It's been quite a long time, FoxSports blog brethren--in fact, it has been over six months since my last post, following my runner-up finish in the "Next Great Sportswriter II" contest. And since NGS 2, as some of you may be aware from my conversations with Ty Hildenbrandt (aka Quick Slants and first NGS winner), I have been writing for a local newspaper in Johnson County, Indiana.
However, I recently accepted a position as Assistant Editor and Writer for a new publication, which will service the central Indiana area, High School Sports The Magazine. If you are interested, you'll be able to read my writing online beginning at the end of March.
Many thanks for all the support...and more importantly, know that blogging DOES lead somewhere, as long as you want it to. Perhaps our paths will cross again, but until then, good luck and best wishes!
Last August, my wife and I relaxed by the pool at a luxurious resort in Cancun. We were on our honeymoon, surrounded by a hundred other couples with the same wedding date as us, which was really all we had in common. That was, of course, until I noticed the guy in the Red Sox hat. While everyone else sat virtually silent with nothing relevant to say to each other, we talked for over an hour about our beloved Sox—the comeback, Schilling’s bloody sock and that painful game seven of the 2003 ALCS.
Despite the fun we had, and aside from the “you’re really talking about sports right now?” look on my wife’s face, I’ll always remember that guy, that conversation and the way that sports brought us together.
That is what sports provides us with—they create a commonality between strangers, making us feel like we all are connected in a way that distance and time make impossible. For some reason, sports are more than just a bunch of kid games played by adults. They hold an intrinsic emotional value to us, providing a medium that allows everyone to relate as if we’d known each other for years. Sports are the temperature gauge of our society.
It’s incredible but true: as a country, we argue and get more worked up about issues like steroids, the NBA MVP and the importance of U.S. soccer on the global stage than we do issues that really affect our lives like, say, rising gas prices and our need to find alternative energy sources.
If you’re reading this, then guaranteed, you know sports is the only thing that would cause a normally rational person to lose his cool in a restaurant after overhearing the conversation at another table, about Mario Williams being a better pick than Reggie Bush. After all, some things can’t go unnoticed; they just instinctively grab your attention. Never mind if your child has poured the entire bottle of ketchup onto his plate. How can anyone side with Charlie Casserly?
Think about how we interact with each other as a society—it isn’t through larger social issues, it’s through sports.
We don’t sit at a bar and talk about environmental statistics, we talk baseball statistics. We don’t have parties where we get together and watch the crop report; we get together and watch the Super Bowl. Kids don’t play “Global Investment Strategies” in their room at night, they play Nerf basketball. And I certainly don’t get together with my wife’s family to have a Social Security discussion; we go to a Triple-A baseball games and share $5 beers.
Sports have an influence on our lives that can only be pinpointed when we examine our actions. It drives us to do crazy things and shift our priorities. Take me for example: I’ve decided it’s more important for my four-year old to learn to taunt his Yankee-loving grandfather mercilessly about their pitching woes than it is for him to learn to read. He’s only got a few more years before he starts attending games with me, and he needs to be ready. You have to prepare them for it. Reading will come with time—they have schools for that.
Sports can even inject reason and logic into unrelated situations. A high-ranking government official makes a harmful and derogatory remark about a subsection of society? Fine ‘em like the NBA does Mark Cuban. That’s right, give the Supreme Court the right to levy fines on these poor representatives of the American people. Just as it’s bad for professional sports as a business when an owner, manager or player acts out in an inappropriate way, it’s bad when our elected officials do the same. But I digress.
Though our seemingly ridiculous obsession with sports comes at a price of time and emotion, there’s always a return on our investment. Maybe it’s playing golf with your dad or your brother-in-law. Perhaps it can come from watching your favorite team win a championship so you can experience a little bit of the purest form of joy in life, which is in the moments after a team or player wins a title. Or it could be getting an autographed picture of a childhood hero for Christmas, which will, under no circumstances—even the threat of bankruptcy—be sold for personal gain.
The point is that sports has crept into nearly every aspect of our lives, often manifesting itself when we least expect it—whether in a restaurant or on a honeymoon in Mexico. And even if my wife still has that look on her face, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Some brief, sarcastic comments on the last few days worth of Sports “news”:
Buggin’ Out—So Roger Clemens is going through his first (what would you call it, rehab start?) outing since rejoining the Astros, pitching for Class A Lexington Legends last night when his son approaches the mound during the third inning.
“Dad, I just wanted to tell you if you strike out one more guy, the entire crowd gets free wiper fluid.”
Upon hearing this news from Koby, the Rocket proceeds to get two more strikeouts, finding the motivation to retire the side. Now every time it rains or a bug splatters the windshield for the next month, people in Lexington will think of Roger Clemens.
I just glad Clemens wasn’t down there for “Mullet Appreciate Night” back in May—he would have had to go 1986 on everyone.
Just Sickening—No one should be overly concerned that Dwyane Wade has missed a couple practices because of lingering effects from the flu that hampered him in Game 6 of the Eastern Conference Finals. We’re talking about practice, man. We’re talking about practice.
What would really make Wade sick--and everyone else except Dirk Notwitzki--is if David Hasselhoff sang the National Anthem before one of the games in Dallas.
Hearing crickets—The College Women’s World Series match-up between Arizona and Northwestern drew more viewers than Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals, which pulled in a cool 611,000 households. Yep, Hockey's definitely making a comeback.
Take it easy, Champ, why don’t you sit the next couple plays out—Seems like there are quite a few major leaguers upset at Lastings Milledge for giving some hive fives to the fans after hitting his first major league home-run. This wasn’t during play, it was between innings on his way to the field.
Lighten up about baseball’s unwritten rules. Perhaps the crackdown on amphetamines has really made some players/managers cranky. Maybe most of these guys need to make peace with themselves for not doing the same thing on their first home-run.
You know that annoying ride at Disney World, where all the little mechanical children sing “It’s a small world” over and over, until you get off the ride and it’s stuck in your head for two days?
