Entries by Andrew Roberts

It is a record-breaking 149 degrees Fahrenheit at court level. So imagine my surprise, in a foggy dehydration-induced haze, when I saw a ball-kid line up opposite James Blake for tonight's main event.

Of course, as the sun settled, the stadium cooled to a brisk 124 degrees, and I realized that the squirrelly red-shirted Asian exchanging warm-up volleys with Blake was in fact Woong-Sun Jun (of course!), the 293rd ranked player in the world. His climb to the top is seemingly hopeless, but if tennis ever adopts a 30 team, 11 man roster format as I've been campaigning for, my long division skills tell me that he will be a valuable bench player for the office Tennis Fantasy League.

Four of the tourney's top 8 seeds earned themselves a long weekend by choking on applesauce in round one. Rajeev Ram, Fabrice Santoro, Robby Ginepri, and Thomaz Bellucci all lost to miscellaneous contenders, apparently eager to free up their schedules for tonight's midnight showing of The Dark Knight.

And they will all see Blake there-- as he sent Sun Jun back to Korea in straight sets.

Tomorrow's sessions are at 12 pm and 7 pm-- with top seeded Blake competing in the latter. Last year's champion Dmitry Turnsunov is still looming in the quarter-final, and on the other end of the bracket, the second seed Frenchman Gilles Simon is undoubtedly up to no good, twiddling his fingers and waxing his dirty French mustache, plotting his anti-American chicanery against Blake and the rest of our freedom-loving contestants. Come to the Tennis Championships to cheer against Gilles Simon or else you hate freedom. There, I said it.

Beirut or Bust

My not-so-dramatic unknowing escape from Civil War

Just two days before deadly violence broke out, I had left Beirut a quiet and peaceful (albeit tense) vacation spot. On Sunday May 4, we made a leisurely three-hour taxi ride back to Damascus from Beirut. We stopped for tea before the Lebanese border, shopped for cheap booze at the Duty Free, and waited patiently in the shiny 2008 Nissan that was our makeshift taxi ride home, while the driver handled the stamping and paperwork of our ins and outs through international customs. It cost 400 Syrian Pounds...about eight dollars...for the serene ride home with Miriam and two strangers. If I had lingered in Lebanon until Wednesday to catch the Lebanon and Jordan international soccer match like I'd considered, I may have been spent the remaining week of my pilgrimage twiddling my thumbs on a nice cot, courtesy of the U.S. Embassy.

On Tuesday May 6, the borders in and out of Lebanon were closed, after the government shut down Hezbollah's private telecommunications network within the country. They also removed a head of airport security, who was accused of installing spy cameras on behalf of Hezbollah at the Beirut International Airport, and the nation was now flirting with implosion. In the words of Ron Burgundy..."My, that escalated quickly."

On Wednesday Hezbollah's party leader responded with an apparent call to action. All of Damascus had its eyes and ears quietly fixed on Hassan Nasrallah—while I naively shopped for family souvenirs, trying desperately to filter through his Arabic to catch any one of the 7 words I know, and make some sense of the situation. Even as an outsider, new to the conflict and the implications of his words, as I annoyed Miriam with sheepish requests for a translation-- I could feel the gravity of proximate War, for the first time in my life. Within hours, several indiscriminate factions of Hezbollah and other miscellaneous oppositional forces set up blazing road blocks, creating an air-tight vacuum in Beirut, sealing it off from the world, and bringing the Mediterranean Sea-- where I'd danced around jellyfish and burned to a pinkish Caucasian crisp on the beach three days earlier-- to a rolling boil.


On Thursday as I waited on my favorite lunch in the old city-- Shish Tawouek (a toasted-sub style sandwich with grilled chicken, garlic mayonnaise, and vegetables, with a Pepsi for 65 syrian pounds...about a dollar and ten cents...) Miriam wandered to the nearest television inside a sandwich shop, as the streets quieted, and locals were magnetized to the nearest broadcast within earshot, as the tick-tack of AK-47 fire and the inaudible shouts of militant officers filled the Damascus radio waves. Armed Hezbollah militants were returning fire at the Lebanese army, in the same neighborhood where I tenderly rubbed aloe into my sunburned shoulders and nursed an Almaza (Lebanese beer), while watching shitty Arab reality tv, four days removed.

