Remember your high school yearbook? Me neither, but I do remember signing them for friends (stay cool, dude!), non-friends (trying to cleverly mix the word "####" in there somewhere) and wish-they-were-girlfriends (my phone number) like I was some sought-after athlete whose scrawl would be cherished for generations, if not days. Mine of course, would get the standard: Have a Neat Summer! (or was that Kevin Arnold?)

So, living in this fantasy land I call life (or maybe it's the other way around), I got to dreaming what it would be like if today's greatest athletes stopped me in some heaven-like high school hallway and asked me to sign their yearbook/media guide.

Here's what I think I might write:

Ben Roethlisberger: Yo, Ben! Dude, if you wanted to see what the inside of a Crown Victoria looks like, you could have just asked the lady! Kidding buddy, you know we're cool like that. I can joke about you being dumb and stubborn about the helmet thing, 'cause you're a local boy. In fact, I'm glad you're dumb. Dumb enough to go on the road in the playoffs three straight weeks and have the gall to believe you could win. Dumb enough to be the youngest QB to win a Super Bowl. Dumb enough to take all the #### this town has thrown at you in your first two plus years with humility and class. Remember that time at the Super Bowl party with those three chicks and that midg...sorry, dude....don't wanna get you in any more trouble, I know your mom might read this (Hi, Mrs. R!). Stay cool, dude (I should say stay dumb).

Your bud,
RJ Double U--as in I got double the chicks than U! haha

John Mikulik: Coach M!! Does it now stand for crazy "M" F'er? What was that thing with the umps all about? I mean WTF?? It was pretty awesome, though. It was like a Greatest Hits of all manager tirades. You had the Earl Weaver kick-the-dirt thing, the Lou Pinella cover home-plate-with-dirt special (the mud-pie was an added bonus), the Lloyd McClendon rip-the-bag-from-the-ground trick, the old Billy Martin Bat Toss; and you topped it all off with your very own Clown Dive into second base. Nice touch!

Your star student-athlete,
RJ (I always hated when you called me Robert)

P.S. -- The "abortion" comment didn't bother me, as that's how you described my swing.

Roger Clemens: Hey Rog, old buddy! Thanks for letting me have the privilege to sign your book. I haven't talked to you in like, the ten years since you left the Sox. I have to ask, though: you need any cookies with this milk? I mean, how long can you play this thing out? I might retire, no, yes, maybe, give me more money and I'll think about it, Koby needs a Humvee, I ain't goin' on no dang road trips, oh, ok - but it'll cost y'all. I'll give it to ya though, the Astros bought it hook, line and sinker--like that time back in October '86 when you told Coach Mac you had a blister, so we could sneak out of the dugout at Shea and go to that strip club...ooops, wrote too much, sorry. Those were the days, huh?

Your old pal,
Bobby (I write under RJ now -- aren't I clever?)

Maria Sharapova: Dearest Maria, Have I ever told you how much you meant to me? Not only did you win Wimbledon, you won my heart. Did I ever tell you I fall asleep each night to a VCR tape of you kicking Serena's #### in the semis? Each grunt you make brings a smile to my face. Did you ever read that poem I slipped into your tennis bag? How come you never returned my phone calls where I asked you to prom on your voice mail? I won't be doing much this summer, so if you like, wanna hang out after England, that'd be cool - because I know you don't do much the rest of the time you're not at Wimbledon.

Your future husband (doesn't sound that bad, does it?),
Whatever (or whenever) you want to call me

Brett Favre: Dude, I'm not signing this for you, just read what I wrote Clemens. Unlike you, his skills haven't eroded to the likes of Billy Joe Tolliver. It just gets tired, Brett.

Your former friend,
R

Barry Bonds: No way in hell I'm paying $45,000 dollars to sign this!! but iF Any otheR #### is dumb enough to, remember, it's www.irs.gov to keep yourself out of trouble. Oops, too late!

Love,
Greg Anderson (it's the only name that can save you now).

Alex Rodriguez: Dear A-Rod....have a neat summer!

In fact, everyone have a neat summer, ok?

Your friend and blogger,

RJW

On a rainy Friday here in Pittsburgh, not much is going on. My plans on going to the ball game with my friend who's in from California have been spoiled by the wet stuff. That's the third time this year.  Tonight's was especially disappointing, not only because of my friend, but it was 1971 World Champions night. I love baseball more than anybody, but not sitting in the rain (going under the roof is for sissies). So as I wait to see if they get the game in, I decided to post some random thoughts on what is going on here, there and everywhere.  Kind of like the stuff you watch on the Jumbotron while waiting out the delay.

