John U. Bacon

The Big Ten basketball experts knew exactly what was going to happen this season before it even started. Michigan State would battle for another title, while Michigan would be stuck in the middle, fighting for a tournament bid.

And that’s exactly how it started. The Spartans jumped out to first place, and had it all to themselves with just two games left. The Wolverines spent most of the season in the middle of the pack.

The experts were looking pretty smart – until Michigan started mastering head coach John Beilein’s unconventional system. The Wolverines beat Michigan State at home by a single point, then knocked off sixth-ranked Ohio State – just two of Michigan’s 15 straight home victories. With just a week left in the regular season, the Wolverines had a chance to win their first Big Ten title since 1986 – the longest drought in school history.

On paper, this team had no business competing for a banner. Before the season started, they lost their biggest star, junior Darius Morris, to the Los Angeles Lakers. They replaced him with a freshman – from Columbus, of all places. But they bought into Beilein’s system, and it’s working, thanks to great senior leadership, a lot of grit, and a little luck.

But with everything to gain, they lost their last home contest to a mediocre Purdue team. They needed a minor miracle to grab a share of the title: the Spartans had to lose their last two games.

State got creamed at Indiana. One down. Then, on the last day of the season, the Spartans faced Ohio State for all the marbles. If they won, they would secure their seventh Big Ten title in 15 years, and their third outright. But if they lost, they’d have to share it with both Ohio State and Michigan.

I’m guessing they probably didn’t want to do that, any more than Wolverine fans wanted to root for the Buckeyes. But desperate times require desperate measures.

After blasting out to a 15-point lead, State lost third-leading scorer Branden Dawson to a knee injury, then lost their lead. But they fought back to tie the game with less than a minute left. The Buckeyes, however, walked right down the court, hit a jump shot at the very last second, and won the game.

As one Michigan fan said on Facebook: “I’ll go back to my [Buckeye] jokes tomorrow, but a giant thank you to Ohio State for helping deliver the Big Ten (co-)title back to Ann Arbor.”

It was over. Yes, the Spartans had earned a share of the title, but when they posed in front of their banner, they looked more like a team that had just lost a two-game lead and a 15-point advantage, and had to share their title not just with the despised Buckeyes, but with the truly hated Wolverines.

It echoed the football season, when the Spartans beat Michigan, won the division, and almost won the conference title game – then were rewarded with a lesser bowl game than Michigan’s. In basketball, once again, State had a better year, and once again, Michigan got what State wanted.

And that’s why, even though they got the exact same thing – a share of the title – the Spartans are despondent and the Wolverines are ecstatic.

Gore Vidal once said, “It is not enough to succeed. Others must fail.” The Spartans succeeded, but denied themselves the deliciousness of Michigan’s downfall. It’s a safe bet they are determined to get the last laugh in the Big Ten tournament this weekend.

The Madness is just beginning.

About the author: John U. Bacon is the author of the New York Times bestseller “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!

The basketball hoop on the south end of the court in Ann Arbor's newly renovated West Park. (Photo by the writer.)

Here’s a highlight reel of how events unfolded on Tuesday. Play opened with a disputed call, and one of the fans nearly got tossed out of the venue. There was a guy with a red sweater, reminiscent of those favored by Bob Knight when he coached the Indiana University squad, even though he was not the guy in danger of getting tossed. He was actually prepared to do the tossing.

Early on, the coach told the team about the “four corners” – which some older sports fans might recognize as a stalling style of basketball made popular by legendary University of North Carolina coach Dean Smith. And the team managed to hold the ball for one final shot, which it made. The cheerleaders cheered. The victors were valiant … hail, hail, etcetera.

The venue? It was the fourth floor meeting room of city hall. And the five-person team was the committee charged with evaluating proposals for use of the city-owned Library Lot. That’s the parcel atop the Fifth Avenue parking structure currently under construction.

Who says local civic affairs isn’t at least as interesting as NCAA basketball? Well, actually, most readers would say that, I’m guessing.

But here’s something I think we can all agree on: Fans at basketball games get to cheer or boo as loud as they like … within certain parameters. The parallel principle for public meetings, like the one on Tuesday, is that members of the public should be allowed to address the group during its meeting.