Well, that’s Barry Bonds right now, annoyingly stuck in my head. Just when I think he’s out of sight and out of mind, suddenly, there he is, like the aforementioned song. That concept, in itself is why Bonds has also finally given me reason to acknowledge his greatness, tip my cap, stand and applaud.
It isn’t because he will pass Babe Ruth. It isn’t because I’m overly compelled to believe he knowingly didn’t take steroids. It isn’t because of him overcoming adversity, race issues or Father Time.
It is because of the stark realization that Barry Bonds is one of the greatest entertainers of all-time. He’s changed the face of sports, entertainment, television and dramatic theater. Bonds is smart, crafty and about ten steps ahead of everyone else.
And I’m a fool because it took me so long to figure it out.
Forget baseball, forget records. Forget your own personal feelings on the man and whether he did or didn’t cheat. Focus simply on the idea that we follow the man’s every single move, day after day, month after month.
What we’re witnessing is exactly what Barry wants us to see. It’s all a part of the show—right down to the things he can’t even control.
To understand this, we must understand Barry. An enigma of a personality and a baseball player, Bonds is anything but transparent. But if there is one thing we can be certain of throughout his baseball career, it is this: Barry Bonds wants to be remembered. He wants to be a legend—and it doesn’t matter how that happens.
It is that truth—the human desire of wanting to be remembered—that has motivated Barry Bonds for the past decade.
Books say that Bonds was upset that Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa were breaking records by using steroids, so to prove he was better on or off the juice, Barry did it too. Rumors say Barry was a poor teammate in college and in the pros. Reporters have said Bonds is a jerk in the clubhouse.
Has Barry ever really confirmed or denied anything? No, he hasn’t—and it doesn’t matter whether any of it is true or not, because we’re missing the point.
By not knowing anything, by not knowing what to believe, we become more and more intrigued. And the intrigue feeds our desire as sports fans and humans to know and to believe. It doesn’t matter what we believe or know, as long as it’s something.
Barry Bonds knows this—he captures us by using the natural human desire of wanting to know.
Think about it: what better way to sway and manipulate the opinions of the people who dislike you than by doing a reality show? Because at the end of last season, it didn’t matter what the truth was—if Barry had taken steroids or not, if he would break the record, if he really was as bad as the reporters made him sound—public opinion was all that mattered. And public opinion is hard to change.
Some may never watch, but most will. Because we can’t not watch, we have a compulsive need to. The more confused and uncertain we are, the more we watch, the more we try and find little pieces of the Bonds puzzle in order to form our truth of him.
All the time between 713 and 714 did was fan the flames and pique our interest. When will it happen?!? Where will it happen?!? How will fans react?!? How will Barry react?!? Will baseball celebrate?!?
It’s just part of the show. Though ‘Bonds on Bonds’ is on a “break” from filming, I fully expect Bonds to come up with a new way to hold our attention. Even when we’re not paying attention to Bonds or his show, we’re still paying attention to the story.
Bonds is the ultimate drama in sports and has a sweeps period every week. Who needs an end of the season cliffhanger like The O.C., The Office or 24? We’ve got the equivalent of a season finale practically every day with Bonds.
Bonds is the legend he always wanted to be. Maybe not in the way he wanted—or we wanted—but he transcends baseball and sports. Few have ever done that. He’s polarizing and engaging; despised and cheered.
And he’s not going away anytime soon. Like the Disney ride, you experience Bonds once and it stays with you for life, which is exactly what he wanted all along.
Let’s just settle the MVP debate right now…in my house, it’s my wife. When it comes to our team, I play sidekick. I talk a lot, put up some solid numbers and take over for a little while—but in the stretch run, I defer to my wife when it comes to our newborn daughter—our daily opponent, who right now has a record like the ’96 Bulls. In other words, in our house, I’m Shaquille O’Neal and my wife is Dwyane Wade.
That worries me, because with Shaq Daddy, you don’t know what you’re getting anymore.
As I watched a Rocky marathon last weekend, I realized that Shaq is in the Rocky V stage of his career.
Long ago, O’Neal reserved his spot as one of the best NBA centers ever—his career 26.3 points, 11.8 rebounds and 2.5 blocks per game are a lock for the Hall of Fame. Off the court, Diesel has always been a fan favorite. He gives us good quotes, has a sense of humor and has a love of life we don’t often see from professional athletes. After all, Shaq is the person who gave us Blue Chips, six rap albums and of course, the Reebok “Don’t Fake the Funk on a Nasty Dunk” campaign.
But on the court, the inevitable is here—Shaq lacks the hunger, the skills and the attack to be as dominate as he once was. Basically, he’s every Rocky Balboa before the cool “regaining the hunger/turning point/training hard” montage.
O’Neal doesn’t impose fear anymore—in opposing centers, in opposing teams, or the refs. As expected, this is hard for Shaq (and us) to rationalize. When he’s sent to the bench for early foul trouble, as he often has throughout the playoffs this year, he can only be thinking something like this:
“But I’ve been doing the same moves my entire career—what’s different now? They’re all just floppers and the refs have it out for me.”
He sees every opposing center as a new version of Vlade Divac--massive jokes as defensive players, who fall down and don’t move their feet; praying to draw the charge.
In reality, Shaq’s a big man who can’t move his feet very good—his reaction times have slowed with age, and he really is committing fouls. Case in point: In the past five seasons, his personal fouls per game have gone from 3.0 in 2001-2002 to 3.9 this year.
The refs aren’t calling Shaq differently. Shaq is playing differently.
It goes much deeper than that. O’Neal needs extra time to recuperate—it’s clearly obvious he’s much better on an extra day's rest. When the playoffs come around, he always steps it up a notch—but now, even that’s getting to be a challenge. If Jason Collins (who isn’t exactly Ivan Drago out there) is giving you problems, you know you’re in your twilight.