I've been following NGS II here almost as much as I have been following the NBA and NHL playoffs. I don't know if that's sad, funny, or both. Either way, there are some fantastic writers here and I don't envy the judges position of having to eliminate candidates every week. My eye isn't as trained (I assume), but I would lose sleep deciding if I liked Dudski's piece just a little better than Elizabeth Bennet's. I know the community here has some say, but the ultimate decision has to be tough.

Steve Blass always, to me, always had one of the best senses of humor in baseball. Still does. According to the recent book Clemente: The Passion and Grace of Baseball's Last Hero by David Maraniss, Blass had just pitched the game of his life. He tossed a four-hit complete game at the Baltimore Orioles to win Game 7 of the 1971 World Series. In the delerious locker room after the game, Blass answered the call from the President of the United States by saying "Wally's Delicatessen!" Just tonight, as they're introducing the members of that '71 team, when it was Manny Sanguillen's turn, Blass ran halfway to the greeting line before his name was announced. Not quite Chris Rock material, but funny in that silly, before-you-discovered swearing sort of way.

Speaking of Clemente, I highly recommend reading Maraniss's biography of the late great superstar. It's wonderfully written, and it tells the whole story of Clemente. Two things stuck with me. One, Clemente was a saint, but was no angel. The book recounts how in 1966 he punched out an autograph seeking fan who got a little too close. Could you imagine if something like that happened in 2006? It would be a thousand times more scandalous than say, the Kenny Rogers incident last year. Oh, these look-at-me sportswriters (it should just be 'read me' - I hate ATH) would be calling for his banishment from the game along with his head on the proverbial platter.

Second, was his unfaltering kindness to those who he chose to be a part of his inner circle. A young Phillies fan attempted to say hello to him in Spanish, and Clemente befriended her and her family immediately. Not just fleeting small talk, but he made them friends for life, inviting them on the road and to his home in Puerto Rico in the offseason.

Staying on the 1971 tip, the late Nelson Briles was honored tonight. Not many know too much about Briles, but he was one of the most unheralded World Series pitchers in history. He won games in the 1967 and 1971 Fall Classics, and pitched well in the '68 Series as a starter and reliever. He threw two complete game shutouts (including a two-hitter in '71 with the Bucs down 2-0) and helped the Cardinals and Pirates win world titles. Not bad for a career 129-112 pitcher (baseballalmanac.com).

Back to the current team, there's not much to get excited about,; but what I've been boiling about is the fact that Jason Bay is not in the TOP 15 in all-star balloting among NL outfielders. He's apparently not better than the likes of Juan Encarnacion, So Taguchi, Xavier Nady and Juan Pierre. He is definitely one of the top three outfielders in the NL - albeit not as popular. I tried to get my friends to help me start an online balloting campaign for Bay (and for Freddy Sanchez, who's leading the NL in hitting, but isn't ON the ballot), but it fizzled as soon as we realized none of them have an internet connection. So, if anyone out there would like to help, you could vote up to 25 times a day. It would be great to see Bay starting in his home park.

Well, looks like the game is going to go on after all!  Thanks for staring at the Jumbotron.

Having once umpired little league baseball, I can understand what game officials go through, albeit on a much smaller scale. I know, I know, it's like comparing a puddle to the Pacific, but no matter what call you make, it's going to upset half the people involved. Some calls, however, are so obviously and excruciatingly horrible and controversial that it still sends the jilted players, coaches and fans to the brink of insanity years later at their mere mention.

Below is a list of 10 of the most egregious offenses committed by umpires, referees and officials in the history of sports. Not all are mentioned here, and every fan may have a different perspective on where these rank (or not at all) depending on regional and team allegiances.

10. When a world record is not really a world record - Doha, Qatar, May 12, 2006

In the track and field world, the fastest 100 meter dash is the most prestigious world record to be owned. American Justin Gatlin had run the race of his life, finishing with a new record of 9.766 seconds, eclipsing Jamaican Asafa Powell’s world record of 9.77. Under IAFF rules, however, Gatlin’s result should have been immediately rounded up to 9.77, and officials changed his time 5 days later. No word on whether Gatlin went back to his former high school math teacher to punch him out for teaching the rounding up the tens’ column rule.

