It didn't strike me at all the first few times I saw it. Just another NBA-themed movie promotion aiming to coax a few more sunburned summer bodies into ten-dollar theatre seats. I suppose we've all become a bit numb to David Stern's marketing machine. It is, after all, part of the league's promotional strategy to produce a 30-second pat-on-the-back advert every time one of its 500 or so millionaire players reads Dr. Seuss to a classroom of underprivileged kids. But on a championship June evening, one commercial among the sea of Madison Avenue sludge made a lasting impression on me.

The concept was simple: rapid-fire images of Shaquille O'Neal dunking the ball and grabbing rebounds intercut with clips from the upcoming Superman flick. The logo on the Caped Crusader's chest merging with the faded tattoo on the Diesel's arm. Special effects and highlights. Movie heroism and sporting heroism. The Big Icy Hot selling us the next summer blockbuster.
 
But these weren't clips of O'Neal ripping down the basket as a lean young star in Orlando, or extending his giant right paw three feet above the rim to throw down a Kobe lob against the Blazers in the Western Conference Finals. This was the current incarnation of the Diesel: still larger than life, but heavy and slow, no longer the go-to guy on his own team. Booming sound effects and exploding graphics couldn't make Shaquille that player again. Not even for 30 seconds.
 
And instead of Christopher Reeve and Gene Hackman playing comic book chess with the future of humanity, Kevin Spacey and some chiseled cheekbone kid I've never heard of stood in their place. The movie sequences looked computer-graphic slick, big budget modern, and the important details seemed familiar. But in the end it just didn't feel quite the same.
 
It was the same as watching Shaq labor through this year's NBA Finals. There were momentary flashes during the series when we got to see the dominant player we once knew, but it was never sustained and didn't feel right. While Dwyane Wade was busy establishing himself as the new face of professional basketball with a one-man show for the ages, the player who had carried that mantle since the retirement of Michael Jordan was left lurking in the shadows, rarely even given the opportunity to touch the ball down the stretch of the most important games of the season.
 
O'Neal's diminished performance can't be written off as the result of technicalities like free throw problems. When the Lakers beat the Indiana Pacers in the 2000 NBA Finals, Shaq had a miserable time from the line, shooting just over 38% for the series. But he still managed to average 38 points while carrying the Lakers to victory and winning Finals MVP. The "hack-a-Shaq" strategy was devised during his most dominant Laker years, and the big fella never let it temper the tenacity of his play.

Shaquille would probably like us to believe that his deteriorating numbers are merely the result of his deference to the emerging genius of Dwyane Wade. While Shaq has an undeniable superstar serving as his right hand man these days, he was never comfortable sharing the spotlight with Kobe Bryant, who, for all his faults, has the ability to be every bit as spectacular in a seven game series as Wade was. The lasting impression of his relationship with Kobe will always be tainted by the rancorous way his stay in Los Angeles ended. But the big man's baritone Wade is the best in the World rhetoric after game six sounded su####iously like the Kobe is the best player in the World rhetoric Shaq used on occasion during the happier times in La-La land. If O'Neal still had the same ability to dominate, it's a fair assumption that he wouldn't be nearly as content taking a back seat to the emerging Wade.  
 
Simply put, and as difficult as it is to admit, Shaq's physical abilities have deteriorated to the point that he is hardly recognizable when compared to clips from just a few seasons ago. It's obvious to anyone who watches the games objectively. He no longer utilizes the turnaround finesse jumpers and rhythmically sweeping footwork that combined with his unmatched strength to set him apart from every other power player in the league. The big man ballet O'Neal danced in the lane every night was as much a hallmark of his game as the two handed monster dunk that comprised his shoe logo. Now virtually anything he throws up outside seven feet from the basket fails to get higher than the rim. He's still deadly within arm's length of the hoop, but the changing defensive rules in the NBA have allowed teams to more effectively deny him the deep catches he now requires to score.
 
While the reviews for the newest incarnation of Superman have yet to make their way to newsstands, the reviews for the new and far from improved Shaquille O'Neal came in Tuesday night, and they were universally positive. How could anyone, even the most rabid Lakers fan, not be thrilled to see the big guy up on the championship podium again, beaming that million dollar smile from ear to ear? The fact that he didn't carry this Heat team to a title won't matter twenty years from now when Shaq's career is discussed in retrospect. Shaquille O'Neal is back where he belongs, in the NBA winner's circle, and it ultimately matters little that he had to play second-fiddle to make it there again. His performance may not have been dominating, but when the NBA's final history is written, his legacy will be.

I have dreaded seeing the Superman series remade, but maybe I should give this new Man of Steel a chance. I mean, if you had told me several years ago that Shaquille O'Neal would score nine points in the clinching game of the NBA Finals, and his team would come out on top, I wouldn't have believed it. Two great American brands, linked by an upper arm tattoo and now by a silly commercial, have changed before our eyes. The Big Aristotle has gotten older and slower, while the Caped Crusader has gotten younger and flashier. Those of us who haven't been lucky enough to catch a sneak preview of the Hollywood remake can't yet attest to whether it is good enough to carry the brand name. But as the NBA Finals came to a close Wednesday night with all the blinding lights of victory shining on Dwyane Wade and his supporting cast, we all got a glimpse of an aged Shaquille O'Neal, his wife at his side, reminding us that while newer isn't always better, sometimes it's more than good enough.

