by Dave Eggers
New York Times v. United States (1971)
The “Pentagon Papers” game, in which Hugo Black and William O. Douglas, teammates for once, shared MVP honors. More than one clerk said that Black clearly was the game’s outstanding player but that Douglas burned an indelible image into every brain with a monster dunk midway through the second half. “It got completely quiet for a few seconds, and then everyone—justices, clerks, refs—started to applaud. Then we had to wait another twenty minutes while they fixed the rim.”
Furman v. Georgia (1972)
The death penalty game, when everything went to hell. Not only did several fistfights break out between sides, but justices were furious at their own teammates. After a while there was no passing; it got to be like a playground game where every person who grabbed a rebound turned and tried to take it himself to the other end. The result: a 16–16 final score, not even a pretense of choosing an MVP, and nine separate opinions. Bad law all around, which was overturned just a few years later. A disgusted clerk who witnessed the game summed it up: “I don’t care how many lives are at stake—you don’t play like a bunch of municipal court thugs. A lot of my idealism died that day.”
Roe v. Wade (1973)
“I’ve never seen someone take control of a game the way [Harry] Blackmun did that day,” said one of his clerks. “He was on a mission. You could tell he had stopped being intimidated and had come into his own. He ran up and down the court for forty minutes, and after the first fifteen the conservatives were just holding their sides and wheezing. Nobody there was thinking about abortion or right-to-privacy—it was just, ‘Look at Harry go!’ ”
Bakke v. California (1978)
Bakke wasn’t the only one standing up to be heard; this was Lewis Powell’s coming-out party as a player. He surprised everyone with his finesse, so fluid and graceful—almost courtly, in his Southern way, the way he ran the floor, dishing assists, getting everyone their points. But every time the defense collapsed on him and dared him to hit from outside, he arced shots that would melt in your mouth. Marshall was baiting him the entire game—understandable when you consider that the case threatened affirmative action—but Powell wouldn’t bite, even after being elbowed again and again. Nobody remembers him hitting the rim the entire game.
Bowers v. Hardwick (1986)
Was a Georgia law against sodomy in violation of the Constitution? Perhaps more to the point, why couldn’t Byron “Whizzer” White realize he didn’t have it anymore as an athlete? His teammates voted him MVP to keep him happy, even though he was cherry-picking the entire game. Brennan, whom White was supposed to be guarding, was scoring from all over, but all Whizzer cared about was his own total. His teammates were banking on his hints that he was about to retire and thought giving him the honor would speed him out the door. It still took seven long years.
As you can see, the games have their own rich history, sometimes even overlapping with the Official Truth that made it into textbooks. Oliver Wendell Holmes actually did make the notorious statement, “Three generations of imbeciles are enough,” but he was not, as widely believed, referring to the state-sanctioned sterilization of a retarded woman. He directed it at a referee, the grandson of an official whose incorrect interpretation of the rule book gave Chief Justice Roger Taney an extra throw in the Dred Scott horseshoe match. (The ref was a bit touchy about the whole subject; nobody wants to hear that their granddad prolonged slavery, so Holmes got tossed.) And, yes, Potter Stewart did say “I know it when I see it,” but he was not talking about pornography, he was arguing with a ref about what constitutes traveling. The official did not accept his definition and responded, “Why don’t you try playing defense and see how you like it?”
But enough about justices running their mouths. Let’s focus on overall athletic skills. Since this is the first written account to make it to the public, a lot of inside info on earlier justices has died with the men who knew it firsthand. But with most former clerks of the past few decades ... still alive, it’s possible to piece together fairly accurate descriptions of the recent ones. The consensus is that, as in the outside world, the modern players have it all over their counterparts from sixty years ago. It’s a markedly different game. Dunks are so common now that no one bats an eye. It’s also impossible to ignore the influence that steroids have had on the players. (Needless to say, Supreme Court justices do not submit to drug tests.) Strength and conditioning regimens allow the players to bring off athletic displays that were unimaginable in the thirties and forties.
