I like technology. My friends know this, but they still insist I'm living in the past, as if I were some sort of unattractive Neanderthal. "Chris," my friend will say as he fiddles with a contraption I now know is an iPod, "stop running around naked with that homemade spear shouting, 'I want me pterodactyls.' You're embarrassing me in front of my grandmother."
But if there's one facet of technology that scares me, it's media time-outs at sports game. Companies have infiltrated our lives so much that they are allowed to purchase the precious time-outs for which some coaches, in neck-and-neck playoff games, would trade three million dollars and their first-born children. These timeouts slow down a game's momentum and are irritating because they force you to listen to an Allstate ad (motto: we have that guy from "24") for two whole minutes. I couldn't care less about Allstate, since I oppose insurance of all types on the principle that, like a prenuptial agreement, if you presume you'll need it, you will, and vice versa.
If we follow this media time-out trend, what will happen next to our already media-filled lives? Media time-outs during sitcoms? Media time-outs during reality shows? Actually, I guess that's what commercial breaks are. Still, if I'm ever taking a shower and the water pressure drops to allow for a media time-out, I will begin boycotting all technology and perhaps move to an isolated cave somewhere far, far away from new-age machinery -- somewhere like Wisconsin.
I center on this issue because I recently saw a basketball game at the new John Paul Jones arena for the first time. I was impressed by the building, yet I'm also fascinated by fireflies and belly buttons, so I'm probably not the most trustworthy critic. The architects of JPJ designed it under a golden rule -- "If a wall, ceiling tile, or janitor is capable of being turned into a TV screen, then it will be so." My favorite part of having so many screens surrounding me was the explosion of digital fire that corresponded with the entrance of CavMan. That moment, so awesome and so powerful, was the closest I have ever come to publicly wetting myself.
The game was fine. I like football better than basketball because, being a ripe 5 feet 6 inches tall (motto: for the last time, I'm not technically a little person), I'm a bit frightened of tall people. You would think, at 135 pounds (motto: I basically float in water), I would also be afraid of large football players, but you'd be surprised -- for some reason I'm just not scared of grown men who wear shoulder pads.
I do love the basketball cheers more than the football cheers, though. This is partly due to the echo-friendly structure of basketball arenas, which, compared to open football stadiums, amplify and clarify the cheers that my peers are screaming. I'm thankful for this because at football games I will often misconstrue the chants of the fans around me, and instead of repeating, 'Block that punt', I'll happily, mistakenly scream, "Rock that grunt," which is total nonsense but quite fun to say.
One of the cheers at the basketball game dealt with the referees. "Take their whistles!" was the fans' exact chant, although it seems "take their referee licenses away so they will no longer occupy the court so they will no longer make calls with which we disagree!" would be a more accurate taunt. I sympathized with the referees. It's difficult to be perfect when you're working under high pressure, making split-second calls and looking like a zebra. I ask that the next time you are itching to mock a referee, you remember the words of the wise sage Mr. Tao: Do unto others as if you yourself looked like a crosswalk.
Going back to JPJ itself, I was pleased with the student layout of the crowd, which wasn't just located in one tight section, like at football games, but spread out across different sides of the arena. This created a scene not unlike an actual sea of orange, if that sea was littered with the occasional seaweed of dressed-up preps and middle-aged, drunk fans (motto: drink until the foul line is attractive).
One thing that didn't change in the transition from University Hall to JPJ is the food. Thankfully, when I order a hot dog, I still get a piece of long meat so burnt it's obvious it had been cooking since the previous game. And when I order nachos, I still get a box of what could easily be a product of my not-potty-trained dog. I'm not complaining. I love these snacks. I also love that the food vendors have kept their famed Chow Honor, in that in between handing me a burnt hot dog and a watered-down soda, they don't pause to preach about an insurance company. If that ever happened, I'd decide once and for all to escape to the desolate, technology-free land of Wisconsin.
Chris Shuptrine's column runs biweekly on Monday's. He can be reached at cshuptrine@cavalierdaily.com
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