Armchair Beer Vendor

In the closing seconds of the New Orleans’ Super Bowl victory last Sunday, Jeff Charleston and Bobby McCray, two overjoyed defensive ends on the soon-to-be world champion Saints, grabbed a cooler full of icy Gatorade, lifted it high in the air and dumped its contents over the head of their triumphant head coach, Sean Payton.

The victorious outcome to the Saints' first-ever Super Bowl appearance was indeed cause for celebration by the team and its fans, as well as those cheering on a perennial underdog playing for a city that has suffered way too much of late. For many, it was a time of joy.

But as the first drop of orange thirst aid splashed down on Coach Payton, I was struck by another feeling: boredom. It wasn’t the game I found uninteresting; it was the celebration.

I am here to tell you that the Gatorade shower’s been played. Though the athletes hauling the beverage invariably sneak up on the coach with a giddy, wait-until-everyone-sees-this smirk on their faces, the rest of America no longer feels much of anything when sports drink meets headset. We’ve seen it. Thousands of times.

Though opinions differ as to the origins of the Gatorade shower, the 1984 Chicago Bears’ soaking of their coach, Mike Ditka, is often cited as the first such incident. In 1985, the New York Giants popularized the prank, punctuating win after win by drenching Bill Parcells. Shortly thereafter, such a splashing became a ritual performed by many a winning football team, and it remains one to this day.

Now, I don’t have what it takes to play professional football. I don’t even have what it takes to hoist a big vat of Gatorade over a grown man’s head. But I think I understand the sentiment behind these shenanigans. The players work their butts off in practice and absorb endless abuse for their mistakes, all in the name of pleasing the demanding taskmaster that is their head coach. He’s an intense guy who suffers no jokers gladly and over whom you would never, under most circumstances, pour an icy bucket of rehydration elixir.

About the only time you see an NFL head coach appear truly happy is in the moments following a satisfying victory. He seems to smile more, and to actually appreciate his minions. Which means that you can finally exact a little revenge on the guy and he’ll still be inclined to laugh it off. And so you dump Gatorade on his head.

The problem is, the Gatorade shower is getting old. And it’s a shameful waste of electrolytes. Certainly, a big-time football player has more important things to do than devise new, in-your-face ways to deliver emphatic but comical retribution on the guy calling the shots. But I don’t. So for those of you planning on winning a big, nationally televised football game in the near future, I have some suggestions for the zany, “take that” high jinks you might want to use on your head coach.

Tell him he’s got something on his shirt. Then point to his chest. When he looks down, which he will do, you quickly flick your arm upwards, inflicting a glancing, back-handed, open-fisted blow to his chin. Ordinarily, Tom Cable would beat you to a pulp were you to try such a thing. But after your contribution to the ‘W’ he’s about to enjoy, he’ll put up with such tomfoolery.



Give him a wedgie. As those final seconds tick off the clock, sneak up behind, say, Tom Coughlin, find the waistband on his NFL-licensed briefs and attempt to lift him by it. He won’t budge, but the underwear will both tear and examine his prostate at the same time. This isn’t a man with a ready smile, but as he adjusts his pants on his way to the locker room, a satisfied grin will accompany that incredulous shake of his head.

Douse him in New England clam chowder. Not so much a rip-off of the Gatorade shower as an homage to it. This one would go over particularly well with the cerebral Bill Belicheck, who undoubtedly would appreciate the thematic connection to his Patriots’ stomping grounds.



Steal his candy. Imagine the look on Rex Ryan’s face as he pats down his pockets only to discover that the Charleston Chew you’re enjoying is the same one he was saving for later. Ah, well. Call it the price of victory.



Ask if he has Prince Albert in a can. When he says yes, insist that Mike Singletary “let him out.” Under less joyous circumstances, making the 49ers head coach the victim of clever wordplay would get you kicked off the team. But having just scored a win, all he can do is smile.



Have 20 pizzas delivered to him. Brad Childress didn’t order any pizzas. But when the kid from Papa John's shows up with a stack of large pies, the Vikings head coach will have no choice but to pay for them. You’ve burned him but good, and were his team’s victory not seconds away, he’d be all over you. Instead, he grins and emits a world-weary chortle. Well played.

Tell him he has cancer. Then say, “just kidding!” A terminal illness is no laughing matter. Unless, of course, you’re Wade Phillips and the Cowboys have just downed the Eagles. Then it’s just plain funny.

Pretend you’ve lost your arms. Next, pull them out from under your jersey to prove you’re the same old Larry Fitzgerald. Ken Whisenhunt’s no fan of heart attacks, but after you’ve helped clinch him a playoff spot, a little cardiac arrest won’t hurt him.



Have an affair with his wife. This one takes a little more preparation. So if you’re up by more than two touchdowns with less than five minutes to play, sneak away from the sideline and begin to seduce your coach’s better half. For best effect, have a lawyer standing by to present, maybe, John Harbaugh with divorce papers as he seeks out the the losing team’s coach. His sense of triumph at that moment will put any irreconcilable differences into their proper perspective, and he won’t begrudge you a little fun at his expense.

Kick him in the nads. Speaks for itself.

Those are just a few ideas. If you like 'em, use ‘em. If you don’t, I’ll tell you exactly where you can stick 'em. Right after you’ve won the Super Bowl.

There are many good things about having a job. High on that list are the paycheck, the sense of purpose and the decreased likelihood you’ll be around a TV at the wrong time of day and accidentally catch even a moment of “The View.” Beware, Jim Zorn.

There are downsides, however. For instance, putting in long hours at the office makes maintaining a blog that nobody cares about fairly difficult. I haven’t posted an entry here for months. And the public has responded to my absence with a predictably resounding indifference, the likes of which won’t be seen again in this country until whenever the FIFA World Cup comes around again.

But the fact that you’re reading this means that you either care about the ramblings of a vaguely-informed, under-credentialed idiot, or that you’re married to him. It's for you that I write.

Super Bowl XLIV is just around the corner, assuming you live around the corner from Sun Life Stadium in Opa Locka, Florida.

But many of us don’t. For us, the Super Bowl experience will take on a decidedly 1080p quality, and that big screen TV might very well be at someone else’s house.

Now, I suspect everyone reading this is like me (in fact, I suspect everyone reading this is me). We’re no strangers to Super Bowl parties, and we enjoy camaraderie, laughter and onion dip as much as anybody. But we’re also football fans, and when the biggest football game of the year is on television, we want to watch it.

That can be difficult in such environments, where the sports-indifferent guest is invariably present in large numbers. See, there are those who just don’t seem to get that some of us actually care about the game, and that we would like to both see and hear all of it.

Now, I can’t possibly be expected to have sewn every interloper’s lips shut by Sunday. But I think I can still be of some help to those of you to reduce the amount of unnecessary chatter while you’re trying to take in the broadcast. What follows is a cheat sheet that, if distributed at game time, might just end some Super Bowl conversations before they’ve started.

There is no score. For crying out loud, the game just started.

It is weird that you still think of them as the Baltimore Colts. It’s been 26 years now.

It's a birthmark.

That guy they keep showing in the stands is Archie Manning. He played quarterback for the Saints, and is a legend in New Orleans. But today he’s rooting for his son Peyton’s Colts. They’ve said it seventeen times since the opening kickoff; I’m surprised you’ve missed it.

I don’t know what tickets were going for on eBay, but I think your estimate of a jillion dollars is a little high.

You’re right. Jeremy Shockey seems like a jerk.

No, Saints coach Sean Payton isn’t related to Peyton Manning, but I see what you did there. Ha ha.

Nobody knows what GoDaddy.com is exactly, and yes, they were probably implants.

The “French thingy” to which you refer is actually called a fleur-de-lis. It means “flower-of-lis.”

