The year was 1992. I was 13 years old. It was my dad's weekend, so this meant I'd be cooped up in the dark, in front of the TV, watching sports all weekend. It could've been worse. I liked sports. He had a never-ending supply of otter-pops. (He also had Playboys lying around everywhere, but that's another story). He didn't have cable then, so we were forced to watch whatever the local networks decided. The only sporting event, a mediocre NCAA basketball game, was the consensus choice. Halftime featured a young player out of USC, who led the Pac-10 in scoring, and had a nickname worthy of a halftime feature. The feature didn't focus on the nickname. Or the scoring average. You see, he used to lick his fingers and then swipe the bottom of his kicks about fifteen times a game. Almost like a nervous tic. His nickname was Baby Jordan. Maybe that's why he was nervous. My entire basketball-craving generation idolized Michael Jordan. I was no different. In fact, I ended up idolizing his potential-offspring even more. Harold Miner was the kid's name. He was going to be The Next.
The Miami Heat drafted him #12 in the 1992 draft. He didn't get a lot of playing time, but he did alright in his limited role. I checked his box score every day, wondering why 11 points in 8 minutes didn't earn him more PT. All-star weekend in Salt Lake City, my hometown. The Slam Dunk Competition, my favorite event before it was ruined by superstars refusing to participate. My man ran away with the trophy. He had his own Nike commercial. Sadly, it would be as high as Harold Miner would ever get.
He never did get any consistent playing time. He spot-started a few times, but didn't impress his coach enough to stay off the bench. He continued to score despite limited opportunities. He even won another Slam Dunk competition (1995), but even that wasn't as great as his rookie year. He had to use some of the same dunks. He tried a jersey number change, going from 32 to 4. He grew a goatee. Anything to change his luck. He was relegated to the bench, and nothing positive was on the horizon. After three uninspiring years with the Heat and one more with the Cavs, he tried out for the Toronto Raptors. Pre-season went by and he was cut. He would never play in the NBA again.
I could perpetuate nine credible rumors about where he is today. He's either in the witness-protection program, playing ball in Japan, coaching in Las Vegas, living with his mom in L.A., running an insurance company in Florida, building homes in South Dakota, hooked on crack, writing for an online blogging competition, or dead. Nobody knows for sure just where Harold Miner is today. His career was a disappointment. His potential never realized. His greatness only a distant memory.
But I'd like to thank Mr. Miner. Because of him, I've learned the greatest lesson to be taught by sports. The lesson of failure. We're all destined to fail. No matter what we do. At one time or another, we'll have to deal with it. Some of us deal better than others. Some of us complain when life doesn't give us what we want. Some of us laugh. Some of us commit suicide.
I told everyone Harold Miner was coming back. He was going to be somebody. He was just taking a break. He was just hiding. Maybe he was with Tupac. But he never did come back. Year after year I would search for his name, for some inkling to his whereabouts. For some hint of his resurrection. It never happened. Even when Mike came back and won three more consecutive championships, including two in my hometown, I felt empty. My favorite player was nowhere to be found.
Despite having heard nothing from him in nearly a decade, I still look up to Harold Miner. I think maybe I'm obsessed with failure. I'm fascinated with those who don't reach their potential. I've written poetry, essays, and full-length plays on the subject. This lesson could not have been taught by Michael Jordan. The biggest disappointment in MJ's career was being cut from the varsity team in high school...as a freshman! Or not winning a championship in his first six years. Are you serious? That's no hero. What am I supposed to learn from him? I've learned to keep my tongue in my mouth. Except when I'm licking my fingers to swipe my kicks.
I love ignoring my family as much as the next guy. But c'mon...two NBA games and two NFL games on Christmas day? Are you trying to ruin me? I'm surprised there wasn't a special, Sunday morning Tiger vs. Phil head-to-head golf-off. Or a congressional hearing rematch with Palmeiro, Big Mac, and the politicians. Heaven forbid I spend my Holiday morning talking to my wife or playing with my son. Heaven forbid I catch up with the old man, or tell my mom how much I appreciate her. Heaven forbid I give my grandparents the update on how much school I have left and why it's taking me so long to graduate. Heaven forbid I exchange small talk with the in-laws and distant relatives whose names I've forgotten. You know what, never mind. Thanks. And congratulations to Gary Payton for hitting that three against his old team.
Seahawks vs. Colts
If any of you actually thought this was a preview of the Super Bowl, you're crazy. Sure, the teams might match up in Detroit for Super Bowl XL, but not these two teams. The Colts weren't even playing. They had nothing to play for. The Seahawks still had home field advantage to clinch, and know they've gotten no respect around the league...so they had something to prove. No Marvin Harrison, no Dwight Freeney, no Tony Dungy, and half-hearted efforts from many Colts left this match-up very one-sided. But I promise if they meet on February 6th, game two will have a much different feel than game one.
