The Rules Reconsidered: Squatting out the Clock

A humorous inquiry into "running out the clock"--by a sports ignoramus

© Kirby Lee-USA TODAY Sports

For the second consecutive Sunday, I found myself, through no fault of my own--at least of which I am aware (are you there God?  It's me, T!)--jobbing thirteen hours straight.  The current work of prose composed for your perusal, Dear Reader, has been the product of much gnashing of teeth, internal wailing, blood, sweat, tears, finger-crossed prayers, and an inversely proportionate quantity of sleep.  

Equally inversely proportionate to my expectations was the reception of my latest article.  The Jason, New York's most notorious attorney at law, film noir aficionado, dearest of friends and most scrupulous of readers, could not grasp my meaning, and his thoughts may have been articulated best by one social media commentator who flatteringly labeled it:  "The most poorly written uncomprehensible thing I have read in years."  (I assure you, the errors in the prior sentence are not mine).  Meanwhile, the America, whose sadism I thoroughly, if ironically, critiqued, could not have been more delighted, as she exclaimed, with a smile that could have dimensionally rivaled the Titanic, ice-berg teeth flashing:  "I'm famous!" 

In the midst of this, whenever I could find the time to breathe, studying the static clock for the theoretical end of my eventual release, tracking seconds by the clicking of feet as bodies lumbered to my counter to request tacos wrapped in their desired corn or flour, with sides of bubbling steaming queso, dribbling along the bowls, I attempted as best I could to follow Sunday's game in which the under-Frogs were miraculously preparing an upset against No.1-seed Arizona.  

Meanwhile, my phone needed rehab.  Every few seconds I was receiving telephone communications--updates compliments of my colleagues, particularly the Ryann Zeller, fearless leader, and the Barry Lewis.  

The Ryann:  "That was AWESOME!"  

The Barry:  "Welcome to a B12 defense."  

The Ryann:  "As long as we don't poop out the 2nd half.  Let's Go Frogs!"  

A few customers passed.  

The Ryann:  "Ummmm . . . how loud is it in there Barry?  Cause it sounds deafening on the TV." 

The Barry, never one for understatement:  "It's loud."  

The Ryann:  "Starting to get painful to watch."  

A few dozen quesos and flour/corn deliberations later, The Ryann resumed:  "Woooooo!!!!! Basketball is so bi-polar."  

I must have said something then, for the America asked:  "Are you okay?"  

To which I replied:  "America, dear lady, I have been standing in place since 8:30 this morning.  My feet hurt, my legs hurt, my eyes are bleary.  My brain left my body at approximately 4 pm and this, for better or worse, is the junk left over.  I feel like I am transmogrifying into a statue in real time.  Call me The Statue of Imprisonment.  And the most important team in these United States of America, my dearest under-Frogs, are taking on the No. 1 team in their . . ." (I forgot the word--division?  section?  conference? Something.) ". . . their . . . their . . . thing and they might win, though I can't say for sure, because I can't watch the game, being here, and even if I could watch the game, I wouldn't know how to make heads or tails of it anyway, and while it really is always such a pleasure to work with you, I need to watch the game so I can at least pretend to know what the hell is going on--for my colleagues’ sake if not my own."  

Meanwhile, my phone, a bell incessantly struck, delivered the following messages:  

"Omg!  He squirted blood!"  

(Insert photo of what appeared a murder scene with a Frog flag hanging mildly over).  

"Welcome to a hockey match."  

"Yeah on TV it was close up.  Had I a 3-D TV I would have fainted!"

"Oh God!" I shouted.    

The America smiled.  "So you're okay?"  

I was about to affirm a denial when I caught the clock.  

"Bright blessed day and sacred night I'm great!  I'm off in two minutes!  In the words of Mel Gibson:  Freedom!"  

It was then my dreaded peripheral vision beheld one of those diabolical messengers representative of that infernal corporation we in society politely call DoorDish.  

"Yes.  Ma'am," I said, summoning what little intelligence I had remaining to remind my body it is not best for its preservation to slam its cranium repeatedly against a wooden wall.  "How.  May.  I.  Help.  You."  

"You got an order for Susie?"  

"I don't know.  I forgot how to read six hours ago.  Let me check."  

There it was.  Susie Q.  All that was necessary was I confirm the patronymic.  

"What's her last name?" 

"You're not going to make me go through that are you?" 

"Pardon me!"  

"I said is it Susie or isn't it?" 

"Well, yes, but it might not be the right Susie!  We get duplicate orders!"  

"Well, is it the only Susie there or isn't it?" 

"It is now.  But it might not be in five minutes!  My friend Nicole herself came a week ago and I accidentally gave her the wrong order because I didn't check the last name!"  

"You're going to make me pull my phone out of my pocket to make sure it's the right order?"  

At which point the number I was eyeing finally flipped into another, turning the hour, and after uttering a litany of curses no mortal has uttered in the entire history of humanity--Lenny Bruce notwithstanding--with a final request that she return to the inferno from which she came, I fled the scene of the crime, and drove as fast as my wheels could trod sealant without igniting their rims to Ye Olde Bull and Bush on Montgomery 767107 (please, no direct correspondence; all mail will be summarily returned).  

The Monet, the Bobby, the Adam, the Morgan, Kent the Lutheran, the Kurtis, aka., the King Curtis, aka the Smashforce, the Dave, the Jay were all assembled, eyes sucking in the TV screen as one of our guys attempted a long shot described by someone nearby as a three-pointer.  

The ball danced on the rim, just as the Frogs were dancing on the court.  

And fell sideways, into the palm of a Wildcat who ran with it like a distended rubber yo-yo and right when I thought we would take possession the Mildcat in question decided to squat on his haunches and everything except the ball and the clock, keeping each other's time, stopped moving.  

"What's going on!" I cried, adding a few mild expletives of despair for the proper hue.  

"He's running out the clock," the Monet said, also in despair.  

"Drivel!  He ain't running!  The infernal nincompoop is squatting and dribbling!"  

And silently I wondered helplessly why the clock, for thirteen hours so still, was for thirteen seconds so swift.  

Then something happened, somehow we delivered the ball into our side of the court and attempted one last three.  And we were finished.  

Rounds were bought, consolations given, and I fell into deep contemplation.  

Running out the clock?  It wasn't even true in the literal sense!  The guy with the ball did as much running as I did first thing that morning on the pot.  I've run farther in a bathtub, and indeed did, also that morning, when the hot water went unexpectedly cold.  And in the time that he was supposedly "running," our boys could have actually been living to the call, crossing the court, twice, to deliver unto the basket two threes to determine our entrance into the next round of the dancing NCAA whatever-it-is-called tournament.  

But no.  That didn't happen.  Because, I tell you, Dear Reader, the rules lie.  It's as simple as that.  Whatever splendid sadist sizzling in the afterlife devised that rule should have been sued on this mortal coil for false advertising.  

Further, it's not exactly a sign of courage, is it, for an athlete, at the height of competition, to rely on a clock for victory?  I tell you:  the Mildcats didn't win the that game; the clock did.  

Finally, if an athlete does need to squat in the middle of a court with less than a minute to play, the least they can do, for propriety’s sake, is ask to be excused.

Now, it would be futile to object to the operations of time, and seeing as I am now out of it myself, I would like to propose the following: 

1.  Running out the clock is a lie; it should be called squatting it out, with all connotations intended. 

2.  Any time a team must attribute its victory to the clock's dropping seconds, there should be appended by their victory an asterisk bearing the following message:  Couldn't win it on their own; time is a botch.  

And that's the bottom line.  

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