This will be the last thing I write before the judges tell us who won . . . though with the way things have gone the last day or so, I really wouldn’t be surprised if they just called this whole thing off. I bet it stinks for them to watch this really fun experiment turn nasty because a few people got out of control . . . But anyway . . .

I just wanted to take the chance to sincerely say to those who took the time to read and comment . . . “thank you.” It means a lot to know that, in a competition with odds such as this one, what you are putting out there is entertaining to some people.

I would also like to say that there are some very talented writers out there. It has been a blast reading all of your work. I would list my favorites, but I don’t want to start another ridiculous round of accusations, hyperbole, etc. You know who you are.


To whomever wins, I look forward to reading your stuff. Good luck and God Bless.

Last night I watched a regular season college basketball game.

Big deal, right?

Well, for me it is. You see, I used to be a pretty huge hoops fan. I was weaned on Larry Legend and Magic. Came into my own in Jordan’s heyday. Was captivated by Clyde, wowed by Worthy, and dazzled by Dumars. Scottie, The Dream, Isiah, The Mailman . . . I knew them all well.

And it wasn’t just the pro game. Some of my first college sport memories were of the March Madness variety: the epic Georgetown/Houston matchup in ’84; Bob Knight’s Indiana team in ’85; the Running Rebs’ of UNLV in ’90; Duke’s run with Hurley, Hill, Laettner, et. al. There was a time when I loved college hoops. But something happened on the way to “middle-aged.”

I lost interest in the game.

I can’t figure out exactly why this happened. I have tried to pin it on the emergent hip-hop culture that pervades the NBA. I have wondered if being a nearly thirty, middle-class white guy makes it hard to relate to the mostly young, mostly black, mostly wealthy athletes who play the game. But I’m convinced this isn’t it. When I have followed basketball sporadically over the last few years, I have been watching AI, Ben Wallace, KG, LeBron. These men definitely represent a culture to which I cannot relate very much. But when you watch them play, you don’t see culture, you see game. Besides, I never identified with Stockton's tighty-whities either.

I think maybe the changing nature of the pro-game has something to do with it . . . the departure from the fundamental team game and the prevalence of the “1-on-1 at the top of the key, clear out the lane, drive to the hole” playground mentality. But even this complaint seems flimsy. There will always be good teams playing sound basketball. And this only explains the reason for not watching the pro game. College ball is still fairly solid in terms of fundamentals.

So, I don’t know exactly why I stopped watching the game. Maybe it’s a combination of things. But I do know this. I know why I tuned in last night, why for the first time in years I made a concerted effort to be in front of the TV when a basketball game tipped off.

The reason? Simple. Adam Morrison.

I know, I know. Some of you hoops aficionados out there might scoff: “He’s not a complete player.” Yeah, I’ve heard that. And it may be true. But I’m not interested in all that right now. I’m just trying to see if this kid is for real. And you know what? I think he may be.

Like many, I tuned in to the Memphis-Gonzaga matchup hoping to see a game that lived up to the hype. But unlike many, I cared less about the game itself and more about Morrison. I had heard the comparisons to Bird, and was intrigued. Other than Morrison going stone cold in the last 9 minutes (due to Memphis lock-down D), he lived up to my expectations. But it’s funny . . . there’s something about the way Morrison carries himself that reminds me less of Bird and more of Pistol Pete. Obviously, Maravich and Morrison’s game aren’t reminiscent of one another, but there is something about Morrison’s swagger that reminds me of that air of confidence that Maravich had. Not ego, per se, but confidence in the skill, confidence in the ability to beat you, to hit the clutch shot, to go off for 40. Morrison has that.

Morrison is averaging 28 a game, and last night against Memphis, went for 34. He is so fun to watch. The way he moves away from the ball, his high release, the moppish hair, the Freddie Prinze ala “Chico and the Man” moustache . . . He draws in the casual fan and reminds me why college hoops are so enjoyable. (He also reminds me a lot of Jimmie Fallon, but that is beside the point.) But I think the comparisons to Bird are not completely accurate. Bird played relentless, tenacious defense. Morrison admits he doesn’t care to D-up. Bird wasn’t necessarily an assist machine, but was the master of the timely “dime.” Morrison could use some improvement in this area. But when it comes to shooting . . . dang. The boy’s a gunner. And I can definitely understand the Bird comparisons there.

Will Morrison lead ‘Zaga to the Dance? I don’t know. Will he be able to make the leap to the pros? Can’t say. But I do know he has helped a former fan find new interest in the game. That should count for something, right?