San Diego, California - APP (Associated Pretend Press)

In what insiders are describing as a surprising, yet justifiable, roster move, Fox Sports waived promising young sportswriting prospect joshhoskins55 today, mere weeks after naming him a finalist for the prestigious Next Great Sportswriter award.

The decision sent shock waves through the Hoskins community, where Josh had been regarded as a favorite since posting his first blog article in May to a virtually non-existent audience. His mother, Lori, was contacted by APP for comment, but her response was laced with profanity too heinous to be read by decent, hardworking Americans. His beautiful girlfriend, Kristen, who the APP regards as way too good for him anyway, did have this to say:

"I think Josh deserved to win this contest because he is the best writer ever! I have been trying to get him to mention me in his blog for a long time now. Maybe this decision by Fox will prove to him that he should have written about me a long time ago. Maybe now that he's been knocked back down to Earth he'll take out the trash without me having to ask him all the time."

Hoskins rose from obscurity to prominence on the basis of articles on topics as varied as geeky ex-baseball players and baseless claims that Mel Kiper, Jr. is a robot in disguise. When asked for comment regarding Josh's dismissal, Mel Kiper, Jr., stood behind the decision.

"I think Josh deserved to finish fourth," Kiper said in some type of sophisticated digital code that took the APP eleven hours and a secret decoder ring to break, "his time in the forty at the combine was slower than Sebastian Janikowski's back in 2000, and I find him slightly creepier than Janikowski. That's saying a lot considering Janikowski carries around GHB daily and I'm a robot. Oh ####, did I just say I'm a robot? I meant to say that I'm a highly entertaining NFL Draft analyst."

It seemed several weeks ago that Hoskins was one of the front runners to finish the season as Fox Sports' next contributor. He finished the first round of the finals in the lead, after receiving high praise from the judges. But several disappointing showings in recent weeks put his status as the next great next great sportswriter in question. Some readers believed it was only a matter of time before Hoskins was stripped of the prestigious Wendy's ####y Chicken logo brandished on the blogs of participating writers. For Hoskins, the absence of that corporate insignia next to his name was a sobering experience.

"One minute I'm wolfing down ####y chicken sandwiches and suffering from brutal chocolate Frosty-induced brain freeze, and the next minute I'm nothing. No ####y chicken. No NGS. Just the lingering effects of indigestion and failure for a blogger who just got blogged in the blog. This sucks man."

Hoskins' agent Randy Raphael, nicknamed "the Fur Coat" because of his matted carpet of salt and pepper chest hair, was also dejected at the news of his client's dismissal.

"Josh is by far my most talented client, and that's saying a lot, 'cuz I represent a midget sword-swallower who actually gets the sword to come out his rear end. You should see it. It's wicked awesome. That takes talent, but this Josh has supreme ability. I mean the guy writes like his fingers are ten rabid chinchillas. He's got it man. But enough about that, would you be interested in hiring an Ecuadorian bear wrestler for your next bachelor party or bah mitzvah? How about a guy with ten rabid chinchilla fingers? Does that interest you? He's free all week for appointments."

What happens with Hoskins' career from this point remains to be seen. While some find him to be a burgeoning genius, others find him to be nothing more than a self-indulgent ####. He is now on the waiver wire. If he is not claimed within 15 days, he becomes a free agent and can be hired by any publication. His vast knowledge of bird calls would make him an intriguing option for the staff of Bird Calls Quarterly, while his complete lack of social grace or charm would make him an ideal candidate to write for Maxim. What does appear certain at this point is that Hoskins' affiliation with Fox has been terminated as quickly as it began.

"I have taken down the Sean Hannity picture hanging above my bed and returned the limited edition lithograph of Dogs Playing Poker that was there before," Hoskins said through muffled sobs. "You haven't heard the last of Joshua David Hoskins! Not by a long shot. Unless of course, I'm never able to get a writing job and I die penniless and alone. Then you have heard the last of Joshua David Hoskins!"



 

When Udonis Haslem left the court for good on Sunday night, hunched over and clutching his aching left shoulder, things could not have been much worse for the Miami Heat.

Down 15 points to the Mavericks in game two of the NBA Finals, Miami appeared old and overmatched for the second consecutive game. The potential loss of their best defender, and one of only two contributing players younger than 29, compounded the frustration radiating from the aging Miami bench.

But after several days of speculation Haslem returned last night, turning in his best effort of the series thus far and helping  Miami secure a dramatic game three victory. Willis Reed he certainly wasn’t, but on a night when Dwyane Wade’s brilliant 42-point showing generated the sexy sporting headlines, it was the quiet effort of a hobbled Haslem that personified Miami's performance.

Haslem, the Florida native who spent his formative years rooting for the Heat, played 34 minutes in game three, roughly five minutes above his postseason average. He managed to pull down eight impressive offensive rebounds, 11 total boards, and added eight points and three steals, including a vital theft of Dallas point guard Jason Terry in a one point game with just over a minute remaining.