“Who dat?” is short for “Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints? Who dat? Who dat?” It means, “Who is that? Who is that? Who is that who says he or she is going to beat the Saints? Who is that? Who is that?”

That guy’s jumping around and flexing his muscles because he was one of the three players who tackled that kick returner on the 31-yard line.

Yes, they still make Bugles.

How did I know that the halftime show is always your favorite part?

You’re right! Saturday is also a day of the week!

No, no. The last digit of the Saints' score has to be nine. The Colts‘ has to be 4. If it’s the other way around, you win nothing. Have you never participated in an office pool before?

Yes, the commercials seem particularly lame this year.

That was my beer. No, it’s okay. I’ll get another.

Evidently, Abe Vigoda is not dead.

I don’t know whether that little, blurry spot behind the goalposts is your friend Leslie, and yes, I do mind if we back it up and pause it while you figure it out.

Did you just reference "Twilight?" Okay, just get the hell out of here.

I won’t lie to you, folks. I love a good nickname. Why you’d call someone “John” when “Skippy” is out there is beyond me. If you know a really huge, bald guy and have dubbed him neither “Tiny” nor “Curly,” I’d rather not know you. And if you haven’t slapped a gratuitous ‘y’ to the end of at least half of your buddies’ last names? I don’t care if you drive a Prius. You’re making this planet a far worse place.

But nowhere is a nickname more important than in the world of sports, where a well-crafted nom de field can make the difference between a good career and one that lives on for generations to come.

Don’t get me wrong. George Herman Ruth would be forever remembered as a power-hitting superstar. But let’s face it: “The Babe” is who you tell your grandchildren about. In fact, Ruth was such a larger than life figure that one nickname wasn’t enough. He was also “The Bambino” or, if you preferred alliteration, “The Sultan of Swat.” The nicknames of Ted “The Splendid Splinter” Williams and “Joltin’” Joe DiMaggio will speak for decades to come of those players’ prowess at the plate. And who will ever forget the diamond heroics of Hensley “Bam-Bam” Meulens? Not I, my friends. Not I.

Sports history is all the richer for the color such names add. To basketball fans, sharpshooting “Pistol Pete” Maravich would be legendary regardless of his snazzy moniker, as would the long drink of water known as Wilt “The Stilt” Chamberlain. But I imagine memories of, say, shot-blocking center Marvin Webster will hang on his handle, “The Human Eraser.”

In hockey days of yore, Maurice “Rocket” Richard led the Montreal Canadiens to eight Stanley Cups. His brother, Henri was with that legendary franchise for an NHL-record 11 Cups. But to many, he’ll best be remembered as “The Pocket Rocket.” In more recent years, Madison Square Garden has been home to Rangers “Lucky Pierre” LaRouche, Mark “The Messiah” Messier, and Daniel “Dan” Girardi.

And football? Ah, football. So many nicknames. Elroy “Crazy Legs” Hirsch. “Mean Joe” Greene. Walter “Sweetness” Payton. And just try to forget the footwear of choice for Billy “White Shoes” Johnson. Bet you can’t do it.

Football history is chockablock with classic nicknames. But as with the NBA, where Kevin “K.G.” Garnett has become a star, or MLB, which has seen Garrett “G.A.” Anderson enjoy a long career as a fan favorite, it is also true for the NFL that such endearing sobriquets are not a thing of the past. Terrell Owens’ catchy “T.O.” epithet rolls easily off the tongues of even his biggest detractors. And by referring to himself as “A.P.”, better-than-average linebacker Antonio Pierce sounds positively Canton-bound.

And now that NFL training camps are in full swing, there are first-year players aplenty who can only benefit from a truly top-notch handle. So, I’m here to help. I’ve got some nicknames that I think can really set some of this season’s rookies apart from the crowd.

Mark Sanchez, QB, New York Jets

He may have been the second quarterback picked in 2009, but no first-round draft pick has any higher expectations to live up to than Mark Sanchez. The Jets traded up to grab the former USC signal-caller with the fifth overall pick, and within hours New York sporting-goods stores had his jersey hanging in the window. His golden arm, dark good looks and leadership ability have attracted comparisons to “Broadway Joe” Namath. But it’s not Broadway so much as Madison Avenue that has its sights set on Mark Sanchez. Because football is not all that makes this born leader the kind of fellow he is. There’s also his proud Mexican-American Heritage, the very reason the Trojan band used to play “El Matador” as its hero took the field. So when it comes to hanging a name on the Jets blue-chipper, there’s really just one choice. From here on, I intend to call Sanchez by the epithet he was born to wear: “M.S.”

Now, it may surprise you to know that the Jets aren’t the only team to play their home games at Giants Stadium. And with the it-would-be-funny-were-it-not-so-felonious demise of the Jints’ No. 1 deep threat, Plaxico Burress, Big Blue looked to the draft to fill that hole.

Hakeem Nicks, WR, New York Giants

The former Carolina Tar Heel doesn’t stand out for his down-the-field speed, but his sticky hands and contortionist abilities made him a legitimate first rounder. Ol’ Sticky Nicks, a veritable Stretch Handstrong, happens to have a surname that’s a homonym for Knicks, the semi-pro basketball team that also calls The Big Apple home. So, the newest of New York Nicks is ready-made for a nickname that never sleeps. I therefore propose that Hakeem Nicks now be known as “H.N.”

Ramses Barden, WR, New York Giants

Another contender for a wideout spot on the G-Men’s squad is third-round pick Ramses Barden. At Cal Poly, the product of Altadena, CA, played against second-tier competition. And he doesn’t have blazing speed. But he moves extremely well for a guy with a body like his; one that measures 6’6” and packs 229 lbs. of pure muscle. So he’s an intriguing prospect, this giant Giant chiseled from stone who became known at the NFL combine as “The Beast.” Thus, if he does stick around, we won’t have to look far to find Barden’s perfect nickname. It’s “R.B.”



Speaking of RBs,

Knowshon Moreno, RB, Denver Broncos

Great lateral quickness. Fantastic leaping ability. A knack for eluding tacklers. There’s much to like in this tailback out of the University of Georgia. And if ever there were somebody demanding to be called “K.M.”, this is the guy.

Tyson Jackson, DE, Kansas City Chiefs

This mountain of a man (6-4, 295) may lack exemplary speed, but he sheds blocks artfully and has the size and strength necessary to stack at the point of attack. He hustles after the ball carrier, and while he’s labeled a defensive end, he possesses the kind of versatility that can make him useful on the inside, as well. So, Kansas City, meet “T.J.”

Chris Wells, RB, Arizona Cardinals

The former Ohio State Buckeye has impressive size, strength, vision, balance and acceleration. If he doesn’t sound familiar, you undoubtedly know him as “Beanie” Wells, the pet name by which he’s gone from nearly the moment of his birth until today. When we will now discard it for the superior “C.W.”

I could go on. In fact, I went up and down the entire list of players attending their first training camps, and I’m proud to say I’ve crafted a nickname for each and every one of them. But given that so many will have turned in their playbooks by the time the regular season starts, I won’t make you learn them all. Do, however, keep an eye out for Brian “B.C.” Cushing, Michael “M.C.” Crabtree, and Darrius “D.H.B.” Heyward-Bey.

I’m not yet sure which of the above prospects will become NFL stars. But I’m sure some of them will. And under the cloak of protective headgear and oversized pads, these players will have to use every tool at their disposal if they hope to establish their own individuality. A good nickname can be just that tool, branding a great team player as a unique individual. Just ask Lawrence “L.T.” Taylor.

Or LaDainian “L.T.” Tomlinson.

I was happy with my lawn. It had always served my kids, my dog and my jarts with aplomb.

As far as I was concerned, one couldn’t ask for a better patch of sun-drenched greenery of which to be vaguely aware while watching TV inside. But as they’ve done for so many baseball fans over the years, the New York Yankees have come along to ruin my summer.



