I wanted to subtitle this, "Or... How Not To Ingratiate Yourself To DIME Magazine Judges"  Too wordy.

Why don't I care about the NBA any more?  I'm a huge fan of Lebron and D-Wade and Amare, and many of the young class.  I'm still in awe of Shaq and Duncan and Kobe, and Nash, Billups, Parker, B. Wallace, Rip, Dirk, and the rest of them give me plenty of jaw-dropping moments of basketball highlights.  I played basketball in my adolescence, and loved it so much that it took time away from my real talent, baseball, and probably cost me a paycheck down the road.  If I'd come to the realization a couple years sooner that I was a 6-foot white dude with nowhere near the stamina and speed to be a point guard, maybe I "coulda been a contenda" in baseball.  But, a few bone breaks and three CD releases later, here I am writing about it instead.

I'm crazy about the NFL, and I live for baseball season.  But when the NBA rolls around, I'm left as disinterested as Tom Cruise at a sorority mixer.  Why?  I'm sure in part it's because I'm left physically and emotionally drained after 7 months of daily baseball obsession.  Other than that, I think it's the fact that, even with the amazing athletes that the players are, the NBA just plays a shell of the real game of basketball. 

Run 'n gun offenses, with sloppily written and lazily executed half court schemes.  Virtually no offensive rebounding until the playoffs.  And defenses?  They make their matchups, and have at it.  "Hey you!  Guard the best guy!  You!  Guard the other good guy!  Everybody else get out of the way and rebound if you feel like it."  Again, in the playoffs, everything gets stepped up.  There are actually visible offensive and defensive schemes.  There's more intensity, and you see a lot more players with bloody noses and scratched up tattoos.  It actually looks like basketball.

Except, that is, for the real culprit -- officiating.  I'm certainly not the guy that blames the outcome of games on blown calls, and I don't scream and throw chips and queso all over my TV screen every time a call goes against my team.  In fact, I'm not even talking about changing individual games with bizarre or just plain bad calls, I'm talking about changing the game itself.

Basketball rules say you get two steps in a drive to the basket.  TWO.  Not two and a half, or three, or four, or five (Lebron, Kobe, A.I., I'm talking to you!).  There's also this thing called a "pivot foot".  It's called a "pivot foot" because you are supposed to keep it still and pivot on it.  Not drag it halfway across the backcourt, or pogo-hop it across the paint, or pick it up and try the other foot because it suits you.  In the real game of basketball, elbows to the face are generally frowned upon by referees, as are Larry-Moe-and-Curly digits to the eye sockets and vice-gripping some dude's jewels when he tries to box you out.

I realize that all sports evolve.  I understand that the fast pace of today's NBA prohibits full attention to offensive rebounding, because if you don't get three or four guys back in transition a Kobe or an A.I. will kill you all night.  I know that today's players are much bigger and stronger, so more physical force needs to be asserted gain position inside.  But the little things like never calling traveling, or calling it at absurd and inconsistent times, or the inconsistency in 5-second calls and jump balls, make for a totally different game than what was ever intended.  While we're giving basketball players 4 steps, why don't we just give baseball players four strikes?  Or maybe a first down should be thirteen yards from now on.  If we're changing games to make them more "fan friendly" -- those spectacular 4-step drives to the bucket put fans in the seats and $30 caps on their noggins -- why don't we just make hockey nets 10 feet wide?  While we're at it, lets move all the baseball fences in to about 200 ft, and turn Juan Pierre into the next Sammy Sosa for the Cubbies.  I'm sure I could make a mint selling "Juallopin' Juan" T-shirts!  All those things would be pretty much equivalent to what has become of the game of basketball in the NBA.

Why don't I care about the NBA any more?  Because it's barely even basketball any more, which makes me barely a fan.

I have to give my gal Miss K cred for this one.  We were watching the endless draft analysis rerun while the Sox/Yanks game was being rained out, and the Vince Young talk started.  Should they play him his first year?  Shouldn't they?  Will they have to?  Miss K pipes up with, "You know, VY is like a brand new toy that you can't take out of the box."

Correct-amundo!  Pretty good analogy, but we discussed it and took it a step further.

Vince Young is like a really good pot of chili.  You get done making it, it's sitting there simmering and bubbling in a big ol' pot, and smells freaking awesome.  If you ate a bowl right now, like you want to, then you'll have a pretty good bowl of chili.  But if you let it sit there and simmer and soak for two more hours, and let all those flavors meld together and mature, then you'll have an damned incredible bowl of chili.

Let 'im simmer, Titans.

Since I started Draft Day '06 waking up bleary-eyed and saggy-tailed after a typical beer-soaked Friday night in Austin, stumbling to the couch, and craving (nay, needing) a Coke and a breakfast taco, I figured I owed it to myself to punctuate the occasion by giving some thoughts and general musings.

