Moses Fleetwood Walker with his 1882 UM teammates.

He smashed the color barrier in major league baseball. During his lifetime, Congress passed sweeping civil rights legislation. No modern baseball player can wear his team number on a uniform. And unlike Jackie Robinson, he was a University of Michigan alum.

Moses Fleetwood Walker was born Oct. 7, 1856 in Mount Pleasant, Ohio. His parents may have settled there due to the eastern part of the state’s long association with the Underground Railroad.

Moses, or Fleet as he was later called, was the fifth or sixth of seven children born to physicians Moses and Caroline Walker. The 1860 census lists two three-year-olds, Moses and Lizzie. The little girl, possibly Moses’ twin, does not appear in the 1870 census.

Soon after Moses’ birth, the family moved to nearby Steubenville, 40 miles west of Pittsburgh. Their neighbors there worked as bricklayers, dyers, pattern makers, tinners, and laborers. Moses attended an integrated school and at graduation chose Oberlin College, one of the first colleges in the nation to admit black and female students. When Oberlin formed its first baseball team in 1881, Moses joined as a catcher.

It was a tough position to play in that era. The catcher had no body protection or face mask. He didn’t even have a glove, but caught barehanded. In addition, in 1881 the pitcher’s throwing position was not 60 feet and six inches from home plate as it is today, but only 50 feet (and before that 45 feet). Pitchers for a time were even allowed to take a running start. Common catchers’ injuries included broken ribs and fingers, facial injuries, and concussions.

Baseball at University of Michigan

In March of 1882 Moses transferred to the University of Michigan to study law. He was accompanied by his wife of four years, Arabella. Moses joined the university’s baseball team, the first varsity sport to be organized on campus. UM baseball operated without a coach from its inception in 1865 until 1890. The sport also operated without oversight by or funds from an as-yet-nonexistent Athletics Department; the first athletics director, Charles Baird, wasn’t installed until 1898. The team had to pay for its own equipment and travel with money begged from fellow students – receipts were often meager.

Financial challenges were plain in 1882 when the UM team planned to play a distant rival. “A more than sufficient sum of money had been pledged for the use of the nine [team members],” wrote the June 24 issue of the UM student paper The Chronicle, “and we supposed that at least $125 could be raised . . . [w]hat was the surprise and disgust of the committee when it was found that the largest amount that could be raised was about $35.” The disappointed team stayed in Ann Arbor.

The team listing as printed in the UM Palladium.

But The Chronicle took note of Walker’s performances. “Walker played a brilliant game,” reported one article, “catching without a passed ball, making five runs, and two base hits, besides three singles. The game was witnessed by a large crowd . . .” In the fall of 1882, The Chronicle predicted a strong season: “Dott, Fleet Walker, Packard, Bumps, Hawley, Davis, Allmendinger, are all back and alive to the necessity of keeping up our ball spirit,” reported the Oct. 21, 1882 paper. “Then we have had added to the list Weld[a]y Walker, a magnificent fielder, safe batter, and phenomenal base runner…” Moses’ younger brother had followed him to Michigan and had joined the team.

Other campus papers praised Moses’ performance, and bemoaned the team’s financial struggles. As if anticipating Walker’s incipient departure, the May 5, 1883 Argonaut wrote, “Montgomery as catcher is a worthy successor to Fleet Walker . . . the baseball committee hopes to get through the season without circulating the deadly subscription paper.”

Despite the accolades, by the fall of 1883 Moses had moved on. “Walker of base-ball notoriety is not back this year,” the Oct. 10, 1883 Chronicle informed its readers. Moses had signed with the minor-league Toledo Blue Stockings. The Blue Stockings soon joined the American Association, a two-year-old professional major league formed to compete against the existing National League. Nicknamed the “Beer and Whiskey League” because it served alcohol at games, the American Association was regarded as boorish by its more staid nemesis league. In addition to the Blue Stockings, American Association members included the Washington Senators, the Cincinnati Kelly’s Killers, the Cleveland Spiders, and several surviving teams that include the Cincinnati Red Stockings (Reds), the St. Louis Brown Stockings (Cardinals), and the Pittsburgh Pirates.

By all accounts Moses had played good baseball on campus and earned the respect of his fellow students. He ruined his debut professional performance, however, by flubbing four at-bats and committing four errors. His performance may reflect the possible reception he received from an audience who had never seen a black baseball player. Reactions from his new teammates were mixed, ranging from racism to friendship. As he would throughout his life in a variety of situations, Moses persevered.

During the summer, Moses’ brother Welday also played with the Blue Stockings. Moses was injured during a game, and on Sept. 4, 1884, he played his last game with the team. Though Moses was a pioneer in integrating major league baseball, his Blue Stockings number was never retired – or even recorded, as uniforms of this era generally didn’t have numbers.

UM students had not forgotten Moses, and hopes rekindled that he would return. “[T]here is good reason to believe too that the nine is to be strengthened this year by the return of Fleet Walker,” noted the Oct. 4, 1884 Michigan Argonaut. If nothing else, at least the team finally had some cash. “It is especially gratifying to note that the base ball association stands on a sound financial basis. We are assured that there are fifty dollars in the treasury and no debts outstanding.”