On Thursday morning, in a desperate attempt to avoid being productive and to justify my presence on the couch, I fired up the ol’ satellite dish in search of some sports viewing. I landed on the YES Network, whose pinstriped heros were in Minnesota to take on the Twins. It was a dream matchup for those who dream about Yankees/Twins games. I was hooked.

But no sooner had I remained seated than a commercial came on for Stadium Associates Authentic New York Yankees Grass Seed. You read me right, folks. You can now seed your lawn with the Kentucky bluegrass mixture they use in the House That Albaladejo Built.



I shouldn’t have been surprised by this. I’d read that a Yankees fan had planted some Bombers’ seed in Fenway Park. It happened back in May at a Phish concert. Grass gets smuggled in to such events all the time, but it’s not usually the legal kind. Anyway, this Johnny Big Appleseed had the idea that such an act would help tilt the race in the A.L. East back in the Yankees’ direction. I’d ask what the guy was smoking, but again, it was a Phish concert.



I’m not sure how I’d imagined that this guy had scored a bag of such exclusive grass kernel. It had never occurred to me, though, that Yankee turf could be mine as well. And yours, my friend. And yours.

Now, be forewarned. They don’t just give away bags of this special seed. Whereas a three-pound sack of ordinary Kentucky bluegrass seed can be had for a price of roughly $10, this authentic Yankee stuff’ll run you a bit more than that. The going rate for a three-ounce bag seems to be around $15. So if my math is correct -- never a given, mind you -- three pounds of the stuff would come to over $250.



But tough economic times such as these practically demand overpriced, novelty lawn-care products. So, dig into those savings. College fund, shmollege fund. 401K, shmour01K. Gold bricks in the safe behind that bookshelf in your home library, shmold bricks in the safe behind that book ... well, okay, you get the idea. So get going. Yank up your yard.

That’s what I’m going to do. No, I won’t have an expert grounds crew attending to my lawn’s every need. And there will be no state-of-the-art, perfectly calibrated irrigation and sprinkler system to nurture that plot of earth into an MLB-caliber field. But I’ll be sure to clean up after my dog a few times a week. I’ll gladly stencil “No Pepper” on the side of my house. And I’ll make sure my kids never step on that sod again, swing set be damned.

My backyard doesn’t have the dimensions of a reasonable baseball stadium. But neither does Fenway, and people seem to like that place. And, despite the absence of an infield, a pitcher’s mound and a Monument Park, my space back there will have much in common with Yankee Stadium. There will be beer. There will be swearing. There will be no clutch hitting by A-Rod.

But for such pleasure, there must first be pain. Don’t let the appearance of the Twins’ Metrodome fool you -- a baseball venue doesn’t get snapped together overnight.



Cultivating a little piece of Yankee Stadium in my backyard will pretty much take over my life for the foreseeable future. So my next few months will be bereft of the typical summertime backyard fun. No swimming pool. No Slip ‘n’ Slide. No chimp in a funny hat and sunglasses drinking through a straw.





Yes, there will be sacrifices. And where three ounces of grass seed are concerned, $15 dollars ain’t chump change. But that's how it should be. I mean, what kind of chump would actually spend his change on authentic Yankee grass?

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ITEM: This isn't sports news in the traditional sense, but it must be chronicled. About an hour ago, my 8-year old son managed to get a Lego stuck up his nose. The foreign body was eventually expelled by forceful exhalation, and I'm happy to report that both boy and brick are recovering nicely.

I don’t know if you can tell by my byline photo, but I’m a guy who enjoys a cheap haircut. That makes me a rarity here in L.A., where guys seem willing to shell out $100 for a shampoo and trim, plus another $20 for the accent égout on the sign out front.



But that’s not my style. I like my cuts super and my Sams fantastic. So when I found out my neighborhood had recently added a salon for men who want today’s styles at yesterday’s prices, I was intrigued. When I realized it was located within easy walking distance of my house, I got in my car and headed right over there.

I was not disappointed. The place is called “SportClips,” and let me tell you, it makes no frou-frou concessions to the fairer sex. I’m not aware of any ‘men only’ policy there, but as the sign out front announces, “Guys Win.” In fact, the national franchise’s website boasts “the ultimate just-for-guys haircut experience.”



See, SportClips knows guys. We want sports. We want them now. We realize there are times and places which just can’t accommodate all of our sports needs, but that doesn’t mean we’re okay with it. Am I right, fellas? Sure I am.



That’s where SportClips comes in. It's a growing company with over 600 franchises in 39 states, and the Encino, California location had a first-time customer on Tuesday. The moment I stepped into the place, I knew I never wanted to decline a little product anywhere else, ever again. Haircuts and sports. eHarmony couldn’t find a better match.

I wondered how someone came up with the idea to merge sports and hair care this way, and thought back to this really short documentary that for some reason they used to put on between cartoons when I was a kid. It was about the invention of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. You wouldn’t believe how it went down. Apparently, a guy eating a chocolate bar stumbled into a guy eating a jarful of peanut butter, inadvertently creating a new concoction, a blend equal parts Hershey and Carver. There was much dispute as to whether the one guy had gotten chocolate in the second guy’s peanut butter, or the second guy was to blame for the peanut butter now affixed to the fellow’s chocolate. But once the feuding ended, everyone was in agreement. These were two great tastes that tasted great together.

Why the history lesson? To showcase the kind of promotion your product can have on this page if you send me free stuff.

So, back to SportClips. I went in, and one look at the surroundings told me this was no ordinary hair salon. All the lockers in the room gave it the feel of, I don’t know, a locker room. Jerseys and banners hung on the walls above, and while prominent billing was given to the local clubs, sports fans from far and wide would feel at home amid the eclectic assortment of cities and teams represented.

But if you’re like me, you don’t go to a hair salon for a chance to look at some banners. You go for a chance to watch sports on TV. That’s why every one of my previous haircut experiences had been so disappointing.

Now get this, Boyos. SportClips has a small television screen at every station. I was there on a weekday morning, a time concurrent with few live sporting events. So ESPN News awaited me as I headed to the barber’s chair, and am I ever glad it did. No sooner had I sat down than did I learn that Richard Jefferson had been dealt to the Spurs. See? That’s the kind of thing I’d have learned only after my haircut at some other place.



The stylist then got down to business. She asked me how I’d like my hair cut. It struck a familiar chord, this woman wanting to discuss something insignificant with me as I tried to watch sports. It was a shrewd coaching ploy, designed to make my new surroundings no less comfortable than my living room on a rainy Sunday. It worked, I tell you. By the time a protective cloth was tucked into the collar of my t-shirt, I was fully at ease in this magical barn. I felt as natural as Tiger at Augusta, as relaxed as a Blue Devil in Cameron Indoor Stadium, as at home as a Cincinnati Bengal in Central Booking. I was fired up. Nobody was gonna come into MY house and ... I don’t know, get a better haircut or something.

Quickly, the buzz of the clippers drowned out the sound of the TV, an inevitable intrusion as necessary as the re-setting of noses on an NHL bench. And anyway, I was still kept abreast of the sports world’s breaking news. The lower-third graphic told of Manny Ramirez’s impending minor league debut, as it did to the follow-up announcement that Richard Jefferson had been traded to the Spurs.

Still, the relative quiet of the hair-cutting shears was a welcome successor to the clippers’ whine, and it was particularly well-timed. I’m not sure I heard the entire Rosetta Stone commercial, but I caught enough to get the gist of it. Then the news broadcast came back on, announcing that Richard Jefferson had been traded to the Spurs. ESPN’s Andy Katz weighed in briefly, then stepped aside as Michelle Bonner transitioned to the next item, stating that Manny Ramirez would play minor league ball tonight.

