The late William Raspberry was a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The Washington Post. His columns were syndicated in more than 200 newspapers over 39 years. A favorite vehicle of Raspberry's in making sense of, and commenting on, a plethora of topics was his occasional conversations with a mythical Washington, D.C. cabbie.
In commenting about a questionable President Clinton choice for foreign policy adviser, for example, Raspberry's cabbie wryly observed: "I've been a president watcher the whole time I've been in Washington ... and I've noticed something. The man in the White House will usually have one thing he's really interested in, and that's what he'll focus on. The rest of the stuff he turns over to aides."
In the spirit of that late, great columnist, I have turned to a long-ago sports writer for help in making sense of the current high school sports scene. While the writer wished to remain anonymous, older readers may perceive echoes of the parody sports writer "Red Ruffinsore."
At the old ball yard recently, I grabbed some pine next to the old writer as he was attempting to make sense of the seeding process for high school sports playoffs.
"So, can you explain it to me," he queried. "Who plays who in the playoffs?"
"Oh, it's simple. You just multiply WP by 0.40, and multiply OWP by 0.40, and multiply OOWP by 0.20. Then you add all of that together and determine a team's RPI."
The writer took a long pull from his stogie, flicked some ashes, and raised an eyebrow. "Once again, son. This time in English."
"Well, each team's win totals are divided by total games played. That's the WP, and is multiplied by 0.40. Then, winning percentages of a team's opponents are figured. That's the OWP, and is multiplied by 0.40. Then, the average winning percentages of a team's opponents' opponents are figured. That's the OOWP, and is divided by 0.20. You add the three together to determine a team's RPI."
"I don't suppose that means 'runs per inning.'" "No," I grinned. "That's the Ratings Percentage Index. Simple, huh?"
The writer's eyes had glazed over by now.
"Well," the writer stroked his chin, "if that's how they set the playoffs, I prefer the old way." I raised an eyebrow this time. "Oh? How was that?"
"A bunch of coaches might gather in a stuffy office next to a gym. You'd get that smell of old varnish, and the thump-thump of a couple of kids playing a pick-up game, or shooting hoops." The old writer was waxing sentimental now. "The coaches would guzzle coffee, and create a haze of tobacco smoke."
He smiled, lifting his cigar. "There might be some shouting and finger-pointing as they argued over which teams had the toughest opponents, but, sooner or later, they'd set a bracket."
"Um," I shook my head, "Sounds like those old political conventions where they nominated guys like Warren Harding and Wendell Willkie. Was it really like that?" I wondered.
He winked. "Um, I've heard stories ..."
The writer shook his head. "Well, back to the present. I guess the geeky kids who never ran a lap, or know a gridiron from a five-iron, are running the playoffs now. With mainframe computers too, I wager. Are they the ones who've created the AI thing that is coming to wipe out civilization as we know it?"
I tried to calm him. "Easy, my friend. Your mind is back in 1962 now, and probably thinking of Kennedy, Khrushchev, and that crisis. AI isn't THAT bad. Besides, MaxPreps does the figuring for setting the playoff brackets. That really helps the coaches."
The old writer chewed on his stogie, down to a nub by now. "Max who? Sounds like a kid who might be playing first base and hitting .330 somewhere."
"It's MaxPreps. They are a nationwide conglomerate, based in California, that collects statistics and data on high school teams and individual players. They run algorithms and other things, too."
"Hmmph. Well, I'm still trying to figure this Mid-South Conference baseball race between Richmond and Pinecrest."
"Oh? How so?"
"Well, Richmond won the title, but Pinecrest had to forfeit that last game. Um, I don't understand."
"It's simple," I explained. "Pinecrest had played their limit of 24 regular season games allowed to each team before that last scheduled game."
The writer shook his head. "It should have been decided on the grass and dirt between those chalk lines. How did that happen?"
I could only shrug.
My old pal lit a fresh stogie. "Hm. With all that data collectin', and all of those algorithms, someone still forgot to count to 24. Imagine."
Columnist Douglas Smith lives and writes in Rockingham.