I was in disbelief. In retrospect, I realize at this moment, while searching for something in my generation's American history to liken the anxiety to, the feeling I had in my stomach while taking in the gravity of the battle was familiar...

the feeling was miles off, and at a quarter of the volume...but it was like sitting in third period again, trapped in a state of incomprehension, where you put your head into your hand and mumble distressed prayers; it was the white noise feeling of watching the news on September 11, 2001.

It is important to reiterate that the feeling was not on a par with my reaction to mass murder on civilians in my own country-- I mean to say only that it was the same sinking feeling of helplessness and disappointment in humanity-- and general distress for the well-being of our own people. I use the comparison only because it is the only other time a country I've stepped foot in has been attacked in my lifetime-- and that, I learned, is the only thing that can make war "real." Lebanon was no longer Mars-- some distant and inaccessible body of inconsequential interest. It had become very real, very close, and very important to me. Most Americans don't want to see anything bad happen to anyone. But when you get to know the affected hearts and fall in love with a landscape-- the plight hits your chest just a little harder.

*****

Beirut: The Big Lebaneasy
What happens in Beirut, gets posted on an alternative newsweekly blog page.

It's still difficult for me to understand-- it was less than a week earlier when I had crossed over the Lebanese border, mildly bitter that Lebanon had started charging a $25 48-hour visa fee. A soldier explained to Miriam that the new fee was only for Americans-- at last, I thought, some of the fabled anti-American sentiment that I had feared about my trip had reared its presumed head. It turns out that the soldier was either screwing with us, or didn't know what he was talking about-- the fee was for all foreigners. At first the inconvenience was frustrating and seemingly asinine, until I remembered how many thousands of dollars and connections it costs an Arab to come to an America. Okay, Lebanon, spend my $25 well.

The drive into Lebanon was beautiful. The highway snaked around green mountains, overlooking small villages against a blue sky and patches of farmland-- it reminded me of drives through Tennessee in my childhood, drugged out on Dramamine and going through the Smokies toward ocean. It was all the more refreshing to be in a green and free country after spending the last week in Syria, which despite its own distinguishable charms and beauty, is largely tan, dusty, and mildly oppressive. Then, once in Lebanon proper, I saw-- for the first time in my life-- a soft reality of political turmoil. A tank sat perched on the roadside, with its cannon vigilantly fixed on the "Anti-Lebanese" Mountains, as they are called in Syria, protecting against the ambitious President of their Eestern neighbor. To my left, I snapped a picture of an enormous and towering bridge-- with a 50-foot gap in the middle. It was under construction, being rebuilt from an Israeli attack.

The Lebanese soldiers are built like U.S. Marines, gruff and fit, with either black/grey/white or jungle green camouflage uniforms, disciplined and seemingly vigilant. Meanwhile, the Syrian military looks more like teenagers or volunteer police officers, who sneaked into their father's closets and swiped puke-green garb from the '80's. Their shirts are always two sizes too big, their hats fall down around their eyes, and their pants are pulled up to high-water level, while they smoke two packs a day and apathetically direct traffic. Bashar, it would seem, recruits them young, and outfits them with room to grow. They look like nerds...like the Lebanese should be dunking their heads in the toilets while they scream uncle. Yet, somehow, Bashar's military threat still lingers in Lebanon. It is a band kid's wet-dream; a world where the nerds realized there are more of us than there are of them. Only these nerds have rifles, aren't good at math, and live in a world without pornography to cope with their misplaced sexual frustration.

The streets of Beirut were more ominous in some areas than others. On streets near Martyr's Square, where many of the oppositional forces were camped, most of the shops and residential areas were vacant. There was massive reconstruction on towering buildings, while a parking garage and three story house sat in the foreground, bombed out and untouched from the Lebanese Civil War. Walking toward the beach, a tank sat with a .40 Caliber Machine gun pointed directly at what seemed to be a very specific hotel room, while a handful of soldiers stood guard around the tank. I walked by, trying to use my peripheral vision to take in the scenery of political strife, without arousing suspicion of my interest. I know-- I'm a regular Jason Bourne. I was confidently safe, but not terribly brave.