By this time I’d become oblivious to the skillful hair-fixing efforts of my stylist, and by the intro to the next story -- about Richard Jefferson’s trade to the Spurs -- she was ready to put down the sheers. Thus informed, I turned toward the mirror to assess her work. Indeed, my hair was shorter. That had been the game plan, and it was achieved with perfect execution.

I grabbed hold of the hand mirror she gave me, and as is my custom, pretended I knew how to position the thing so that, in conjunction with the wall mirror, I actually could see the back of my head. I was pretty sure she hadn’t attached a ponytail or some mullet locks, and that’s really all I ask of the hair back there. So I expressed my satisfaction.

The stylist pointed to an adjoining room; above its entryway was a tiled-wall that read “Showers.” She asked if I wanted the MVP service (which apparently consists of a post-haircut shampoo, a brief neck massage and a steamed towel). I demurred. I was undeserving of such recognition. This was a team effort, and I was just happy to get the HC. That’s the kind of guy I am. I don’t do what I do for any individual honors that cost more money.



I got up to pay, and it was not until I walked to the cash register that I noticed the souvenirs. That’s right, gents. SportClips is more than just a lid factory. They sell stuff, too. Everything from pencils with basketball erasers to pencils with football erasers. I was also intrigued by this miniature, cardboard cutout Ryan Theriot office desk accessory, but I don’t know where you're supposed to put something like that.

Ultimately, I would leave empty-handed. But while my appetite for sports-themed novelty items was unsatisfied, my thirst for shorter hair was anything but. A good haircut at a good price, with the sports atmosphere that we fellas demand.

On my way out the door, I told the stylist I’d be back soon. But I don’t think she heard me. She was facing the TV, focussed on ESPN News, which was reporting that Richard Jefferson had been traded to the Spurs.

I’ve never been to the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, but if it’s anything like the Chinese restaurant Wok of Fame in Burbank, CA, the Mu Shu pork is pretty decent. I imagine being inducted as a member of either one of these hallowed institutions is unbelievably gratifying. And I don’t think it’s a feeling Sammy Sosa will ever know.



As was announced repeatedly last week, with both horror and righteous indignation, former Chicago Cub slugger Sosa was one of the MLB players nailed in an “anonymous” 2003 screening for performance-enhancing drugs. He was joined in that ignominy by Alex Rodriguez and 102 players to be named later. And each reporting of the Sosa news finds me shaking my head, asking the same thing over and over:

“This is news?”

Didn’t we all know the former Chicago slugger had used steroids? Remember those congressional hearings in 2005? I thought the reason we all mocked his sudden “no comprende” act was for its comically transparent and self-implicating evasiveness. If that’s not why you chuckled, then you must be someone who finds the rapid decline of another’s intellectual acuity inherently hilarious. I suggest you sneak into a dementia ward and let the good times roll.

Getting all hot and bothered because of an incident of cheating by a known cheater just doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Sure, his actions were reprehensible. But come on, you must have seen this coming. The ‘wrong bat’ incident of ’03 did raise eyebrows. His explanation that he accidently used the stick he reserves for batting practice (all for the fans, mind you) rang more hollow than the X-Bat itself when it snapped in two and scattered a tack board around the infield.



Really, by the late ‘90s, with home run records once thought unbreakable being smashed to bits, you must have at least found some players’ exploits suspicious. If not, Ken Caminiti’s mea culpa should have piqued curiosity. It did mine. By the time Jose Canseco’s book, “Juiced”, came out in 2005, I saw it for what it was: A shameless attempt by a washed-up slugger to make a quick buck; a sleazy, sociopathic smear-campaign, with only one man’s interests and the almighty dollar in mind, that was spot-on accurate.

But maybe you were unswayed even after that farce before Congress. Maybe you found Sammy credible. You could’ve chosen to believe that Rafael Palmeiro, having predicted his future need to testify under oath, waited until the day he could honestly declare he’d never taken steroids before allowing himself to finally shoot up. Perhaps you believed that Mark McGwire was there, as he claimed, not to talk about the past but to be positive about the future. Me? I thought he was there because he was subpoenaed.



Now, look. I’m not really writing this because I think you’re that naive. I’m actually writing this because I hadn’t contributed to this blog in quite some time, and I was beginning to feel the heat. So if this, the 3,253,071st opinion-piece about performance-enhancing drugs in Major League Baseball will get even my harshest critic off my back, here it is. Now cut me some slack, Aunt Martha.

Obviously, steroid abuse is bad news. It causes violent mood swings, testicular-shrinkage and everything they list after testicular-shrinkage, but I’ll be honest, I’ve always stopped reading by then. And if I were in a Major League clubhouse and saw players getting juiced, I can tell you with certainty that I wouldn’t do the same. But then, in my capacity as towel-boy, I really wouldn’t need much bulk.

The blessing of underwhelming athletic ability is that certain temptations simply don’t tempt. So it’s easy for those of us who quit playing competitive sports once the dog chewed-up our last Nerf balls to point out all that’s wrong with using PEDs. We discuss it with our cronies while walking to class, or while pouring coffee in the office, or while waiting for Bobby to get us the hell out of Sam the Butcher's meat locker.

See, most of us don’t know what it’s like to have spent nearly all of our waking hours in pursuit of one dream. If not everybody reading this, at least the majority of us (Aunt Martha and me) never had the tools to justify any dream of playing sports professionally. We didn’t have entire families, entire neighborhoods or even entire cities completely invested in our athletic achievements. And I don’t know about you, but I didn’t grow up a shoeless kid in the Dominican Republic whose three-walled abode had neither a roof nor running water. And let's face it, I do know about you.

I’ve never learned the particulars of Sammy Sosa’s upbringing, nor do I know what’s ever made Mark McGwire, Alex Rodriguez or Manny Ramirez tick. I don’t like what they’ve done behind locker room doors. It’s bad for the game and it’s bad for our kids. But let’s not pretend to have even the slightest grasp on what drives these players to do such things.

Should known PEDs users be allowed entry to the Hall Fame? Sure, provided they buy tickets. Their stats are meaningless. They’ve tarnished baseball’s image. Of course they shouldn’t be inducted. The problem is, I can’t help but think that’s a bigger issue for the media than it is for these guys. Don’t get me wrong: Sammy and the rest will no doubt be extremely disappointed for having screwed themselves out of such an honor. I just don’t think too many guys dedicate their lives to baseball because they dreamed of being museum exhibits.

The fact is, most players don’t make the Hall of Fame. They’re just trying to earn a paycheck playing the game they love. According to a 2007 study done by University of Colorado researchers, the average length of a Major League Baseball player’s career is only 5.6 seasons. And it’ll be half that as soon as Jamie Moyer and Tim Wakefield call it quits.

So when you get your crack at the big time, after having dedicated your life to baseball, and you know that guys -- opponents who want to make quick work of you and teammates who want your spot in the lineup -- are giving themselves an edge through the use of banned substances ... well, aren’t you at least tempted to level the playing field?

What’s my point? I’ve been wondering the same thing. I suppose it comes down to this: cheating is bad. Messing around with illicit drugs is bad. Setting a horrible example for kids is really, really bad. But it’s happened. I think it’s probably happened a lot more than we know yet. We don’t have to be cool with it and we don’t have to forgive these players for their misdeeds. We don’t have to watch baseball at all.

But if we do keep tuning in, let's resign ourselves to the fact that every so often we’ll learn some regrettable things about the game’s recent past. Let’s try to stop taking it so personally. I don’t believe Sammy Sosa sought illegitimate methods for increasing his power, as he once implied, to thrill all his fans. But I’m certain he didn’t do it to break their hearts, either.

¿Comprende?

Okay, Angelenos. The Lakers may be up three games to one in these NBA finals, but this is no time to relax. There’s still work to be done. And I think we all know what that work is:

1) You must purchase Lakers flags.