9. Jeffery Maier plays a good right field - New York, NY, October 1996

Trailing the Orioles in Game 1, Derek Jeter steps up to the plate and lofts a fly ball to deep right at Yankee Stadium. Orioles right fielder Tony Tarasco camps under the ball and is about to pull it in when the 12-year old Maier sticks his chubby little paws into baseball history, catching it and pulling it over the wall before Tarasco can snare it. Umpire Rich Garcia refuses to call fan interference and twirls his finger to give Jeter the home run. The Yankees recent dynasty is born, as they go on to win the game, the series and the world title. The Orioles never reach the World Series, despite having one of the finest teams in baseball during the mid to late 1990s.

8. Isn’t that an automatic ejection?  - Philadelphia, PA March 28, 1992

Duke vs. Kentucky in the 1992 East Regional final was considered by many as the greatest college basketball game ever played. It ended with Christian Laettner hitting the famous turnaround shot at the buzzer, sending the Blue Devils to the Final Four and their second straight national title. One small, minute little thing, however: It should have been Antonio Lang or Bobby Hurley taking that shot. Laettner should have been long showered up and sitting on the bench by that point. Early in the second half, Laettner, resident Golden Boy of Durham those years, must have found some dog-doo on his shoe. Problem was, he used Kentucky’s Aminu Timberlake as the door mat to wipe it off. The referee overlooked “The Stomp” and let Laettner remain in the game so he could continue his flawless shooting from the floor and bury the Wildcats with The Shot.

7. If that’s not a push-off… Salt Lake City, UT June 14, 1998.

Michael Jordan had a few quick brushstrokes to wisp over on his Picasso of a career. Bryon Russell was just trying to man him up. Who do you think the refs were going to give the benefit of the doubt to? Jordan tossed Russell so far that he ended up in Laramie, the Bulls won their sixth NBA title, and nobody outside of Mormon country wanted it any other way.

6. The “Hand of God” -  Mexico City, Mexico, June 22, 1986 .

While most American’s don’t know the rules of soccer, (or ‘futbol’) from a box of shaved butt hair, we do know that - unless you’re a goalie - you’re not allowed to use your hands to play the ball. This didn’t stop Argentinean superstar and coke addict Diego Maradona from using his fist to punch the ball into the net past a stunned England in the quarterfinals of the World Cup. Maradona admitted the meat-hook foul years later. Argentina went on to win the World Cup and the British somehow became known as whiners. Go figure.

5. He’s in the F%!*# Crease! - Buffalo, NY, June 20, 1999

NHL fans had gone through an exasperating few years of reviewed and reversed goals if so much as an opposing pubic hair was in the defending goalie’s crease. When Brett Hull’s entire left leg was in the offending area to score the championship-clinching goal in Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals, the refs and replay officials suddenly develop Ray Charles Syndrome and let the goal stand, giving the Stars the cup in triple overtime and Buffalo another colossal sports failure.

4. 5^th and Goal - Columbia,  MO October 6, 1990

Colorado was battling the upset-minded Mizzou Tigers and had a first and goal on the Mizzou one yard line with under a minute remaining. On first down, QB Charles Johnson spiked the ball to stop the clock. On second down, Eric Bienemy was stopped short of the goal line. On third down, Bienemy was stopped again. On fourth down, Johnson spiked the ball again. Apparently, amidst the confusion and the crush of fans on the goal line, the official forgot to turn the down marker over between Bienemy’s runs, giving Colorado the extra crack at the end zone. Johnson scored on the next play, giving Colorado a 33-31 victory. The referees let the play stand and Colorado coach Bill McCartney refused to forfeit the game. A similar incident happened at a Cornell-Dartmouth game in 1940, in which Cornell scored on the final play of the game with the benefit of an extra play. After the snafu was discovered, Cornell forfeited the game. The Buffs went on to split the National Championship with Georgia Tech, despite having a 10-1-1 record to Tech’s 11-0-1 mark.

3. Whaddaya MEAN he’s safe? - Kansas City, MO, October 26, 1985

 

In Game 6 of the 1985 World Series, the Royals were down to their last at-bat, trailing 1-0 in the game and 3-2 in the series to the Cardinals. With one out in the ninth, George Orta slapped a weak grounder towards first. Jack Clark fielded the ball, flipped it to pitcher Todd Worrell to beat the runner for the second out of the inning. Everyone in the stadium saw it that way. Everyone except first base umpire Don Denkinger. He called Orta safe, and the Royals used the extra out to rally for a 2-1 victory. The Cardinals, obviously distraught at the blown call, spotted the Royals the first 11 runs of Game 7 and lost the series.