(And the winner for the most obvious observation goes to....ME!)
Bush...it's what's for dinner.
What a horrible title. I'm sorry. But I can't get Reggie off my mind. Whichever team gets him will be the next big thing. I don't usually feel that way. The #1 pick hasn't been as valuable as it should be (ask the 49ers). But no matter who gets the first pick in 2006 (the Texans, Jets, Packers, Saints, or the 49ers), they will be happy selecting Reggie Bush. I wonder if Bush will stay with #5 in the NFL or go to #21 like L.T. I wonder if Bush will return kicks in the NFL or if he will be considered too valuable as an RB. I wonder if Bush's jersey will be the most popular in his first year or his second. I wonder if Reggie has any time for a new friend. I like Reggie. I think he seems like a nice guy. I would would play playstation with him if he asked me to.
Speaking of being pathetic, in Madden I traded a few of my Vikes to get the #5 overall pick. To the delight of my fans, I selected Reggie Bush. My first season with Bush as my RB just ended. He led the league in TDs and finished 2nd in MVP voting. The Vikings won the Super Bowl... This means absolutely nothing. I just thought maybe if Reggie was reading this he would laugh and contact me and fly me out to Pasadena to watch the Rose Bowl. I totally don't have to work that day.
Reggie, Reggie, Reggie.
Final Thought
Am I considered a bad person if I went to Church on Sunday but mostly thought of being home opening my presents?
p.s Harold. Did you get the Christmas present I sent you? Oh. Right. I didn't send one. That's because I don't have your address you sneaky son-of-a...
I've tried, but I just don't enjoy watching the news. I wish I were a good citizen, but I guess I'm not. I hate the sound of the 10 o'clock news introduction. I seldom read the front page of the paper, or the local section. And I despise the weather. All I want is sports.
Responsible adults are convinced that I should involve myself more with the world around me. They're convinced I should vote. They're convinced that the nightly news is an important program to watch. I just can't make myself do it.
To me, the news is just as much entertainment as sports. Who cares about a flood in Nebraska? Really, a 24-pound baby was just born in Russia? The stocks are down 3%? I don't care. Maybe one day I will. But right now, Tony Dungy's son being found dead, and how it will affect the best team in the NFL, is just more interesting to me. Kobe Bryant scored 30 points in one quarter? Where are the highlights? Is using steriods cheating? Let us debate.
...then I don't want to grow up.
When I was 8, all I cared about was sports. My parents got divorced that year. (Cry me a river, right?) And my passion was okay. My mom just laughed about it. "What can I say? He's a real sports nut." I was just like my father.
But now if I ask for a pack of baseball cards for Christmas, people tell me to grow up. "Don't you want a coffee-maker? Or a set of wrenches?" No! I want to see if I can get an Andruw Jones hologram card. I want some excitement. When I ask for a Harold Miner throwback jersey, people think I'm joking. "Dress your age." Now I can't wear jerseys? My favorite players wear 'em. My favorite rappers wear 'em. What's next, you gonna tell me I can't wear wristbands?
...then my wife should leave me.
My future mother-in-law wrote me a letter before I married her daughter. She gave me a bunch of advice, but the only thing I remember is that she told me not to put sports ahead of my family. What can I say? Mother-in-laws are never happy.
I try to include my family in my passion for sports. I've already chosen my son's favorite team for him. (His name is Cy and the 'C' on his Cubs hat looks like it was made for him). Our son-in-the-oven, Bo, will be a Red Sox fan. (Although when they lost Mr. Damon, I started to have doubts).
I encourage my wife to find attractive sports stars. It helps her watch the games. She used to have a thing for Bryon Russell, but then the Jazz got rid of him. And now that Brett Favre is retiring, I'm getting desperate. I try to have her watch games when Mark Mulder pitches (he's my man-crush too). But she thinks he has a weird nose.
I'll say this much, though. My family tries. There's nothing better than lying in bed when my alarm goes off and both my wife and I just sit and listen to sports talk together. Mike & Mike. The Herd. When I hear her laugh, I can't help but smile. Though I'm sure my mother-in-law is somewhere shaking her head.
Final Thought
Suicide is selfish.
p.s. Harold. Remember when you used to dribble the ball behind your back twice? I still try that, but I usually get the ball stolen.
Let's just get it out there. I'm a student at the University of Utah. I'm a running Ute, through and through. Yes, those same BCS-bustin' Utes you couldn't get away from last season. So my opinion holds absolutely no weight. But there's one problem: I don't know what my opinion is.