Udonis is known around the league as a hustle player. Undrafted out of college, he has relied on a solid work ethic and relentless energy to make a name for himself in the NBA. But his effort was more driven than usual last night, more desperate. Every couple of minutes he could be found flinging his body around the court, diving for any loose ball within his reach, ignoring the grimace-inducing pain shooting through his shoulder each time he hit the floor.

It was the kind of commitment that Pat Riley desperately needed from his Heat players, who, in his own words, played most of the game as though they were “stuck in mud.” Luckily for Riley, Haslem’s effort, combined with Dwyane Wade’s unflinching will to win, were enough to get the Heat a season-salvaging result.

Not bad for a player who couldn’t lift his left arm above his head without intense pain.

Haslem’s contributions to the Heat’s cause on Tuesday went well beyond mere inspiration, though. While his energy certainly provided his teammates and the Fruit of the Loom white sea of fans in American Airlines Arena with a huge emotional lift, it was his defending of Dirk Nowitzki in the game's crucial moments that had as much to do with the Heat’s win as  Dwyane Wade’s offensive explosion.

In game two of the series, which saw Haslem sit out virtually the entire second half, Nowitzki shot eight of ten from the field on his way to a 26-point, 16-rebound night. Tuesday, with an active Haslem pestering the gangly German for most of his 34 minutes on the floor, Nowitzki needed twice as many shots to get 30 points, while shooting less than 50 percent from the field, and gathering just seven rebounds for the entire contest.

Coach Riley must have believed that despite his physical limitations Haslem would provide the Heat with an invaluable spark at the end of the game. With his team trailing by their largest margin of the evening, twelve points, and with just eight-and-a-half minutes remaining, Riley sent Haslem, along with Shaquille O’Neal and Jason Williams, back into the game after an unusually short rest. It was a desperate ploy aimed at reversing a Dallas run that was threatening to put the game, and the series, well beyond Miami’s reach.

While Shaq and Williams were virtually invisible during the game’s dying moments, over the last eight-and-a-half minutes of the fourth quarter Haslem managed to stifle Nowitzki. While Miami whittled away at the Dallas lead, Nowitzki was limited to five points on only one field goal, turning the ball over twice and unable to grab a single rebound after Haslem returned to the floor.

If that alone wasn’t impressive enough, Haslem coolly dropped two free throws with just over a minute remaining to put the Heat ahead 94-93, and erase what would prove to be Dallas’ final lead of the evening. With all the fuss surrounding Shaq’s two made free-throws with 1:47 left in the fourth, Haslem’s vital shots with a bum shoulder almost a minute later seem every bit as important in retrospect.

It’s the type of contribution that doesn’t typically translate in a box score or a four-minute Sportscenter highlight, but  makes an indelible impression on players and coaches in both locker rooms.

The question now is: What impact will Haslem’s performance have on his teammates?

In a game the Heat absolutely had to win, Haslem did everything possible to keep the series going, playing harder than any Miami player not named Dwyane, until the rest of his teammates finally decided to match him sometime around the middle of the fourth quarter. Despite their rousing win last night, the Heat players should be doing some soul searching today. What does it mean to a team when a 26-year-old player with just three years of NBA experience and a damaged shoulder out-works virtually every player they put on the floor?

That’s a question that players like Jason Williams and Antoine Walker should be asking themselves today. The energy and dedication of Udonis Haslem should be an infectious influence in the Heat locker room. If the Heat don’t embrace the Haslem attitude for 48 minutes over the course of the remaining games of this series, and decide to wait until the midway through the fourth quarter to play with desperate intensity, they don’t deserve an NBA Championship, and that beautiful golden trophy will almost certainly retain residence in the Lone Star State for another year.

 

I'll never forget my first time. It was romantic, in an awkward, coming-of-age kind of way. My parents were out running errands and I had the house to myself, only a platonic friend there to experience the newness with me. I’ll always remember the embarrassed, fumbling hesitancy, then the premature celebration, followed directly by humiliated crying.

Yes, watching my favorite team play in the NBA Finals for the first time was strangely magical.

Fans in Dallas and Miami find themselves staring down their respective teams' first trip to the NBA Finals. They’re wide-eyed newcomers to all of this. I know how they feel, groping through the pubescent darkness of the sporting unknown, only a dimly oozing lava lamp and a skipping Boyz II Men CD to guide them.

I have been lucky enough to watch the Lakers play in five NBA Finals since my horrified adolescent eyes witnessed them being swept by the Pistons in 1989. I'm only in my mid-twenties, but my affinity for one of basketball's most successful franchises has made me a grizzled Finals veteran. I've experienced it all. My boys have swept and been swept. They've choked the life out of their opposition and just plain choked. From Magic to Madsen, Kareem (Abdul-Jabbar) to Kareem (Rush), I've witnessed every pulse-quickening, hair-pulling moment of it.

With that in mind I'd like to provide the average Heat and Mavericks fan with my own NBA Finals primer, just to give them an idea of some of the experiences that lie ahead. I know they've been through a lot already. The playoffs started back in April with games on NBA TV, for the love of David Stern. But that was child’s play. You are about to subject your body and mind to one of the most rigorous tests known to the modern sports fan, the NBA Finals. Good luck and God speed brave souls.