2. The Immaculate Reception - Pittsburgh, PA Dec. 23, 1972

The Steelers were playing their first ever playoff game in 39 years in the city of Pittsburgh. The hated Oakland Raiders had just gone up 7-6 late in the fourth quarter on a TD run by rookie quarterback Ken Stabler. What happened next lives on in NFL history, or infamy for those favoring silver and black. On the last play of the game, Terry Bradshaw threw it up for grabs. The ball, Raiders safety Jack Tatum and Pittsburgh back Frenchy Fuqua all seemingly collided at the same time. Out of nowhere, Franco Harris caught it the moment before it hit the ground and raced into the end zone, giving the Steelers a 13-7 win and the NFL its greatest play of all time. Problem was, it was flat out bogus. NFL rules at the time stated that the ball could not touch two offensive players on the same play. If Fuqua had touched the ball, the play would have been ruled dead once Harris touched the ball. Tatum swears to this day that it nicked Fuqua. Fuqua, a flashy, gregarious player who once kept goldfish in his platform shoes, has since morphed into Helen Keller and refused to divulge the truth, once saying “I want to keep it Immaculate.” It was also rumored that pissed-off and portly Raiders coach John Madden confronted referee Fred Swearingen, who, in the midst of the anarchy on the field, ran to the dugout of Three Rivers Stadium and picked up the phone. Some believe he called upstairs to the supervisor of officials for help (because he didn‘t see the play). Madden claims that the ref called Pittsburgh Police and asked how much security they could give them to safely get out of the stadium when he reversed the call. The cop on the other end told him not enough, therefore forcing the refs to let the play stand.

1. Try, Try and Try Again -  Munich, Germany, September 9, 1972.

 

Any sports fan has to admit that game officials are ultimately human. These athletes and the objects they put in motion are moving so fast that not every call can be made 100% accurately . But what happened in Munich in 1972 was outright fraud. Cold War foes the U.S and U.S.S.R were battling fiercely for the men’s basketball gold medal. With the U.S leading 50-49 with three seconds left, the Soviets in-bounded the ball, but the referees stopped the game. The Russian’s contended they had called a timeout, which the officials never originally acknowledged. The teams were sent back onto the floor, where the Soviets in-bounded again, failing to score. The celebrating Americans were called back to the floor for the third time when the officials failed to put the three seconds back on the clock. Finally getting it right, the Soviets score and win the game 51-50. The Americans filed an official protest to a five man panel and lost by a 3-2 vote. According to an espn.com story, three judges on the panel were from communist bloc countries. The silver medals the U.S. “won” never touched an American neck and still remain in a Swiss bank vault, never to be claimed. In fact, one player went as far to put in his will that the medal can never be sought after by any surviving family member - ever.

                                       

So there you have it. Let me know if you need the number o####ood Psychologist. Some that didn't quite make the list (but will still not be forgotten) are umpire Eric Gregg's wider-than-his-fat-#### strike zone during Game 5 of the 1995 NLCS between the Marlins and Braves, the figure skating flap of the 2002 Winter Olympics between Canada and Russia, anything called by Phil Luckett in 1998 (Jets-Seahawks, Dolphins-Broncos and the Steelers-Lions coin flip faux paus), and any orgnanized boxing match.

Thanks to Wikipedia.org and ESPN Page 2 for the resources.

Writer's block. It comes to anyone and everyone who puts pen to paper, ink to printer or tap to key. I'm sure Rick Reilly gets it. Shakespeare had it (Oh, ideas, wherefore the frick art thou?). I can picture a caveman sitting on the wheel he just invented (still wasn't sure what exactly it was for), staring blankly at the wall, chisel in hand, wondering what the hell kind of shapes to scratch into the rock for his weekly "Ugh's Take" feature. He wishes he had just stuck to the weather reports.

So here I am, a week left to go until the first JUDGEMENT DAY of the Next Great Sportswriter II (you've heard of it?) and my writers block is about the size of the Prudential Building. Talk about terrible timing.

What? You want me to talk about it? Ok, I will if you insist.

