This Bee Can Really Sting

Can you spell a four-letter word that stands for legally sanctioned nationally televised child abuse?

E-S-P-N

Can you use it in a sentence?

For the eighth consecutive year, ESPN televised the Scripps Howard National Spelling Bee Finals, meaning that for eight consecutive years, parents across the country have dutifully sat their kids in front of the television and warned them, “If you don’t eat all your greens, we’re entering you in this contest.”

According to the graphic on the bottom of the screen, this competition was held at the Grand Hyatt in Washington, apparently because the Theater of Pain was already booked. Ostensibly, the broadcast is to serve as a showcase for some of the nation’s brightest fourth-to-eighth grade scholars, who vie for a shiny trophy and a $10,000 championship prize, but from where I was sitting, it looked like one long trip to the principal’s office.

If you’ve ever shielded your eyes while watching a 12-year-old mist up after striking out in the Little League World Series, you haven’t seen anything until you’ve spent a few minutes with the Spelling Bee Finals. Unlike their Little League brethren, these young contestants have no supportive teammates waiting for them in the dugout, bucking up their spirits with a helpful “That’s OK! Let’s get ‘em next inning!” At the Bee, there is no next inning. At the Bee, when you go to the microphone and they throw ligniperdous at you, you go it utterly, entirely, agonizingly alone.

One by one, the kids are summoned to the front of the stage, to stand in front of a microphone and under a bright light, armed with nothing but their wits and the identification placard hanging around their necks like a noose. One by one, impossibly obscure words are lobbed in their direction. There are no lifelines available. There is no chance to poll the audience for help. Worse yet, there is no place to run.

The kids nervously shuffle their feet and wipe their perspiring palms on the legs of their pants. They grit their teeth and bite their lips. Their eyes anxiously dart from side to side when they aren’t squeezed shut in an attempt to concentrate and/or cope with the gripping fear.

For help, they can only turn to Dr. Alex Cameron, the bespectacled “Head Pronouncer” with the perpetually arched eyebrows, who is permitted to repeat the word, give its definition, language of origin, any alternate pronunciations and part of speech and use the word in a sentence. And that is all. “He cannot over-pronunciate,” ESPN Spelling Bee analyst Katie Kerwin McCrimmon informed. Of course not. The Bee has been around for 74 years. Can’t be going soft on these kids now.

Finally, inevitably, each contestant must stare into the abyss, steel the resolve, clear the throat and take the plunge. Mutafacient must be tackled.

“M-U-T-A . . .” begins the hesitant approach.

” . . . F-A-C-I . . .”

Deep breath.

”. . . E-N-T.”

Close eyes, grimace, hope against hope that the disqualification bell doesn’t sound--”That horrible, horrible bell,” McCrimmon called it.

Silence.

A correct spelling. Survive and advance. Congratulations. Take a seat now and get ready for the next round of Russian roulette.

Some have asked, and reasonably so, why ESPN would televise a spelling bee. Spelling is not a sport, as anyone who has ever canvassed a professional locker room can tell you. But the E in ESPN stands for “entertainment,” and once upon the time, the network envisioned a broadcast menu that included events from outside the sports world.

But can this, by any rational definition, qualify as entertainment?

Well, the Marquis de Sade would think so, but last I heard, TV privileges had been suspended at the Charenton asylum.

McCrimmon won the Bee in 1979, her first attempt, which was fortunate because it immediately disqualified her from the 1980 competition. “I’ve got to tell you,” McCrimmon said, “I never wanted to come back and take my chances again.”

Yet, many contestants in the 2001 field had done just that, including the eventual champion, 13-year-old Sean Conley, who had been runner-up in 2000.

None of these kids are likely to wind up with a Nike deal, but in their own way, they are just as impressive, and certainly as courageous, as any power hitter or monster jammer to ever lead off the “SportsCenter” highlights.

What I’d like to see is ESPN give the kids a break and foist this torture chamber on our adult sporting heroes, although that would first require implementing a special set of rules.

NBA players stumped by a tricky vowel would be prohibited from consulting the tattoos on their chests.

NFL players desperate for a “friendlier” pronunciation would be banned from ordering a member of their posse to go rough up Dr. Cameron a little.

NHL players would need a special manual for alternate alternate pronunciations, for words heard nowhere else in the English-speaking world, such as or-gan-EYE-za-tion.

And no baseball player would be allowed to call for a relief speller once the rounds progressed past RBI and ERA.