Your Production at Work Will Slow to a Gheorghe Muresan Pace

Begin faking the wheezing cough right away. Complain of a developing sore throat to any coworker within earshot. Lay the groundwork now for the excuse you’ll need later. When that report isn’t finished by the deadline, or the flame-broiler isn’t as clean as the manager demanded, you’re going to need a better excuse than, “I was preoccupied with trying to figure out how we’ll be able to beat that damn matchup zone tonight.”

You Will Want to Strangle the Other Team’s PA Announcer

Thank the Chicago Bulls for this one. At some point during the 90’s someone in the Windy City decided it would be a good idea to turn pre-game introductions into a KISS concert. Every other NBA team has followed suit, with the phenomenon reaching its zenith in the 2004 Finals in Detroit, when I timed pre-game introductions at just short of nine hours. Seriously, the PA guy in Detroit takes an hour and a half just to call out Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Ben Ben Ben Ben W W W W W W W Wall Wallace’s name. If ABC televises the starting lineup announcements, be prepared for an exhausting pyrotechnics bonanza that will stretch your patience further than Stephen A. Smith ever has. But it’ll only bother you when your team plays on the road. Excessive introductions in the hometown arena will get you friggin’ totally amped.

The Referees Will Screw Your Team Out of at Least One Win

Or so you’ll believe. Seeing the same referees every game with this much on the line will send you spiraling into Michael Moore conspiracy theory mode. You’ll pick apart the box scores and compare how many free throws each team shot in the fourth quarter. You’ll scream, “let them play!” when your team is on defense and “call a foul!” when they have the ball, but it won’t matter in the end. Just save yourself the aggravation and write one game off to horrible officiating before the first whistle is blown.

**This advice is especially relevant for Mavs fans because, as Mark Cuban will attest, the referees around the NBA have it out for you. In fact, before the champagne-soaked Western Conference Champions T-shirt had been peeled away from his fleshy man-boobs, Cuban was already compiling video evidence proving the referees are favoring Miami in this series. 

An Opposing Fan Will Hold a Homemade Sign That Will Make You Want to Fly Cross-Country and Beat Him

The most infuriating signs usually involve horribly ridiculous anagrams formed from the name of the network broadcasting the series, or a popular player or coach. You will recognize the worst of them right away, but they will probably carry slogans such as:

MiAmi Heat                         Simply                            A
lways

      Basketball                          
             THe                       
            Very

      Champions                               
   GreAtest at                          Energetic

                                          
                    BasQuetball                          Right

                            
                                                
                                    Yasmine Bleeth?

These signs are asinine and make no sense whatsoever, but don’t give in to temptation and fly halfway across the country to hunt down some kid who made a ridiculous sign in his garage with poster board and a magic marker. First of all, plane tickets are expensive these days. We’re at the beginning of summer vacation season, and you’ll be getting them last minute. Besides, you may be forced to sit through an entire Adam Sandler movie on the flight. It’s just not worth it. Put your trust in Natural Selection. The idiotic sign makers will get their comeuppance in the form of a schoolyard bully, or rabid wild boar, soon enough.

Your Girlfriend (Or Boyfriend) Just Won’t Understand

I once had a girlfriend who made the mistake of mockingly laughing “Ha Ha” as the other team celebrated an NBA Finals victory over the Lakers. Needless to say I realized quite quickly she wasn’t “the one.” Fortunately this event took place early in our relationship, as I don’t believe “disparaging remarks in reference to the Los Angeles Lakers” would have constituted grounds for divorce. Explain to your significant other ahead of time the magnitude of the event, and let her (or him) know that such disrespect cannot be tolerated. If she (or he) loves you, she (or he) will give you some breathing room. Promise to take her (or him) to the next Reese Witherspoon movie as soon as the series ends. That should smooth things over just right.

Your CWPM (Curse Words Per Minute) Rate Will Skyrocket the Next Two Weeks

You may be a preacher by day. You may counsel orphans and volunteer in a soup kitchen during your spare time. But as soon as game one tips off you will find yourself overcome with the desire to curse like Andrew Dice Clay getting a bikini wax. Just remember that it’s not you talking, it’s the pressure. When you start screaming at the television about some heinous act involving an opposing player and an invertebrate member of the animal kingdom, don’t beat yourself up over it. This is the NBA Finals. The god you believe in will understand. I believe the good book states, “Thou shalt not be smitten for transgressions against your fellow man during the NBA Finals.” Maybe I’m paraphrasing a bit, but you get the idea. Let the expletives fly!

Finally, if the Other Team’s Star Players Begin Appearing on Letterman and Leno……

…..well, there’s always next year (Unless you’re a Heat fan. Sorry, this is your only chance).

 

 

Through speeding train windows the landscape dissolves into flashing images that zip from left to right or right to left, depending on where you sit. Traveling from Fremont to Hayward, and then on to San Leandro, the skyline squats noticeably lower. New-model cars deteriorate into salvage. It’s a public transit stop-action-animation journey into a different Bay Area, worlds away from faux-hippie tourist traps and photo-op lookout points. You are now entering Too Short’s territory. Welcome to the East Bay. Welcome to the home of the Oakland Athletics.