The city of Ann Arbor’s stated written policy on this is actually quite clear: Even entities that are not public bodies under the Open Meetings Act should, to the best of their abilities, conform with the spirit of the OMA – which includes a provision for public participation at meetings.

The Dispute with the Ref

The “fan” who risked getting tossed from the meeting room was local attorney Tom Wieder. [A "telestrator-annotated" version of the opening paragraphs is appended at the conclusion of this column. For regular news coverage of the meeting, see "Work Session Called on Conference Center"] When committee chair Stephen Rapundalo started the meeting on Tuesday, Wieder indicated he wanted to address the committee, saying that the city’s policy allows it.

Rapundalo replied that the RFP review committee was an “advisory committee” and it would not be entertaining public commentary. However, the committee did welcome public input, Rapundalo stressed, and he encouraged people to communicate in writing to the committee, or to city councilmembers, or the city administrator.

Wieder challenged Rapundalo to demonstrate that the committee had actually chosen not to entertain public commentary. When Rapundalo said the committee had been using rules that did not include a provision for public commentary, Wieder wanted to know if there was a written copy of the rules and whether the committee had voted on using those rules. Rapundalo finally said, “Mr. Wieder, I’m trying to run a meeting.” City administrator Roger Fraser admonished Wieder, saying that if he wanted to be disruptive, the committee could ask him to leave.

When Wieder said he was simply asking to be able to address the committee, committee member Margie Teall – who represents Ward 4 on the city council – told Wieder that he was not asking, but rather was insisting. Wieder allowed that, well, okay, he had been insisting. When Fraser pointed out that Rapundalo had made clear that no opportunity for public commentary would be given, Wieder replied: “I did hear what he said,” to which Fraser shot back, “You didn’t act as if you did.”

Wieder could lay claim to the last word in the exchange by replying, “No, I just didn’t accept it.” From that point on, Wieder sat back and listened.

What Play Are We Running?

In one sense, it was fine theater – Wieder appears comfortable in the role of the rabble-rouser. For all we know, he wanted to get tossed out of the meeting – for the same reason a basketball player or coach will sometimes deliberately bait the referee into calling a technical foul. It sometimes serves to fire up your team and to shift the momentum of a game.

But what exactly was Wieder talking about? Does Ann Arbor really have a policy on whether someone can address a meeting like one held by the Library Lot RFP review committee? Yes. The playbook Wieder was working from – as an email he sent to Rapundalo following the meeting makes clear – is a resolution passed by the city council in 1991:

R-642-11-91 RESOLUTION REGARDING OPEN MEETINGS FOR CITY COMMITTEES, COMMISSIONS, BOARDS AND TASK FORCES
Whereas, The City Council desires that all meetings of City boards, task forces, commissions and committees conform to the spirit of the Open Meetings Act;
RESOLVED, That all City boards, task forces, commissions, committees and their subcommittees hold their meetings open to the public to the best of their abilities in the spirit of Section 3 of the Open Meetings Act; and
RESOLVED, That closed meetings of such bodies be held only under situations where a closed meeting would be authorized in the spirit of the Open Meetings Act.

The idea of the resolution is this: Even entities to which the OMA would not technically apply are still expected to conform to the spirit of Section 3 of the OMA – to the best ability of that entity’s members. Section 3 includes a provision that allows a person to address a meeting of a public body.

It’s a council resolution The Chronicle has written about previously – in connection with the council’s apparent game plan of calling its ad hoc committees “work groups” in order to shield their work from the 1991 resolution. From an April 2010 Chronicle article:

On Friday, April 16, [2010] at 3 p.m. members of the DDA’s committee met with some city councilmembers in Roger Fraser’s office to discuss the deal. In barring The Chronicle from the Friday meeting, which we attempted to attend, Fraser rejected the applicability of the council resolution that requires the meetings of city sub-committees to comply with the Open Meetings Act, contending it was a “working group,” not a sub-committee.

That incident involved a committee charged with negotiating with the Ann Arbor Downtown Development Authority on a new contract for managing the city’s public parking system. In addition, currently the city council is also picking and rolling with a “work group” that it has put together to study the question of a city income tax – instead of simply referring the matter to its budget committee.

