There's Your Karma, Ripe As Peaches

Look Out Fellas, We Got Next!

On Sunday, Candace Parker of the Los Angeles Sparks became the 2nd woman in the history of the WNBA to guide the ball into the hoop without losing it on the way. This display of ridiculous athleticism made June 22nd a true red-letter day, as yet another woman showed the big boys that we can do it just like they can... with a smaller ball... on a fast break... once every 6 years.  

The league and media are blowing this up as if the girl jumped out of the gym and shat diamonds upon the masses. I got an email from a WNBA-loving friend on Monday morning claiming, "It's only a matter of time until we're huge now!" Oh really? Tell that to the league's collective 18-inch vertical leap.

If anything, Parker's dunk (and the overreaction to it) proves  that she's as much a freak of nature now as she was when she embarrassed a group of boys in the 2004 McDonald's All-America High School Slam Dunk Contest. But according to Parker, we need to brace ourselves for the slam revolution:

"I do know that more and more women are going to do it and it's something that people are going to have to accept."

Accept? Who's going to object? Step right up, ladies. The only problem people have with women playing basketball is that they're totally unwatchable.

Dunk for us. Sky for us. Jump 2 feet in the air without falling down like a sniper tagged you from the rafters. We've been waiting on some legit output since you started telling us you got next in that totally misleading ad campaign where Dawn Staley, Lisa Leslie and Sheryl Swoopes rolled up on the playground to challenge the men.

Those commercials left 14 year old me thinking I'd see women playing organized playground ball - slick moves, smooth shots, a little trickery. Got next, indeed. They couldn't play at the rim, let alone above it. But I shouldn't have been surprised then and I suppose I shouldn't be now. Of the thousands of women that have played D-1 ball in the last 25 years, only 4 have registered dunks in games. And before Lisa Leslie showed out for the Sparks in 2002, the professional dunking woman was a myth like Bigfoot, wish-granting fairies and unicorns that dance under rainbows. There were always sightings at playgrounds and closed practices but when cameras appeared for documentation, hops would scatter like cockroaches in the light.

I've long held that this game is the last refuge for girls that want to be athletes but aren't agile, flexible or fast enough to hack it anywhere else, and Parker's dunk reinforces that belief. You can turn a soccer or volleyball player into a basketball player but you'd have more luck catching a naked, Vaseline-covered crackhead than trying to go the other way.

While the best female athletes tear up tracks, soccer pitches and tennis courts; spike balls over volleyball nets and hit 110 mph pitches out of softball fields, hoops continues to offer up a few talented athletes and a horde of slow-as-molasses girls with pointy elbows and skinned knees that can barely walk and chew gum at the same time. If the league was made up of 150 Diana Taurasis, Candace Parkers, Sue Birds, Tamika Catchings and Lisa Leslies, you wouldn't hear me say a word. But it's not even close. You've got these 5 ladies and 145 female Luc Longleys. And while it's fantastic that Parker went up one-handed and sent the ball home, the gratuitous coverage is not only patently absurd but it is also pretty sad.

Wake me up when a couple women start abusing league centers like they're Shawn Bradley. Contact me when players stop shooting ugly rockets off their hips. Give me a tap when watching a matchup that isn't the championship game no longer means 40 minutes of underhanded layups and cramps. Christ - just let me know when something consistently entertaining sets up shop instead of pimping what you don't have. When the league can pull that off, I might watch more than 6 minutes without falling asleep or passing out from shame.

The Petty Files: Wayne Gretzky Disappoints

*Disclaimer: Wayne Gretzky is awesome*
*Disclaimer 2: I'm overreacting* 

So yesterday I received an email from a Phoenix Coyotes multimedia person that wanted to promote some new interactive fan fun at the team's website. The first item was Coyote's Hockey HQ, a site that lets you create a game face, play games and make your friends look ridiculous. Meh. Not so into it. But the other nugget was "Coyotes Trax—Where we have players iTunes playlists so fans can find a common ground."

The only thing I know about the Phoenix Coyotes is Wayne Gretzky and goalkeeping great, Grant Fuhr, and most people would say that's more than enough. In hopes that I'd be able to see what The Great One was rocking out to, I eagerly followed the link... to a land of great disappointment. 

I really don't know what I was expecting when I clicked on Wayne Gretzky's tune resource. Since he came of age in the late 70s and early 80s, I assumed his list would be filled with a healthy Canadian mixture of classic rock, 80s new wave and some new but internationally chill band like Coldplay. But since he's The Great One, it'd be the cool classic rock, the cool new wave and the cool new but chill. But alas.

Mixed among obvious and perfectly reasonable favorites like Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Golden Earring, The Kings, Red Rider and Triumph, were the ultimate of horrors: Nickelback... Sarah McLachlan... (brace yourself) Nelly Furtado.

I'm not even going to start on Nickelback and I'm going to let Sarah McLachlan go because "Angel" is hauntingly beautiful. But Nelly Furtado? Really? The thing is, it's not even "Promiscuous" Nelly Furtado or the Nelly Furtado that got down with Missy Elliot in "Get Ur Freak On." At least listening to that version makes sense. Pop music becomes far more tolerable to men when they want to put their dick in the singer. But "I'm Like a Bird" Nelly Furtado? She only inspires me to get a Peter King style latte at Starbucks with money that I've pulled out of my bedazzled purse. I can't imagine how that version has any effect on men.