Santa gave “On Company Time” an unusual and unexpected Christmas gift this year. In my stocking I found a faded, brown piece of parchment, tied with what appeared to be tinsel. When I opened it, I was shocked to find a volumous list of last year’s New Year’s resolutions made by athletes and celebrities alike.

The note attached was barely legible as it was covered in what looked and smelled like eggnog. Through the mess, I could barely read: “Love the blog. Thought you might be able to use this. Keep up the great work . . . oh, and about the Vlad-to-Boston trade you asked for . . . give me a break. I’m Santa not Scott Boras. SC”

In the spirit of the season, I thought I’d share a few of them with you.

Joe Pa
Lead unlikely return to prominence. Win 2005 Coach of the Year. Trounce lifelong archrival and nemesis in BCS Bowl. Run a sub-four minute mile. Bowl a 300. Beat Takeru Kobayashi’s hot dog eating record. Institute a playoff in college football. Shoot a 59. Become a carnie, possibly as a barker for the Yak woman.

Johnny Damon
1. Win second World Series.
2. Be fabulous.
3. Obsess over personal appearance more than any straight man ever should. If possible, undermine status as pop-culture icon by selling soul to Satan. Not sure how to do this. Keep thinking.

Terrell Owens
--Get new contract.
--Alienate fans and teammates.
--Move crunch rack to driveway.
--Plan birthday bash.
--Thank Drew for resurrecting my career.

Barry Bonds
’05 is the year I finally break Hank’s record and solidify myself as the greatest baseball player in the history of the world . . . no, in the galaxy! Yeah. The galaxy. As long as Vic keeps me hooked up, I’m in there. I love me.
SPECIAL RESOLUTION ADDENDUM: If by chance, Bud actually decides to do something about ‘roids, I will sit out most of the year . . . I think I’ll fake a knee injury. By ’06, the fans will be ready for me to break the Hammer’s record. Man, I hate the fans. Almost as much as I hate my teammates.

Peyton Manning
In ’05 I will finally undergo a complete image makeover. I will get a new favorite song—the guys in the locker room seem to be tired of the theme to Top Gun. (Note to self: Ask Edge to help with this one.) I will stop cutting my hair with the Flowbee; I will grow ####s to cover my giant forehead; I will use “product.” (Note to self: Find out who cuts Tom Brady’s hair. Stay away from this person.) I will stop acting like I am better than my teammates; I will audible less; I will listen more. I will stop making the Peyton-face whenever something goes wrong. (Note to self: Talk with Eli. He could use some help with this, too.)

Rafael Palmeiro
1. In ’05 I will finally earn the props I have been lacking my whole career. I deserve to be in the same category as those other guys: McGwire, Sosa, Bonds, Giambi. What do I have to do to get some respect?They make a phone call, and--BAM!--dude’s on the way over with their stuff. Me? I get a machine . . . I bet Pudge doesn’t get a machine! But this year’s different . . . this year my dealer’s gonna’ recognize.
2. Ask someone what a subpoena is. Does it show up in a urine test? What are the side affects?
3. Check with Jose to see if Viagra and Dianabol can be taken together.

Kobe
Haven’t made up my mind. In ’05 I will either resolve to stay away from Colorado, be nice to Phil, take less shots, dish more to my teammates, and say positive, uplifiting things about Shaq, OR I will make people refer to me as the Mamba, take more shots than Paris Hilton, and unexplainably wear full length black tights under my uni. Not sure which direction to take.

Phil
1. Destroy Kobe by surrounding him with inferior talent and encouraging him to shoot 87 times a night.
2. Help Jerry align his chakras.

Jake the Snake
I had a vision last night. In it, Y.A. Tittle came to me and said, ‘the secret to the promise land is a shaved head. Trim your locks, Jake, and you will make the playoffs.’ I woke up and immediately went to the bathroom. I covered my head in shaving cream. But before I ran the razor through my mane, I had a sobering thought. “What kind of name is Tittle, anyway?” Screw the shaved head. In ’05 I’m growing a neck beard. If that doesn’t get me to the playoffs, I’ll retire.

Dante Culpepper
1. Live large with Moss gone! Me and Nate Burleson are taking over the League! Gonna be a big year, baby!
2. Make sure Brad Johnson gets my takeout orders right at Denny’s—no more screw-ups like last season.
3. Talk with Smoot about preseason weekend getaway. Thinking something low key, maybe a weekend literary symposium at U of Minn. But, could change my mind. See what Fred thinks.
4. Remind Onterrio to give back my Whizzinator.