From The Chronicle’s report of a recent budget retreat:

At the Jan. 8, 2011 retreat, there was some back-and-forth about whether the work group looking at the income tax question – as well as the possibility of a Headlee override – should be called a “committee” or a “work group.” Implicit context for the distinction is that council committees are supposed to do their best to conduct their meetings openly in accordance with the Michigan Open Meetings Act – based on a two-decades-old city council resolution. Work groups are not considered to have the same obligation.

View from the Head of Officials

In a dispute over rules, policy and legal matters, the view of the city attorney carries some weight. Does Ann Arbor’s city attorney acknowledge the current applicability of a two-decades-old city council resolution? Yes. Last year, Tony Derezinski (Ward 2) asked city attorney Stephen Postema during a council meeting whether a committee of the council could violate the Open Meetings Act.

In asking the question, Derezinski was in some sense running the alley-oop play – where one player lobs a ball above the basket to a teammate who can throw down an easy dunk. Derezinski served in the state legislature when the Open Meetings Act and Freedom of Information Act were passed, and is a retired attorney specializing in municipal law, so he likely knew the answer to the technical OMA question.

But Postema couldn’t deliver the simple answer that Derezinski seemed to expect, because of the city council’s 1991 resolution. From The Chronicle’s report of that May 17, 2010 meeting:

Tony Derezinski (Ward 2) asked the city’s attorney, Stephen Postema, if a council committee could be subject to the Open Meetings Act (OMA). Postema indicated to Derezinski that it was not the OMA, but rather a council resolution [from 1991] that was the “operative document.” [It requires city committees to adhere to the OMA to the best of their abilities.]

But what about “advisory committees”? In explaining to Wieder why he wouldn’t be allowed to address the meeting, Rapundalo stressed that the RFP review committee was an “advisory committee.” Did Postema say anything about advisory committees last May?

For that, we need to go to the tape. It’s at roughly the 1:51:00 mark where Postema states [emphasis added]: “… if it’s truly an advisory committee … under the attorney general’s opinion and others, an advisory committee would not be covered under the Open Meetings Act, but it would still be covered under the council resolution.”

It’s difficult to see how simply encouraging people to contact the committee, or their councilmembers, or the city administrator outside of the committee meeting could be analyzed as serving the spirit of the Open Meetings Act requirement that a person be allowed to address a meeting.

If civic affairs in this city had a challenge flag that could be thrown, the booth review would have shown that Wieder was right and should have been allowed to address the meeting. Ah, but challenge flags and video review are for football. And this, apparently, is basketball we’re talking about.

Playing Smart

Independent of the fact that the decision to refuse Wieder the opportunity to speak was inconsistent with the city’s policy on committee meetings, it just wasn’t smart.

Regardless of what you might think about the value of public participation in the abstract, there is a real practical benefit to not just allowing, but actually insisting that the public come and address meetings, particularly on controversial issues.

Thinking along purely adversarial lines, for proponents of the conference center proposal, Rapundalo squandered an opportunity to watch the other side scrimmage.

Thinking more cooperatively, refusing someone the opportunity to address a meeting leaves skill and expertise that exists in the community lying on the table. Certainly that skill and expertise – in the form of, say, critiques of the letter of intent – might eventually be brought to bear on the issue. Written communication after the fact could be used to improve whatever letter gets signed – or influence a decision not to sign the letter at all.

But there is, I think, greater value to injecting that skill and expertise in a more timely fashion, by including it in the public meetings that lead up to the “big game.”

Telestrated Version of Opening Paragraphs

Here are the X’s and O’s of this column’s opening paragraphs.

On Tuesday a capacity crowd packed a local Ann Arbor venue to watch a five-person team do its work. [The Library Lot RFP review committee consists of five members: Margie Teall, Stephen Rapundalo, John Splitt, Eric Mahler, and Sam Offen.] Part of the color commentary included talk of game-changing players [the conference center proposed by Valiant has been described as having the potential to be a "game changer"] and speculation about who had the best center of all the conferences [Valiant's proposal is for a conference center]. Everyone knew that whichever team prevailed on Tuesday would not win the whole tournament – it would just advance to the next round. [The recommendation to sign a letter of intent will ultimately require city council action.]