Still, steroids and conditioning only get you so far. As any sports fan knows, a lot depends on how well you play as a team and what you’re willing to give after tip-off. After years of what they considered judicial overstepping by the Warren Court, conservative justices had high hopes for Warren Burger’s boys. But when the games were on the line, the conservatives in the Burger Court just didn’t want it as much.
Of course, they weren’t helped by the fact that Burger was the worst player of all time. He was as bad as Ben Cardozo, but Cardozo could at least make free throws. Once, after Burger missed his eighth consecutive shot from the line, White gave him a withering look and said, “Thank you, Nixon.”
Blackmun, though he had flashes of brilliance, was too often timid. White, of course, was still a formidable athlete when Kennedy appointed him, but he had lost a lot by the 1970s, even if he refused to admit it. (Marshall and Brennan constantly bickered over who got to guard him.)
The liberal holdovers from the Warren Court liked to torment the more conservative newcomers just to show who was boss. One example stands out in particular: It was said that Marshall, cantankerous in his final years, enjoyed taunting Scalia by mocking his fondness for hypothetical questions during oral argument. During one-on-one games that they played strictly for pride, every possession became an opportunity for Marshall to humiliate him: “What if one justice were to back in slowly—like this, say—dribbling the ball methodically, while his fellow justice stood there powerless to stop him? And what if the first justice then dunked over him, like ... this?”
As for scouting reports on the current nine:
Chief Justice William Rehnquist: Bad back, hates to reach low for balls. Tends to turn it over if you force him to go to his left. Still, no one is able to see the whole court better. Opponents often think he’s not even paying attention, and suddenly he’s stolen the ball from them.
David Souter: Finesse player; doesn’t like to bang. Moves well without the ball; it’s almost impossible to keep track of him. Drives defenders nuts and wears them out.
John Paul Stevens: Often wants to switch teams halfway through the game; it’s hard to count on him in the late minutes.
Anthony Kennedy: Nondescript and workmanlike out there, but within the first week on the Court, he had memorized the dead spots on the floor and began forcing dribblers into them.
Sandra Day O’Connor: Got pushed around at first, but now uses her speed, and elbows. Runs the point well.
Antonin Scalia: Real trash talker. Constantly comparing himself to Warren, Black, and the other “maestros.” Even the refs hate him.
Clarence Thomas: Was held in disdain by the other justices until his first game, when he let loose an eye-popping barrage of three-pointers. (The “Natural Law Fury from Above,” as he called it.)
Ruth Bader Ginsburg: One of the best passers ever. Hooks up with Breyer in no-look alley-oops.
Stephen Breyer: Well-liked because he refuses to play dirty, even after taking cheap shots. Boxes out well.
Anyway, there you have the truth; it’s up to you to handle it as best you can. And remember: I’ll be judged by history. I don’t know where the Court will go from here, now that the secret’s out. Will they continue issuing opinions detailing how the votes broke down with faux precision? Will people be so outraged that political pressures will force—God forbid—an actual Supreme Court that tries to thrash out legal decisions based on logic?
The best we can
hope is that everyone will submit to the higher power and let the shots fall where they may. Because at those critical moments when time stands still, as six of the justices clear out of the lane and one stands alone on top, dribbling the ball and eyeing the lone defender, this country reaches its full potential, a nation defined not by the past but by the moment. As the justice jukes and then brushes past his opponent and begins his rise to the goal, we all are lifted with him, knowing one thing at heart: If he can finish, so can we.
ACTUAL ACADEMIC JOURNALS WHICH COULD BE BROADWAY SHOWS IF THEY HAD EXCLAMATION POINTS ADDED!
T. G. Gibbon
Callaloo!
The Henry James Review!
Plainsong and Medieval Music!
The Lion and the Unicorn!
Modernism/Modernity!
RNA!
Organised Sound!
Field Mycologist!
Winterthur Portfolio!