On a long walk along the Mediterranean, I could have been on South Beach in Miami. Palm trees, people walking, roller-blading, bicycling, pan-handling, jogging, laughing, pissing on the beach, embracing their lovers and taking pictures against the sunset over the Mediterranean...it was a beautiful and scenic free society. The residential area was heavy with what I perceive to be the French influence of architecture (I say boldly, having never been to France). We ate dinner overlooking the Sea, and had a tea at the base of a lighthouse, while the waves crashed against the rocks alongside us. There I was informed, a week into my trip, that crossing your legs and exposing the bottom part of your foot is considered a paramount insult in Arab culture; showing the dirtiest part of your body in public (Unless Miriam was making that up to screw with me). We went out for drinks in the legendary Beirut bar scene. There was a Coldplay cover band and complimentary shots and beautiful women in scantily clad clothes. This is one of the most appealing cities in the world-- with its beautiful green mountains, electric bar scene, affordable restaurants overlooking the Mediterranean, modern malls and free women, and a long, clean, wide sidewalk filled with the best-looking Arabs in the region along the beaches of the Mediterranean. Maybe I'd fight over it, too.

Tea and Narghile

The vast outward reach of Businessparkville, IN is growing increasingly dangerous to our sense of identity. This notion is not revolutionary--that Carmel, Plainfield, and Greenwood are exponentially becoming a landscape of Simon Malls and efficient retail space, as well as excessive contributors to Indy's vacant housing ratio. The expansion of miscellaneous retail chains and indistinguishable housing is murdering the notion of neighbors and basic human warmth. But six thousand miles away, despite political turmoil and sexual persecution, the Arab word for "neighbor" still preserves its weight.

A year ago I conducted an interview with David Gray for NUVO's Oranje Indy issue, and on a personal level the Ball State Professor of Architecture indulged my helpless search for a "sense of place," as he put it, relative to the architecture and landscape of Indiana and the world. In some places, you just have to try harder than others to love your home. His designs accent and intrigue certain dimensions of stereotypical trademarks of Indiana; like a run-down red barn, sitting atop a soft incline of green-space in rural Carmel. When you live in a place that could be any of a thousand other cities in the world, sometimes only an artist and a searching heart can foster pride in the landscape. But in Damascus, where the labyrinth of alleyways and supersaturated round-a-bouts are filled with independent vendors, and the "neighborhoods" are a complex system of back-alleys with front doors miscellaneously scattered about the maze, proximity inflicts togetherness.

There is no such thing as a grocery store in Damascus. The system of shopping for anything is like a flea-market-- you buy your pistachios inside one shop, then walk twenty feet through the crowded Souk (think of the market scene in Aladdin... "Dates! Sugar Dates! Sugar Dates and Pistacciooooooos!") to buy a bag of soft and delicious bread--which, while I was there, thanks to the Iraq War and the influx of refugees, had inflated to the cost of madness at the bakeries. Six thousand miles away from a U-Scan and Kroger plus card, I was forced to speak with each vendor (such as the language barrier would allow)--God forbid, engage a moment of my time with another human being. And many of them are genuinely interested in my life, if only for the 7 minutes I come and go from their world forever. Since I've been back home, I have been aching for the U-Scan to ask me in pitiful English where I'm from, and eagerly welcome me to its medina.

When the infrastructure of society forces you to actually talk to people in person-- even if it's an escalating argument over the price of a taxi fare (generally ending somewhere near the range of 80 cents) and you see them everyday, you have no choice but to learn their name and, at that point, invest in them neighborly courtesy. This past weekend, new neighbors moved in downstairs. I considered asking them to take a break and visit-- but the idea of knocking on a stranger's door-- even one who sleeps eight feet below me-- and inviting them in for tea and narghile (hookah) seems asinine and moderately suspect. But, in the Middle East, that is hospitable-- that is life-- the kind I wish we had in Indiana.

There were certain Arab lifestyles that I wanted to bring home with me. Chiefly, stopping to "have a tea." I drink it daily at work since my return, in my flowery tea-cup (a habbit that has often called my sexuality into question among certain ball-busters) each afternoon, and it is wholly refreshing among the madness of my day. But Damascene culture takes it a step further-- no visit, errand, or play-date is complete without a tea and/or narghile. I've taken up tea in lieu of coffee, often times, but the impersonal experience of a Starbucks or massive Borders Book Store, with a paper cup and indiscriminate scenery is far from intimate-- and defeats my desire to stop for tea with my buddy on our way to the ballpark.