The last few years of his run with the Lakers, Shaq openly admitted to using the regular season as preparation for the playoffs. When you’re an athlete in your 20’s physical prime, that mindset works. When you’re in your 30’s…eh, not so much.
In fourteen NBA seasons, Shaq has only missed the playoffs once—his rookie year with Orlando. But he’s playing fewer and fewer regular season games—for the first time since an injury plagued 1996-1997 season (excluding the ’99 lockout), Shaq played less than 60 games. Allen Iverson used to ask about the importance of practice…Shaq seems to be asking about the importance of the regular season.
History and logic tells us that all great centers start a rapid decline around age 30-32. It’s a time-told truth—like the inevitable fall of boy bands. Like most of the greats, one season you have it, then Kazaam!—the next your fighting injuries, age and fatigue.
Like Brett Favre, Randy Johnson and so many before, Shaq shouldn’t be told to quit—that’s his decision (and despite how we like to remember the mega-stars who were nearly as large as the game, it will always be their decision). With that said, he is far removed from his days of dominance and the Shaq-Fu.
Another case in point: for ten seasons, he averaged over 26 points per game. In the past three seasons, his points per game dropped to 21.5, climbed back to 22.9, and then dropped again to 20.9 this year. O’Neal only scored 30 points in a game four times this season. His last 40-point game in the regular season was December of 2003 against Washington.
It doesn’t help when Shaq loses role players like Eddie Jones and Damon Jones—who hit timely shots and played solid defense. Good team defense could hide Shaq’s slower mobility (almost inability) now to block shots. And when O’Neal is forced to help out, he’s moved away from the basket and can’t recover fast enough to hit the boards. For the first time in his career, he’s averaging less than ten total rebounds per game.
I bet my wife is hoping my career doesn’t decline to the point she can only count on me once every three days. She’s putting up Wade-like numbers against the baby: 3 hours sleep, nursing and taking care of the 4 year old. If we’re going to win a championship, I’ve got to step it up—just like Shaq.
If we are to witness a “Shaqaissance”, then Carl Weathers needs to get down to South Beach and whisper into O’Neal’s ear: “There IS no tomorrow…got to get it back, man—the eye of the tiger!”
And if neither Shaq nor I start contributing more to our respective teams, we’ll both be out of jobs.
There’s a team in Major League Baseball that is embroiled in backstabbing, infighting, finger-pointing and more unanswered questions than an episode of The Office –but are just as funny. And that was just after the New York Yankees second straight loss of the season to the Boston Red Sox.
Welcome to another episode of “As The Yankees Turn”—the ongoing story of a rich baseball owner who buys, sells and uses players about as often Kevin Federline sires children.
There are so many different personalities on this team, Cybil would fit in perfectly. In fact, pencil her in for a potential 5th starter.
It appears the fallout of ‘Greatest Collapse Ever’ in 2004 is still having its side effects. This is how dynasties and empires have crumbled throughout history isn’t it? They lose a big battle, but technically the “off-the-cliff” fall from grace doesn’t happen immediately. It takes a few years for the walls to really come down.
But when they do, they fall hard. Thus, I give you exhibit 954B of fallen empires: The New York Yankees—at least for the foreseeable future.
Nearly a month ago, I said the Yankees were on the downslide and Randy didn’t look good. It may have been a tad premature, but it is true.
Randy Johnson was supposed to be the ace of the staff. After giving up 7 runs, five hits, five walks and getting just three strikeouts on 92 pitches in 3 2/3 innings last night in a 14-3 loss to Boston, he’s more like the lead donkey of the stable.
"The Boss”—(I thought that nickname was reserved for Bruce Springsteen? Though, I bet King George does hum Glory Days a lot these days)—left after eight innings, presumably to beat traffic.
As he left, he predictably lashed out at his high-priced team, specifically A-Rod, who committed two errors and hasn’t had a clutch hit since Seattle.
"I am upset at a lot of them" Steinbrenner said, when asked about Johnson. Before getting into the car, he said, "The third baseman", tipping us off with a cryptic clue as to who the responsible party really was for this loss.
As a Red Sox fan, I don’t really know why I care or find this all so intriguing, but I do. Playing devil’s advocate for your rivals is fun when you’re not the one with all the problems anymore. It’s like being the black-sheep of the family only to find out that your brother is way more #### up than you are.
With that in mind, am I the only one noticing something strange about Steinbrenner? The last couple of seasons, he’s remained surprisingly low key (for him)—even going so far as to promise GM Brian Cashman and manager Joe Torre more space and less criticism.
Now, suddenly, old George is back—playing the big, bad version of the Boss—with his scowl included at no additional cost. The way this whole saga is playing out eerily reminds me of the Kevin Kline film, Dave, in which Kline plays a guy (Dave) who looks just like the President and after a stroke renders the real President incapacitated, Dave acts like the President for months.
I wonder if we are witnessing a “fake” George—stranger things have happened.
The luck’s run out, though, in the Yankees case, the money never will—but eventually you discover there’s only so much proverbial gold at the end of the rainbow. And while they sit only a game back in the competitive A.L. East, its different this time.
Perhaps the Yankees are getting what they deserve—should you really trust an aging pitcher with a mullet? Or a superstar with commitment issues (remember A-Rod’s $252 million dollar contract with the Rangers that lasted three years and his inability to commit to a nation for the WBC)? How about handing over the hallowed reigns of centerfield to a player who throws like my four year old son does with his non-dominant hand?
Maybe all these soap-opera like storylines—from Carl Pavano’s fake injury to Gary Sheffield’s new “injury=no-play” stance, to A-Rod’s problems in the clutch, to Bernie Williams decline and Randy’s rapidly decreasing dependability—are all part o####iant plan to scam Steinbrenner.
It would be fitting, in a way, if that were the case. Because 99% of the other franchises in Major League Baseball can’t make mistake after mistake after mistake in the front office and player personnel areas and still have a contender year after year.