Hmmm . . . seems like most of these guys were hit or miss. Glad to know athletes, coaches, and myself have something in common.

More later . . .

Back again. Sorry I had to go so quickly. Our company’s COO was breezing through our “area,” you know, just checking things out. If he only knew . . .

I have more thoughts, but I would be doing an injustice if I didn’t devote at least a few lines to this fellow; I feel like maybe everyone has “this guy” in their lives in some form. Indulge me for a moment . . .

I call him "Lossman," as in JP, because he is almost an athlete. But he’s more clumsy white guy than QB. "Lossman’s" in charge of all of our operations and he conducts his job with a zeal usually reserved for members of ####’s SS. There was a time I thought he was a sports fan. But he is not. (He knows enough team and player names from cultural osmosis to give the impression that he follows sport. But if you told him that Troy Polamalu was Don ####’s ukulele player he wouldn’t doubt you.) Then I thought he was just a guy who excelled in athletics. But he is not. He is simply a guy who likes racquetball. Or jogging. Or playing the occasional pick up game at the Y. Or riding his “not-too-old-but-just-old-enough-to-be-really-unco
ol” bike (which he refers to as a cycle, as in, “So I cycled 35 miles this weekend and I’m not even sore.”). He is behind our company’s ban on Internet use, decorations, fraternization, personal phone calls, joy, hope, etc. If he ever caught me online, doing this, I would probably lose my job. But thank goodness he will never sneak up on me. Like the robin heralds the coming of Spring, the combination of English Leather and Right-Guard spray deodorant announces his arrival LONG before he’s actually in sight. As long as my sinuses are clear . . . I am safe.

Anyway, Lossman will be giving out the Christmas gifts in the next couple of days. Can’t wait to share. Just a quick look at sports . . .


MLB Rambling

This is priceless. One of my favorite stories of the day.

Alfonso Soriano, recently acquired by the Nationals from the Rangers, said yesterday that he does not want to change positions and will try and request a trade back to the AL when the year is up. In an AP article, Soriano said he had a greater comfort level in the AL, and he plans to become a free agent after next season and sign with an AL team.

"[In the American League] I knew the pitchers and batters of opposing teams and, therefore, where to place myself defensively. In the National that's going to take me a while," he said. Which could be a really, really bad thing. You see, Soriano committed the most errors (21) of any starting 2nd Basemen in the AL and had the worst fielding percentage (.972). He had the worst range factor and the worst zone rating. And this was when he knew where to “place himself defensively.” Hi, Mr. Soriano? Yes, it’s me . . . no . . . over here. Yes, hi. If I may, one word of advice: Short of positioning yourself under the dugout, it doesn’t matter where you play because you are a terrible fielder. You couldn’t catch an STD in Tijuana. Good grief.


Why Soccer Will Never Catch On In The USA . . .

Dateline: Italy. An AP story states that Italian soccer player Paolo Di Canio was suspended for one game on Tuesday for making a fascist salute to fans during a match last weekend. So that’s strike-one for me right there. Can you imagine Chipper Jones, or Willie Roaf, or Paul Pierce rounding first, finishing a block, or sinking a 3 and then giving props to their favorite oppressive governmenta regime? Didn’t think so.

But here’s the kicker . . . And I quote the article:

“The game featured teams whose fans have opposing political allegiances: Lazio fans waved swastika flags while Livorno fans had red Communist flags. Clashes between Livorno fans and police were reported outside the stadium before the game, with one officer slightly injured.”

Oh, yeah. You heard right. Swastikas. Communist flags. Armed conflict with law enforcement. Now, I don’t know about you, but this sounds like my kind of entertainment. Nothing like mixing a monotonous, low-scoring sport with hard to learn rules and positions, with radical political views and a form of totalitarianism that was responsible for the genocide of millions of people. I don’t know about you, but I for one am hooked. “OK, honey let’s see. Gotta make sure we’re all set for the big soccer game. Camera? Check. Sunscreen? Check. Swastika? Swastika? Honey, for the love of Pete, you forgot the Swastika? Son-of-a . . .

Have fun folks. I’ll be back with more tomorrow . . .

In the book, “The Most Important Thing I Know,” the great 20th – 21st Century thespian Michael J. Fox had this to say about perfection: “I am careful not to confuse excellence with perfection. Excellence, I can reach for; perfection is God's business.” Well said, Alex P Keaton. Well said.