All angular gray concrete, the stadium I still refer to as the Oakland Coliseum (formerly Network Associates Coliseum; currently McAfee Coliseum; ultimately to be known as Your Name Here Coliseum) would likely be an eyesore in just about any  neighborhood. Unfortunately the 40-year-old structure complements its surroundings all too well. The stadium is flanked on one end by the antiquated, and ingeniously titled, Oakland Arena. On the other side lies a drying, stagnant riverbed choked with refuse. Crumbling neighborhoods stretch out in every direction. Sirens wail in the distance. There are no restaurants or nightlife nearby, no atmosphere or excitement. Only a staggered mass of A’s fans methodically making their way from the parking lot to the entrance gates, attempting to ignore the economic and social depression bearing down on them from all sides.

When I attended the opening game of the A’s/Devil Rays series in early May it had been almost six years since I had last visited the Oakland Coliseum. Time has a way of softening our brutal impressions of people and places, and the years had coerced me into a more affectionate recollection of the place. Loyalty to the green and gold had transformed the beast into a homely but harmless little toddler that only a mother, or an A’s fan, could love. I convinced myself that what it lacked in amenities and location, it made up for with guile and character. As I approached the ticket window before that game against the D-Rays, all the realities of the Oakland Coliseum oozed over me like the sludge lining that nearby riverbed.

To put it bluntly, Oakland Coliseum has become a pit. One of the most beautiful stadiums in American sports during the initial years of its existence, the stadium has been battered nearly to rubble by local economic depression and the return of the Raiders. The stadium was originally open above center field, and on a relatively smog-free day fans took in picturesque views of the rolling foothills mere miles away.

But renovations in 1996, intended to make it more football-friendly, enclosed the stadium completely, leaving fans no alternative but to stare at the offensive Everest of seats that now towers above the rest of the park. Sarcastically referred to by fans as “Mount Davis,” after Al Davis, the maniacal owner of the Raiders who helped instrument the structural changes, this heinous addition has turned the Coliseum into a slugger-stifling pitchers’ park, and gone a long way toward giving the stadium all the ambiance of a proctologist’s office.

Before

After

But the place should bleed ambiance. History should radiate from its corridors and concourses. Since the A’s moved to the Coliseum in 1968 the likes of Reggie Jackson, Catfish Hunter, Rollie Fingers, Vida Blue, Dennis Eckersley, and Mark McGwire have cultivated their legend on its field. The old building has hosted an All-Star Game, witnessed five 100-win seasons, five no-hitters, thirteen American League Western Division winners, six American League pennant winners, and four World Series Champions. Ricky Henderson surpassed Lou Brock with a head first slide into its third base dust, and Jose Canseco put the finishing touches on the first 40/40 season in baseball history with a hook slide into second.

I should have had those glorious moments rattling through my memory as I maneuvered toward my seat. I didn’t. All I could think about was the wafting cloud of poverty hanging in the air around us.

What to do with the A’s has been a hot topic of conversation in the Bay Area for several years now. Desperate to escape the slumping revenue and urban decay that have become synonymous with the city of Oakland, the team initially sought to relocate to one of the booming boroughs of the Silicon Valley.

Santa Clara was prominently mentioned early on as a potential location, but the San Francisco Giants legally claim the Silicon Valley as their turf, which ruled out the possibility of the A’s moving there. Rumors circulated that the previous owners were considering moving the team out of California completely, with baseball-hungry markets like Las Vegas and San Antonio reportedly salivating at the opportunity to lure the A’s eastward.

But a new ownership team stepped in last year and brought the organizational philosophy full circle. Plans are slowly moving forward to create a 35,000 seat, baseball-only facility as part of a sports and entertainment complex that would stream jobs and revenue back into the Oakland economy. It’s a strategy that could provide tremendous humanitarian benefits. In a city with a murder rate three and a half times the national average, and roughly one of every five residents living in poverty, professional baseball, and all of its requisite economic and social benefits, is desperately needed in Oakland.

A cushy stadium in suburban Santa Clara or under the humming Vegas neon would have been the easy way to go. The Oakland A’s now appear committed to sticking it out in the East Bay, serving as the cornerstone of an effort to revitalize the community that has supported them since their arrival in moving trucks from Kansas City four decades ago.

 The A’s lost that early May battle with the lowly Devil Rays in front of a measly 12,000 spectators, and I felt the sting of their performance as I boarded the train for the exodus from Oakland. But baseball vanished from my thoughts when the wheels below me creaked into motion. The scenery on the way home was cloaked in breezy Bay Area darkness, giving my mind space to wander. I imagined the same deteriorating cityscape in reverse, low slung hovels sprouting into skyscrapers, flat tires filling with oxygen, graffiti magically whitewashed into oblivion. Then I imagined that I was once again going north, face-first into the aching city of Oakland, revived by the simple concept of baseball enveloped in a shiny new package of hope and renewal.

We were kids inhabiting a planet that spun on a Louisville Slugger axis, and the cards were our reward for good drugstore behavior. My cousin Jeff and I followed our mothers silently down makeup and soap aisles awaiting our dollar pack of Topps baseball cards, complete with that glorious stick of balsa wood gum that crumbled in our mouths and required every liquid ounce of saliva we could muster just to get to a chewable consistency. Thirty minutes of torturous eight-year-old composure got us all that remuneration.