Cracks in the armor can’t be concealed forever—like El Duque’s age, it will eventually come to light.
The story doesn’t end, it just gets messier.
Dynasties crumble. Empires fall. And the luck runs out.
When it comes to sports and gambling, we’re a fickle crowd. We like predictions, like being told who’s going to win and lose, not just in the big games, but game eleven of the regular season as well. It’s funny—we love the World Series of Poker, “The Gambler”, White Men Can’t Jump and everything in between—as long as it doesn’t involve real athletes and sports that we care about.
Fans, well we’re allowed to gamble. As betters, we don’t have favorites. We have winners and losers—and we respect them equally because they put money in our pockets. We can place bets on the teams, the winner, the loser, what the total points scored by both teams is, how many points, hits or touchdowns a player will have. We bet on everything down to the length of the game.
But we sure are funny—if not a bunch of hypocrites.
See, it’s ok for us to bet on sports, to put money down on something, anything—but it’s not ok for athletes themselves—even if they don’t play the sport they’re betting on or are retired from professional sports all together. It raises more eyebrows than antes.
We can bet on college sports like the USC-Texas Rose Bowl or the NCAA Tournament—and do it online at every major sports site, but Charles Barkley is viewed negatively for telling us he threw thousands and thousands of dollars away at some table in Vegas?
Here’s what I don’t understand: why do we care? Aside from crossing the line of fixing games to meet the outcome that the bookies want (which is wrong and has no place in sports, obviously), where else is gambling someone else’s concern?
Would you care if I went out and blew all my money in Vegas, then came home with nothing and my family ended up on the street? Probably not.
It’s like watching Austin Powers gamble—if I’m a dumb gambler and don’t know a thing about cards or casinos or betting and lose—then call me stupid and irresponsible with money. Maybe worry for my family for having to rely on me to provide for them.
Barkley can do whatever he wants with his money, because it’s his.
This isn’t steroids; it isn’t drugs or performance enhancers that affect (except in cases of fixed games) the purity of the game or score fixing. When you bet, you are always at risk to lose—the more you could lose. These are the rules, they’ve always been the rules and you know that going in.
When Daly and Barkley go out and confess to having a “gambling problem”, I don’t feel sorry for them or hold them in contempt—I laugh. Because anyone who has taken a math class can tell you it’s quite a risk to put a large sum of money on the probability that the event you’re betting on will occur.
Daly isn’t stealing money from me—he’s throwing it away in bunches, which is silly, but none of my concern. If it was an athlete that wasn’t playing hard and was getting criticized for it, I can see that debate.
But Barkley isn’t playing for his lunch money; he isn’t a person of high power in a public setting that has a problem which would affect his leadership abilities.
(Though, if Chuckles did run for Governor of Alabama, I wouldn’t want to hear his economic improvement strategy: “Let’s just take all last year’s taxes and put in on Red 19—we’ll triple our state income!”)
A lot of what we think about the topic depends on who it is: Pete Rose is considered a baseball pariah—even though it was never proven he bet on baseball as a player, which is what keeps him out of the Hall of Fame.
Michael Jordan heavily gambled (there’s even been that gossip-like rumor that Jordan was forced to retire from basketball in 1993 because of gambling problems)—but we don’t let that affect our judgment of His Airness.
In fact, we don’t let anything affect our opinion of Jordan. It’s taking on mythic proportions at this point. He’s turned into Bill Brasky from the SNL skits with Will Ferrell.
Let’s hope Kobe Bryant doesn’t start gambling away money at a blackjack table—he’ll never be allowed on the basketball court again.
We sure are funny sports fans. We hate the gamblers, but we love the lines. In that spirit, here are the odds for some upcoming sporting events:
10:1—Odds that Kobe Bryant and Raja Bell participate in a “No Holds Barred” match after Game 7, with Luke Walton and Lakers assistant Kurt Rambis as Kobe’s manager.
Hilarious: Riveting—Odds that Bill Walton will call Game 7 of Lakers-Suns Saturday and act like he doesn’t know or acknowledge Luke Walton.
Over/Under on how many days until Paris Hilton moves on to Vince Young or Jay Cutler: 6
2:1—Odds that Barry Bonds uses his recent head injury to plead that amnesia caused him to forget whether or not he knowingly took steroids. Looks like now we’ll never know.
EVEN—The winner of NASCAR’s Crown Royal 250 must take 250 shots of Crown to prove he’s the champ.
If you had told me at any point in the past ten years that the Los Angeles Lakers and the Los Angeles Clippers would meet in the playoffs during any postseason, I would have spit out my beer and laughed uncontrollably, like the New Orleans Saints front office probably did after the Houston Texans didn’t take Reggie Bush in the NFL Draft last Saturday.
So here we are, dealing with the improbable, but very possible—a series between two franchises who share the same arena, but distinctly different histories. If this wasn’t the Lakers and the Clippers, the focus would be on the goofy notion that neither team will leave their home court; they’ll just alternate locker rooms. The biggest thing either has to deal with is the change in the paint color scheme on the court.
Here’s what’s most troubling: who would get dibs on the front row seats, Jack Nicholson or Billy Crystal?—because Lord knows there isn’t room for both in Staples.
While the focus in this upcoming series should be on the Clippers, a Caddyshack like Cinderella story of the bumbling franchise that all of the sudden turned into a viable playoff contender (with Donald Sterling staring as Judge Smails)—it won’t be.
The Lakers are the most intriguing playoff story going, for two reasons: Phil Jackson and Kobe Bryant.
Though he’s tied with Red Auerbach with most NBA titles won by a coach, the knock on Phil Jackson has always been he had all the talent while winning titles with the Bulls and Lakers. And until recently, maybe that was true.
But after this impressive season-long coaching clinic, when will Phil get the recognition he deserves as Greatest Coach of All-Time? Because there’s nothing left now to discuss with his latest turn in L.A.—and maybe that’s why he came back. How do you top winning championships with Michael and Scottie, Shaq and Kobe? How about turning a team that everyone laughed at for two seasons and making them a Western Conference semi-finalist.