ReCALL!
Continuity and Change!
The American Naturalist!
Wide Angle!
Radical History Review!
Modern Philology!
Popular Music!
Robotica!
Clinical Infectious Diseases!
The New Phytologist!
Yale Journal of Criticism!
Zygote!
MY BEARD, REVIEWED
Chris Bachelder
AVERAGE CUSTOMER RATING: *** (based on 9 reviews)
**** Must-see beard!!!
Reviewer: A. Dawson from San Antonio, TX, USA
This is the best beard I’ve seen all year. It’s one of those beards where you just never want it to end. If you get a chance, CHECK OUT THIS BEARD. You won’t be sorry. I guarantee it.
** Disappointing
Reviewer: Monster Man from Baltimore, MD, USA
I see a lot of beards, and I usually really like first beards, so I was excited about seeing Mr. Bachelder’s beard, especially after a friend of mine recommended it to me. But I’m sorry to say that this beard was a big disappointment. You can see that it has potential, but it’s a little patchy and it just isn’t doing anything new or interesting.
**** Not for everyone
Reviewer: Melissa T. from Eugene, OR, USA
This is one of those beards that not everyone is going to love, but I think it will find a cult following. It’s a really funny and quirky beard. It’s not completely full, but that almost makes it better somehow. Yes it’s uneven and things get stuck in it, but it’s a first beard, people! Congratulations, Mr. Bachelder, I can hardly wait for your next beard!!
***** AMAZING!!!
Reviewer: JD Vulture from Greenville, NC, USA
Oh my God this is an incredible beard!!! I saw a small part of Chris Bachelder’s beard on the Internet and I just had to go see the whole thing. I was blown away. It’s a hilarious beard, but it’s also sad and touching. This girl beside me was crying because the beard was so emotional. I can’t do it justice. Just do yourself a favor and see this beard. It’s an instant classic, and I know you’ll love it as much as I did.
* Don’t believe the hype
Reviewer: Paul Russell from Lexington, KY, USA
I am baffled by the hype surrounding this beard. I decided to check the beard out after I read reviews calling it a “daring” beard, a “shockingly original” beard, “one of our best young beards.” Some reviewers went so far as to compare it to Vonnegut’s first beard. Well, nothing could be further from the truth. With Vonnegut, you never lose sight of the integrity and sincerity underlying the beard, but Bachelder’s beard is just a tangled joke, and not even very funny, much less deep or substantive. Right now, the last thing this country needs is more smart-ass facial hair. At a time like this we need authentic beards. Bachelder’s beard is the same beard we’ve been seeing for the last fifteen or twenty years, and it’s getting old. Either do it right or shave.
*** Not great, not horrible
Reviewer: RW from Jacksonville, FL, USA
Let’s not get carried away on either end. It’s not a National Beard Award winner, but it’s not trash, either. Bachelder’s got a decent beard. It has a certain ragged charm, though I agree with others who have said it could have used a trim.
* Pathetic
Reviewer: Jennifer K. from Rochester, NY, USA
I just can’t believe what passes for a good beard these days. I teach junior high English, and I’ve seen better beards on my eighth-graders. Don’t waste your time. I’ll take Hemingway’s beard every time over today’s beards.
**** A first look at an up-and-coming beard
Reviewer: Night Train from Silver City, CO, USA
Even though Mr. Bachelder won’t let you touch his beard, his beard will touch you!! See it TODAY!!!!
**** Surprisingly deep
Reviewer: M-Dog from Tempe, AZ, USA
I was prepared to hate this beard after I found out about the huge advance that Bachelder got for it. And to be honest, I didn’t think much of the beard when I first saw it, and I almost didn’t finish looking at it. But I stuck with it and I’m glad I did. This beard has a way of sneaking up on you. Before I knew it, I was completely engrossed. It has a deceptively simple appearance, but this beard is actually very complicated and challenging. If you devote some time and careful attention to Bachelder’s beard, it will pay you back, but you have to be willing to work.