Ken Phelps was tucked into one of those wax-paper-wrapped packs. I remember the exact moment Jeff and I discovered him. We were flipping through our newest bundles of cards in the living room of my grandparents’ house one afternoon, our excitement tempered by the trouble we would find ourselves in if we woke my napping grandfather. From a stack of action photos of anonymous bench sitters Phelps appeared to us, equal parts Charlie Chaplin and Rick Moranis; a wacky imposter in a baseball uniform. He dared us to interrupt the geriatric silence in the house and we accepted the challenge, rolling on the carpet, wallowing in the kind of laughter that can only engulf a child.

From that moment Ken Phelps became our symbol of the absurd. He was the band geek of baseball. He was the right fielder on our Little League team who stood with his back to the plate, gnawing on his glove and staring at passing trains while a batted ball rolled between his legs unnoticed. He was the kid in our Boy Scout troop who whipped up a soufflé just to get a ridiculous cooking merit badge. Ken Phelps was the embodiment of everything uncool, and that worthless card became the butt of the greatest of all our childhood inside jokes.

Jeff and I had a favorite after school game we called “Front Yard Home Run Derby.” The rules were simple: hit the whiffle ball into the street to score a home run. Seven innings, ten outs per inning. We listed our lineups on a piece of notebook paper, each of us selecting, very strategically, our seven favorite Major League hitters and five favorite pitchers. When I batted as Ricky Henderson I mimicked him, hunched over the imaginary plate and swinging with an exaggerated uppercut. If one of us failed to hit a home run during a given inning, we blamed Eric Davis or Cecil Fielder for the drought. We believed sincerely that pretending to be a certain player made all the difference.

While drafting our lineups for the afternoon games we each regularly attempted to goad the other into picking Ken Phelps. One of us might say, “I know you’re gonna pick Ken Phelps. You know he’s your favorite player. You look just like him.” Or maybe it sounded something like, “You just won two straight games, why don’t you bat Phelps cleanup if you’re so good.” But no matter how the proposition was posed, no one ever had the guts to pencil him in. Doing so would have undoubtedly meant a homerless inning, ten inept swings. Neither of us ever took the challenge of overcoming the invisible Ken Phelps millstone.

What was it about the Phelps persona that made him so assailable to a couple of giggling third graders? Was it the massive hair hedge planted above his upper lip? Perhaps. Maybe it had more to do with the twelve-inch thick bifocals he wore on the field. Legend has it that Ted Williams could see the laces on a baseball as it hurtled toward the plate. With those glasses Phelps should have been able to see the fibers in the laces on the ball while he was batting. His appearance led directly to our relentless Ken Phelps obsession. He impacted directly that portion of the adolescent sense of humor that has made Adam Sandler a millionaire. It’s the mentality that creates so many teenage overeaters and anorexics. The kid sitting alone in the cafeteria is funny, but that same lonely kid spilling chocolate milk down the front of his pants? Well, that’s sheer hilarity.

Jeff and I aren’t the only ones who remember Ken Phelps in a less than favorable light. He will forever be remembered by baseball historians as the centerpiece of one of the worst trades in the history of the sport, the 1988 deal between the Mariners and Yankees that put the 34-year-old Phelps in pinstripes and sent future all-star Jay Buhner to the Pacific Northwest. The trade was so notoriously one-sided that it served as comic fodder for an episode of Seinfeld years later. In the episode Yankees owner George Steinbrenner contacts Frank Costanza to give him the news that his son is believed to be dead. Confronted with this horrible information, Frank’s first reaction is to lay into the Boss for the Buhner/Phelps trade. The death of his son is a minor tragedy when compared to the heinous transaction.

But a more mature examination of Ken Phelps’ career reveals more than a goofy physical appearance and a disastrous trade ever could. It may come as a shock, but get this: Ken Phelps was a decent Major League ballplayer. No joke. While his career best season saw him finish with an unimpressive .259 batting average, Phelps managed to hit for power and draw more than his share of walks when he was given the opportunity to play. Despite never getting the opportunity to see the field in more than 125 games during any of his ten seasons, Phelps’ career home run to at-bat ratio ranked 28^th in Major League history through 2004.

I got my hands on a list of players who made their first big league appearances during Phelps’ rookie year of 1980, and he is one of the few names that look even vaguely familiar to me now. Wouldn’t it have been more appropriate for Jeff and I to spend our boyhood hours making fun of someone like say, Kim Allen, who at 27 was a year older than Phelps when he debuted with the Mariners in 1980, and had the misfortune of owning a girl’s name? Or should we have concentrated on throwing figurative rotten eggs at Bobby Bonner, whose name could serve as a textbook example of childish sexual innuendo?

For some reason it had to be Ken Phelps.

Jeff and I were both going to be professional baseball players. There wasn’t any question as to whether or not we would make it. We only wondered what kind of players we would be. Jeff fancied he would grow into a Steve Sax clone; the second baseman with power. I saw myself as a future incarnation of Ricky Henderson; a leadoff man with blazing speed and a thunderous bat. We weren’t just going to play baseball professionally; we were going to be superstars. Through the eyes of a future Cooperstown inductee, I suppose even the accomplishments of Ken Phelps are a bit pathetic.

But now Jeff works in a furniture store and I spend my days in an office cubicle, medicating myself with substantial doses of Starbucks coffee and sports talk radio. Either of us would probably give everything we have to be Ken Phelps for a day; to step onto a lush carpet of Major League grass, even if it meant sporting a hideous moustache and ten pound glasses, just to know that three big league at-bats awaited us.