2) You must attach them to the windows of your car.

3) You must drive your car in public areas.



Let’s not forget, the Lakers haven’t won a thing yet. The Magic still have an outside shot -- tall people are full of surprises -- but folks here in SoCal are feeling pretty good about their team’s chances. Which is exactly what worries me. Complacence is the one thing that can come between these people and a joyous summer. Complacent people do not buy Lakers flags and parade around town with them.

The big question around here is not who will be celebrating on the court. It’s who will be celebrating off of it. If your Lakers fan credibility is at all in question, your right to happiness in the wake of a championship is by no means guaranteed.

Here’s what I’m getting at. What makes winning worth it for most fans is not the happiness they feel for their teams when they win. It’s the happiness they feel for themselves when their teams win. But that happiness is not what drives fans. It’s the perception that others envy that happiness that makes all the players’ hard work worth it.

Knowing your joy is envied by an entire league’s worth of fans is what most of us are in it for. Of course, that’s a privilege accorded only one team’s rooters each season. Fortunately, there are smaller satisfactions to be had more regularly. If your team’s biggest rival’s fans wish they were you, you go to bed happy. Even the covetous fans of a barely-familiar foe, having just been knocked off by your heroes, give reason to cheer.

It’s a funny thing, really. In ordinary life situations, your pleasure at the expense of someone else’s is, appropriately, something to handle with subtlety. A fellow just tapped for a promotion rarely gets in the face of his shafted co-worker, declaring, “Yes! You wish you were me!” A bride doesn’t walk down the aisle and, upon passing her just-divorced cousin, announce, “Yay! I’m happy and you’re not!” We downplay these things. And more often than not, we’re sorry for the unfortunate one’s disappointment.

But compassion has no place in sports. How can you feel sorry for a guy who likes a different team than you do? He had these taunts coming to him ever since he decided to root for different strangers in different uniforms than the ones you’ve chosen to love. Who cares where he calls home, he should know better! And don’t even mention that jerk who lives in this city but carries the torch for another team. I don’t care where his Dad grew up. I will not rest until he yearns to be as happy as I am.

Now, despite its reputation, L.A. actually has a large and loyal fan base for all the teams that haven’t already left town and aren’t the Clippers. But there are few cities home to more transplants, many of whom bring their sports affiliations along with their dreams of stardom or stalkerdom. So, whereas it can be assumed that someone even close to, say, Green Bay is a Packers fan, there are no such assurances here.

Thus, true Angelenos are particularly needy. Not only do they require the envy of those in other cities, they also expect many a neighbor to be jealous.

So I say, townsfolk, it's time to get serious. What you do in the next 12 hours will determine your quality of life for the next 12 months. Do you want others to long for your brand of euphoria, or will you instead be subject to harassment from those who feel they are owed your admiration?

I thought so. Now, let’s go: establish your Lakers fan credibility. Do as so many have already done, and get those car flags. But that alone won’t do it. You need to be seen in possession of said flags to convince the skeptics.

Of course, if you fail to do so in time, you have one final, desperate measure at your disposal. This will prove beyond any doubt what a great fan you are. Wait for the Lakers to pop the champagne corks, then go out and pick a random automobile. Smash the windows and the headlights, put an axe through the grille and then set the whole car ablaze.

Your joy will make the news. Fans the world over will wish they were you.

Prepare yourself. What I’m about to say is going to shake most of you to the core. Disbelief, pain, anger ... they can all be yours if you read any further. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I’m a hockey fan.

I love the sport. Odds are, you don’t. There’s a reason a boutique cable outlet like Versus was able to acquire the broadcast rights to NHL games. Nobody else wanted ‘em. Not enough people give a damn about hockey to make it worth their while. Rumor has it, NBC was stoned when it agreed to air a few games. The peacock’s a hell of a partier.





Fact is, though, hockey fans often feel like the ones getting stoned. By angry mobs in village squares.

Those that don’t love hockey seem to hate it. What makes me think so? All the people who’ve said to me, “I hate hockey.” I remember reading a message board discussion on the Fox Sports website a couple of years back. The thread focused on the question of which sports’ players were the most athletic. As I remember, most posts were by those who believed the NBA featured the greatest athletes. I had no gripe with that. But what amazed me was the outraged response to the poor fellow with the nerve to suggest that hockey players, whose game requires agility, artistry, power and guts, were worthy of at least a little consideration.

And so, the rants began. How dare this fool make such a claim. One of the more affronted readers went so far as to refer to the garbage known as hockey as “a made up sport.” I guess this guy had a version of the bible I’ve never seen, in which God made Eve out of Adam’s rib and a Wilson Indoor/Outdoor out of his pinky knuckle. I’m not looking forward to the day I have to sit my kids down and reveal that James Naismith’s just a mythical folk hero trotted out come holiday season.

Every puck fan hears such things with regularity; that is, unless you’re reading this in Canada or Finland (where I’m huge, by the way). It’s usually said in an “I hate to tell you this, but what you like is crap” tone of voice, and with a patronizing tone that suggests the speaker is recognized as the authority on that which is good.

Now, don’t worry, hockeyphobes. I’m not here to proselytize. The NHL may find it necessary to expand its U.S. audience, but as long as there are enough warm bodies to justify a league, I’m cool with it. And national TV contract, shmational TV contract -- that’s what I say. DirecTV, with its NHL Center Ice package, is all I need. I’ll even put up with the crappy in-house DVR they force on their customers.

The point is, I don’t care if you like hockey. Unless you tell me otherwise, I’ll assume you don’t. No problem. You like stuff I think is garbage, too. But if I bump into you at the grocery store, I don’t look into your cart and announce, in the most condescending tone I can muster, “Is that Papaya? I f--kin’ hate that sh-t!”

And to me, hockey is the papaya of sports. You know it’s a big deal in distant lands, but you’re not even sure where to find it here. How people can muster up hatred for things they’re barely exposed to, I don’t know. But then, Coeur D’Alene Idaho -- that hotbed of ethnic diversity -- is Aryan Nations headquarters, so I suppose that, in truth, absence makes the heart grow stupider.

Now, now, hockey hater, don’t get all bent out of shape. I’m not suggesting you’re a stupid fascist. I know it’s human nature to dislike that which we don’t understand, especially when another’s appreciation for that thing makes us secretly feel like we’re the one’s missing the boat. All I’m saying is, the word “hate” is pretty strong for something you have in your power to avoid entirely.

There are myriad reasons given by people who don’t like the game. Many claim an aversion to the (much exaggerated) number of fights. What makes it odd is that so many of these people averse to fisticuffs seem so intent on provoking them.

But the turn-off these doubters express most often is that, on television, you can’t see the puck. That is a good reason, and in fact, the same complaint I have with NASCAR.

Now, I’ve gotten tired of being called a liar for proclaiming my ability to follow the puck. I do see it. And not just because of the ass-kicking, 61 inches of high definition TV that constitute my only contributions to the furnishing of our home. No, I’ve always seen the puck. Or at least as often as I’ve seen a baseball as it heads for the bleachers or a football, having just been fumbled, swallowed up among the diving hordes. It’s all in the body language. I know where the high fly ball is when it’s off-screen, because I can read the behavior of the outfielders in pursuit of it. And there might be 2,000 pounds of football player on top of the ball, but every movement within that mass of humanity tells the ol’ pigskin’s story.

Of course, interpreting the players’ movements in a hockey game, as in all sports, is an acquired skill. One that, if you haven’t already, you won’t have mastered by tonight’s Stanley Cup Finals match, Game 7 of a terrific series between the Pittsburgh Penguins and the Detroit Red Wings. With the exception of a lopsided Game 5, every contest has been an intense, back-and-forth battle between two very skilled teams. Tonight, these elite squads are going at it one last time, for the privilege of living out their lifelong dreams of hoisting the hallowed Stanley Cup. Both teams will squeeze every last drop out of every last player. They will skate at blazing speeds. They will pass and shoot with astonishing precision. They will knock each other to the ice with bone-rattling impacts and, demonstrating almost inconceivable grit and determination, get right back up and do it again. And then, after the final buzzer, they’ll line up to shake hands.