Recovered from his injury, Moses entered the minor leagues and played for teams in Cleveland, Syracuse, and Waterbury, Connecticut. As he worked to advance himself and develop his talent, his ambitions were countered by a worsening national racial climate.

Race Relations

In 1866, when Moses was just 10 years old, Congress had passed the Civil Rights Act. It countered the post-Civil War “Black Codes” that Southern states had enacted to limit the rights of newly free black citizens. The Act was strengthened in 1868 and 1870 by the passage of the 14th and 15th Amendments. Taken together, these actions sought to ensure federal protection of the rights of all male citizens, black and white, to make contracts, have and transfer property, vote, file lawsuits, and enjoy equal protection of the law.

Legal challenges, however, exploited overlooked loopholes and began to erode federal power, returning control to the states in defining and often limiting black citizens’ civil rights. By 1896, the Supreme Court’s Plessy vs. Ferguson decision allowed for a broad definition of “separate but equal” accommodations that served to enable discriminatory “Jim Crow” laws.

Before this tumultuous era culminated in Plessy vs. Ferguson, Moses had been let go from the Syracuse Stars. The minor-league International League banned the hiring of new black players. The American Association and the National League agreed sub rosa to exclude black players. The racial barrier would last until after World War II.

Patents: Dynamite Artillery Shells, Movie Projectors

Moses returned to Ohio and purchased a hotel in Steubenville and a theater for showing films and hosting live events in nearby Cadiz. He worked as a postal clerk, and at one point was accused of embezzling money. Moses managed his properties and with his younger brother published a short-lived newspaper. Arabella died in 1895, leaving three children: Cleatho, Thomas, and George. Three years after Arabella’s death, Moses married Ednah Jane Mason.

Before he lost his first wife, Moses filed for and received the first of his four patents. In 1891 he patented a refinement for a dynamite-loaded artillery shell.

Moses tweaked the dynamite bomb.

Dynamite guns were a makeshift late-19th-century transitional technology. For most of the 19th century, black powder was the only explosive substance available. When dynamite was patented in 1867, it offered far more destructive power. Inventors scrambled to adapt this technology for military use.

One slight problem with this plan was that dynamite’s explosive force is activated not with a fiery fuse, but with percussion. The shock wave of the firing gun could explode the dynamite-loaded shell while it was still in the gun barrel. Moses designed an artillery shell that contained a suspended piston filled with dynamite. The piston was cushioned by air as the shell was fired from the barrel, to explode on impact with the target. Theodore Roosevelt experimented with dynamite guns; he and his Rough Riders found the machinery too fussy. Superior technology soon made these ingenious yet terrifying armaments obsolete.

Moses had other, less destructive ideas to patent. In 1918, he filed three patents for improvements to movie projectors. His experience with his theater’s film projectors had shown him shortcomings in projector technology. He was granted patents on projector improvements that made it easier to secure film to its metal reel and to tell when one roll of film was near its end.

Moses commissioned a metal-stamping company to make his improved reels, but never turned his creation into a business.

Thoughts on Race

Moses did, however, turn his reflections on race relations into a 47-page 1908 book: “Our Home Colony, a Treatise on the Past, Present, and Future of the Negro Race in America.” His book concluded that the white and black races cannot live harmoniously in the United States. Black Americans, he advised, should shun the de facto American caste system and establish a new settlement in Africa.

“What Negro parent,” wrote Walker in his treatise, “can have the audacity to hold up before his beloved son the possibility of him ever becoming President of the United States?”

Moses’ wife Ednah died in 1920. Two years later he retired. Moses passed away on May 11, 1924.

His still-extant hometown paper, the Steubenville Herald-Star, gave him a lengthy obituary and placed his listing first. The obituary highlighted his career in baseball, detailed his varied occupations thereafter, and expressed community respect. It concluded, “He was a very interesting man to meet in conversation and he had many friends here who will regret to hear of his death.”

Moses Fleetwood Walker is buried in Steubenville’s Union Cemetery.

Mystery Artifact

Mystery Object

The mystery artifact from the last column is a collection of objects that may be viewed in the current iteration of the Yankee Air Museum. Within the current exhibit hall, there’s a display case that contains sample soldiers’ field rations from several wars. The collection pictured here represents field rations for WWII soldiers, or, “K rations.”

Jim Rees and Cosmonican guessed correctly; congratulations!

Today for your consideration is a rather large Mystery Artifact that’s appropriate for the season.

It’s heavy and a little wobbly when it’s set on a table. It’s in quite nice condition, though, with no evident chips or scratches. What might this odd thing be? Take your guess and good luck!

Laura Bien is the author of “Hidden Ypsilanti” and “Tales from the Ypsilanti Archives.” Contact Laura at ypsidixit@gmail.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to help remind readers of those who’ve been forgotten. If you’re already supporting The Chronicle, please encourage your friends, neighbors and coworkers to do the same. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle.