Writer's block to me is more than spending four hours in front of my screen with nary a good topic. I take it with me wherever I go. Let's see, I'll say out loud. How about Barry Bonds? Ok, what can I write about Bonds that would be different than the 5,265, 232, 784, 634 things that have already been written about him? Scratch that. Barry Bonds stories could only be counted by the national debt clock that continually rolls.

I get away from the computer. Maybe going for a walk with the dogs (they have been patiently waiting this out for the last 46 days) will help me clear the noggin. We go outside and I notice they both squat at the same time. "Good dogs go together!" I fuss over them with pride. Hmm, it pops in my head, Shaq and Wade go together, like good dogs! There we go, now we're rolling.  Two seconds pass and rational thought returns. That's awful. The block continues.

Maybe by taking the laptop down to Starbucks, having one of those Caffiene Bomb Lattes and sitting there and looking smart will get the ol' creative juices flowing. Instead, I'm looking at everything but the screen: the espresso machine humming, the pretty girl on her cell phone, the hustle and bustle of the customers, the creative ways the employees can carry an order of seventy scalding hot drinks in one hand and three baker's dozens of lemon scones in the other; all the while politely deflecting the criticism of the overstuffed snob whose Macciato is "too tart." This is too fast paced...

Wait! Fast paced. Creative! Like the Phoenix Suns or Buffalo Sabres. I got it!

No, I don't "got it," nor will I ever seem to get it. Keep trying. Also, I realize that Ricky Manning Jr. could come in at any time and bludgeon me to death with my own technology, so I better scram.

I take this block to work with me. I'm ten minutes late because I had to check it in with security. Later, my boss passes me by, wearing the ugliest tie in the history of the workforce: a dollar bill.

Then it hits me like a Mayweather punch: My boss wearing that tie was a horrible executive decision, much like Ken Hitchcock of the Flyers staying with goalie Robert Esche through the entire Buffalo series. I can squeeze 700 or so words out of that, right? Right? Sadly, the 26 I just wrote end up being all she wrote on that one. I don't think a 26 word article would be accepted by the judges.

The blog block continues. I've now spent the last 72 hours in the same lucky Pitt t-shirt that I wore when I wrote a good NCAA tourney article. Nope, still nothing. Lousy time for the brain to go on sabbatical. Pitt lost in the second round anyway, and not one of those picks came close to sniffing the Final Four. I finish dead last in the pool. If they had last place here...

By now, I'm looking like Roy McAvoy in Tin Cup when he got a case of the shanks and was wearing all that junk. Aha! Maybe an article about athletes and their silly superstitions. I hear a judges' voice quickly boom in my head: "Referencing Kevin Costner movies in any way, shape or form will get you banned until NGS XLI." I squash it.

Well, looks like I'm tapped. Burnout's a ####. I guess it's time to pack my blog and move back to mom's house, which I'll have to do if I don't win this contest and the money that will keep me from getting evicted from my house along with my sick dogs who need two life-saving operations. Each. That is, unless you have any ideas for me. Do you have any ideas?

DO YOU??!

I should have stuck with the weather reports.

 

40-15 was the big number going in this past weekend's series between the Pirates and Marlins. That wasn't the combined score of the three-game set, it was the disparity between the two team's payrolls. The Pirates spent 40 million, while the Marlins pay their players a total of 15 million. No #### for the Bucs, I guess. I apologize for the bad pun. The Marlins look bad, at least pitching-wise, but they have an up and coming, young lineup. Also, they did this tear-it-down, build it back up thing before, so stay tuned. It just might be another city they're doing it in. The Pirates have a welcome off day today, with no travelling between home games. Wrong, they go to Cooperstown, NY for the Hall of Fame game against the Reds. Don't get me wrong, it's an honor to play at Doubleday Field, but if one team could really use a day off, it's the Pirates. Any day the team has had off has been a travel day, so (and BELIEVE ME, I'm not making excuses for the club) they have to be a little tired. Today should just be one of those "get the hell away from baseball and recharge the batteries" type days. A few quick notes: Outfielder Chris Duffy was optioned to AAA Indianapolis yesterday. Duffy has been a major disappointment so far this year. He was expected to be the everyday center fielder and leadoff man, but struggled mightily in both roles. He opened eyes last year with his .341 average and stellar glove down the stretch, but couldn't get it going this year. Duffy also committed a cardinal sin of baseball: letting a poor performance at the plate affect his play in the field. I'm not giving up on him. The truth is, Nate Mclouth has played pretty decently in Duffy's stead, and Chris just couldn't get on the field. It's better to play everyday at Indy instead of rotting on the bench in a windbreaker with the big club. Mike Edwards, a spare part extraordinare, was called up to replace Duffy. Jose Bautista, originally called up to replace the injured Joe Randa, has been playing too well to merit another demotion--just as he did this spring--and Duffy appears to be the odd man out -- for now.  In case anyone's interested, here's a quick fantasy outlook for the week.  This might not be a good week to start any pitchers, as the Pirates have the Reds at home and the Indians at Jacobs this week. The Reds hit just about anywhere and Cleveland has been slumping, so look for them to have a huge breakout. If you insist, however, lefty Paul Maholm (pronounced Muh-hallum) will get two starts this week. In my last post, I pointed out that Bautista didn't have any power to speak of. No sooner do I hit "blogit," he goes out and smacks two, tripling his career output of one. He's still probably no more than a buck on the waiver wire, so he's better to have on your bench or spot starting than say, Darin Erstad. In the prognostication department, I believe it's Baywatch time. That means that struggling Jason Bay should finally be ready to bust out of his slump and be the player he was last year. He's starting to get on base more by drawing walks, and his patience usually leads to getting better pitches to hit. Look for more homers, doubles and RBI's this week.