Perfection is tough stuff. But not impossible.

There have been 17 official perfect games in baseball since 1880.

The Pantheon in Rome is said to be the perfect architectural building. (Which makes you wonder . . . if they could build the perfect building 2,000 years ago, what the @!&* happened to Soldier Field?)

Ate a perfect steak last Valentines’ Day. Cost me $120, which made perfection less enjoyable.

A study done several years ago revealed that according to mathematical formula, Denzel Washington has a nearly perfect face structure. (Though Jerry Jones is well on his way to catching D Wash. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with engineered perfection.)

Ted Williams was said to have the perfect swing; Jimmy Chitwood, the perfect jump shot (you remember the first time you saw him draining NBA range threes on that dirt court behind Myra Fleener’s house . . . perfection.); The Rocket, the perfect mechanics. But not even these immortals were truly perfect. The Splendid Splinter failed to get a hit nearly seven out of ten times. Jimmy Chitwood missed four shots during the course of Hoosiers. And though the Rocket has struck out 4,502 batters, he’s given up 347 HR’s. Perfection is difficult to attain.

Which is why the Colt’s story was so compelling to so many people. All the endless debate about sitting the starters or not. All the talk about the ’72 Fins. The chase for perfection polarized fans. If you were even a marginal Indy fan before the season, you couldn’t get on the bandwagon quickly enough. If you were a Peyton hater, you cringed at every audible (which means you cringed about twenty-one hundred times a game), and said a special prayer for Mercury Morris before bed each night. But no matter how you felt, the #### is up . . . the quest over.

Somewhere Monday morning, Garo Yepremian, Bob Griese, and Manny Fernandez will wake up with a champagne induced headache.

Which brings me to an interesting point. The strangest byproduct from the Colts 14 week pursuit of perfection is that it seems a new generation of football fans now hate the ‘72 Dolphins. Why? Maybe because sports figures are supposed to at least appear to be graciously ceding their records to the march of time. Hank Aaron has handled Bond’s steroid powered assault of one of sports most hallowed records with such style and class. Even the uber-competitive Dan Marino dealt with losing his single season TD record to Manning with relative ease (Though you can bet your Isotoners he was boiling inside). Compared to that kind of sportsmanship, the Dolphins champagne parties and perpetual grab for the spotlight seem so petty.

Remember, Hammerin’ Hank broke the Babe’s record under threat of death from racists around the country. The Dolphins won 14 regular season games beating only two teams with over .500. And they won ugly.

Somewhere Sunday night, champagne glasses were raised in perfection's honor. Too bad it wasn’t in an Indianapolis locker room.

So it’s early. Real early. If it’s hard to do this at work (see, oh, I don’t know, ALL of my previous posts) it’s harder at home. Dial up. Two kids under two. No peace. So, I gotta get up early on a Sunday to make it happen. That’s dedication, people. I’d love to hear from anyone else who has the same plight.

No office drama today (though this week should bring several fun little tid-bits of office info: a look at my company’s COO (you’ll love to hate this guy), our comapany Christmas party, and my performance evaluations for this quarter. Can’t wait to share). . . On to sports . . .

NFL Ramblings
The Patriots over the Bucs. Who knew they had a 28-0 butt kicking of the Bucs in them? If you live outside of New England and try and tell me that you thought they had a chance after the loss at Indy (remember, that loss put them at 4-4), you are a dirty liar.

One question. When you wake up this Sunday morning, do you honestly have to begin to consider if the Pats are Super Bowl contenders? I think you might have to. There is some kind of funky karma going on in Foxborough, and I know the source. Three words: Belichik's. Homeless. Parka.


The Giants over the Chiefs. We could talk about Tiki’s 220 and 2, but that wouldn’t be as much fun as talking about crazy #### Vermeil. Here’s the Weepy One’s quote from the post game press conference: "We weren't worth a damn. I'm not worth a damn. No one's worth a damn.” There was a moment about three years before my grandmother passed away where I clearly recognized the beginning of the end. We were eating dinner. She motioned to the salt and said, “Could you please pass the umbrella.” I think we are witnessing Vermeil’s “pass the umbrella” moment. If you are a Chiefs fan, are you proud of this guy? (I’d like to hear from all the Chiefs fans out there on this one. Why don’t the two of you confer and give me a consensus answer.)