Here’s a highlight reel of how events unfolded on Tuesday. Play opened with a disputed call, and one of the fans nearly got tossed out of the venue. [Tom Wieder repeatedly asked to address the committee and was told by city administrator that he might be asked to leave.] There was a guy with a red sweater, reminiscent of those favored by Bob Knight when he coached the Indiana University squad, even though he was not the guy in danger of getting tossed – he was actually prepared to do the tossing. [Roger Fraser sported a red sweater vest.] Early on, the coach told the team about the “four corners” – which some older sports fans might recognize as a stalling style of basketball made popular by legendary University of North Carolina coach Dean Smith. [David Di Rita of The Roxbury Group called the what, where, when and how of the project the "four corners."] And the team managed to hold the ball for a one final shot, which it made. [The committee voted 5-0 to recommend that the city council approve a letter of intent.] The cheerleaders cheered. [Margie Teall offered that she thought it was a great idea.] The victors were valiant … hail, hail, etcetera. [The name of the development team is Valiant, which is an allusion to the University of Michigan fight song. The song's chorus begins with the line, "Hail to the victors, valiant ..."]

About the writer: Dave Askins is editor and co-founder of The Ann Arbor Chronicle.

John U. Bacon

March Madness is one of the best sporting events of the year, every year, on a very short list with the Super Bowl, the World Series and the Olympics. But March Madness is the most inclusive – and, in some ways, the purest.

The tournament’s 65 teams came from 31 states this year. Schools like Gonzaga and Winthrop, Lehigh and New Mexico State all got to play.

What separates March Madness from the other events is that we get to play, too. Every office runs a hoop pool, and the winner is never the ESPN-addicted sharpie in sales, but the receptionist who picks her teams based on her favorite colors. It’s a beautiful thing.

This year’s March Madness had it all – early round upsets, like Northern Iowa over Kansas; traditional powers like Michigan State and Kentucky advancing to the Elite Eight; and a title game for the ages.

In this corner, you had the three-time champeeens: The Duke Blue Devils, whose coach wondered why his school wasn’t more popular. Yes, why aren’t obnoxious rich kids from New York more popular? Got me, Coach!

And in this corner, you had the upstart Butler Bulldogs from Indianapolis, who had never been to the Final Four. They play their home games in the very arena where they filmed the movie “Hoosiers” in 1986, and where Milan High School played that actual game, in 1954.

All the experts said Duke was going to blow out Butler, but the game went back and forth all night. In the final seconds, Butler’s wonderboy, Gordon Hayward, dashed down the court to launch a last-second half-court shot – but it bounced off the rim, just off the mark. Duke won by two – the closest final since Michigan’s overtime victory in 1989.

It was one of those rare games where both teams came out the better for it. For the fourth time, Duke earned a national title, and for the first time, Butler earned national respect.

The TV ratings were the best in 11 years. So the NCAA, in its infinite wisdom, was not content to say, “It is good.” No. That’s for suckers. It said, Gimme gimme gimme.

Instead of leaving perfection alone, the NCAA is poised to add 31 teams and another week to the tournament. If you wonder why, you have to remember the NCAA’s holy trinity: Greed, Hypocrisy and Stupidity.

March Madness is already the biggest money maker in the history of college athletics, by far. Every year, CBS pays out $700 million to the NCAA, in exchange for 10 days of basketball. The coaches are millionaires, and the players are students. Where’s Karl Marx when you need him?

But $700 million is not enough. Why? Because, to the NCAA, it is never enough. It reminds me of an exchange between Homer Simpson and his boss, Monty Burns. When Homer says, “You’re the richest man I know.” Burns says. “Yes. But you know, I’d trade it all for just a little more.”

Some things in sports are perfect: 90 feet from home plate to first base. 100 yards on a football field. And three weeks for March Madness.

If the NCAA adds a fourth week, they’ll give us a lot of bad teams playing bad basketball, and ruin the rhythm of the tournament for everyone. How are you going to fit 96 teams on a single sheet of paper to fill out your bracket?

None of this will stop the NCAA, because nothing – not billions, not perfection, not fair play – has ever stopped the NCAA.

March Madness might be the best sports event of the year. But the NCAA is going to trade it all, for just a little more.

Now that is madness.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the New York Times, and ESPN Magazine, among others. His most recent book is “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller. Bacon teaches at Miami of Ohio, Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009. This commentary originally aired on Michigan Radio.