Here's what I do know. The Utes went undefeated last year. (I have the license plate cover on my car to prove it). 12-0. A perfect season. But they weren't national champs. Not in anyone's eyes. They defeated a mediocre Pittsburgh team 35-7 in the Fiesta Bowl, as they became the first non-BCS conference team to make it to one of the four coveted BCS bowls. Yet still, a year later...here I sit, largely dissatisfied.
What has stolen my satisfaction?
Perhaps it's never knowing just how good the 2004 Utes were. They didn't play anyone all season. Sure, they beat the teams the NCAA put on their schedule, but those teams may as well have included Jennifer University and Pansy Tech. I could sit here and tell you that they would've destroyed Oklahoma just like USC did. I could tell you that they would've given Auburn a run for their money in the Sugar Bowl. But you'd probably just laugh and shake your head. You probably live somewhere important and just found out Utah even had a football team.
But don't get it twisted. I'm a college student. I'm learning the ability to reason. And I'm smart enough to realize that the University of Utah may have gotten the biggest break they could've asked for by playing the Pitt Panthers in the Fiesta Bowl. Let's say the Sooners and the Tigers each ended up losing a game during the season. The Utes' dream comes true and they get the Trojans in the National Championship game. The Utes lose 55-19. It's possible. This is how close the Sooners played them. Yes, those Sooners. The same Sooners who have as much talent amongst their boosters as the Utes have on their entire roster. We wouldn't be calling the Utes BCS busters. Alex Smith would've been drafted in the 3rd round. I wouldn't have the license plate covers on my Chevy.
I guess we'll never know just how good the Utes really were. And maybe that ain't so bad.
Alright, I've had enough with college players being described as a "young Gale Sayers" or a "young Larry Bird." It's not just the comparisons that bother me, it's the fact that the young player can only be compared to a player of the same race. Adam Morrison is Larry Bird. He's John Havlicek. He's Detlef Schrempf. He's not Paul Pierce. And Dee Brown definitely isn't Kirk Hinrich. He's Muggsy Bogues. He's Avery Johnson. He's Allen Iverson. And don't even get me started with black quarterbacks. You show me an up-and-coming black college quarterback, and I'll bet you all the money in my wallet that he's been compared to Rodney Peete. Randall Cunningham. Donovan McNabb. I'm not saying I'm not guilty of this too. I see Reggie Bush run and I think Gale Sayers. I just don't see Tom Rathman. I'm just saying, it's a little unfair to the young player to compare him with a professional just because they look the same. Otherwise, I'd have to say Vince Young is going to be the next Brian Mcknight. (I don't care if he can't sing).
Rollin' the Tice
Mike Tice voiced his displeasure with some Vikings fans who sold their tickets to Steelers fans, resulting in about 15,000 to 20,000 of the Metrodome seats filled with Yellow and Black instead of Yellow and Purple. Whatever it was, the Vikings didn't play like they had home field advantage. I'm hearing people laugh at Tice for getting upset with fans who scalped tickets, when he's done the same thing. Remember, in June, he was fined $100,000 by the NFL for scalping his Super Bowl tickets. These can hardly be compared, though. It's one thing for someone to scalp tickets to a game they weren't planning on attending, which Tice did. (Whether he was right or not is debatable). It's quite another for season-ticket holders to scalp tickets to the opposing team's fans. And that's what Tice was upset about. He's not judging people for scalping tickets. He's judging the loyalty of some of his season-ticket holders, and I can't agree with him more. Shame on any Benedict Arnold who would jeopardize his image to make a few extra bucks. Oh, never mind.
Jordan Jammer
Kids these days have it too easy. When I was a kid, I had to tape the antenna just to get a picture on my 10" fuzzy TV. The TV sat downstairs in my freezing basement while I watched the NBA on NBC every Saturday morning. I set up my plastic Jordan Jammer, which needed to be nailed to the wall because I broke the stand during a windmill dunk. I would re-enact the game I watched that morning, keeping track of points, rebounds, and assists. "Magic in to Worthy. Worthy out to Cooper. Cooper for three. Good!" This was a lot of work. I would actually sweat a little. But kids these days have X-box. They have Playstation 2. There's no need to sweat. There's no need to keep statistics. You don't have to emulate your favorite players. You can just plug in your game and you have your favorite players at your fingertips. Tattoos, afros, and all. Maybe I think it's bad for our future generations. Maybe I'm just jealous.
Final Thought
What did Tiki and Ronde's parents feed them growing up? I need to know so I can pick some up at the store.
p.s. Harold, dude. If you're playing overseas and you didn't bother telling anyone about it...I'm going to be pissed.
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