We should have seen this coming—shouldn’t have we assumed that Jackson would out-coach Mike D’Antoni?
Maybe this was Phil’s plan all along. Think about it: if you were Jackson, how would you go about winning games during the regular season in the West? Team ball? No way. Sure, maybe you can count on this collection of misfits to step up in the playoff spotlight like they have, but night after night, over the course of 82 games? Not a chance.
So you put the ball into the hands of one of the league’s most dynamic players and basically let him try to get the team into the playoffs. While Kobe’s doing his thing, Jackson was molding the likes of Lamar Odom, Luke Walton, Smush Parker and Kwame Brown into believing in their roles.
(Can you actually believe we’re talking about Kwame Brown and Luke Walton as a viable basketball players? Me neither.) One unmistakable fact about Jackson: he’s an excellent motivator and can sell basketball like Big Tom Callahan sold auto-parts.
Then, there’s Kobe. I remember watching Jordan’s “Flue-Game” against the Jazz in ’97 and the Game 6 winner over Russell in ’98, with a bunch of my friends. And it was…anti-climatic. We’d come to expect the 50 point games and last second heroics. He was Air Jordan for crying out loud.
But with Kobe, well, it’s unfair to compare him to Jordan, because he’s really not. He’s actually the anti-Jordan.
He wasn’t cut in seventh grade, his father wasn’t killed tragically and for all of his smiling, he doesn’t have Jordan’s off-court likeability (not to mention the whole Shaq divorce). Jordan was endearing because of those all his quirks. Bryant speaks multiple languages, has openly admitted to cheating on his wife and has an ego the size of Jackson’s Montana ranch getaway. Bryant is less than likeable because of these things.
So as Kobe hit the game tying lay-up and subsequent overtime winner, I was thoroughly impressed because unlike Jordan, everyone who isn’t a Laker fan is rooting for Kobe to miss those shots. Most of us want to see him fail because, frankly, we don’t like him as a person.
And that’s fine—we don’t have to like him. But we have to recognize what Bryant’s doing on the basketball court. In the past 86 games, he’s gone from selfish and self-serving, to 62 points in three quarters (where he was berated for not going for the non-Wilt record, to scoring 81 (where he was berated for actually doing it), to leading a group of players who wouldn’t see the court on most NBA rosters into the playoffs.
If there’s one Jordan comparison that works, maybe it’s this one: he massages his team mates’ confidence the same way MJ did. Did you see the way he talked to Parker after that game-tying lay-up?
And did you see the way his team mates mobbed him like Jimmy Chitwood after the Game 4 OT winner? They love him.
But somehow, we still don’t.
In a short five game span, Kobe’s played the role designed by his coach. He became a team leader and a team mate, making the Lakers into a fun-loving, all-for-one NCAA Tournament style playoff Cinderella.
And yet, we still discredit the performance. We still call him self-serving and egotistical. Make no mistake—he’s probably still all those things. But when will we start acting like the fictional Yankees fans did in For Love of the Game and just applaud this? A legend is forming in front of our eyes, but our dislike for Bryant’s personality blinds us.
After Game 4, a fan said that they hadn’t heard the Staples Center that loud since the 2000 Western Conference Finals comeback win over Portland. Sure, Smush Parker made a steal, Luke Walton forced a jump ball—but the success of this team can be credited to Phil and Kobe. They still haven’t won this series or anything else this year—and maybe they never will again.
In the last 96 hours, I’ve become a father, fought step throat, dealt with crazy neighbors and through it all did my best to get my sports fix. On Thursday, I became a father to a beautiful baby girl that my wife and I named Brielle (thankfully, she looks a lot like my wife). We also have a four year old son, Cole. I tell you this because the last four days have been, well, a little crazy.
Hello, my name is Bri. I’m a sports addict. This is the story of how I blended sports into the weekend my daughter was born.
Thursday, April 27, 2006 My wife was induced for labor at 7:00 a.m., which meant we had to get up at 5:30. After some general proceedings, the doctor informed us we had a couple hours before the show really began. Thanks to the posh luxury hospital we choose, we had a flat screen TV with a DVD player in a room bigger than Donald Trump’s vault. Thanks to my father-in-law, we had the Billy Bob Thorton remake of Bad News Bears .
Is there anyone more qualified than Thorton to assume the role of Buttermaker? That movie so wrong, you can’t help but laugh.
Halfway through the movie, my wife grabbed her bed and my hand so hard I have a small scar from my wedding ring being gouged into my fingers. Um, nurse, we’re ready for the epidural.
One short hour later, our baby was here—and my life was forever changed.
Fast forward through the whirlwind family visits and we were relatively calm in the post-delivery room, still posh and complete with internet access. As my wife and daughter went off to sleep, I thought it would be a good time to check out the NBA Playoffs. Bad idea.
When I finally wore down near midnight, I shut off the TV and settled into my less than cozy chair.
Twenty minutes into dreamland, my daughter gave me my first wake-up call. First lesson—sleep when the baby sleeps.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Day one with our new daughter produced more whirlwind family visits and our son Cole getting strep throat. As my wife and I tried to get the hang of things, I secretly kept checking playoff scores and NFL Draft prognostications.
This time, I learned my lesson. I slept when they slept. But since they were awake, I was able to watch the Lakers take a 2 games-to-one lead over the Phoenix Suns.
So here’s my take: if the argument surrounding Kobe Bryant not being MVP was that he didn’t make his team mates better, what does his performance in this series do to that? 17 points and 7 assists, with all other Laker starters in double figures. Certainly seems MVP-esque.
MVP is an objectionable prize, broken down by not just stats, but intangibles. We want and ask for certain things from the front-runners, but we still manipulate the facts and figures to our liking. I don’t know the answer to the MVP questions, but I do know that Kobe’s made a point—and with that posterizing dunk on Nash in Wednesday’s Game 2, a very big point.