John U. Bacon

On Veterans Day, we generally honor our Veterans. It’s a good idea, for lots of reasons: they served our country, often in unpleasant places, and in great danger, to keep the worst of the world away from our homeland.

My grandfather was a New York dentist who volunteered at age 39 to hop on a ship in the Pacific during World War II. My dad graduated from medical school, then enlisted in the U.S. Army, which sent him and his new bride to Fulda, Germany, to guard the border. It was an unconventional decision, but he’s always said it was one of his best.

“I earned more money than I ever had,” he often jokes, though that wasn’t hard to do for a recent medical school graduate. “People had to do what I said. And I never got shot at.” My parents also made lifelong friends, and still travel every year to see them at reunions.

I grew up hearing Dad say things like, “Smart to be seen in Army green!” And “Three meals a day, and –” well, I’m stopping there. (If you know that one, you know why.)

On Veterans Day, I’ve gotten into the habit of calling my old man to thank him for his service. But this year, the Pennsylvania Interscholastic Hockey League spent Veterans Day telling its 183 member high school teams to stop performing the national anthem before their games.

The league commissioner, Ed Sam, was quick to explain, “It’s not that we’re not patriotic. That’s the furthest from the truth.”

I actually believe him. They’re not unpatriotic. They’re amazingly stupid.

The reason behind the decision was money. Most teams have to pay for their ice time, which Sam said costs up to $300 an hour.

I’ve coached high school hockey,  and that seems high to me. But even at that rate, unless they’re playing Whitney Houston’s version, the national anthem takes about two minutes – or ten bucks of ice time.

What do they get for that ten bucks? They get to join some of their best friends and complete strangers, singing a song that ends with the ringing words, “O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.”

That’s not a bad deal, it seems to me.

“The Star-Spangled Banner” didn’t become our national anthem until 1931 – when we needed it most. It spread through baseball, then other sports.

We Americans don’t do much together anymore. We watch different news programs, live in different neighborhoods, and go to different schools. But we do this together, every week, without taking sides, or trying to determine whose flag pin is bigger – as if some of us are real Americans, and others aren’t. My dad and I don’t always agree on politics, but we’ve always agreed on this.

When I coached the Ann Arbor Huron High hockey team, we decided to make a quiet statement during the national anthem by standing ram-rod straight on the blue line, and not moving a muscle until one beat after the song ended. This made such an impression on the players’ parents, they took hundreds pictures of their sons in perfect formation. The opponents’ parents would send me letters, praising us for the respect we showed the flag. It became such a central part of our identity that our seniors took it upon themselves to make sure the freshmen did it right.

We rely on the national anthem during our toughest times. I’ll never forget the national anthems that followed 9/11 – from Yankee Stadium, to our rink. That fall, it was our seniors who asked me to add an American flag to our uniforms.

Seeing them standing on our blue line, in a perfect row, I was immensely proud of them. If those 17-year-olds are the future, I thought, we’re going to be fine. Well, those 17-year-olds are 27 now – and I was right. We’re in good hands.

So if the Pennsylvania Interscholastic Hockey League can’t afford the ten bucks a game it costs to sing our national anthem together – which is more important than the game that follows – they could shorten their warm-ups or player introductions, or just pass the hat. I’m pretty confident that at any rink in America, you’d have no problem collecting ten bucks for that.

I’d be happy to kick in the first Hamilton.

And my dad will kick in the second.

About the author: John U. Bacon, an Ann Arbor resident, is the author of the New York Times bestseller “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” He also co-authored “A Legacy of Champions,” and provided commentary for “Black and Blue: The Story of Gerald Ford, Willis Ward, and the 1934 Michigan-Georgia Tech Football Game.”

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!

John U. Bacon

The London Olympics features 26 summer sports, with 39 disciplines, and 302 separate competitions, in a desperate attempt to get everyone to watch.

As a result, the International Olympic Committee feels they now have something for everyone. So, we’ve got the Ancient Sports, or the Events No One Watches Anymore, like horse riding, rifle range, and archery – also known as, Things You Did in Summer Camp, But Stopped Doing After You Learned How To Drive and Talk To Girls. Why not include making moccasins and leather key fobs?

The Modern Penthathlon has got the complete collection of outdated events: fencing, horse jumping, shooting, a 3-K run and a 200-meter swim – or, The Full MacGyver. Introduced in 1912, the Modern Pentathlon is one of the least modern things about the modern games.

A truly Modern Pentathlon would include: (1) Aerobics – which is not as silly as rhythmic gymnastics; (2) Running Brain Dead On A Treadmill; (3) Bikram Yoga, for some reason; (4) Sitting On The Weight Machine I Want To Use For Five Minutes, While Admiring Yourself In The Mirror; and (5) Programming Your New Television.

The smallest category is The Things You Actually Want to Watch: swimming, track, gymnastics and basketball. Everything else is filler. Oh, and Tae Kwon Do, of course. Why? Because my editor likes it. That’s why.

At the other extreme, you’ve got Fake Sports the IOC Recently Jammed Into the Games in A Failed Attempt To Get Your Teenager To Stop Playing Video Games For Ten Minutes And Watch Through At Least One Commercial Break, which occur every 38 seconds. These sports include:

Mountain biking, wake boarding, trampoline, and beach volleyball.