For starters, do they teach you in "rookie school" that you must start every single sentence during an interview with, "Well, you know, basically, it's just...."?  These guys have agents, advisors, posses, parents, coaches, mentors, and every other possible kind of personal help they could ask for.  Does nobody bother to mention to them that sounding like a remotely intelligent, articulate, sentient human being with a college education might get them an extra couple hundred thousand bucks on that rookie contract?  Listening to interviews on Saturday was a real treat.

Next:  I'd really like to punch Matt Leinart in the face.  I realize that sounds harsh -- because it is -- but I've made a list of "Top 10 People I'd Really Like To Punch In The Face".  Matt Leinart became #6 immediately after I saw him give that interview with that ridiculous green knit-cap looking thing on his big stupid melon.  Did you see it?  It was one of those hipster doofus things, that came way down on his forehead and all the way down the back of his head, with the very bottom flipped up in a little girly-Q.  Who's gonna make his Cardinals jersey, Abercrombie and Fitch?  He looked like Ashton Kutcher, QB.  I used to respect him as a player, but then I saw his interviews this past month.  If you wanna be a pretty-boy, be a wide receiver.  Be a cornerback.  But if you expect to be a successful QB in the NFL you have to be sharp, hard-nosed, and most of all, respected.  With that Hollywood attitude, that's never going to happen.  And by the way, the look on his face when the Jets took D'Brickashaw Ferguson was priceless.  Definitely worth getting up for.

After five hours of the first round, I kept expecting to see them come back unexpectedly from a commercial break with Chris Berman hunched over the desk, a half-eaten hoagie in his hand, one jowl stuffed to maximum capacity, and chewing feverishly with lettuce and mayo dripping onto his tie.  Michael Irvin comes running in, awkwardly trying to zip up his fly and brush the powder off his nose at the same time.  Mel Kiper on his cell phone, looking like he's getting the skinny on some 7th round pick, then saying, "I know... quart of milk, stick of butter, loaf of bread... I love you too, poopi-kins," and hanging up.  I wonder when was the last time these guys had to work five hours at a stretch?  Hilarious.

Those little rock-n-roll montages that they did with the top picks, where they were on a model runway in crazy getups, wind whipping around, strobe lights flashing, dudes dancing around -- were RIDICULOUS.  Who was the genius behind that one?  Apparently the one person with any sense wasn't at the meeting where they said, "Hey, you know what would be a super-killer idea?  Let's put the top picks in ridiculous suits and costumes, play some crappy rock music, get some smoke machines and strobe lights, and make them dance on a stage in front of a fake audience?  That's so football."  And, naturally, Matt Leinart's was the goofiest.  He actually did the Matrix/Michael Jackson/Jesus pose:  arms stretched out to the side, face to the sky, wind whipping clothes around dramatically.  Shades on, camera swirling.  Pardon my French here, but there's no other way to describe it:  what a douche-nozzle.  I know, very unclassy and un-sportswritery of me.  But accurate.  I calls 'em like I sees 'em.

Is it just me, or does Jay Cutler look like a complete buffoon?  How does a Vandy grad that's supposed to be so sharp, with so much "upside", look like a total knuckle-dragging, slack-jawed troglodyte?  More proof that the Wunderlich test is meaningless.

You may have noticed I really have no practical football analysis going here.  Why?  Because after the first round, it's pretty much a wash.  Most of the first-rounders are usually shoo-ins as starters next season, and after that there's no way of telling anything.  Tom Brady was a 6th-round pick.  Ryan Leaf was going to be a megastar.  Heath Shuler's running for Congress.  Sure, it's interesting to evaluate what teams filled what holes, who screwed up, and make our little predictions and draft grades.  But after the first round, it's pretty much a crap shoot. 

That said, I will give some basic opinions:  1)  The Texans lost their minds picking Mario Williams.  Sure, a kick-butt DE can be an impact player.  A Dwight Freeney or a Julius Peppers can be a game-changing force.  But is Mario Williams of that quality?  There's no way of knowing, but probably not.  That type of player is a rarity.  And with the sad-sack Texans -- in a city that already gave up on one semi-successful football franchise -- in desperate need of some good PR, needing to give its fans a reason to come to the stadium, they should have taken Ferguson or Bush.  I know you can't let the fans dictate your franchise personnel.  But as much as they need to shore up their defense, they have a bigger need to keep David Carr vertical.  2)  Bush to New Orleans?  Fine.  He'll have a rough go, but he (and they) will be OK.  3)  I really like Vince Young going to Tennessee, mostly because it gives me a reason to root for the Titans, which my bloodline mandates.  I think he'll develop well under Norm Chow and Jeff Fisher, and he will benefit from holding the clipboard for either Steve McNair or Kerry Collins (if that happens).  Hopefully he won't see any real action until '07.  4)  As much as Matt Leinart makes me queasy, Arizona is a good fit for him.  He's got good weaponry with James, Boldin, and Fitzgerald, the Cardinals seem to be on the rise, and Denny Green won't tolerate much Hollywood attitude.  Kurt Warner is also the perfect tutor for him, both in attitude and playing style.  Fine.  Good luck, Nancy-boy.