Meanwhile, oceans away, American students at the University of Damascus are having a quiet tea on the balcony of their home, after a pleasant afternoon siesta, before heading out for the hustle of their evenings-- and knowing, I mean really knowing their confederates, filtering through teabags the hardships and impermeable differences among their contrasting life stories, to find genuine warmth in white clouds of narghile smoke.






(This message brought to you by Phillip Morris.)

Ninety Percent Muslim is Ten Percent of the Truth


A co-worker recently asked me what it was like being the only non-Muslim in Syria. A couple weeks ago, a family friend asked me if the convents I visited were Muslim convents. But, worst of all, (he says, breathing deep with inevitable regret) as I ducked my head beneath the Calvary-proof arches of a Monastary in Southern Syria, I asked Miriam if the French brought Christianity to Sham.

I knew, even as those raw and asinine words were expelled from my mouth that it was the dumbest thing I ever have, and ever would say (insha'allah.) I made Miriam swear she would never tell anyone I said it, as my face flushed red with embarrassment, and one hand held my defeated forehead and the other grasped helplessly at the previous fifteen seconds, trying to rake the words back in like spilled marbles.

So here I am, publicly confessing the unfiltered babble that Miriam swore to secrecy under pain of death, blushing even as I type; to show how far detached American society has become from the reality of the Middle East since September 12, 2001. Even a college educated liberal with an intrigued and admiring heart for Arabs forgot, if only in that unfortunate moment, that I was standing in the birthplace of Christianity.

There is a street in Damascus, the very street on which I bought pistachios for my father, on which Saint Paul converted to Christianity. I bought 5x7 prints of The Lord's Prayer in Aramaic, the language of Christ, for my grandparents, in a Christian shop in the heart of The Old City in Damascus, a densely populated Muslim district. I went to one of the last villages in the world where Aramaic is still spoken in dialect. I witnessed a baptism at a beautiful Catholic Church, which was bursting with bright hand-made paintings and religious relics-- paintings and sculptures of Christ as he likely was, rather than the Aryan poster-child representation that somehow got swallowed up by American culture, through centuries of denial and misplaced self-indulgence.

Wikipedia tells me that the Middle East is approximately 90% Muslim. That seems hefty. But in 1988 America was 88% Christian. I would like to think, if only for my own comfort, that America is not (on the whole) a religiously oppressive society. So it would seem then, that an extra two percent of statistical dominance condemns Arabs as a "religiously oppressive" people. Muslims (among others) are judged for being judgmental and filtered through the non-secular electorate as illegitimate politicians because they presumably seek non-secular dominance. Maybe even, (gasp!) the kind of dominance that gives a country three hundred years worth of Christian presidents. But that would never happen here, not in the land of Freedom and Hannah Montana. Discounting an entire region as extremist Muslim terrorists based on the prevalence of Islam among citizens is no different than discounting all of America as self-righteous fundamentalist Christian fanatics, blowing up abortion clinics and setting crosses on fire in the name of Christ.
That hardly ever happens, and the Christian community in society is, on the whole, or at least in principle, tolerant and gracious toward other religions. And when the occasional idiot hurts someone else in the name of God, they do it in contradiction of the scriptures and prophets they disgracefully embrace as pretense for agenda. The Muslims in the Middle East are no different. They are, on the whole, loving and gracious toward Arab Christians. Further; the Christian Arab women in a Damascene Souk (market) are openly welcome, where as a covered woman in the Greenwood Park Mall would be a suspect; a spectacle.

I don't have any anecdotes to share about being a religious minority during my time in the Middle East. Because it just wasn't an issue. It was a non-event; all the while surprising that no one cared whether or not I prayed toward the Mecca, toward the sky, or not at all.

Part II: Damascus

There are no driving lanes. Seatbelts are for foreigners, and horns are anxiously tapped like piano keys-- either to indicate a friendly "comin' through babe" or simply just to advise cross traffic through a four way intersection that the driver is approaching with reckless disregard, and aims to misbehave. Approaching a sparse stoplight, the cars eventually settle in on cockeyed "lanes," each vehicle swerving into an awkwardly formed structure reminiscent of a third grade lunch-line.