How about a little credit to Phil Jackson? Sure, Jackson always has the best players to win his titles with, but how about the 1994 season without Michael Jordan? Or this Zen-like approach to the Suns in these playoffs? Let’s hope P-Jax writes a book about it.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
We got to leave the hospital with our little bundle of joy, but not until mid-afternoon. Which meant my daughter and I had some quality time watching the NFL Draft together. Naturally, she slept. It won’t be the last time she gets bored and falls asleep with daddy watching sports.
I’ll share this with her someday, that she got her first taste of the NFL by sleeping through the Texans making one of the biggest draft day mistakes in recent history. As I enjoyed her resting comfortably on my chest, I sat stunned and intrigued that Houston actually picked Mario Williams first, letting Bush go to the Saints at number 2.
Has the NFL become so self-involved and over-analyzing that teams really create flaws in players deemed too good to be true? What was once questionable about Vince Young was his ability to escape would-be tacklers at the professional level. With time that passed. But I actually heard people say this was something Bush would have trouble doing in the NFL as well.
Of course, we can’t know until we see Bush play—the same could be said about Young—but Bush has the ability to play no less than four positions in the NFL, and play each now. Then there’s the fact that for the better part of two seasons at USC, no one could lay a hand on him.
It made me sick. Well, not really—but I did get strep throat late Saturday night.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
My wife and I are in the midst of buying a house—a process that can’t end fast enough. We have, to my knowledge, the worst neighbors in the history of apartment life. It’s like their entire existence is spent listening to weird music at obscene levels at all hours of the night.
Naturally, they choose Saturday night to have some fun with the speakers. My wife couldn’t sleep because the baby is hungry ALL THE TIME. Seriously, newborns should come with a warning label. The baby is like LenDale White in the off-season.
After a morning trip to the local sick-bay where I acquired some much needed anti-biotics and the obligatory “get some rest” prescription, I settled in for an afternoon of NBA Playoffs. The wife was fine with this, I didn’t even ask. Well, maybe because she was sleeping.
I take what I can get. Welcome to the world, Brielle. And welcome to the sports world your daddy lives in.
With the way the NBA playoffs have started, what with the Clippers winning their first playoff game since 1993 and taking a 2-0 lead in it’s series over the Nuggets, we’ve started the playoffs a little differently than normal. In addition to that, the Pacers, Wizards and Lakers are all playing each of their series tight. It looks like we’ve got some crashers on our hands. And if you’re going to crash something, you’ve got to have rules—we learned that from Wedding Crashers last summer.
Using that as a guide, here’s a list of rules for prospective Playoff Crashers.
Rule #1—“Never leave a fellow crasher behind.”
Typically, the best two teams meet in the NBA Finals. It’s hard to crash the playoffs, only a few have taken it as far as John Beckwith did: in 1999 the Knicks were only the second team to beat a 1-seed as an 8-seed (the Nuggets were the first in 1994 over the Sonics). The Knicks made the Finals, but fell to the Spurs in five games.
The point of a playoff crasher is to get in and have your fun—but when other crashers start to fall, you usually bow out gracefully. Non-biased fans want to see the best teams in the Finals, kind of like the NCAA Tournament.
Rule #6—“Do not sit in the corner and sulk. It draws attention in a negative way. Draw attention to yourself—but on your own terms.”
So many teams oblige the higher seeds by bowing out early—usually by not playing very hard and then complaining about “officiating”. Here’s a note for these offenders: the officiating is terrible in the playoffs every year, in every sport—get used to it. Give us something we can use, an excuse like you were more focused on your college graduation ceremony or something.
A good Playoff Crasher will mold itself after some of the legends. The 1995 Rockets could be considered the Chazz Reingold of Playoff Crashers. That year the Rockets were defending champions (Sam Cassell, currently manning the Clippers, was the point guard on that team, too) but the sixth seed in the Western Conference. They beat the Jazz (60-22 overall) three games to two in the first round; then beat the Suns (59-23) four games to three and followed that up in the Western Finals by beating the Spurs (62-20 with league MVP David Robinson) in six games. They were 5-0 in elimination games that year. Rule #7—“Blend in by standing out” also applies here.
Rule #20—“The older the better, the younger the better.”
If you are a potential Playoff Crasher, it’s best to be a veteran laden team or have a key veteran player that knows what to do in certain key situations. As previously mentioned, Sam Cassell’s been to the playoffs with the Rockets, Nets, Timberwolves and Clippers. That’s the player I want leading a group of guys like Elton Brand, Shaun Livingston, Chris Wilcox and Chris Kaman—playoff first-timers who, without proper guidance and support, would be making vacation plans in a week.
Robert Horry is always a good luck charm and I’m convinced that some team will hire him as an assistant coach in a few years, just in case. These veterans are here to remind everyone else that it’s a long two months to the Larry O’Brien Trophy and they shouldn’t get so excited so early—like Sack Lodge was to go quail hunting; don’t be overly aggressive.
A young team—like the ’95 Orlando Magic—can also work as a Playoff Crasher under this rule. The Magic were built for speed and comfort. A young Shaquille O’Neal and Penny Hardaway, supplemented by 3-D (Dennis Scott) and Nick Anderson made a run through the Eastern Conferences Michael Jordan-less Bulls, Knicks and upstart Indiana Pacers. The Magic ran out, you could say, in the Finals. Orlando’s Nick Anderson couldn’t close out Game 1 from the foul line, and after missing four free throws, Kenny Smith of the Rockets hit a three and sent the game to overtime. Anderson and the Magic were never the same—he broke Rule #22 of Playoff Crashing: “You have regulation to seal the deal. Period. No overtime. ”
Rule #29—“Always be a team player. Everyone needs a little help now and again.”
