Lives of basketball players resonate on, off court

I spent much of my childhood with my face buried in the Los Angeles Times sports page, with my eyes glued to ESPN, with my well-being inextricably linked to the win-loss record of the Lakers and Dodgers. If I was lucky enough to have a ticket for that night's game, I spent the entire elementary school day floating on Cloud Nine. Sports shaped my priorities, my fantasies and my personal ethics (I still value teamwork, attitude, grittiness and the ability to endure pain).

Ironically, as my interest in sports began to wane, I found myself dealing with the mortal sides of my heroes. The men who could make me happy in a way no one else could, proved to be not only less than perfect, but also severely troubled. Dodger first basemen Steve Garvey, who seemed like every well-adjusted Angeleno boy's dream dad, literally became a dad many times over. Three women sued him for paternal support within a month, and suddenly the man who never swore, the man who didn't even dirty up his uniform became a scumbag.

Laker forward James Worthy, indicted for soliciting prostitution in multiple states, did not strike me as the model husband. And, of course, Magic Johnson, the man who could not have been a better hero, explained his contraction of HIV in only the most heterosexual and sexist of terms. "Don't worry, I'm not gay, I just get a lot," was the basic subtext of his press comments.

Having looked to other public figures for role models, I now find myself getting that annual December pit in my stomach. The blind devotion starts every year about this time. Duke students will soon begin worshipping at the altar of Cameron Indoor Stadium, actually rewarding good play with a swami-like bow. Coack K and the boys can do no wrong off the court as long as they do everything right on the court.

Do not misunderstand me. Although I no longer follow the team closely, a little sickened by this masturbatory display of vicarious experience, I have a tremendous amount of respect for the basketball team. Krzyzewski, having donated a large chunk of his Nike bounty to the new student recreational center project, has not forgotten those who lionize him. His dedication to an academic program has been unbending and I imagine he is a class individual. In my four years here, team members have done significant community work and I commend them.

What bothers me, however, is the understanding many in the Duke community have of "role model." Ask the average student what s/he expects of a basketball player, and s/he will start talking rebounds, points per game and an occassional appearance outside of the CI wearing nice clothes. Maybe show up at the section Saturday night. "Cool party, dude." What really bothers me is that the one basketball player who really appeared to invest a great deal of time in the academics and intellect of campus life, transferred to Dartmouth. Maybe for playing time, maybe for other reasons.

I ask nothing of no one. Students set their own agendas, regardless of what some reactionary columnist thinks about their frat, their beer of choice or their econ major. I sometime wonder, though, if hard-core Cameron Crazies ever consider what it means to dehumanize the athlete, to render irrelevant whatever Our Boys do off the hardwood. Personally, I think it matters that Bobby Hurley was charged with a DUI last year. I think it matters that Crawford Palmer majored in Russian and went to art openings. Because, for what it's worth, more people pay attention to The Boys than to me. Twelve-year-olds practically run out of saliva watching Hurley dribble. Little girls faint at the mere suggestion of Christian Laettner. And Grant Hill makes hearts swoon when he dunks.

Grant Henry Hill will be graduating with me in May (or, more appropriately, I will be graduating with him). In all liklihood, with the exception of Richard Nixon, he will be the most famous Duke student in the history of these hallowed halls. I worry about Grant Hill. I think about Steve Garvey and Magic Johnson, but I also think about Roberto Clemente and Julius Erving. I wonder if Hill will unleash the power, prestige and money of superstardom to effect change like Clemente and Erving. I fall asleep thinking about Michael Jordan and what cool things could be done with $2 million in gambling money.