Well, okay – lots of teenage boys will watch beach volleyball, because they have Discovered Girls.

If the IOC really wants to appeal to today’s kids, they should add:

• The 100-Meter Dash, With Your Pants Halfway Down Your Butt;
• Texting While Walking;
• Texting While Doing Everything Else; and
• Beer Pong.

The problem is, the table tennis snobs get upset when you call their sport Ping Pong, so perhaps we should call it Beer Tennis. Which, come to think of it, would be a pretty good sport, too.

The last category of sports includes rowing, cycling, weightlifting and distance running. Or, as most of us call it: Exercise.

But the silliest sport I have ever seen in the Olympics, without question, is Synchronized Diving. This involves two people jumping off the platform at the same time, and doing the same dive. Get it?

Of course, once they start doing the same dive, it’s kind of hard to speed it up or slow it down. And they’re pretty much guaranteed to fall at the same speed – which, last I checked, is the speed of gravity. So the only thing they really have to synchronize is when to start their dive – which they do by saying, “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“1-2-3.”

Dive.

In other words, the exact same system kids use to play rock, paper, scissors. Synchronized bowling would actually be trickier.

But all is not lost. We can save this sport – and here’s how:

Start with two divers on the platform, but from different nations, and have them duke it out on the platform. First one to get tossed in the water, loses. I’d watch that – and you would, too. Even your sullen teenager with the baggy pants might stop texting for 38 seconds to watch that.

I know, I know. All these events are difficult in some way. But just because something is difficult, does not make it Olympian. Pushing the garage door button, then launching your body under the door before it cuts you in half is difficult – as my adolescence will attest – but it didn’t make me an Olympian.

Folding a fitted sheet? That’s hard, too. I’ve never seen anybody do it very well. But, you won’t get a medal for it.

At least, not yet.

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.” He also co-authored “A Legacy of Champions,” and provided commentary for “Black and Blue: The Story of Gerald Ford, Willis Ward, and the 1934 Michigan-Georgia Tech Football Game,” which has been airing on various stations in Michigan and nationally.

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!

John U. Bacon

Former Supreme Court Chief Justice Earl Warren said, “I always turn to the sports pages first, which records people’s accomplishments. The front page has nothing but man’s failures.”

But this year, the sports page had plenty of both. Sad to say, bad news tends to travel faster.

So let’s start with some good news. In men’s tennis, the rivalry between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, already one of the best in tennis history, was joined by a man named Novak Djokovic, who won three major titles this year on a gluten-free diet – no joke. We might be watching the sport’s greatest era. Even better, all three players are true sportsmen, resorting to none of the ranting and raving of past greats.

Today, the spoiled brats are on the first tee, led by Tiger Woods, whose petulant tantrums on the course were eclipsed by his behavior off it. Now he’s trying to reassemble his knee, his swing and his life all at once. His opponents don’t like him, but they have to pull for him to return, along with their big paychecks.

The Detroit Red Wings made the playoffs for their 20th consecutive year – an incredible accomplishment of consistency in the modern era of parity and free agency. If you’re in college, you cannot recall when they were so bad we called them the “Dead Things.” General manager Ken Holland is the best in sports. Period.

The Tigers, meanwhile, stretched their playoff streak to one. Justin Verlander starts the game throwing 95-miles per hour, and ends it throwing over 100. He is the most dominant Detroit pitcher in four decades. Take your kids to see him now, so years later they can tell their grandkids.

The biggest surprise in the state has been the Lions – formerly known as the Lie Downs. They are still recovering from the reign of former president Matt Millen, who led the team to a historically awful run. Now he has a lucrative job judging the people still doing his old position better than he ever did. Which only proves my theory: the worse you were managing or coaching, the more likely you will get a job criticizing the very people who beat you every week.

The last time the Lions won a playoff game, the Red Wings were just starting their 20-year streak of playoff appearances. The Red Wings aim for Stanley Cups, every year. The Lions set their sights on mediocrity, and this year, standing at 8-5 with three games left, they just might reach it.

It looked like no one was going to make the NBA playoffs this season, because for three months there was no NBA season, thanks to the lock out. All work-stoppages in professional sports are indefensible, but the consolation in this case was that few seemed to care. The only thing more pointless than the first half of the NBA regular season is the first half of every game. We didn’t miss you.

The good news for Detroit basketball fans is that your team will soon be back on the court. The bad news is: Your team is the Detroit Pistons, whose odds of making the playoffs haven’t changed since the lock out started.

This year, the media spotlight shone brightest on college sports – and what it revealed wasn’t pretty. It started with a cynical game of musical chairs among colleges and their conferences. When the music ended, Boise State somehow was sitting in the Big East – making it the biggest East you’ve ever seen.

Then the scandals started. The NCAA gave Ohio State a clean bill of health after a rushed investigation so the Buckeyes could play in the Sugar Bowl. The Buckeyes won the game, but lost all respect when head coach Jim Tressel got caught lying through his sweater vest. Michigan State coach Mark Dantonio, who had worked for Tressel, described him as a “tragic hero.” This phrase originally meant a virtuous man who suffers misfortune, not some guy who got caught cheating. Perhaps Dantonio knows something Aeschylus didn’t.