This applies to everyone in the playoffs—even Kobe Bryant. Most superstars need a little bit of help from their friends. They need a Vince Vaughn’s Jeremy to play the role and take one for the team; be the big guy, the Babaganoosh. Michael had Scottie, but he also had a big shot from John Paxson or Steve Kerr. Clyde Drexler couldn’t do it alone against Jordan and the Bulls in ’92, but helped out Olajuwon in ’95 with the Rockets. David Robinson needed Tim Duncan. Everybody’s needed Robert Horry.
Rule #33—“Never go back your place”.
As a Playoff Crasher, this rule becomes vastly important as the playoffs go on. Don’t let it get to a seventh game against a team that should have already beaten you. They will do so in Game 7. The Pacers never learned this against the Bulls in the late 90’s. The Kings forgot it against the Lakers in the 2003 Western Finals. Once you’ve got a team down 3-1 or 3-2, you better close it out.
So, Playoff Crashers—those are the rules, break them and you’ll be outed at the reception. Good luck, and remember Rule #76—“No excuses. Play like a champion!”
I admit I love and miss the NBA of the 1980’s. Magic and the Lakers against Bird and the Celtics, along with Michael’s one-man show. Here we are, nearly twenty years removed from that time and the main gripe against the NBA is its lack of anything resembling the basketball most of its current fans grew up watching.
All is not lost. I think the NBA is slowly working its way back to that 80’s vibe, with star players like LeBron James, Kobe Bryant, Dwyane Wade and star-studded teams like the Pistons. With that in mind, here are some early playoff awards, a.k.a. ‘I Love the 80’s: NBA Playoffs 2006’.
The “I Wanna Be Sedated” Award to the possibility of Spurs-Pistons Part Deux.
Sure, the 'Stones and the Spurs are fundamentally sound and team oriented—that’s great, except it made for one of the most boring, un-exciting Finals in the past twenty-five years last season. The Finals were uglier and more frightening than the Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes era. With that in mind…
“Sweet Dreams Are Made of This” Award for Best Finals Match-up for fans and media to: Lakers-Cavs. With a match-up like this, the league and the fans would get exactly what they’ve longed for and the media would be able to write epic pieces about Kobe vs. LeBron. It would be a classic series between two superstars not seen truly since 1991's Magic vs. Michael. Hey, a guy can “dream” can’t he?
Suns-Nets would offer scores like 130-122 in OT. It’s the anti-2005 Finals. Just think of Jason Kidd against Steve Nash, the two best point guards (Chris Paul aside) in the NBA, going at each other. What would be the over/under on combined assists between the two of them? 30? 35? How about the amount of combined dunks from Shawn Marion and Vince Carter? J
ust a terrific potential series between two teams who run up and down the court like Steve Prefontaine--and have no interior presence what-so-ever.
Lakers-Heat—Why not just combine the 80’s and the present? Miami Vice meets Showtime. Riley vs. Jackson. Is there a need to even point out the massive ratings boost the Finals would receive if it were Shaq and the Heat against Kobe and the Lakers? New Shaq sidekick against old Shaq sidekick. East coast L.A. vs. West coast L.A. I’d even hire the ringside announcers from Rocky IV to call this series. I can hear them now, as Shaq and Kobe stare each other down following Luke Walton assuming the old role of Kurt Rambis and tackling Dwyane Wade: “ It’s a gutter war!” In fact, if I’m running ‘The Ocho’ one day, I’m putting them as my number two announcing team, right behind Cotton McKnight and Pepper Brooks.
If the NBA wants to go NCAA Tournament/George Mason Cinderella on us, we could have Clippers-Wizards in the Finals. What better story than two former pathetic teams that are young and energetic; who entertain and can score. Give Gilbert Arenas a national stage in order for everyone to see him as the Top 10 player he is. Picture, if you dare, Sam Cassell doing the ‘Giant Gonads’ dance after a big fourth quarter three. Now that’s fan-tastic.
“The Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades” Award to LeBron James for Best New Artist.
On Saturday, I thought I saw a reincarnation of Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan in the body of one LeBron James. Never heard of him before, but apparently the kid can play basketball. He’s the first person since Bird or Magic that has an actual chance to average a triple-double at some point in his career. But these playoffs are really about his chance to make ‘The Jump’ to another level, that being success in the postseason. He handles the ball; he rebounds; he passes—oh, and he scores. The way he changes pace and his court vision are the primary reason that King James was able to drop a 32-11-11 triple double. With perspective, all it did was give the Cavs a 1-0 series lead against the Wiz, so this wasn’t Magic against the Sixers in the ’80 Finals—but it’s a great way to start. James also won the “You Can Do Magic” Award by the band America in a similar category.
The “Dancing With Myself” Award to Kobe Bryant in the Lakers-Suns Series.
As a Lakers fan, I’m dreading this series if Kobe doesn’t start being Kobe—like Kevin being forced to bunk with Wet-The-Bed-Cousin Fuller in Home Alone 2. This could go one of two ways—the Lakers are either getting blown out of the water or winning this series. Think about it: do you want to let Kobe get to a seventh game? Me neither. And why? Because he’s put up 39, 37, 51 and 43 against Phoenix this season.
But on Sunday, with the Lakers trailing throughout the game, keeping it close throughout, I was surprised to see Kobe defer to team mates Luke Walton and Lamar Odom—which hasn’t been done since those two were in college. C’mon Kobe, don’t think you’re fooling us—we all know you’re “Hungry Like The Wolf.”
The “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” Award to David Stern for the NBA’s outdated and useless playoff rules.
Stern rules the NBA with an iron fist not seen since Stalin. He’s certainly the supreme ruler of the NBA and we get that. But can someone explain to me why the playoff seeding formula is more difficult to figure out than the math equations from Good Will Hunting? The Clippers absolutely tank its last couple games, drop to the sixth seed, but host a playoff series against a divisional champ with a worse record? In the words of Dr. Evil, “Rrriiiigggghhhttt.” Ditch the division winner ranks ahead of regular season record stuff, pronto.