THE NAME GAME
Stephany Aulenback and Sean Carman
TAKE THE NAME of your pet as your first name and the name of the street you grew up on as your last name. That’s your Porn Star name.
Take the last name of the person you love as your last name. If you are a heterosexual woman, that’s your Oppressed by the Patriarchy name. If you are a heterosexual man, that’s your Sensitive New Age name. If you are a gay person of either gender, that’s an affirmation of your love.
Take aim at your neighbor with a large club, then hit him over the head and take his wallet. Hide his body in the shrubbery outside his house. The name on his credit cards? That’s your Fugitive from Justice name.
Take the kind of first name given to girls whose parents followed the Grateful Dead. Now take a patrician surname of English origin. That’s your Public Defender’s name.
Take a random six-digit number as your first name. Drop your last name. That’s your official Prison name.
Take an interjection used to call attention as your first name. Take the proper term for a female dog as your last name. That’s your unofficial Prison name.
Take the name you used back when everyone had C.B. radios. Boy, that takes you back, huh?
Take note of the name your cell mate whispers repeatedly in his sleep. That’s your Stool Pigeon name.
Take the word “dead” as your first name, and a description of incest with your mother as your last name. That’s your Marked by the Mafia name.
Take a name from the list of most common names for babies in 1965 as your first name. Take a name chosen at random from the phone book as your last name. That’s your Witness Protection Program name.
Take your middle name as your first name. Take your mother’s maiden name as your last name. That’s your Romance Novelist name.
CIRCUMSTANCES UNDER WHICH I WOULD HAVE SEX WITH SOME OF MY FELLOW JURORS
Peter Ferland
JUROR #2. Malfunctioning elevator. We’re late coming back from lunch, and the judge is going to be furious. The phone is dead and our shouts go unanswered. You’re upset, so I calm you the only way I know how. Other than a desperate minute where I try to cough up the inhaled button from your shirt, it is a raw and sweet kind of lovemaking never before seen in the L.A. Criminal Courts Building. When they get the power back on, we’re jolted back to our senses. We dress without a word and you disappear into the crowd. I watch the back of your head for the rest of the trial until we are dismissed with the thanks of the court. Thank you, I say aloud, but you don’t turn around.
JUROR #4. Right there in the courtroom. The j
udge stops his instructions and calls attention to us, pointing out that there is a kind of feral chemistry between us, and does anyone else notice it? The bailiff confirms with a smile that heat radiates from the bench where we’re sitting. The judge asks for a show of hands of people who object to postponing the work at hand to watch us get it on. There are no objections so, by order of the court, we embark on a rigorous and unselfconscious sexual workout that is one part ballet, one part Greco-Roman wrestling, one part Heimlich maneuver. The stenographer’s record of the event is widely circulated.
JUROR #5. It has been eleven years of isolation after a desperate bailout over the Sahara desert. I have found shelter in a cave where I am haunted by recurring erotic dreams that last for hours but for some reason never result in a nocturnal emission. My hands were severed in the crash and it is impossible for me to masturbate. When the torment becomes too much for me to bear, I stagger out into the desert where I am sure I will die but instead I am found by your caravan where you feed and bathe me and tend to my wounds. You take me to your tent and onto your feather bed where, after lathering us both with scented lubricating oils, you invite me to take you. Still, I hesitate.
JUROR #6. You notice me.
JUROR #8. In the six days we’ve been here, a friendship was forged, right? We took lunches and played hearts together, shared USA Today, People, and Reader’s Digest. I even loaned you my “Old Fart” hat because it was raining. But you and Juror Number 12 have started up a little thing, haven’t you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You already had lunch and I should just go on ahead, right?—that’s what you said. But then you and Number 12 went and had gyros. I saw you. Well, now Number 12 and the Alternate are playing charades in the stairwell and you’re here in my room holding the pieces of your broken heart. Hush, now. I’ve got the glue, baby. I got the glue.