But the biggest scandal in college sports – scratch that, the saddest in the history of all sports – is the travesty still unfolding at Penn State. A former assistant coach is accused – and pardon me, but euphemism will not do here – of raping young boys. It is already horrifying, and it will surely get worse before it’s over. For the victims, it never will be.

These cases reveal an underlying problem: Once a college coach becomes an icon, no one has the power – or the guts – to point out the emperor has no clothes. Until college presidents realize they have more power than college coaches – or reporters remember they answer to the readers, not the legends – we will remain at the coaches’ mercy. Heaven help us.

The long-term effects of football injuries are finally getting the attention they deserve, but it’s too late for too many. Of the first 25 notable sports deaths in 2011, seven were football players, and only one lived to be 70. Something is very wrong here.

In Michigan, at least, the year brought good news: Michigan State’s men’s basketball team made it back to the Final Four, and its football team won the first Legends Division title. In Ann Arbor, the Wolverines are winning again. Brady Hoke beat the Buckeyes in his first season, riding a resurgent defense. Sometimes, good things happen to good people, and this senior class has a bunch of them.

Sparky Anderson, the first manager to lead teams in both leagues to World Series titles, died this year at 76. Two years ago, I asked him what’s the best advice he could give a coach. He pointed two of his gnarled fingers at his leathery face, cracked his famous grin, and said, “Trust your eyes, son. Trust your eyes.”

Maybe he wasn’t talking about sports, after all.

About the author: John U. Bacon is the author of “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” His next local book signing will be at Nicola’s Books in Ann Arbor on Saturday, Dec. 17 from 2-4 p.m.

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!

John U. Bacon

Sometimes the real world is so overwhelming it sneaks into sports. One of those times occurred after 9/11, when the crowd at Yankee Stadium sang “God Bless America,” with all their heart. I’m not very religious, but it sounded right to me.

It seemed appropriate that that signature moment, when we needed to be together, occurred in our country’s most hallowed arena, the nation’s front porch. We are probably the most sports-soaked culture in the world – we’re the ones who pay for the Olympics, after all – and I believe our code of conduct when we’re competing often represents our values at their best.

People like to say sports teaches us how to be aggressive. But you can learn that through alley fighting. Any jerk with no regard for others can be aggressive. Prisons are filled with them – 9/11 was conceived by them.

And it’s easy to play by the rules, too, if you never defend yourself.

So, I disagree. What sports teaches us is how to be tough without crossing the line. That’s the crucial difference. That’s why every sport I know not only has official rules, but unwritten ones, too, that anyone who cares about the sport is expected to follow.

If you’ve ever coached – any sport, any age – you know that is one of the hardest lessons to teach. And, I believe, one of the most important.

When I coached hockey at Ann Arbor’s Huron High School, I made it clear: I expected my guys always to play tough, but never to play dirty. When my players complained the other team was playing dirty, I said: Right. That’s what makes you better than them. I don’t coach those guys. I coach you.

That was one more reason – among many others, of course – that 9/11 troubled me. It boiled down to a few thugs going after 3,000 innocent civilians, led by a coward who had enough money to get others to do his fighting for him. He just took the credit – if that’s what you call it.

I admit I was not always heartened by our nation’s response to 9/11, either. So much of it seemed sloppy and undisciplined – and counterproductive. John McCain has said one of the most important sources of strength he and his fellow Vietnam P.O.W.s relied on to keep going was the simple belief that they were better than their captors. It sustained them.

It seemed like we were losing that. And that’s why I was so heartened by the conduct of the Navy Seals this week. I know there are still many questions about how this process started. But I don’t have too many questions about how it ended, or about the men who flew into Pakistan that night. They found their man not in a cave outside Kabul, sacrificing for his cause – however wrong-headed it might be – but in a suburban mansion.

I admired the Seals’ commitment to going after this paper bully – and the incredible preparation, the courage and the restraint they displayed under the most dangerous conditions.

They were not inspired by blood lust, but simple justice. If the choice was him, or thousands more innocent people – an equation he created, not us – the Seals’ decision is one I can live with.

The Seals got their man.

It felt cathartic. They reclaimed a measure of our self-respect – and they left it at that, right down to the decision to give him a proper Muslim burial at sea, and to keep the photos private.

“We don’t need to spike the football,” President Obama said. “That’s not who we are.” And that’s exactly what had sustained Senator McCain.

It’s good to know we have people like that on our team.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the Wall Street Journal, and ESPN Magazine, among others. He is the author of “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller, and “Third and Long: Three Years with Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines,” due out this fall through FSG. Bacon teaches at Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, and the University of Michigan, where the students awarded him the Golden Apple Award for 2009.

John U. Bacon

Last week my beloved television went Poof! It’s seven years old – or, 14 in sports writer years.

So, what great sports events have I missed? Well, I can’t be sure, of course, but I’m willing to bet: Not many.