Plus, if the playoffs were any longer, we’d be staring at an end date of mid-July. Seriously, my daughter was in the womb for shorter than this—TNT's got 7 games in 7 weeks after the first round is over. One of the NBA’s worst moves with regard to the playoffs was making the first round a seven game series. There’s a lost sense of urgency in the 7-7-7-7 format. Theoretically, a team could play 28 playoff games—that’s not a playoff, that’s more than a third of the regular season.
The “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” Award to the Pistons for “most unlikely but likely happening” in the playoffs.
Simply put, the Pistons have gone over three full NBA seasons without losing one major starter or role player to injury. That’s over 300 games without being bitten by the injury bug (while benefiting heavily from an injury to Karl Malone in 2004 and Dywane Wade last year). Stuff like that doesn’t happen in the NBA for this long, so guess what? The basketball Gods seem to really enjoy music from the ’70’s. Their favorite song? Instant Karma, of course.
Two years ago, my dad and other Yankee fans were telling me that they got the best deal in the world—Randy Johnson, one of the most imposing pitchers ever, had been traded to the New York Yankees. My dad went on and on about how this was a better move than the Red Sox getting Curt Schilling the season before, that this bolstered the pitching staff of the Yankees and gave them a shut-down stopper when they faced Boston’s (then) imposing line-up.
I’m pleased to announce that the Big Unit is playing like the Big Sweat Sock. Maybe that’s not even completely honest: I’m ecstatic to the point I’ve heavily debated calling my Yankee loving father and left him some taunting messages. The only thing that stops me? I keep thinking it’s no way to repay the man who raised me—I already crushed when I told him I was a Red Sox fan eleven years ago.
Stupid parenting allegiances.
Now Johnson’s certainly a Hall of Famer. His career has been impressive throughout, what with 263 wins, both a no-hitter and a perfect game, 4,313 strikeouts (3rd best ever), an incredible 11.12 strikeout-per-nine-innings ratio (1st all-time), 10 All-Star appearances and a World Series win with Arizona in 2001, along with a host of other awards.
I’m not debating his legendary status or his Hall of Fame credentials. I’m not debating the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry and how many championships each has. What I’m talking about is the present and the future. What I’m saying is Johnson’s career is closing in on him. What I’m saying is this: you can’t hide it anymore, Randy Johnson is no longer an ace—and the Yankees are in trouble.
For years, teams and fans have been jealous of the Yankees and their ability to go out and sign the expensive players. Funny thing is, they didn’t start really doing that full-fledged until early this decade. Most of their talent came through the system and was supplemented year after year by a couple big name free agents.
About a month after the Red Sox heartbreaking loss to the Yankees in the ’03 ALCS, I made a prediction to my dad: that one day, the Yankees would run out of something. Money, talent, time, trades, options—something. Well, it’s finally happening.
They’ve got hardly any talent left in the minors. You can only trade so many young talented prospects away before the cupboard’s bare. And the few that New York does have left have already been called up and are playing, like Robinson Cano and Bubba Crosby.
They’re running out of time—Torre, Steinbrenner and Cashman aren’t getting any younger (nor are any of the players)—or any less annoyed with one another.
They’ve got no one they can trade with. Think about it—there are few, if any, teams out there willing to take on the big contracts that the Yankees are saddled with from some of their expendable/trade-able players.
Worst yet (or best yet, as I see it), the Yankees are struggling now. An early 3.5 games back of Boston—and at the bottom of the AL East, if it weren’t for a three game home sweep of the lowly Royals, the Yankees would be sitting at somewhere in the neighborhood of 4-9.
Sure, they’re going to overpower teams and win a bunch of games scoring 10-12 runs—they’re line-up has more All-Stars than an actual All-Star roster with A-Rod, Jeter, Damon, Giambi, Sheffield, Matsui and Williams. It looks like what you get right after buying MVP Baseball and then trading for all the superstars you want at the start of your dynasty’s 1st season.
It’s the pitching that’s going to be their downfall. Start with Johnson, who in four starts has pitched the most innings of anyone on the team—at age 42. Johnson has the most strikeouts, but he’s also given up the most hits, the most home runs and the most runs per game.
It doesn’t get much better—Mike Mussina, Jaret Wright and Chien-Ming Wang are struggling, while Carl Pavano’s butt still hurts from riding so much pine from spending two seasons on the DL.
It makes you wonder: are the Yankees actually one of the worst front offices in all of baseball?
Meanwhile, the Red Sox are starting the season by making themselves look like Theo Epstein is the baseball equivalent of Ken Jennings—in other words, really, really good at his job.
Over the past couple years, while the Yankees have Pavano doing nothing and collecting $9.7 million a season, Johnson picking up $16 million a season and Mussina for a cool $19.6 million last year, the Red Sox have picked up Schilling—who helped deliver their World Series, nabbed the young Josh Beckett and have generally overhauled their World Series roster—mixing veteran stars like Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz with young talent like Coco Crisp, Jonathan Papelbon, Mark Loretta and Kevin Youkilis (who I used to refer to as You-Kill-Us, I admit).
And here’s what’s strange about it all: Boston and New York have switched roles. Boston’s done with chasing the championship for one season—they’re now about staying in contention for a long time, while the Yankees appear to be going after just one more title for the Old Man.
This build-up of money, pressure and talented superstars in New York has to take its toll eventually. It already is, in a way. While Red Sox fans won’t care that we lost Pedro, Damon, D-Lowe and Arroyo if it means we’re in contention for the next 5-7 years.
I changed my mind—I’m going to give my dad a call.
If you want to know how important, how impressive, how valuable and how legendary an athlete is, just think about this: is he a one-name guy? Better yet, is he a first-name guy?
In baseball, they don’t make many one-namers. But try this: is there any baseball player in this era, in the past 20 years, that has been better at what he does than Pedro?
