Tucson Weekly: Squeeze Play (January 15

When It Comes To UA Basketball, Freebies Are A Fading Perk.
By Tom Danehy
I WENT TO the Cats game the other night. I had to see who took my spot. The usurper for whom the UA sold me down the ribber. The rich white dude whose money is more important to the UA than my unflagging, babbling, fan-like, quasi-journalistic support.
I don't really cover UA basketball in the conventional sense. Writing for a weekly publication precludes that. Besides, covering a team on a regular basis requires...oh, I don't know what you call it. Work, I guess.
Danehy The guys at the UA Sports Information Department have always been cool. I especially like Tom Duddleston, whose sense of humor is drier than a case of popcorn flatulence in a Sahara sandstorm. Tom is hilarious. He's also the sports information director, although the UA's Department of Useless New Names Department came up with a different title for him a while back. Everybody ignores it. Tom and his homies let me go to the games even though they're not required to do so. It's up to their discretion, and whenever I ask, they set their discretion aside and let me go, anyway.
They have a tough job. They have to deal with all kinds of media people in a very limited amount of space. On one side of the court are the team benches straddling the official scorers' table, which includes room for all 17 official scorers. Don't ask.
The other side is for the media. The TV guys sit in the middle, mostly because they're Dave Sitton and Bruce Larsen, and if anybody deserves to sit in the middle it's these two poor guys who, because of the national prestige of and demand for the Wildcats, get to broadcast maybe three games a year.
Working outward from the TV gods are local and visiting radio stations, visiting print media, campus newspapers, a seat for every person who has ever worked for the Tucson Citizen sports section, and seven seats for Greg Hansen and his entourage, the original insane clown posse.
Understandably, this takes up a lot of space. So, until last year, they would seat me and the other schlubs (scouts, magazine writers, etc.) in the end zone of the court. One time I got to sit next to my boyhood idol, Jerry West, the patron saint of all white basketball players. (Not to mention all-white basketball players.) It gives one a strange view of the action, but it was cool, and did I mention that I appreciated it?
The only problem I ever had with that was when the UA cheerleaders would position themselves in front of my seat and insist on standing up whenever anybody did anything.
Not long ago, my daughter asked me if cheerleaders had ever served any real purpose. It was the longest 30 seconds of my life as I swallowed back each and every great disgusting line that popped into my head. Finally, I muttered, "I suppose back in the old days when females didn't have the opportunity to play ball, it allowed some girls a chance to participate in sports in a peripheral way."
She looked at me and said, "Jeez, Dad, are you running for office? If I wanted empty platitudes, I could've asked the National Organization for Women."
She let me know, in no uncertain terms, that she lets me hang around because I can be counted on to deliver a flippant, totally disrespectful response on virtually any subject in a matter of seconds. And I'd better stick to what I know.
Anyway, these UA cheerleaders would pop up and down and make a general nuisance of themselves, which I think is the main thrust of their job description. I began taking a week's supply of spitwad ingredients with me, so whenever they got tired of obstructing my view, they'd kneel down and make perfect targets. I hit this one young woman's hair-sprayed 'doo so many times, she looked like she was the host for an extended-family reunion of electric head lice. Speaking of cheerleaders and lice...no, I'll just wait until my daughter asks me another question.
When I stopped by this year to get media credentials, Tom told me things were tight and I wouldn't be able to go to the UCLA game. When he told me why, I calmly responded, "They SOLD MY SEAT?! To whom? It's for the media and/or me!"
He politely explained that the UA is always looking for new revenue streams to keep up with the high cost of running one of the best athletic departments in the country, a sentiment which I both understand and support. But my seat? I had to see for myself, so he told me I could go to the USC game, since no L.A. media cover USC basketball. In fact, 87 percent of all L.A. sports fans think USC stopped playing basketball of either gender when Cheryl Miller left school.
I went to the game and there she was. Pleasant-looking woman, red sweater, ring on her finger with a diamond about the size of Chris Farley. She was even eating popcorn. They never used to let me eat popcorn when I sat there. 'Course, they probably (correctly) figured most of it would end up in the cheerleaders' hair, but still.
While I was there, I drafted a note for UA Athletic Director Jim Livengood, listing my ideas where they could squeeze a few more people into McKale. How 'bout letting some of them sit cross-legged under the scorers' table, acting as ottomans for the 17 official scorers? Or you could have one spot per game go to someone willing to dress up as a fourth referee. Just don't give them a whistle that works. They could get in an aerobic workout and also be able to hear what the players say to each other up close and personal.
Better yet, why not string a trapeze net over the court and sell lying-room-only spaces to people willing to watch the tops of the players' heads go back and forth? No spitting allowed.
I day-dreamed the other media people would protest my eviction, but it was like that old saying: "They came for the trade unionists, but since I wasn't a trade unionist, I kept out of it." Well, when they finally come for Dave Sitton and Bruce Larsen, who will be left to stand up for them?
No one will stand up for them, although I'm sure the cheerleaders will be willing to stand up in front of them.

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