Sports writers complain about the dog days of summer, when all we have to write about is tennis and Tiger and the Tigers – and, well, that’s about it.

But there’s a lesser-known slow season for sports scribes, and it’s called February. College football picked its champion more than a month ago, the super-hyped Super Bowl has finally blown over, and baseball is still a solid six weeks away from opening day. And that leaves basketball and hockey.

Both the NBA and the NHL are in the middle of their endless, 82-game seasons. The players are so worn out, some nights they don’t even try to fake it. Only the owners want to see this many games.

That’s why I call this “Highlight Season,” because the pointless games are only good for generating pointless highlights for ESPN.

I recall when sports highlights were a big deal, and you’d wait up for the 11 o’clock news to see them. Now you can’t avoid them, any time of day or night, and what used to be special has become downright dull.

The worst highlights are baseball, basketball and golf, because I can tell you right now how every single one of those clips ends: Ball goes over the fence, ball goes in the hoop, ball goes in the hole. There – that’s about it.

So once I see it’s time for hoop highlights, I can cover my eyes and play Carnac the Magnificent: “Wait, wait – don’t tell me: The big guy jumped up in the air, and stuffed the ball in the hoop? Or, maybe, just maybe, the small guy shot the ball from half-court – and swished it! Ohmygosh!”

Golf is even worse: Once you see the backswing, you know the ball’s going in the hole. The only question is, how cool will the geeky golfer look trying to high-five his caddy? Answer: About as cool as the Brady Bunch break-dancing. Nobody wins.

Baseball highlights are just plain strange. We see the pitch, we see the hitter connect – which always looks like a harmless pop-up – and then they cut to a shot of a some baseball dropping over a fence somewhere. Is it the same ball? Whose fence is that? The events seem utterly unconnected.

During my hiatus, I suspect I’ve also missed a lot of ads – which are all the same, too. From years of watching games on TV, I’ve learned that opening a can of beer can make scantily clad women materialize out of mist, and when they do, they like you a lot … for some reason.

I’ve also learned there’s some new product – have you heard of this? – that can make a middle-aged man as randy as … well, the kind of guy who’d like scantily clad women to materialize out of mist, just by opening a can of beer.

During games they advertise these pills every 12 seconds, until you can repeat the medical warnings verbatim. But you have to admire any product whose possible side effects are the best advertisement for it – unlike every other medicine, whose side effects always include headaches and diarrhea.

And what’s up with the couple lying in the empty bathtubs on some sunny hillside? I’m no doctor, but I think I can diagnose their problem – and it’s not a lack of pills. Who does that – ever?

So, while my TV is broken, what am I missing? Maybe not that much.

About the author: John U. Bacon lives in Ann Arbor and has written for Time, the Wall Street Journal, and ESPN Magazine, among others. He is the author of “Bo’s Lasting Lessons,” a New York Times and Wall Street Journal business bestseller, and “Third and Long: Three Years with Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines,” due out this fall through FSG. Bacon teaches at 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.

John U. Bacon

The Heisman Trophy had humble beginnings. In 1935, the Downtown Athletic Club of New York City – a private organization with no ties to the NCAA or any major football conference or team – decided to give an award to the best player in college football. The next year, when the Club’s most famous member, John Heisman, died of pneumonia, the members named the award after him.

They made a fine choice. Heisman went to Brown University as an undergrad, and the University of Pennsylvania for his law degree before becoming a coach in 1892. He coached at six colleges, including Georgia Tech, where he led his team to a 33-game winning streak. Many historians consider him the father of the forward pass. And, on the side, Heisman was a skilled Shakespearean actor.

But his best line was his own. To start the season each fall, he would hold a football in his hand and tell his players, “Men, it is better to die as a young boy than to drop this ball.”

It did not take long for Heisman’s trophy to gain prestige. Today it’s probably the best-known trophy awarded to an American athlete. But, there is a catch: The winner has to be an eligible amateur athlete.

That never seemed to be a problem until Reggie Bush took home the hardware in 2005. No one questioned his achievements. He gained over 2,600 yards and scored 18 touchdowns for the University of Southern California. The Trojans have won seven Heisman Trophies, tying Notre Dame and Ohio State, and they claim more national titles than anyone. Or they used to.

The Trojans also apparently set some records for breaking the rules. Bush received more than a quarter million dollars in gifts from sports marketers – which people at USC knew about, and let slide. But when Bush signed a $20 million NFL contract and refused to pay back his benefactors, they sued him. And that’s how the famously feckless NCAA got their man.

Pete Carroll, the architect of this corrupt regime, magically decided to jump back to the NFL right before the NCAA hit USC with some of the harshest penalties any school has received in a quarter-century. USC’s athletic director, Mike Garret, was summarily fired – and rightly so. The Trojans had to “vacate” their victories – a fancy phrase for forfeiting – for their entire 2005 national title season.

But the current players will pay the real price. They will lose scholarships and not be able to go to a bowl game for a couple years.

There was, however, one unanswered question: With the Heisman winner declared ineligible, should Bush have to give back his trophy?