Off the main roads, a labyrinth of alleyways is saturated by pedestrians and snaking autos, as the tourists cling to the walls like Spider-Man, tucking their toes to avoid the expertly maneuvered vehicles. Damascene drivers are extremely talented; if not for their pinpoint depth perception, feet would be shattered and elbows would be dislodged hourly.

The streets and most public spaces are, in their own right, Boyztown. As dating is socially unacceptable in conservative districts, public displays of affection are reserved for tourists, and in those circumstances, ill-received. Because women rarely work or socialize in common areas, the streets become a classic all-out Dude Fest, reminiscent of a Frat party, minus the alcohol and scantily clad sluts.

The heavy weight of male dominance in the streets leads to two inevitable results: firstly, the occasional uncovered woman gets entirely too much attention, being undressed by dozens of sexually frustrated eyeballs on each daily walk to the Souk, and secondly, hot man-on-man affection.

It is illegal to be gay in Syria. A homosexual would, according to local lore, be slapped around by the Military Police and then released after brief imprisonment. However, the social norm is for close friends or confederates to traverse the streets arm-in-arm or holding hands affectionately. The contradiction of social acceptability between Sham and Indy is frustratingly asinine; in Sham I cannot take my love's hand in the market, but I can cuddle with ugly men, should I feel inclined. Regardless, if word spread that when I held my ugly compatriot's hand my inseam stirred to a shapely bulge-- I would get the 'ol Rodney King; social acceptance, militant intolerance. In Indianapolis, the same recourse would lead to social dejection (by some) and militant apathy. Our judgment of their judgment is unreasonably judgmental.

Epilogue

This dialogue is not an ambitious search for a solution to the rift between Arabs and Americans, nor is it plagued with disdain--or even incomprehension-- for the general Midwestern misunderstanding of Arab life. My 'agenda,' such as it is, is to tell a true story of sensory observation and authentic experience from my time as an oblivious white American, living in the heart of Damascus.

My guide through my two weeks in the Middle East was Miriam, a Lebanese-American born in Indiana--a 23 year old IU graduate who now speaks Arabic fluently, and has lived in Damascus for a year; studying the language, befriending the locals, and waging war on sexual harassment and inconsistent cab fares-- all while coping with the pros and cons of a dictatorship, and falling in love with a different world, regardless.

The stereotypes and misconceptions I want to rectify through thorough and unbiased speculation were stubbornly camped in my own heart until two weeks of unfiltered Arab life ripped them from my chest with unprejudiced ferocity. I studied the fundamentals of the language and lived among the people, acknowledging American misgivings and defending American intentions-- and shitting the same bacteria-ridden food as the local Damascenes. And among the rubble of Schawarma and toilet paper I inevitably found truths that contradict the general American angst and generalization of this vastly diverse region; an understanding that is tantamount to embracing the warmth of Arabs, instead of fearing them.


Part I: "The Guest is a Guest of God"

I awkwardly lumbered down the steps of the A340 Airbus into a chilly April evening in Amman, Jordan, greeted by the blank apathy of an armed guard, leaning against a run-down Toyota truck and smoking a Lucky Strike. His mission is to ensure that none of the bitterly jet-lagged travelers, after a 12 hour plane ride from O'hare International, make a suicide run for Jordan off the plane, scale the barbed wire fence, traverse the hundreds of yards of brownish grass, and penetrate the armored barricades manned by Jordanian soldiers in Humvees (with their 40 caliber machine guns fixed patiently on any civilian bus, Hyundai, or pedestrian that approaches). The lonely soldier's objective, it would seem, is attainable.

Royal Jordanian Airlines staffing showed similar competence to the lonely soldier, undoubtedly deployed on his trivial quest because he is an idiot. My connecting flight into Damascus (Esh-Sham, to the locals) was overbooked, and I was coerced into a $75 buyout with a night's stay in Amman. Amid the muck of confusion and a pissed international congress of RJ passengers who had been snubbed from the flight, I had no idea what was going on-- and was wholly terrified of being handed my bribe and a hotel voucher, then discarded to my demise without direction or sympathy.

