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 suspiciously 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 crap, 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 Spicy 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 spicy chicken sandwiches and suffering from brutal chocolate Frosty-induced brain freeze, and the next minute I'm nothing. No spicy 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 douchebag. 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                            Always

      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.