There has been a buzz about the Kansas City Royals fan who has sold of his loyalty to the Royals on eBay. All he could fetch was about 278 bucks and some hilarious publicity. The winner of the auction also gets to choose the next team the former Royals fan will now support.

As I read this, of course I thought: hmmmm, maybe I can score some extra scratch by auctioning off my love for the buccos. I could get a little more dough than the Royals fan, what with the longer history, five world titles, Honus Wagner, Pie Traynor, Clemente, Stargell, and the fam-a-lee. Hell, learning the 5,000 nicknames and catchphrases they have (Bucs, buccos, raise the Jolly Roger etc.) are worth $278 alone

No way. The Pirates are weaved into the fabric of my life; and ripping the stitching out would leave only tattered remains of my soul. I know that sounds pompous and over-literary, but it's true.

Jumping ship just because a team is losing isn't the mark of a true fan. I bet that 278 bucks that this guy was never really that much of a Royals' lover anyway. He might of followed the box scores, a few of their "stars" and thumped his chest when they won, but that's it. He was probably the kind of jerk that had World Series tickets in 1985, only to sell them off to a scalper.

I stick with my team, love, lumps and all. Sure, I'm taking those lumps now, and I'm taking them hard. I won't give up. I go to less games now, because I have a busy work schedule and I'm reluctant to empty my wallet for Kevin Mclatchy, the worst owner in baseball. I still follow them, #### about them to my co-workers, and blog about them. I still buy books about Clemente, Wagner and Forbes Field. I still have my baseball that former left fielder Al Martin turned and threw to me between innings o####ame, for no apparent reason. I still laugh when I recall how we heckled the Padres bullpen, only to watch them come in blow the game (we still take credit for that one win out of thousands).

Should I sell my memories of my first game my dad took me to, or my first home opener (against the 1986 Mets)? I haven't missed one since. Should I sell the memory of having the Pirates come to my little league field for an instructional clinic, a player complimenting a throw I made, then calling my name out in a raffle for an autographed ball (still have that one too) and shaking my hand? Should I sell the memory of hooking school to catch those getaway day games, meeting friends in the parking lot for a cold one and a catch? In fact, I have tickets for a game on Thursday and I plan on going. 

 I'll be there. Just like I always will. You can keep the 278 bucks. I'll keep my memories and that tortured, misguided hope for the future.

I haven't posted in a few days due to the fact I haven't been feeling well. Some questionable Chinese food leftovers had your favorite (read: only)  Pittsburgh sports blogger out of commission.  This led me to miss the most overhyped event in the history of mankind: the NFL draft. This year's draft was more built-up than the Super Bowl, Final Four, a Red Sox-Yankees spring training game and moon landing all rolled into one. And I missed it

So, being bedridden for the weekend, I was only able to dream about the NFL draft. And boy, was it a crazy dream. Here's a rundown. Stay tuned for the lucky numbers at the end.

First, I was lucky enough to be transported from in front of my TV into Radio City Music Hall. Wow! Is that Mel Kiper standing right in front of me? Hey, he does need three people to get his hair to hold like that. Also, just as I suspected, they're finishing up the wiring of John Clayton's head to the rest of his body. This is a crazy dream.