I discovered recently that Phelps works in broadcasting, but I try my best to ignore this disappointing reality. I prefer to imagine Kenneth Allan Phelps (DOB: 8/6/54; Bats:L; Throws:L) on a beach in the Bahamas, or relaxing in some quaint European street café, enjoying the luxurious life afforded an ex-professional ballplayer with a .239 lifetime batting average and 123 career home runs. The kind of life that not even Front Yard Home Run Derby could provide my cousin and I.

 

When referee Terj Hauge’s culminating whistle rang through the Stade De France in Paris on Wednesday night, Barcelona were finally second-time champions of Europe, a torrent of celebration was unleashed on the Catalan capital, and the 2005-2006 European soccer season essentially came to a close. And while this time of year can leave soccer fans longing to go into summer-long hibernation, the impending World Cup proceedings make the conclusion a bit easier to stomach.

So with an eye on both the World Cup, and the major European professional leagues, here’s a rundown of several important themes (beyond the unanswerable “who’s going to win the World Cup?”) developing as the temperatures rise and the days get longer.

The Fitness Race: Strikers on the Mend

Several prohibitive favorites to lift the cup in Germany are heading into the competition with influential stars hobbling. While it’s not uncommon at the end of a long season to find national teams with injury problems, the race to get several of the game’s best strikers fit could have a huge impact on the outcome of the competition.

In England, all eyes are on the Manchester United training facilities, where the Red Devils’ medical staff is working around the clock to get prodigious young striker Wayne Rooney healthy enough to participate in the tournament. Rooney broke a metatarsal bone in his right foot late in Manchester United’s 3-0 defeat to league winners Chelsea on April 29. Many experts viewed Rooney as the key component in England’s campaign to win their first World Cup since 1966. But it now appears unlikely that Rooney will be healthy in time for England’s first match against Paraguay on June 10, if he’s able to compete at all.

England supporters hope to see this scene replicated in Germany this summer.

The loss of Rooney, combined with the questionable fitness of strike partner Michael Owen, leaves England supporters wondering where the goals will come from in Germany. It appears Peter Crouch will be a candidate to start up front, a prospect that hardly inspires confidence among the British football public. The 6’7” Crouch has demonstrated prowess in the air and an ability to maintain possession in attack this season, but has yet to prove a consistent goal scorer against quality opposition. Manager Sven-Goran Eriksson’s decision to bring untested 17-year-old Theo Walcott along as the final striker has only added to concerns. So an entire nation of football fanatics spends every morning scanning the daily papers for the slightest update on the condition of a single, solitary foot.

The injury news is much more positive for the Italian strike force. Roma forward/midfielder  Francesco Totti, who broke his left leg and strained ligaments in his left ankle in February, appears to be ready to play. Totti’s participation in the World Cup was believed to be in serious doubt immediately following the injury, but the 29-year-old star has defied his doctors’ predictions and made a near miraculous turnaround. 

Totti was able to make a brief appearance for Roma off the bench in the second leg of their Italian Cup final loss to Inter Milan last week. While the Italian roster is loaded with world-class strikers, the loss of Totti would have been devastating for Italy, considered favorites by many. Totti’s value goes beyond his ability to score goals. He is one of the game’s fiercest competitors, and his tenacity on the pitch intimidates opponents and inspires teammates. It remains to be seen just how effective Totti will be, but even at less than full strength, he should be prepared to reclaim his position at the emotional core of a very dangerous Italian side.

Argentinean prodigy Leonel Messi also looks to be ready to return to the field after a March thigh injury sidelined him for the final stages of Barcelona’s Champions League run. At 18-years-old Messi has catapulted past Wayne Rooney to become soccer’s highest regarded young player, even drawing comparisons in his native country to national deity Diego Maradona. He was having a phenomenal season for Barcelona before coming up lame during the Champions League tie with Chelsea, and will be working hard in training to regain that dominant form.

If the talented Argentineans hope erase the memory of their disastrous first round exit in 2002, and become the first South American nation to win a World Cup held in Europe since Brazil in 1958, they will need Lionel Messi at full strength, utilizing his blazing speed and creativity in attack to break down defenses. If he is unable to regain his otherworldly form, the Argentineans could find themselves struggling once again to get out of their first round group, which promises to be the most difficult in the tournament.

A healthy Leonel Messi could make all the difference for the dangerous Argentineans.

Juiced-Up Transfer Activity (AKA the Bonds Market)

During the summer months soccer reporters must sit in tiny rooms, wracking their brains to generate stories that will keep their audience satiated until fall. The daily editions of international sports pages and internet sites are filled with more rumors and innuendo than Paris Hilton’s cell phone the morning after the Grammys. Every imaginable player is rumored to be heading to every imaginable club. If you think the days leading up to the Major League Baseball trading deadline are eventful, you’ve never experienced the “silly season” in all its glory.

Transfer dealings tend to be even more extensive and bizarre during World Cup summers. The pressure of the event is so intense, and the spotlight so encompassing, that two or three impressive performances can turn a virtually unknown player into a highly sought-after millionaire overnight.