Ok, that's enough for now.  Now that we have two more months of draft-day analysis and Mel Kiper's hair to look forward to, I'm sure there'll be plenty more to blog about in the days ahead.  Just thought I'd give an observation or two, throw a few barbs, irritate some SoCal-ers.  Mission accomplished.

Mmmm... breakfast tacos....

I was just thinking to myself, 'Self?  You know what isn't being talked about much these days?  Barry Bonds.  I think I'll write a blog about Barry Bonds.'

If this was 1986, maybe that would be true.  The fact that in 1986 there was no internet, therefore no blogs, and I was 15, make that wholly unlikely.  But after a short discussion I heard on sports show "X", I had to think, 'What would I do if I was at the game when Bonds hits 714 or 715?  Or what will I do in my house/bar/laundromat when it happens?' 

His next two series are on the road, in Milwaukee and Philly.  The consensus in the discussion I heard was that they'll respectfully cheer, mixed with some boos, if it happens in Milwaukee.  If it happens in Philadelphia, the city with some of the rowdiest and most bitter fans in the nation, there'll be more boos and general rudeness than cheers.  I remember how I felt when I saw him hit number 700 -- a creepy mix of awe and disgust.  Sort of like watching a documentary about cockfights; you alternately go, "Wow, that chicken kicks ass!" and "What a freakin' horrible aberration of nature."  And you feel like you need a shower afterward when you realize that you actually enjoyed even five seconds of it.  Again, much the way I feel after watching Barry lift one out of the yard.

But still.... when I watched Bonds hit 5, 6, and 700, and even when I watch him now, I can't help that feeling of awe, just as a fan of the game itself.  'Roids or no 'roids, that man can hit.  Hard.  And often.  And better than everybody else.  This is as far as I'll go as any sort of Bonds apologist:  the more that has come out about how widespread steroid use was during the era, the more you have to realize that Bonds still accomplished what he did when half the league was taking the same substances he was.  What upsets us so much is that we feel that he reached those achievements by having an unfair advantage.  But when you find out that practically everybody else -- even (and especially) pitchers -- was on the same juice, you have to realize that the playing field wasn't quite as uneven as we may have thought.  When it's all said and done, Bonds will be looked at as the hands-and-needles-down best hitter of the steroids era, and one of the greatest of all time.  As soon as Bonds pitches 13 scoreless innings in a World Series game, then he can surpass The Babe as the greatest.

So what will I do when he hits 714 and 715?  Probably not much.  Whether you love Bonds or hate him, you'll still be watching one of the biggest moments in baseball history.  And because baseball is baseball, you'll also be watching a part of American history.  I probably won't boo, or cheer, or denounce Barry Bonds, or praise him.  I'll just sit back and say, "Wow."  

I haven't been to The Yard to plunk out a sports blog in 4 months.  Why?  The first month or two was because I needed a break from sports blogging after a two-month deluge of them for NGS I.  But after that, it was mostly because I didn't have a whole helluva lot to say that wasn't already being said.  I've been writing other stuff, just not sports stuff.  So what made me come creeping out of my non-sportswriting cave, yawning and blinking and rubbing my eyes?

Paintball on ESPN.

The first time I saw it, I said, "Paintball?  You've gotta be kidding me.  Chuckle, chuckle...."  Flip, flip.   But it was a weekend afternoon, it was ESPN2, I thought it was a lark, like cheerleading championships or something.  Then I saw it again.  And again.  During the day.  At night.  Late night.  Prime time.  Oh my God, this wasn't just a one time thing, just for fun.  They're actually covering paintball tournaments!!

I hate that they show poker, but at least I understand it.  There's lots of money behind it, it's re-sweeping the nation as an online fad, there are people that actually watch it.  I can even tolerate the occasional spelling bees, cheerleading, and wide receivers trying to hit home runs.  But paintball???  We're so starved for sports that you'll show us dorks with "Red Dawn" fixations and a league?  Why don't we just go down to the park and cover the fake jousting competitions between those D & D rabble-rousers??  It would be just as riveting.

Thanks, ESPN, for taking up my precious sports-watching hours with more inane, unnecessary, unwatchable crap.  Special thanks for making me actually wish soccer was on, which is one of the signs of the apocalypse.  I'm going outside now to see if it's raining frogs.  Jerks.