But you won’t watch. You hate that stuff.

Not a lot of people know this, but it's June already. Which means it’s just about time for Greg Gumbel to start reminding us that a new “One Shining Moment” feature will be shown at the conclusion of CBS Sports’ coverage of the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament in March, 2010.

For those unfamiliar with the “One Shining Moment” segment (you know, all those hardcore sports fans who’d make time for a rambling, sophomoric blog but have better things to do than watch the Final Four), it’s an up-tempo montage of iconic scenes from the early-round contests all the way through the championship game you’ve just watched. The song lending its title to this production is a Luther Vandross number -- experts now believe it's the only piece of music up to the task -- that has done so since 1987.

22 shining moments. Not shabby.

As for the video, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. It invariably opens with a tip-off from a first round game, and by the time it closes with the inevitable video of confetti-covered champs hoisting their shiny new trophy, you’ve seen at least one dramatic dunk, an emphatic block, a bone-crunching dive in pursuit of a loose ball, a whooping, victorious player tugging on his jersey to display his school’s name, and a teardrop rolling down the cat’s paw decal on a cheerleader’s cheek. Yet despite all the predictable, maudlin sentimentality, I’ve been happy to watch every one of them.

But in recent years, CBS Sports has decided this reliable season-ender should be less a nice, final touch than a showcase event. And so Gumbel ballyhoos the schmaltzy assemblage -- the likes of which have concluded sports broadcasts since the invention of endings -- in a reverential tone reserved for more widely-recognized cinematic triumphs. Like, say, “Citizen Kane.” Or “The Godfather.” Or that one with Elliot Gould and the boxing kangaroo. They’re even selling the segments on iTunes, to the iTune of $1.99 for a single season’s video, or $24.99 for the entire library. I have to say, all this hype is sending the guilty-pleasure ratio in the wrong direction. Criminy, it's just a highlight reel.

Still, the NCAA Tournament is worthy of such a tribute. It’s an event that spans three weeks; an epic free-for-all that narrows 65 hopefuls down to one champion.

The first half of an NBA game -- even if it’s the finals -- spans about an hour and fifteen minutes and narrows two hopefuls down to two. Don’t get me wrong -- I like the first quarter. Nothing kicks off a game better. And I think you’ll agree, the second quarter picks up right where the first one left off. Put ‘em together and they make a fine half.

But do a handful of first-half clips, isolated moments provided without context but with hip-hop music, make for a much anticipated halftime event? The short answer is, “No.” But the long answer?

It's, “Nooooooooooooo.”

Apparently, a certain Korean automaker disagrees. Hence, the “Kia Motors ‘Soul of the Game.’” Its third installment in these NBA finals is now behind us, and if you’ve missed them all, well, the following transcript of Game 1’s should paint the picture.

As 3D graphics kicks off the visuals, the rich baritone of a golden-throated announcer reads the words with gusto: “Now, the Kia Motors ‘Soul of the Game’!” The lyrics to the Black Eyed Peas’ “I gotta feeling’” start up, and so do the very quick cuts between the following images:

Some eyes. They’re probably Kobe’s.

Dwight Howard whoops it up, pre-game.

Lamar Odom stands amid a ring of bouncing teammates, pre-game.

A hand. It’s probably someone’s.

Andrew Bynum dunks.

Stan Van Gundy gestures wildly and yells at somebody.

Howard sinks a hook shot over Bynum.

Howard, eyes closed, mutters something to himself.

Kobe hits from either three feet or twenty. No way to tell from this angle.

Jack Nicholson smiles at the camera and holds up two thumbs. They’re probably his.

The graphics come up again, and the announcer says “That was the Kia Motors ‘Soul of the Game!’”

And just as quickly as it came into our lives, it’s gone.

Lame, yes. But, worthy of contempt? Yes.

Essentially, it’s a competently strung together sampling of images that suggests some basketball has been played. There’s nothing inherently wrong in that. In fact, quite frequently, sports broadcasts use similar compilations as bumpers to transition back to game coverage after lengthy commercial breaks. It’s a perfectly acceptable alternative to a robot in football pads.

Kia seems to feel that, simply by presenting it as the moment we’ve all been waiting for, we can be fooled into thinking we give a damn. The thing lasts only thirty seconds, and no fewer than ten are dedicated to the announcer. Twenty seconds of clips might not merit both an introduction and a sign-off.

My real gripe is with the title, "Soul of the Game." I don’t know how they define “soul” in Seoul. But I know all too well the temptation to juxtapose those homonyms, which can be overwhelming.

I also know that, when prepped for a halftime feature said to represent the game’s soul, I’m inclined to expect something with a little more depth. A segment that represents the emotion at the core of the game, and its power to touch people in ways that can't be measured in point totals. And by game, I don't mean the game of basketball we've just seen. I mean, the game of basketball as we rarely see it.



And so, Kia’s take on “The Soul of the Game” feels absurd coming -- as it did in halftime coverage of game 2 -- on the heels of a feature about the tragic death of Trevor Ariza’s little brother, Tajh, and how 13 years later, the Lakers forward can still feel the little boy's presence on the basketball court.

Game 3’s Kia presentation actually came a few minutes into the third quarter. Perhaps there was no room for it in ABC Sports’ halftime coverage. What producers did find time for was a story about the power the NBA has to capture the imagination of fans a half-a-world away in Asia, a far better representation of the game's soul than Kia’s version.

Still, even that seemed trite next to that same halftime's feature on Ryan Rodriguez, a boy with a rare anxiety disorder that had rendered him mute for pretty much all of his four years. He did seem to spark to basketball, though, so his father used what little money he had to take his son to Amway Arena for the thrill of watching an Orlando Magic game in person. And in that setting, Ryan began to open up. To fully appreciate the story, you’d have to hear the father’s trembling voice describe the experience of his first conversations with his son, and how the Magic, having learned of their remarkable story, have since hosted the family for more games. And so Ryan’s progress has continued at light-speed, because he’s finally found a place where he’s truly comfortable. An NBA arena.

But yeah, a lay-up, Jack Nicholson, a hand ... that’s the soul of the game.

If you’re looking for up-to-the-minute sports news and in-game analysis, you’ve come to the right place. The internet. Where you messed up was clicking the link to this blog, one that specializes in what’s known as "irrelevant filler." But since I have you here, let me tell you about a baseball game I attended about a week-and-a-half ago with my wife and kids.

It was Wednesday. The Mets were in town to play the Dodgers, two legitimate contenders for the National League crown meeting up in the final game of a series the Dodgers were looking to sweep. The evening air was crisp and clear, and once again Chavez Ravine would prove the perfect setting for taking in a ball game and arguing over whether a kid who only eats two bites of her hot dog deserves Dippin’ Dots.

The Dodgers took a 1-0 lead in the bottom of the first, a quick strike that gave little hint of what the subsequent frames had to offer: an improbable pitcher’s duel between Jeff Weaver and Livan Hernandez. The Mets put up a run of their own in the third, but all the way into the eighth inning, those matching, single tallies were alone among all the goose eggs showing on the scoreboard. The game was tight; the mood was tense. Even the giveaway Casey Blake bobbleheads seemed jittery.

A packed Dodger Stadium only magnified the intensity. Excited fans of the hometown squad were out in force. But a large New York contingent -- and this might surprise you -- found a way to make its presence felt. My section on the loge level, down the right field line, was a contrast in Dodger blue and Met, um, blue.

