Good Game

Electronic communication is fraught with all sorts of opportunities for disconnect between the two parties communicating. Because of the difficulty of conveying non-verbal attributes like emotion (sarcasm, kidding, seriousness), tone, and body language in an electronic exchange, miscommunication and ambiguity can often result. But ambiguities and misunderstandings can even arise when two communicating parties are using the best interface ever created: the direct face-to-face protocol.

In other blog posts, I have complained and taken little pot shots about the traffic and high cost of living in he DC Metro area. While these impressions are authentic and were formed while working in Gaithersburg and Rockville and living in Montgomery and Frederick Counties, there were actually plenty of positive attributes to that area that I did enjoy in my four years there. Chief among those characteristics of course were proximity to family, Pittsburgh, and Altoona.

Frederick was very nice (save for the hellish commute endured over I-270 every morning and afternoon). A short, manageable drive away from Morgantown (for several road trips to Pitt-WVU games), and close enough to Landover and Baltimore to take in the occasional Bullet, Cap, or Orioles games. During this period, I also attended three different Georgetown-Pitt basketball games at the Capital Centre during this period.

This was the era of Hoya Paranoia and the games between these teams were red-hot – classic Big East battles. In 1986, in the last regular season game, Georgetown avenged an earlier loss and blew out Pitt in a game in which Pitt basically quit on Coach Roy Chipman (who was fired a couple of weeks later). In 1988, #2 Pitt was upset in a game marred by a fight (the first of two brawls that year between the teams).

In the 1987 game a loaded Pitt team (Charles Smith, Jerome Lane, Demetrious Gore, Curtis Aiken) just worked Georgetown in the first half – it looked like men against boys – and built up a double-digit lead. In the second half, Georgetown came out and just locked up Pitt, physically and emotionally, took their heart away and just ran away with the game. 

Apparently, the game changed on a miscommunication that occurred as both teams passed each other at halftime on the way to their locker rooms. Pitt freshman Rod Brookin brushed by Georgetown stud Reggie Williams and innocently mumbled “Good Game Reggie”. There was no malice or disrespect intended in the comment – just a throwaway gesture made out of respect from a freshman to an All-American. Williams interpreted it as an indication that Pitt thought the game was over, conveyed the episode to his teammates at halftime, and that was all she wrote. That second half was not a whole lot of fun for me that evening.

That was an example of a simple miscommunication. Sometimes communication issues are much more ambiguous and nuanced with the exchanges filtered based on the histories and personalities of the parties involved. One such exchange occurred between me and one of our grade school nuns in March, 1976.

At McNelis Catholic in 8th Grade in 1975-1976, we had two primary teachers: Joe Maschue and Sister Mary Alice Screamer. Mr. Maschue was a young guy, the assistant basketball coach, and a very patient and engaging teacher. “Mr. Mash” was one of those teachers and role models that you look back upon and feel damn fortunate to have encountered in your life.

Sister Mary Alice Screamer was also young, but had a slightly different demeanor. She was tiny in physical stature (around 5’2” maybe) but was one powerful piece of work. Sister Mary Alice Screamer wasn’t her real name, which I can’t recall at this time - repressed memory syndrome maybe?

I can only imagine the discussions that ensued when TPTB were reviewing her personnel jacket and determining how she could serve the “One True Church”:

Let’s see. The next candidate is Sister Mary Alice Screamer.

• Prone to emotional outbursts. Check.
• Exhibits very little patience with young people entering the challenging emotional stage of early adolescence. Check.
• Incredibly short fuse and fiery temper, resulting in frequent screaming fits. Check.

Sounds like Sister Mary Alice Screamer would be a perfect candidate to teach the 8th Graders at McNelis Catholic.

Ok, so I am exaggerating (a bit), but the whole Catholic education thing didn’t seem to be a real good occupational fit for Sister Mary Alice Screamer.

In 8th Grade at the end of the season, we were playing Johnstown West End Catholic in the Altoona-Johnstown Diocese Championship in a best-of-three series. West End beat us at BGHS in the first game and then we went to Johnstown and won an emotional game on a Friday night. Game Three was Sunday afternoon back at BG and I have a couple of remembrances from that day:

• Sister Mary Alice Screamer was at the game. She never attended games and generally looked with disdain upon athletics, so this was odd.
• West End had this tiny little PG - I think his name was Richie Criss. He looked like Ernie Douglas from My Three Sons, but this goofy looking dude could really ball. Quick, good handles, tough to stay in front of, and a good enough outside shot to keep you honest. He just dominated the ball and the game.
• I couldn’t throw it in the ocean. I think I was something like 1-8 from the field. All good looks, but nothing was falling. I just basically sucked.

We lost and I was pretty bummed out. My offensive game and specialty was perimeter shooting – it was what I brought to the party. So to lose in that fashion was pretty disheartening. The next morning, I was still stewing in my own psychological brew of embarrassment, self-pity, and anger. I was barely in the school building at 13th Street and 13th Avenue when I came upon Sister Mary Alice Screamer who looked me in the eye and said:

“Good game yesterday, Mr. Nedimyer”

Doh! I must have spent the next month trying to determine whether Sister Mary Alice Screamer:

• Was honestly wishing me well for giving it the old college try.
• Didn’t understand basketball and didn’t actually realize that I actually sucked in that game.
• Was busting my chops.

I know which way I was leaning.