              

So now I'm transported to the Houston Texan's "War Room." I notice I'm a fly on the wall to this conversation:

Dom Capers: I say, screw Bush! He's a lousy President, anyway. I say we set this franchise back five more years and take that Williams kid.

Gary Kubiak: Wait a second! We're going after Reggie Bush, you ####, not George! And what are you doing here anyway? I thought we fired you.

Capers: Yeah, well I was hired as a consultant. The owner was so happy with who I took  the last time we picked first that he wanted me here again. Tell the commish we're taking Mario Williams. By the way, I'm getting paid more than you.

Kubiak: Fine. Looks like I picked the wrong week to start sniffing glue.

So it turns out Reggie Bush isn't the first pick, rendering every mock drafter, draft insider, draft outsider, draft on-the-planet-Jupiter a complete ####. This is a nutty dream.

This dream gets weirder. Next, after Bush gets taken by the Saints and Vince Young goes to the Titans, I notice I'm sitting right in the middle of the throng of Jets' fans. I also notice I'm wearing a Tedy Bruschi jersey. Please take Matt Leinart, Please take Matt Leinart, I pray. I don't want these people to tear me apart. The Jets take D'Brickashaw Ferguson. This dream is quickly turning into a nightmare. These people are going to kill me, I think. But I'm wrong, The Jets' contingent is cheering? And they're hoisting me on their shoulders, while a girl in a Chad Pennington jersey is standing on the opposite side of the pile. A guy named Spike tells me this is a symbolic gesture. "You see," he says, "now that we've got the Brick, anyone wearing a Patriots jersey won't get within the same zip code as Pennington." Wow, this dream is wacky: a New Yorker who understands symbolism?

It gets goofier. The Oakland Raiders skip Leinart as well. They grab Michael Huff instead. The Buffalo Bills take some guy named Donte Whitmer in the top ten, despite him being projected as a late second rounder. Outrageous.

Leinart ends up falling all the way to number ten, going to the suddenly tickled pink Arizona Cardinals. But as I see Leinart walking to the stage, I notice something different about his apperance. His trademark curly locks are red and thinning...wait...is that...

 Todd Marinovich

This dream is almost too much to take. Somebody or something wake me up! I'll take a telemarketer if you got one. ANYTHING!

No such luck. The dream continues. Some good news for me as a Steeler fan, though. The Steelers trade up and snag Santonio Holmes. They bypass a chance to get LenDale White and Darnell Bing, instead getting the best wide receiver on the board. As if it couldn't get any more surreal, White and Bing go much, much later. USC has their worst day since early January. Surreal, indeed.

I finally wake up, sweating more than John Madden with a plate of Suicide Wings and clutching my Mel Kiper's Draft Insider printouts. It was all just a dream, right? Right?

I notice the clock reads 11:59 PM. There's a knock at the door. Who could that be at this hour, I groggily complain. I open the door...

Those lucky numbers? Try 428, the date of next year's draft. Wake me up when it get's here, Okay? On second thought, don't. Who wants Chinese takeout?

Not a whole lot going on here in the Stale City this week. The Pirates made me look like a genius with my 5-18 prediction. The Steelers pulled a Brett Favre with their alleged draft update press conference.  Coach Bill Cowher and Player Personnel Director (can we please just call him a GM?) Kevin Colbert consecutively addressed the rabble of reporters for an hour and said; (can you feel the anticipation?) absolutely nothing. The words LenDale and White were not mentioned once, nor was any other college football player. And the Penguins, well; that Crosby kid is pretty good.

Actually, there is some potentially good news concerning the Penguins. The Russian Hockey Federation recently named former billion-time Gold medalist Vlad Tretiak its new Main Man. Penguin's fans have known all year that the Russian Federation has been holding up the transfer agreement that allows for players to move from country to country. This affects uber prospect' Evgeni Malkin's potential coming to Pittsburgh. Penguin defenseman Sergei Gonchar told the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette last week that if Tretiak was indeed named, the signing of the transfer agreement would simply be "a matter of time." I don't know, Gonchar has disappointed fans before. Especially the day he signed that 800 pound #### of a five year, 25 million dollar contract. Stay tuned.

 

I can't wait to see Millvale!

BurghBlurb quip of the week: If Tretiak let those softies in the net against Team USA back in 1980, maybe he can let Malkin slip through as well.