Broncs over the Bills. After their 28-17 win over the Bills, Bronco’s QB Jake Plummer was effusive in his praise for WR Rod Smith, who had 11 catches for 137 and a TD. Said Plummer: "[Rod’s] the heart and soul of our offense." This comment came as a surprise to the entire team who, up to this point, thought Plummer’s neck beard was the soul of the team.

Jake the Snake is a surprising 30-11 since joining the Broncos in 2003. If he wasn’t playing in Denver, who let’s face it, still has an Elway hangover, would his legacy be different? Share your thoughts.


NBA Ramblings
Def Jam recording artist Foxy Brown told reporters last week that she hasn't heard a human voice in six months and that she will have surgery early next year to restore her hearing. Rumor has it, Foxy’s unexplained deafness occurred shortly after listening to Pacer’s star Ron Artest’s new rap album.

Speaking of Artest, latest news is that he is staying put in Indy. No truth to the rumor that teammates have requested the name plate above his locker be changed to “Manny Ramirez.”


CFBL Ramblings
BREAKING NEWS!! Stories over the weekend reported that Reggie Bush will reportedly declare himself eligible for the NFL draft. This comes as a relief to the Houstons, Jets, and 49ers, who have been throwing every game for the last three weeks in an attempt to win the Bush lottery.

Seriously, this is news to no one. More people were surprised when Cheryl Swoopes came out (What?!! A WNBA star is ####?!! Oh, the humanity . . . ).


MLB Ramblings
“Pitcher Ugueth Urbina must remain in jail until his trial on attempted murder charges, a Venezuelan tribunal decided after prosecutors formally presented their evidence.”

Just a thought here, but when the word tribunal is mentioned, you are screwed.



See you tomorrow with a recap of the day’s games, as only “On Company Time” can do it.

I said I’d keep the office stuff to a minimum, but people, it’s just too much to bear. I need an outlet.

So I got cornered by our IT guy today. My bet is that every office has “this guy.” He knows so little about sports, yet, because he’s from Green Bay, considers himself a Packers aficionado. When I first met Cheesehead (his real name has been changed because . . . well, because I don’t know it, OK? I’m a terrible person.) several years ago, I noticed the “Wis-CAN-sin” accent. I live in Alabama so this is unusual. I say, “Where are you from?” He says, “Green Bay.” I say, “Ohhhhh! A real, live Packer fan!” For a nano-second, I am in heaven. Like Bartolo Colon at Denny’s, I believe I have just entered the promise land. “Another sports fan? Hallelujah! My days of toiling in the sports fan’s black hole are over.” I am ecstatic. And then all my hope is destroyed. I say, “So, do you think it was a good move taking Nick Barnet in the first round?” The blank stare said more than words ever could. Cheesehead obviously spent most of his life in his parent’s basement tinkering with various electronic devices. When his mom bought him his first Commodore 64 back in ’83, he was hooked. 20 years later he’s my IT guy. Which is not so bad, except now we have made the Packer connection. Anytime he sees me, and I mean every, single time, he’s says something like, “Heey there, the PAY-ckers are REE-ly gittin’ it DUN, this YEER, HUH?” I don’t have the heart to mention Farve’s demise, his 42 interceptions, Samkon Gado, etc. So I laugh and say, “Oh, yeah. Tearing it up.” And shuffle along. Sigh . . .

On to my ramblings . . .

NBA
I am convinced Ron Artest has no friends. Know how I know? If he had friends, they would have never let him get that stupid haircut (what’s with me and haircuts today?). There is not one person is his life who has the chutzpah to say, "Yo, Ron Ron . . . ummmm . . . about that hair cut idea . . . " I have, like, two friends. Not that tight with either of them. But they would call foul if I proposed something that stupid. But then again, they're not scared that I might attack them.

Oh, my gosh! Did anyone see that Charlotte-New Jersey game on Wednesday night? I didn’t think so.

Is it just me or does Carmelo Anthony look like Andruw Jones with braids? I can't help but wonder if their careers will be similar: tons of potential, moments of brilliance, but overall lacking the drive to push themselves to the next level (though Jones finally put together a great year this season). We'll see . . .


NCAA Football
I am so tired of ESPN broadcasting news conferences for recruits to announce what school they're attending. What’s next: “Tim Tebo will announce in a press conference on Monday his choice of breakfast cereal. He's narrowed it down to Frosted Flakes, Lucky Charms, and Smacks!. (Word is that he eliminated Rice Crispies because of some questions regarding the "alternate lifestyle" of Snap, Crackle, and Pop.) "We're excited to be in the running for Tebo's services," said Tony the Tiger. "We think he has GREEEEAAAATTT potential." Lucky the Leprechaun entertained reporters for half an hour or so at his complex, but no newsworthy quotes emerged during what could only be described as a continuous stream of unintelligible gibberish. "Dig 'em the Frog” did not return phone calls left at his office.”