Entrenched in this tinderbox, I awaited the inevitable spark that would set the place ablaze. The fuse was finally lit in the top of the eighth, with Mets on first and second and nobody out. A late inning threat such as this one so often proves the turning point in a tight game. Either the offense breaks things open, or the guys in the field quash the threat and steal the momentum. As Mets slugger David Wright stepped into the batter’s box, everyone knew something big was about to happen. And happen it did.

In a flash, the folks around me were on their feet, a spirited mass of humanity joined together in a raucous frenzy, bodies crashing, people screaming at the top of their collective lungs. It was an eruption so fierce as to evoke memories of Krakatoa, Vesuvius and Pompeii (albeit memories of the lame parts when just a little crap went down).

What provoked this wild display? An unassisted triple play? A three-run shot into the parking lot? An astute application of the infield fly rule?

If you answered “none of the above,” you’d have invoked a hackneyed pop culture reference not even offered as one of the choices, and frankly, it doesn’t speak well of you. But you would be right.

No, the excitement was not, in fact, baseball related. It was beach ball related. As often happens at Dodger Stadium, it seems some joker had smuggled in one of those prohibited, large, inflatable orbs so well-suited for surf and sand. This one was purple and white and emblazoned with the logo for the 99¢ Only Stores. The fellow had managed to keep that ball under wraps for about 180 pitches, no doubt struggling to contain his glee at the surprise he planned to spring on the crowd when the time was right.

So there the Mets were, on the bases, threatening to break the deadlock of an excellent ball game. And there that dollar-store clown was, in the stands, deciding that what this crowd needed right now was a little excitement.

He apparently overcame his own breathless anticipation and managed to inflate that beach ball. He then smacked the thing upward, and watched with pride as the ball slowly descended upon the folks in the forward rows, who were as yet oblivious to the antics of the mystery fan to their backs.

Then the ball made human contact. It glanced off an ear, then a shoulder. Next it collided with what was either a clump of cotton candy or the head of an old lady.

And then all hell broke loose. “Sakes alive, is that what I think it is?!” “A beach ball! Hallelujah!” “My life would be complete if I could just get my hands on that glorious marriage of machine-made plastic and man-made breath!” These are all things that nobody said, but there was a great deal of excitement nonetheless.

Within seconds, I felt like the only one in our section still trying to watch the game. It was not easy keeping a sightline alive amid the bodies converging around the beach ball. It seemed everybody wanted a swipe at the thing, and each gleeful smack by someone lucky enough to get a touch made those less fortunate wish even harder that the ball take a bounce in their directions. Soon, the whole section was up on its feet, dashing what little hope I still had of following the action on the field. All I could see were hands, elbows and two purple nines. I swear, even Casey Blake’s bobbling head was tracking the arc of the beach ball.

Just when I thought the chaos had reached it’s pinnacle, the ball somehow found its way into the hands of my kids. I don’t know who touched it first; my five-year old daughter or the brother three years her senior. What I do know is that, with the ball in their collective possession, time stood still. They looked at each other and scanned the crowd, yet appeared somehow unaffected by the covetous stares of the adults surrounding them.

This break in the action seemed to go on forever, and I was pretty sure someone was about to reach in and get the ball bouncing again. So I urgently suggested that it was time to put whatever plan they had for the ball into action. My little girl caught the hint, and before her brother even realized what was happening, she punched that spheric ambassador for summer fun out of his hands and into those of a goateed, muscular twenty-something eager to impress his buddies with a powerful stroke that achieved maximum distance. He did not disappoint.

I don’t know about your eight-year old, but mine? The ability to calmly shrug off perceived injustices -- particularly at the hand of his little sister -- is not in his arsenal. I’m telling you, my kid raised a colossal ruckus. I reflexively sprung into action, parenting the only way I know how, by affecting the expression of a guy who’s appalled at the behavior of the random kid who happens to be seated next to me.

At first I was relieved that his screams had no effect on those around us. But as one adult after the next took a turn at making the shiny toy fly, something occurred to me. An eight-year old boy’s supposed to care about a beach ball. He should get excited to watch it ricochet around a crowded ballpark, and he should have his heart set on testing his own ball-smacking abilities for all to see. To the benefit of civilization, that’s also the kind of thing you’re supposed to grow out of by the time you’ve got facial hair. I began to resent the fact that none of the grown men and women around us took no notice of my kid’s distress. Apparently, a child’s cries are of little concern with a round, bouncy thing in the vicinity.

That fired me up. I was gonna hand-deliver that ball to him myself. As I jostled for position, attempting to box out rows L, M and N, adrenaline surged through my veins. I was in the zone. My elbows had never been sharper. My half-inch vertical leap nearly doubled itself.

Alas, there are rebounds even Dwight Howard can’t reach. The beach ball was punched about ten seats to my right, then straight down four rows, then five feet over my head and to the left. The dizzying, rapid-fire volley had me disoriented, and, resigned to the sad reality of letting my boy down, I sat back down and buried my face into my hands.

Which is why I’m not sure exactly what happened next. But I looked up just in time to see the ball carom off the fingers of what seemed like twenty hands before landing within the grasp of only two. Both belonged to my son, and he was beaming.

Yep, nearly swallowed up by a sea of "grown-ups" either unwilling or unable to fix his problem, he did it himself. I’ve never felt prouder of my boy than I did as he stood there gripping that beach ball. And gripping it. And gripping it some more. And then I yelled at him to get rid of the damn thing already.

He smacked the beach ball skyward, at which point dozens of greedy, full-sized hands converged in an effort to be the next one at bat. The ball bounced off a cluster of fingers and soared downward to the front of the loge, where a paunchy guy accidently bobbled it until it disappeared over the railing and out of sight. As he began to absorb the boos and epithets targeted for him, those in the ‘field’ section below were no doubt thanking the heavens for the magnificent, puffy, purple-and-white globule that was about to change their lives forever.

With the climactic moment of the evening behind those in our section, I returned my focus to the field of play. The Dodgers were now at bat, they had an out, and the game was still tied. What had happened to the two-on, no-out Mets, I didn’t know. Neither did any of the fans around me, many of whom were incredulous that the game’s circumstances had changed so much without their being aware of it. Such observations were made in a tone that seemed to blame the Mets, the Dodgers and the umpires for having allowed the past four outs to unfold in secrecy.

And now, with the game on the line, the crowd was silent. The outcome of the contest had yet to be determined, but however it played out, we'd be leaving with a Cliffs Notes appreciation for the story (the Dodgers would go on to win, 2-1). Of course, most of those around me had nobody to blame for this empty feeling but themselves. They’d just cashed in a top-quality baseball ticket (face value: 30 dollars) to play with an off-brand beach ball (face value: ninety-nine cents).

Many people love baseball for the drama. If you love baseball for the beach balls, that’s your right. Just don’t ruin the game for everyone else. So to all those planning future trips to Dodger Stadium with inflatable contraband, listen up. We live in Southern California, a perpetually sunny area known for these vast expanses of land, on any one of which I would be delighted to find you playing with your beach ball. What’s that kind of place called again?

Oh, that’s right. A freeway.

It was a simpler time. A time when George W. Bush was President, American Idol ruled the airwaves, and if you had said that a half-eaten plate of spaghetti would one day pilot the first trans-Atlantic flight from Tulsa to Pittsburgh, people would have called you a lunatic.

So it was that environment in which the 2004 American League Championship Series took place. After falling behind three games to none to the hated New York Yankees, the Boston Red Sox made history by taking the next four games and winning the series. They’d go on to sweep the St. Louis Cardinals and take home their first world championship in many a moon. But for me, the moment that would change my life as a sports fan came on the night of Game 2. It was the way Yankee fans serenaded Pedro Martinez with “who’s your daddy?” taunts, and also the way he responded to them.