As I'm watching the NHL playoffs, I miss the Penguins being there. The roller coaster ride that is every two nights your team is playing cannot be matched in sports. I know, the Steelers just had a Super Bowl and a remarkable playoff run, but that was mostly three hours of tension and 656 hours of hype a week. No time for that in hockey. Just played a five overtime game? T-S, you gotta get right back into it tomorrow.

Speaking of old-school Penguins multiple OT games, it was the weary morning after a four overtime thriller against the Capitals that I read The Greatest Line Ever Written by a Sportswriter. During the press conference after the game, Caps coach Jim Schoenfeld was overly waxing philosophical about his team's stinging loss. The Post-Gazette's Gene Collier captured the moment brilliantly by writing: "when someone says 'life is a grindstone' at 2 AM, you generally ask for his car keys."

Pirates' manager Jim Tracy is a positive guy. In fact, he brought all of that California sunshine all the way to Pittsburgh. I'm not talking about his relentlessly upbeat demeanor. I mean he literally brought nice to weather to our city. It's been sunny in the high 60s since opening day.

It's just that when the Bucs take the field, it rains almost every day. No, it pours. The first thing I said out loud after the Bucs looked semi-interested in competing against Roy Oswalt in Houston was that I should be expecting the "stay positive, fellas" article in my local rag the next day. True to form, there it was.

That's all I have to say. The Pirates get Chris Carpenter tonight. The Pirates get 5-16 tonight.

Ok, I'm going to talk about something else: LenDale White!  Kidding.  Wake me when the draft starts. 

So, in the biggest subject change in blogging history....

A hobby of mine is plucking dumb quotes out of the paper and off of the internet and I found a doozy from Indiana Pacers' coach Rick Carlisle after the Pace took the series opener from the Nets in the NBA Playoffs.  He was describing  point guard Anthony Johnson, who played well against the Nets and hit the game-winning free throws. 

"There are guys on your roster you know are going to be ready to play and take care of themselves and be professional, knowledgeable, they like the game. He is one of those guys who fits that description,"  Carlisle told the Associated Press.

They like the game? They like the game? Well, I'm glad. Good for Anthony Johnson. I would hope that the pre-draft interview included something like "Hey, Anthony, do you actually like this game we're going to pay you handsomely to play? Oh yeah? Really, you sure? Good. Just checkin'. 

He likes the game so much, he's trying to play for every NBA team, with six under his belt so far. I don't mean to make fun of Johnson,.He's taken over as the Pacers' starting PG and is finally finding some success in his ninth year. In fact, I believe he was on the College of Charleston team I picked that upset Maryland in the first round in the 1997 NCAA tourney. So he's cool in my book.

It's these coaches spewing these cliches that make me want to take up vomiting and watching opera at the same time (now there's a "World Series Of" sport if I ever saw one). It makes me actually appreciate a guy like Albert Belle, who never said a word to the media before, during or after a game. Or when he had the kid sneaking into the office to steal his corked bat. I think it was a line in the Simpsons that said, "Tis better to remain quiet and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt." (or something like that, I don't feel like busting out the DVD to check). Pro sports leagues actually fine guys for not talking to the media. I'm proposing we take up a collection to pay these guys not to talk. We'll call it the "RJ doesn't want to vomit anymore or have to watch opera fund" No checks, please.

 

Leave it to the Buccos. Only they, of any major league team, can get Buchholzed. The Astros rookie pitched 8 2/3 scorless innings, holding the Pirates to only two hits in the process. Taylor  Buchholz earned his first major league "W" while striking out five and keeping the overaggressive Pirates' hitters off balance. Craig Biggio provided all the offense for the Astros.

On the positive side, the Bucs recieved another quality start, this time by Ian Snell. John Grabow, however, continues to show no real interest in being a solid major league relief pitcher as he surrendered a homer to Biggio.  His ERA went back up to 6.48

I'm starting to show no real interest in watching this team for much longer.

Nah, I won't give up just yet. Our starters have shown they can have some good starts. Our batters have shown they can mash the ball, as they were leading the NL in homeruns a few weeks ago; and the bullpen, while a major disappointment, is still thought to be a strength.  Putting all three of these together for more than two games seems to be the problem.

Last season, the Pirates once stood at 30-30, and the town was ecstatic. To get back to that, they would need to go 25-16 from now until June 5th. 22 of those games are at home and 19 are on the road, so if they could go 11-8 on the road and 14-8 at home, it doesn't sound all that difficult.

Then again...