For whatever it's worth. I think Texas has the best chance of any team in the last two seasons of beating USC. USC's defense is fallible, especially in the secondary. Besides, Vince Young looks a lot like R Kelly. Just an observation.


NCAA Basketball
October through March = pre-season.

Check back with me after Selection Sunday.

Friday . . . sweet release.

In response to some comments I will try and do more sports, less office (though this is sort of like trying to watch Stan Van Gundy in a press conference and not comment on the mustache . . . nearly impossible).

I will say this, and then on to sports: Yesterdays pathetic rant about TO and Michael Jackson was terrible. Like Buckner, I let one squib under the glove. But when every post is accompanied by the pressure of not getting caught online by your supervisor, or the Linewomen (see other posts), sometimes you force the shot.

What I meant to say was that folks used to cut Jacko some slack for being a headcase. Then he went too far. TO is edging closer to alienating whatever following he still has. That was my point. There, I just said in two lines what I couldn’t say in 700 words yesterday. Apologies.

On to my random sports thoughts for the morning. I’ll try and sneak on another post this afternoon.

NFL Ramblings
The fashion police should be staging a major sting operation in Foxborough at season’s end. While Belichick continues his truly unexplainable homeless man impersonation, Tom Brady is sporting the worst haircut I have ever seen. Really. Please, please, please check out SI's “Sportsman of the Year" cover. It is awful. His sideburns are like talking to our 85-year-old office custodian: they start out OK then just sort of ramble incoherently until they peter off into oblivion. There is nothing to compare this to. It is terrible.

Did you catch the AP article where Kevan Barlow is bragging that he and fellow RB Frank Gore are the future of the organization, not the potential draftee Reggie Bush? My favorite quote: "Barlow, who leads the club with 581 yards rushing and three touchdowns . . . " Um . . . pssst! . . . Kevin! Yeah, over here. Listen, you might want to stop talking. No, really. Bush had better numbers in ONE FREAKING GAME than you had all season. Your future is on a practice squad.

The article is high comedy. You ought to check it out.


MLB Ramblings
Remember when “Nomah” was mentioned in the same breath with A-Rod and Jeter? Yeah . . . me, neither.

Did you see the AP report out of Houston last night? Roger Clemens caused quite a ruckus at the local Taco Bell. Seems his car was parked in front of the menu for over an hour. Fearing the worse, management called the paramedics. When they got to Clemens’ car, everyone was relieved. Nothing was wrong with the Astros’ ace . . . he was just taking his time deciding. "You know, the Chalupa's are mighty tasty," the Future Hall of Famer was quoted as saying, "But the Chipotle Grilled Stuff Burrito's . . . well, they sure are zesty. I was just trying to keep all my options open."

A-Rod, A-Rod, A-Rod. Best I can tell, A-Rod never lived a day of his life in the Dominican Republic. Born in NYC, grew up in Miami. So why the deliberation about playing for them in the World Baseball Classic? If this were the prevailing logic of all the participants, we would have no US team at all. Though the Welsh, Irish, and British teams would be stacked. "Now pitching for the Eastern Germanic Tribes, Billy Wagner."

And while we're on the Baseball Classic, leave it to our government to mess up a good thing. Banning Cuba really puts a damper on things. You know there were at least a dozen teams that were going to be pulling out all the stops trying to urge defections, looking for the next Contreras or El Duque. There would have been more revelry than a weekend-long recruiting visit to the University of Colorado. And let's be honest, raise your hand if you think Cuba is a threat to anyone. Why does anyone take Cuba seriously? They're like your cousin who sells Amway (or maybe they’re just like my cousin that sells Amway) . . . annoying, not really that dangerous, and their isolation is caused by their own doing. (If you want to ban someone from baseball, why not ban Ugueth Urbina. Unless you are OK with a machete wielding maniac coming on to close out the 9th.) I mean, the "revolution" is what, like, 50 years old? Hey, Fidel, I think you got 'em all. All I know is that today is a big day in Cuba. It's the day that the new car models hit the market. Yup, for $1400 you can get a '58 Chevy of your very own. Really. Give me a break.

Gotta run so I don’t get fired. More later. Maybe.