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Take a hike, Brother Foolitzer By Richard Linde, Posted 24 June 2004
Tall and thin with a serious demeanor, William Tarlton Turner looked the part of a bible-toting preacher as he came to Needle Town, a misty berg resting at the foot of a snow-capped mountain. Tarlton once majored in religion, didn’t he? What was missing was the bible in hand -- the NCAA Bylaws Manual, of course. Nevertheless, it was certain that he was most familiar with its passages, being that he’d served on a number of NCAA committees. He even chaired one of its “bible” classes, that recent one that dealt with reforming non-believers. Monsignor Mark Emmert wrapped the slight man with the thinning gray hair in his massive arms, giving Turner a reverse Heimlich that caused him to choke momentarily on his own sputum. “Welcome to Husky land,” Emmert drawled with an acquired Louisiana dialect. His new hire, an AD to replace Barbara Hedges, was from North Carolina, but Emmert hadn’t quite gotten the hang of that accent, so Louisiana was as close as he could come. Tuner had arrived in a nick of time, for his personage would be a steady stanchion in an entropic setting. Emmert continued, “Todd, fans have been beaten down by a steady media barrage that has targeted the soul of Husky football; the Husky faithful needed some reassurance that the underpinnings of the athletic department are not about to collapse. I want you to deliver a positive message tonight.” Turner, an avid golfer, winked at Emmert. "Like Harvey Penick says, 'Take dead aim.'" As Turner stepped into the revival tent, he was greeted with a chanting chorus, as his countenance marked by high-cheek-bones came into view. His deeply chiseled, bespectacled visage further marked his seriousness. “Oh, halleluiah, Brother Turner, come awaken us, so that we may follow the guiding light.” As he stood behind the pulpit, he began his sermon, speaking of new NCAA legislation. “I will be pleased when there is evidence that behaviors have changed and our student-athletes are more like students than professionals. “But I’m not a man of the cloth,” he announced in all seriousness, though his suit was a minister’s black. "Although I’m not a man of the cloth, I am here to enforce the teachings of the Bylaw Manual, our bible.” The parishioners applauded. “Brother Turner, you have come to the right place. Save us from ourselves,” one of them shouted, and then collapsed like a fat, defensive linemen being served a pancake block. Quickly, several ushers administered to him, and the TV cameras swung back to Turner. “They say, you have run the lurid mile. Forget what they say. I am here to remove the track!!” Wild applause greeted him, and he adjusted his purple tie – which matched the black suit strikingly – in a meaningful gesture. Before he could finish his talk, the next speaker, Brother Art Foolitzer, snatched the microphone away. “Magnificent metaphors,” Foolitzer muttered, putting thick hands together to encourage more applause. He turned to Turner, holding the microphone at arm's rest. “Cut the crap and get out of here." “Not so fast.” Turner pulled away from him in an act of defiance and sat down in a chair behind the pulpit. Somehow, he didn’t trust the lay preacher, call it what you may, but there seemed to be a sinister intent about him. Dressed in a bright green cassock with gold trim, Foolitzer began bloviating. “Worst of all, your leaders have succumbed to the evils of big-time religion, ignoring the forewarnings of myself and others. “Big-time religion will enclose you in a miasma of self-destruction – and you failed to heed our hue and cry, our words of wisdom from the P-I.” He was comfortable they trusted him, for he was one of them, having once preached at the Daily. “You are not a man of the cloth, Todd Turner? Well, you need an awakening. “Let me unveil these evil environs, Mr. Turner. Husky land is full of sinners, its parishioners, deacons and ministers defiling the deity – the Monsignor Myles Brand – on a daily basis. Remember, Sister Barbara, he shouted?” Congregation: “Oh, yes, Brother.” “Sister Barbara curried favor with innocent young men by seducing them with mesmerizing boat rides, transporting them across your hallowed waters when recruiting them to the Promised Land. As Barbara passed the collection plate, she failed to collect the proper tithe.” Foolitzer paused for effect. “Remember, Bishop Rick?” Congregation: “Oh, yes, Brother.” “During his ministry, he broke the tenth bylaw that warns against lying and gambling. He recruited Master Robinson, who turned the institution into a basketball school. Heaven help the woes of Washington. “Do you remember, Sister Dana?” Congregation: “Oh, yes, Brother.” “She misinterpreted a passage in the bible, allowing your Bishops to roll dice with the devil." His next words were delivered in a monotone, as if he’d recited them many times. “Your misdeeds from past to the present have run the gamut from fruit baskets to wagering, from virtual jobs to real boat rides. You’ve paid too much for too little work and too little for too many boat rides. Saying ‘Hi’ to a would-be parishioner led you to sin when Sister Barbara failed to report the greeting to Monsignor Brand." He turned, waving a pointed finger at Turner. “Your parish lacks institutional control, Brother Turner. Save it from its useless, sinful ways." Foolitzer paused again, wiping his brow. “You talk about removing the track, that ugly moat at your sacred stadium. Beware that lowering the field of sin will bring forth a tsunami that will drown all of you -- in your misguided quest for big-time religion." Foolitzer’s wide smile seemed malicious, and this time he pointed his finger at the audience. “Brother Bellotti oversees a pure parish…He should be your model…” It was one thing to denigrate Husky football, but quite another to cast Oregon as a paragon of virtue. Turner took to the pulpit once again, interrupting Foolitzer by ripping the microphone out of his hand. “Now it’s your turn to cut the crap. And the next time you speak to us, have the decency to wear a purple cassock instead of one made of Bellotti green.” The audience was stunned. No one had ever verbally rebuked Brother Foolitzer before. Quickly, the Choir began to sing, accompanied by blaring organ music: 'For Tis the old-time religion, Turner began again as the music trailed off. “It may be the dawning of a new era, but I’m here to bring forth that old time religion, in the name of Husky football. “And in words of a former president, God bless his soul.” He paused. “These words are meant to pay respect and give reverence to our former president. Believe me; I am sincere, when I say…” His voice quavered. “Mr. Emmert, tear down the moat. -- Its absence will mark our new beginning. “Now pass the collection plate.” Choir: 'For Tis the old-time religion, Richard Linde (a.k.a., Malamute) can be reached at malamute@4malamute.com |
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