In 2002 Senegalese striker El Hadji Diouf rode the crest of World Cup success to a big time payday. The reigning African Player of the Year had spent the season playing for mid-table Lens of France’s Ligue 1. Diouf set up the lone goal for his team in a 1-0 upset of defending champions France in the first game of the tournament, and then continued his impressive play as the Senegalese made a surprise run to the quarterfinals. Shortly after Senegal lost its quarterfinal match to Turkey, English giants Liverpool bought Diouf from Lens for ten million pounds.

El Hadji Diouf; Great Games in the 2002 World Cup: 5. Great games in two seasons with Liverpool: 0

With so many teams still playing with their starting lineups ahead of their final warmup friendlies, it is difficult to predict just who the breakout stars of this Cup will be. But several American players could be a stellar performance or two away from making their way to bigger professional challenges abroad. One likely candidate is Oguchi Onyewu, who has reportedly been generating interest from clubs in England. The big, bruising defender currently anchors the backline for Standard De Liege in Belgium, and will be starting for the Americans in Germany. If he is able to hold his own against the likes of Francesco Totti, Luca Toni, Milan Baros, and Jan Koller in the first round, he could wind up making a splash in one of Europe’s better leagues next season.

Fantasy Football: Just How Far Will Chelsea Go?

Anyone who saw the recent VH1 program The Fabulous Life of Filthy Rich Billionaires knows that Chelsea owner Roman Abramovitch is a competitive dude. The Russian magnate is currently engaged in the world’s largest small-####-overcompensation-contest, secretly building a mega yacht designed to be a few feet longer and far more lavish than any other living billionaire’s boat. If he’s willing to drop millions on a dingy, just imagine how badly he wants to improve already successful Chelsea Football Club.

Really, it's bigger than you would think. No, I promise, it's huge.

Chelsea dominated the Premier League en route to their second straight title. But this was also the second straight season in which the blues failed to win every single trophy available to them. Abramovitch and manager Jose Mourinho have already begun to bolster their roster and reamain atop the Premiership, as well as capture next season’s Champions League and FA Cup trophies.

Already burdened with one of the sport’s heftiest payrolls, the London club this week agreed to pay German midfield ace Michael Ballack a staggering 120,000 pounds per week. It appears that 33-year-old left back Roberto Carlos is close to signing from Real Madrid. There is also rampant speculation that the club is heavily pursuing highly coveted Argentinean striker Carlos Tevez, as well as superstar AC Milan forward Andriy Shevchenko. It is possible that before next season begins Chelsea will have dropped over 100 Million pounds in transfer fees over the span of a few short months. The men in charge at Stamford Bridge are determined to maintain their stranglehold on English football and establish domination over all of Europe. It will be compelling to see just how far they are willing to go to make that happen. Perhaps the question to ask in all of this craziness is, just how small is the Chelsea ####?

Elections at the Bernebeau: Is Henry the VIII Eligible for the Real Madrid Presidency?

The world’s wealthiest club will be holding presidential elections in early July. The lucky candidate elected to the position will have quite a job on their hands, inheriting an aging, underachieving, and overpaid roster of players, along with the astronomical expectations of the most demanding supporters in professional sports. Although a clear front runner for the position has yet to emerge, rest assured the new boss’ office will come equipped with a shiny new guillotine.

Real Madrid fans are a restless bunch. Sorry dude, you should've never signed Woodgate!

If the situation was dire on Tuesday after a third consecutive season without a trophy, archrival Barcelona’s triumph in Wednesday’s Champions League final must be sending the Real brain trust into a rabid frenzy.  The decadent “galacticos” ideology the team adopted several years ago (filling the team with as many superstars as money could buy, chemistry and defense be damned) will undoubtedly be scrapped to make way for a new, more sensible strategy. Once the club president has been elected, and a new manager appointed, we could see some, or most, of the club’s celebrity players on the way out.

Zinedine Zidane is retiring after the World Cup, and has already played his last game for the Madrilenos. David Beckham has expressed a desire to finish his career with Real, but will he accept the potential reality of a reduced role as the club brings in younger talent? Will legendary strikers Raul and Ronaldo be jettisoned to create more playing time for last summer’s Brazilian signings Robinho and Julio Batista? Is Roberto Carlos already on his way out? Will Michel Salgado be dumped for a defenseman that actually defends?  All of these questions should be answered emphatically once leadership of the club is determined. And as is usually the case, the personnel moves made at Real Madrid will effect the direction taken by numerous clubs throughout Europe.

My bold prediction: Beckham ends up moving back to England, Ronaldo returns to Italy, super-creep England manager Sven-Goran Eriksson takes over as manager, and Real finish behind champions Barcelona for the third consecutive year.

But Posh, you said I'd win like, loads of trophies here in Espanol! You also said we'd have a faucet that dispensed hair gel!

Just as there is nothing in the sporting world that rivals the passion and intensity associated with football and the World Cup, there is nothing in the sports world that rivals the off-the-field insanity associated with a World Cup summer. Sit back, relax, and watch the events unfold in all of their slapstick madness.

**Note: I had intended to touch on the developing scandals in Italian football, but with each new public allegation it becomes clearer that this story is too complex to cover in passing. I’m planning future posts dedicated to the disturbing corruption now being exposed at the highest levels of Italian soccer.