My savior was Arab hospitality. A Syrian named Wahim, while seeing me cursing under my breath, with sleep-deprived eyes and a dizzy expression of fatigue and anxiety, asked me in perfect English where I was headed. Wahim, too, had been sidelined from the 45 minute connecting flight to Sham, after spending seven months in Saint Louis studying for his MCAT, and dreaming of his now-delayed reunion with his fiance in Lattakia.

As the manager argued in broken Italian with a handful of elderly tourists, and I stood blankly by my lonesome, Wahim explained everything that was happening, everything that was going to happen, and stuck with me throughout the mess to make sure I was informed and welcomed into the circle of us five men (four Arabs and a white guy...sitcom?). Meanwhile the Amman Airport staff and armed soldiers sat apathetically, smoking and directing us around with general waves of the hand, as the message periodically addressed the 12 civilians left in the terminal; "There is no smoking allowed in common areas, thank you."

By the time I stepped onto Syrian asphalt at 8 am the following morning, I (a notoriously awkward conversationalist and social invert) made four Arab friends-- each of them providing me specific contact details and warm invitations into their homes for tea, dinner, and a local tour of their home town. The four Syrians were my guardians, and I felt warmth in their care, however broken their English.
These are the men who trigger our threat level orange, who after 9/11 became suspects and angry Al-Qaeda sympathizers in the fearful angst of misinformed America and Fox News. In my broken Spanish, never in my life would I see a distressed Latino and invite him into my home for a tour of suburban Indianapolis.

They did not want to simply give half-assed directions or "do the right thing," then send me on my way with their daily good-deed satisfied. Hundreds of years of culture and hospitality endeavored them to the most basic acts of kindness, lost in America behind years of media pretension toward fear and mistrust. We should not fear them; the looming Arab Weapon of Mass Destruction is mint tea.

After Purdue ruined any chance of the heavily anticipated Crimson/Gold Cup slugfest by choking against Illinois, IU took the court hoping for a clear and easy path to the Finals.

But Having their ambitiious fingers greased by the sweaty nerves of Dan Dakich, the Hoosiers started Friday night's game with the ball handling ability of the 1992 Indianapolis Colts. They trailed the Gophers by nearly twenty within the first ten minutes, and worse, were in foul trouble and couldn't get a rebound to save Dakich's hairline.

However, after 14 minutes of shameful patty-cake, IU started to rebound, and rejuvinated crimson fire in their guts. Behind Kyle Taber, DeAndre White, and an eager hometown crowd the Hoosiers rallied a fistful of second chance points and turnovers to tighten the gap to seven by halftime.

In the second half IU chipped away at the lead steadily, until a pair of free throws by the Big Ten Player of the Year D.J. White got them over the hump, and IU took its first lead of the tournament with a quarter of a basketball game left to manage.

The teams traded sparse baskets to the finish-- it would have been a blowout if Gordon wasn't shooting kickballs at the basket. He ultimately shot 0-6 on 3's, and his uninspired, lofty shooting kept Minnesota in the game.

After Gordon missed the back end of his foul shots, Minnesota inbounded with a chance to put the game away, leading by two, less than twenty seconds in their season-- unless they could hold on. A blocked shot and mad fumbling dash for the loose ball led to an Indiana posession, the inbounds pass came to Eric Gordon. He drove the length of the court, and got fouled on a layup attempt. Two free throws would tie the game at 57.

His struggles continued, and he clunked the first shot. With only three seconds left, his only choice was to intentionally drive the ball off the back of the rim, and pray for an offensive rebound-- and exactly that happened. Who else but DJ picked up the pieces, and with a hard fought fight toward the rim, drew a whistle and dropped the bucket for a tie game and chance to lead. He missed the extra point, but got fouled again going after his own rebound, and went back to the line.

He missed again. But the second fell through the net, and only a Hail Mary miracle pass with 1.3 seconds left could keep the Gopher's season alive. The ball would have to traverse the length of the court into the sure hands of a Minnesota witch-doctor, and be carelessly dropped through the net in a singular, heavy-hearted second. Only with the divine intervention of the virgin mother herself could their season be saved.

The air was sucked out of Conseco Fieldhouse in an air-tight vaccum.

Minnesota, it would seem, said their Hail Mary's on Thursday night.

Minnesota: 59
Indiana: 58
Me: Deceased.