Lots of people thought not. After all, plenty of Heisman Trophy winners were horrible people – with O.J. Simpson leading the pack. I say, that’s beside the point. True, Reggie Bush did not commit a felony – but that’s why he’s losing his trophy, and not his freedom.

The apologists also argue that Bush had a great year, and won the award in a landslide. So what? That’s like praising Michael Milken’s business savvy for stealing more money than other folks earned honestly.

The Heisman people did the right thing. And, this week, when Reggie Bush announced he would return his trophy, he did the right thing, too – finally – and perhaps, for the first time.

And this once noble trophy, named for an uncommon man, got a bit of its dignity back, too.

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 University in Oxford, 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.

John U. Bacon

When I read that the Spanish province of Catalonia voted to outlaw bullfighting, I was not surprised. A few years ago I traveled through Spain to write about bullfighting. Along the way, I met Barcelona’s director of tourism, and asked her why bullfighting was much less popular in Barcelona than the rest of Spain. She replied, “It is because we are civilized.”

Bullfighting’s biggest opponents, in fact, have always been Spaniards. Even bullfighting’s fans don’t brag about the 13,000 bulls killed every year in the ring, or claim they deserve to be killed.

But I’m not sure we’re in a position to judge bullfighting too harshly. We kill more than 35 million cows every year, and 100 million pigs and eight billion chickens. Not even Birkenstocks grow on trees.

The Spanish bulls might have it better than your average American cattle. They’re not castrated or stuck in a veal pen, but roam freely on the range and mate for life. Whether it’s better to die by a cattle prod and a knife to the throat or a sword to the back, after being allowed a few swipes at the swordsman, is debatable. But if you’ve never seen a bull killed outside of a bullring, you might be just as appalled by an Omaha slaughterhouse.

No one claims a bull fight is fair. But it would be a mistake to think the whole thing is just a mere contest. The aficionados don’t go to the bullfights to see who “wins” any more than music critics go the opera to see who finishes first.

It’s not a game, but a performance. Done poorly, bullfighting is humiliating and revolting, diminishing everyone involved. One bad bullfighter I saw named Jesulin kept shuffling his feet as if he was standing on a frying pan. He had no poise, no control. The bull ran when he wanted it to stop; it stopped when he wanted it to run; and then it simply ignored him altogether and walked away, leaving him standing there like a suitor trying to look brave after being slapped in public. When he drew his sword to end the bull’s life, I had to look away. It was that bad.

But seeing it done well was just as memorable. Francisco Ordóñez is one of Spain’s best bullfighters. His grandfather was the inspiration for Ernest Hemingway’s Pedro Romero in “The Sun Also Rises.” Unlike Jesulin, Ordóñez planted his feet as if they’d been nailed there. He was fearless, and exuded complete control, like a conductor who could create exactly what he wanted with the slightest gesture – and knew it.

In just seconds, he and his four-legged partner were dancing like they’d been doing it for years – first slowly and separately, then quickly and closely, but always in concert, with Ordóñez leaving the bull in position for his next pass the way a good pool player leaves the cue ball poised for his next shot.

After a flurry of passes, Ordóñez nodded respectfully to the mesmerized bull, then strode confidently away from him, trusting the bull with his back. He did not work to impress the crowd, but the bull – and he did.

When the dance was over, Fran guided the long sword directly over the bull’s horns, and thrust downward into the bull’s back. He then walked away, certain he had done it right. Two beats later, the bull fell on its side.

Hemingway wrote, “From a moral point of view, the whole bullfight is indefensible. But whoever reads this can only truly make such a judgment when he, or she, has seen the things that are spoken of here.”

Bullfighting might be many things, but only a person who has never seen it done well could claim it lacks courage, skill and art.

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 University in Oxford, 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.

John U. Bacon

Whenever I drive up US-23, I can’t resist gazing at two structures on my right: The Whitmore Lake High School stadium press box, where my writing career started, and the big red ski jump on Whitmore Lake, where it almost ended.

I once volunteered to visit the Whitmore Lake Water Ski Club, the oldest in the state, to try water ski jumping. The problem is, this is not something you can gradually work up to. It’s your basic all-or-nothing proposition.

Take our coach, Hal Baker. On several occasions he had cleared a hundred feet, the sport’s main milestone, but one time he hit the side of the jump so hard, he embedded white paint in his skin. A few times, he leaned back too far, causing him to fall backward into the water – at 50 miles per hour.

“I’ve been pulled out unconscious a few times,” Baker said, with a reassuring maniacal cackle. This was a man who knew the thrill of victory, and the unconsciousness of defeat.

Jumpers face four basic obstacles. First, the jump is about 20 feet long and 10 feet high, and covered in wax and water, so it feels like you’re hitting ice. If you’re not ready for it, your skis will shoot out from under you, and you’ll get dragged over the jump on your backside – or your head. Second, the boat pulls you diagonally across the jump. If you fight it, you’ll be – you guessed it – dragged over the jump on your backside, or your head. See a pattern here?

But wait! There’s more. Because the jump is, well, a jump, as you slide up the incline, your knees get shoved into your chin. This is called “crushing.” When you see people flying off the jump in that state, you understand why.