Until then, it hadn’t even occurred to me how hurtful reminders of your Daddy’s identity could be. That’s the kind of thing the books won’t tell you, but I’m happy to say that, thanks to baseball, my kids only know me as “That guy who seems to live here.” No child should have to grow up knowing who his father is.

But back to that fateful night. The Yankees won, 3-1, and Martinez took the loss. After the game, he spoke with reporters. He was, of course, asked how the fans' heckling had affected him. I’d like to tell you exactly what he said in response, but not as much as I’d like to blow off the research and just paraphrase his answer. So that’s what I’ll do.

The constant taunts, he said, made him feel good. Reporters chuckled, certain of his sarcasm. But, in fact, he was being sincere. He explained that the verbal beating he’d taken from a packed Yankee Stadium reminded him of just how far he’d come. Once a penniless kid sitting under a mango tree in the Dominican Republic, he was now important enough to stand on the mound in The House That Ruth Built and provoke hatred in tens of thousands of people he’d never even met.

I think we’ve all seen enough cliché-filled responses to obligatory post-game queries to know this was a far more revealing and poignant answer than anyone had the right to expect. And I think precious few of the New Yorkers who only hours earlier knew Pedro Martinez to be evil incarnate would have anticipated such an eloquent summation of the sense of wonder and appreciation that the perennial All-Star had for the position in which he now found himself. Many of those fans, upon hearing Pedro’s heartfelt reflections, began to regret ever razzing him at all.

Because they didn’t want him to feel good.

They hated the guy, remember? The name-calling, the obscene gestures, the accusations of a pinstriped daddy? They were supposed to upset the guy. But if getting on Pedro like that only made him feel good, what were they supposed to do? Cheer him on? Give him a key to the city? Make him play for the Mets? Common sense and history tell us that none of those things would break the man.

With that one statement, Pedro Martinez revealed the truth behind sports and hate. Yes, Pedro wore a Red Sox uniform in Yankee Stadium. But a whole team of players had done that very thing on the same night. And somehow, the likes of Alan Embree, Mark Bellhorn and Brian Daubach made it in and out of the stadium without attracting the invective that so readily came Pedro’s, Manny’s and Big Papi’s way.

Look, there are some really good reasons to hate a guy, like if he’s a genocidal dictator, a violent sociopath, or a delusional clown who favors what you know to be an inferior personal computer platform. Sorry excuses for human beings, all of them. But in The Big Apple, such bad apples would be welcomed more hospitably than Jonathan Papelbon and Dustin Pedroia. Because the tyrant, the criminal, and the nerd have never come between the Yanks and yet another world championship. Pedro got it right. If throwing a ball can make you Public Enemy #1, you must be able to do it pretty well.

Now, don’t go slapping me on the back, Red Sox fans. While you were spending the better part of a century hating the Yankees, a whole lot of Yankee fans found your boys too pathetic to feel much of anything about them. Sure, loudmouths from New England and loudmouths from Gotham have never mixed well, but the fisticuffs in the bleachers were less motivated by the guys who took the field than by the guys who sold the booze.

The Red Sox have recently won two World Series during a stretch in which the Yankees have won zero. But while Boston fans boast (and boast and boast) about their town’s sports superiority, their actions are continuous reminders that the Red Sox have also recently won two World Series during a stretch in which the Yankees have won 26.

You may want to rethink those Yankee Hater hats, guys. And hey, next time you gather in public to celebrate a Patriots championship? Leave the “Yankees Suck!” chants at home. You want to know why Yankee fans, nine years removed from their team’s last championship, are still so smug? Your hatred keeps every one of those 26 championships alive. As Pedro suggested, nothing can warm the heart of an athlete and his fans like unconditional hate.

Now, the fact that you’re reading this blog says two things about you:

1) You’re bitterly disappointed with the way you’ve spent the last couple of minutes.

2) You have a SportsFanLive account.

Thanks to the latter, you are now on record as hating at least one team. You’ve probably put down some players you can’t stand, too. Here’s what I suggest. Change your profile. Your animosity only fuels the flames, my friend. As Pedro said, these jocks thrive on your animosity. Thus, Kobe thanks you for your bile. Sean Avery is tickled pink that you’re thinking of him. T.O. wants you to hate you some him. Take ‘em all off your list. What they don’t know won’t help them.

Now, I hear what you’re saying. And while I do wish you’d stop calling me “jackass,” you’ve got a good point. You can’t just stop hating strangers. That’s not healthy, and I wouldn’t ask you to do that. In fact, I insist you fill out your card with all the hate your heart has to offer. But why give the gift of your loathing to an athlete worthy of it when there are so many who’ve never known the thrill of being despised?

That’s why I decided to hate the UMKC (Missouri-Kansas City, if my guess is right) Kangaroos. Can’t frickin’ stand ‘em. And I’m gonna pass this animosity on down to my kids, and grandkids, etc. A few generations and UMKC will have a proud tradition of being thought of as a bunch of a-holes. And who could possibly get behind a team of lowlifes like the women hoopsters at Quinnipiac? Go to hell, Bobcats, and while you’re there, say hello to the Columbus Blue Jackets and the Stony Brook Seawolves. And really, no need to thank me.

I do wish I could see the look of glee on the face of North Texas Lady Eagles’ basketball player Amanda Quattrochi when I say she’s a horrible human being, or the tears of joy Fairleigh Dickinson’s Michael Blackgrove might shed upon learning that I dream of the day he gets hit by a bus. And I hope Alcorn State football player Sedetric Chambliss realizes he owes me nothing for pronouncing him the worst thing in the history of things. It’s my pleasure, Sedetric. Just pay it forward.

No, I don’t know any of these people. I’m pretty sure I’d never heard of any of them before awarding each a spot on my 'Hated' list (at first I thought I’d recognized Chambliss’s name, but I was actually thinking of this kid with whom I went to grade school, Sedetric Rubenstein). But the skill and dedication required of these student athletes deserves -- nay, demands -- my intense dislike.

It would be easy to conclude that, with the redistribution of your animus, your good work is done. But slow down, Robin Hood. There’s the not-so-small matter of your ‘My Players’ list. At first glance, it would seem that the boost you provide your favorite athletes with your show of affection can’t possibly come back to bite you in the sit-upon.

But think about it. If you love, say, the Michigan Wolverines, your gripe with the teams of The Ohio State University is implicit. So, every “Go Blue” you shout injects an inadvertent shot in the arm of the Buckeyes. The more vociferous the Lakers fan, the bigger the fire lit under the Celtics. Any fan wearing a Sidney Crosby jersey might as well set Alex Ovechkin up on a breakaway. With the opposing goalie pulled.

That’s why I’ve turned a cold shoulder to the players and teams I’ve loved for years and found myself some new heroes. I’m now the Lipscomb Lady Bisons’ biggest fan. I can’t get enough of the New Mexico State Aggies. And I bleed whatever colors are worn by the South Dakota State Jackrabbits.

I could go on to sing the praises of my favorite players, like Francesca Henderson, Will Allday and Derrick “Number 33” Bails, but I don’t want their heads to swell. Nobody likes an arrogant jock, and should the egos of these ones become insufferably large, they would soon be placed on many ‘Hated’ lists. Which -- as we now know -- would only make them stronger.

As you may have guessed by now, I’m not a sportswriter. But I do love sports, so when the good folks at SportsFanLive suggested I write a blog here, it sounded like the perfect opportunity to try something I’ve always wanted to do but never had the guts.

And so I jumped at the chance to claim my DirecTV sports packages as a tax write-off.

This may be the first sportswriting I’ve ever done, but I’ve read plenty. I’ve seen how the opinions of a scribe can boil the blood of the sports fan who doesn’t share his views. I know that some of you hate me already.

I can’t tell you how good that makes me feel.