The Boilers were in their Sunday Best gold unis for this evening's Big Ten Title match. Illinois however, committing a vile fashion faux pas uglier than their 10-2 starting deficit, was wearing the exact same thing they wore yesterday. oh. em. jee. To their credit, they are a nine seed, and probably did not anticipate playing this many games.

The Illini surged past their early struggles for a tie, but turnovers and the weight of their soggy recycled apparel allowed Purdue to go on another scoring tear, leading 18-12.

And yet, in the closing minutes of the half, Illinois settled in offensively, exchanging their steady diet of turnovers for lights-out shooting, en route to a halftime lead, 30-28.

Part 1 of the second half was traded layups and free throw attempts-- both squads cooled off their perimeter shooting. FahKara "Mugsy" Malone of Purdue sidestepped into a three point shot that fell a solid three feet to the front left of the basket. It is quite possibly the most horrific field goal attempt I've seen in my entire life.

As if talent, athleticism, experience, fatigue, size, and history weren't enough for Illinois to have to overcome, the supposedly neutral court was decidedly rallying behind Purdue. A spackling of Indy-native black and gold clad alumni and students home for spring break were scattered about the limited sections of the fieldhouse not occupied by media, musicians, or cheerleaders, and their presence was overwhelming to the couple hundred admirable delegates of the Crush.

With 2:52 left and the Big Ten Championship on the line, the score is 56-56, with the Bears in the lead (Ferris Bueler...no?...ok.) The ball successfully avoided either net until the final buzzer, and score held until the last Purdue possession.

With thirty seconds left, Mugsy Malone took the ball out of the backcourt, and ran down 26 seconds before driving, slashing, and ferociously cutting her way into the lane, through four defenders and all probability! She lept upward gracefully to the hoop ANNNND......her shot was rejected, and piddled out of bounds like a dying pigeon.

But the inbounds pass came to a wide open Lakisha Freeman, who put up a soft 6 foot jumper, and as it hung mid-flight, the horn sounded, the neon outline of the backboard glowed a funereal red, and the ball splashed through the net. Purdue wins on a last second jump shot.

It took an anticlimactic 1:30 for the officials to review the basket before the shot was validated, but with the referee's eventual decisive downward slashing of her right arm, Conseco erupted for the home team.

Purdue has now won the Women's Big Ten Tournament as many times as every other team in the conference COMBINED. Cripes.

Good God she's a tall drink of water. Michigan State's Alyssa DeHaan is at least 12 feet taller than anyone else on the court. If no one has coined the term "Alyssa the Haan" yet, consider it copyrighted. She traverses the length of the court in three steps, and leaps into your heart in a solitary graceful bound. Tread softly, my sweet.

With five minutes to play in the first half, the combatants are gridlocked in a high-octane scoring frenzy at 12-12. The crowd has thinned out, presumably due to the dispersal of the eliminated teams' fan base, but mostly because of early bedtimes in heated anticipation of tomorrow's spring forward.

Perhaps I was unfair in my earlier jab at the ladies' ineffective offensive effort. Twenty minutes of real time and 4:53 of game time later, the score is 19-15 at halftime. A true Indiana barn-burner.

AH. "Quick Change" is BACK for another halftime performance, and it has been revealed by the public address announcer that they are from... not making this up...The Moscow Circus in Russia. I KNEW IT. Careful, basketball fans. This is how democracy ends...one subliminally infectious halftime show at a time.

There are eight minutes left, and the teams are playing like they mean it, at last. Alyssa The Haan, the apparent offspring of Gheorghe Muresan and Keira Knightly, has begun to stretch her limber, shadowy arms miles above the ruckus and drop the ball softly through the hoop, as if taking a drop on the golf course. Her kryptonite; a buxom bottom sharply dropped into the back of her knees-- The Illini have figured this out, and are making her legs buckle every time she comes down low. And with her unraveling...Illinois is pulling the Spartans apart at the seams of their chainmail skirts.

A prediction for the last 90 seconds: a series of Illinois free throws, and ensuing failed three point attempts by the Spartans.

And so it is.

Illinois, the 9th seeded team out of 11, after beating the conference's top seed Ohio State last night, has now upset the 5th seeded Spartans and will face the conference's historically elite team in Purdue.

Final Score:

Illini: 55
Spartans: 41
TERRORISTS: 1
FREEDOM: 0