To combat these forces, you have to squat down, lock your knees and lean forward, holding the handle hard against your right hip. In other words, do whatever feels the most unnatural.

If we actually made it over the jump, Baker said, “Don’t look down, or you’ll go down.” He told us to focus on the shore line instead.

Yeah, right. That happens. I made a deal with myself right then and there: If I got over the jump without ripping my face off, I could look anywhere I damn well pleased.

I hopped into the water, and they threw me a hockey helmet. Note this well: If you find yourself hopping into the water and someone throws you a hockey helmet, you might think twice about what you’re about to do.

When I grabbed the rope, Baker asked, “Ready?”

“Ready!” I yelled. It wasn’t true – just protocol.

I popped up, and the driver sent me right to the jump. I squatted down, locked my knees, and pulled the handle hard to my right hip – all textbook.

No matter. When I hit that jump, I crushed like a house of cards under a steamroller. But, just for fun, I also crossed my skis. I flew over the jump with all the grace and style of Wile E. Coyote.

Despite my efforts, I did not hurt myself. So, my confidence grew. But my ability did not. My second attempt was just as bad. At this rate, I realized, the eleven-year-old kid going next would embarrass me. Focus, Bacon. Focus!

On my third attempt I finally avoided crushing, but everything else was still a mess. My fourth and final attempt, however, proved to be the charm. I looked so good I couldn’t resist admiring my skis flying over the edge, thus committing the final sin: “If you look down, you go down.” No joke, turns out. I plunged straight into the water face first like, okay, Wile E. Coyote again. But I neglected to let go of the rope, and got dragged underwater for about a hundred feet or so.

Well, I came, I saw, I had lake water pounded into every hole in my head. It took me days to get the stuff out of my ears.

The eleven-year old kid, by the way, nailed it on his second attempt.

And so, I became a sports writer.

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 University in Oxford, 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.

John U. Bacon

The 2010 World Cup is in full swing – even if the U.S. was eliminated in the second round. I’ve played soccer, coached it and covered it, and there’s a lot to like about the sport.

First, soccer players are great athletes. The pros run about six miles a game. They can settle the ball down from any direction in a split second, play keep-away with it for days, and then blast it right on target, with either foot.

For TV viewers, it’s a pleasure to see the great expanse of green on your screen, with no TV timeouts interrupting play. And, unlike baseball’s World Series, the world is actually invited to play in the World Cup. It’s almost every nation’s favorite sport. And you can play it anywhere, with anything.

I’ve seen soccer played in the streets of Bangkok, the alleys of Buenos Aires, and the wide-open fields of British public schools. I’ve seen them play under the lights of Tokyo’s fenced-in asphalt courts, and during dusk on the Canary Island’s empty beaches, with just two sandals for a goal.

It is, truly, the world’s game. That’s why Time magazine contributor Daniel Okrent concluded the best athlete of all time isn’t Babe Ruth or Muhammad Ali or Michael Jordan, but Pelé. Because, he said, everyone plays soccer.

But you don’t have to be a xenophobe or a Philistine or just a knucklehead to find fault with this game. Take the start. I counted the Germans passing the ball at midfield 17 times before they even considered advancing forward – which is, after all, where the goal is located.

When they finally do try to score, there’s an excellent chance the play will be called offside, which is determined by an imaginary line that goes back and forth with the last defender. Yes, it’s hard to tell, which might explain why the refs blow the call half the time. Or perhaps it’s because they are the worst officials I’ve ever seen – in any sport.

As a result, a goal in soccer is as rare as Halley’s Comet. The World Cup’s first nine matches featured a grand total of seven goals. That’s about one goal every two hours – and games are only 90 minutes.

Or, about that. No one can tell for sure, because whenever a player is injured, the referee tacks on extra time. But only he knows how much. It’s the only game in the world where just one guy knows when it ends.

What’s worse than the Official Pretend Clock are the unofficial pretend injuries. When you see a player jump in the air, fall to the ground, and spin like a lathe, you start looking for a sniper in the stands, until the replay shows he wasn’t touched by … anything. Every sport in the world celebrates toughness – mental or physical – except this one, which celebrates athletes acting like wimps.

Add it all up – and it all adds up to a one-one tie, soccer’s favorite score. This is not a problem just for Americans suffering from ADD, but for anyone who cares about competition. The whole idea of keeping score, after all, is to see who’s better. But in this year’s first round of 48 games, about one-quarter ended in ties – usually one-to-one.

But in the second round, even the World Cup needs to pick a winner. If 30 minutes of overtime can’t settle it, they go to a shoot-out, where players from each team take turns shooting directly on the helpless goalie, who has to guess if the shooter will kick it to the right, or the left. It has all the strategic intrigue of rock-paper-scissors – without the scissors.

So they spend two hours playing a game in which it’s virtually impossible to score – then settle it with an unrelated contest in which it’s virtually impossible not to score. And that’s how the world’s favorite sport picks the world’s best team.

So, yes, soccer is the World’s Game. It’s just not the world’s greatest game.

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 University in Oxford, 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.