pennant plans
Focusing on home runs
Not the records I’ve compiled
I’ve got more doubles
Than Rose, Cobb, and The Man

I won’t get the fame that I’m after
’cause of a guy named Ty

I learned how to cut down base runners
In assists, no one’s within a hundred seventy-five
I was happy in Boston, even more in Cleveland
I’m most valuable in socks of red, blue, or argyle

You’re lookin’ at me
I’m lookin’ for two
Once you pitch that ball
There ain’t nothin you can do

They call me Tris Speaker
I’ve been roundin’ first so spry
I won’t get the fame that I’m after
’til the Hall opens in ’39

I won’t get the fame that Im after
’til the Hall opens in ’39

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Atlanta's Fiery Nickname Flamed the Fans Rather Than Fanned the Flames

Apart from the Braves, Atlanta has never enjoyed much success as a sports town. In 50 seasons, the Falcons have lost nearly 57% of their games—yielding the fourth worst winning percentage among all 32 current NFL franchises. Reaching the Super Bowl but once, Atlanta lost handily to the Denver Broncos in 1999. Unlike their sharp-eyed namesake, the Falcons have possessed poor vision and rarely drafted well. This team 250 miles from the Atlantic Ocean somehow also spent the bulk of its existence in the same division as the Los Angeles/St. Louis Rams and the San Francisco 49ers, long-time powerhouses that took turns beating up Atlanta for three decades and left it little room for playoff hopes.

And since emigrating from St. Louis in 1968, although the Hawks have qualified for the playoffs more often than not, their hoop dreams have fallen achingly short season after season. Even Hall of Famers Dominique Wilkins and Pistol Pete Maravich—freshly off NCAA superstardom—could not lead Atlanta even to the finals. Consequently, the Hawks have perennially ranked among the worst in NBA attendance since arriving in Georgia.

But the Falcons and Hawks largely are cases of subpar general management and small-market struggle. 

Atlanta’s original hockey team, the Flames, is an altogether sadder story: Born in 1972, the Flames were the first franchise to bring NHL hockey south of the Mason-Dixon line—no easy going for a fledgling team competing for talent with the brashly spending World Hockey Association. But General Manager Cliff Fletcher drafted shrewdly and acquired skilled youngsters who made the Flames competitive almost from the get-go. Led by such gritty skaters as Tom Lysiak, Eric Vail, Bobby Leiter, Pat Quinn, Guy Chouinard, and the exciting goaltending tandem of Daniel Bouchard and Phil Myre, Atlanta reached the playoffs by its sophomore season, after which it never failed to finish at least .500.

Unfortunately, the promising Flames contained a fatal flaw: Owner Tom Cousins (already the owner of the NBA Hawks) named the franchise after General Sherman’s burning of Atlanta. How Cousins—a native Atlantan—could select such a mind-blowingly inept name is beyond comprehension. Even today, the city’s torching at the hands of Sherman’s army is a sore spot for deep-rooted Atlantans, some of whom still refer to the Civil War as the “War of Northern Aggression.” And if Atlanta’s ignominy continues to be a touchy subject now, it was even more so in pre–politically correct 1972, when Jim Crow and Civil Rights remained fresh wounds in the Southern psyche. Why would Cousins risk alienating his fan base by reminding them daily of their city’s ultimate humiliation?

The fact is that, for all of their success and promise, the Flames never drew well. Attendance dwindled throughout the 1970s, and the franchise relocated to Calgary in 1980. But forget the dearth of Stanley Cups and superstars—the Atlanta Flames’ failure can be blamed solely on its name. Let’s face it: If you’re going for the perpetually popular Civil War angle, at least name your team the Atlanta Hydrants so as to fill potential fans with the defiant hope that their city and their homes will be spared rather than bashing already-fragile Confederate egos by reminding them of the cinders their ancestors’ homes became.

Sure, a logo of a hydrant isn’t as flashy and inspiring as a flaming “A”—but who cares how good a uniform looks when traumatized spectators are too frightened to leave their homes for fear of Blue Bellies setting torches to their town?