I know I'm overreacting here, but I don't know, I just didn't see this coming. Sarah McLachlan and Nelly Furtado are okay for women because, you know, we have vaginas. But The Great One? While I never expected Slayer or anything, I certainly didn't anticipate seeing the 2001 lineup from Lilith Fair.

Hell Should Be Freezing Over... Shouldn't It?

What the Hell Happened While I Was Gone?

Greetings, mates. I have returned from the Summer of Me, where I took 12 weeks off work and blog to surf, sleep and engage in random debauchery and nefarious schemes. In my time away from you, I've broken a couple bones, had some near-misses and been grazed by a shark. Gripping times, to be sure. But I've also been completely cut off from the sporting world - and the world in general - but to be honest, I didn't care. When I heard the news that Thierry Henry had done the unspeakable and left for Spain, I shrugged. "We hardly used his injured arse anyhow," I said to myself. "Good luck to him."

Now, you all know, that's just not my way. I should have spent 18 days whining and crying about what now and another 45 sucking everyone around me into my mire of doom and gloom before declaring Thierry the devil and being done with it. But nope. The news just rolled off my back and I caught another wave. It was frightfully bizarre and made me incredibly uncomfortable. And while it's nice to ride this wave of peaceful bliss, now that I'm back in functioning society, there is no telling how long it'll last.

I'm English after all. It's in my nature to bitch.

So anyway, I've been reading up on the news of the world and all is not how I left it. Let's see here..

• Barroids is about to break the most hallowed record in sports and there has been no divine intervention or lone nut assassin to stand in his way.
  
• The NBA refs are in cahoots with the mob.
  
• Half of the Tour de France field - the leader included - was disqualified and thrown to the wolves
• Michael Vick isn't just a steaming pile, he's pure evil. Even though he deserves to go to pound me in the ass prison for a very long time, I must give him props for finding a way to incorporate a "Z" into the name of his business. I have to believe that the "Z" turned "Bad Newz Kennels" from your regular mom & pop operation into a true train 'em and execute 'em juggernaut. My only real disappointment is that it's not Bad Nooz Kinizzles. I hate to get on a tangent here but when they were brainstorming a name, who piped up and said "What? Please tell me that's not News with an S! Come on dawg!"
  
• Odell Thurman has been denied reinstatement to the NFL for no apparent reason.
  
• Bands of thieves are attacking and robbing NBA players - and not even good players. I've gotta think at least two members of each entourage are on the books as "security." They can't put down the Cheetos for a moment and check out the perimeter?
• Pacman Jones is doing bootleg wrestling
  
• Dan Patrick is leaving ESPN
  
• The Cubs are 33-17 since June 2, the best in baseball... what??
  

What happened to sports? What happened to all of the institutions that I hold near and dear? I know the Barroids thing was coming but where is Gil Renard when you need him?? I was sure he'd have surfaced by now! And the NBA really is corrupt! Sure, people have been bitching forever about this David Stern-engineered conspiracy but the real mob? I could handle it if was just Stern helping my Jewish Mafia homeboys that are hellbent on taking over the world in a vast Zionist conspiracy. At least that would be reasonable. But no. It's the real mob! The break your legs, end it with a .38 and a swim with the fishes and fugghedaboudit crowd. In one summer, the entire sporting kingdom has been turned on its ear! At the rate we're going, this time next year, MLS and David Beckham will rule America. It's all too much to handle. To make matters worse - and oh yes, there is worse -- I've also been watching Victoria Beckham: Coming to America and bloody LOVING IT........ Christ.

And with that, I think I'm off to kill myself.

Cheers.

PFA Award: Cristina Ronaldo > Snoop Drog

Cristina Ronaldo took home the double last night, winning the PFA Young Player of the Year and the Player of the Year awards. Though wholly lacking in testosterone and class, Cristina is in spectacular form this year but I still hoped the awards would go to Didier Drogba and Cesc Fabregas.

Cesc really had no chance but I kinda thought Drogba might. He had a storming season at the Bridge, saving Chel$ki's arses on numerous occasions. Cristina's brilliance notwithstanding shouldn't Drogba's season-saving efforts count more than what is accomplished by a prancing nancy that plays for the New York Yankees of the EPL?

The answer to that 100% serious question is yes. As such, Drogba's failure to take home the Player of the Year award must be unrelated to a supposedly brilliant season by Cristina and more to do with something tragic like this:

"CHELSEA’S DIDIER DROGBA looks set to be a hit-man off the pitch — with his own rap album.

The Premiership’s top scorer will release the SNOOP DOGG-style tracks under the alias DROGBACITE." (The Sun, of course)

No one in their right mind would knowingly vote for a raplete, least of all one who chooses to identify himself with a name that sounds like the bacteria eating away at Al Davis' brain. Oh well.

My real issue is this: When will the tragicomedy of professional athletes plying their trades as rappers come to an end? Haven't we all suffered enough? Having enough money to find a decent producer that can pump out some semi-catchy tracks shouldn't give one license to try to be Jay-Z but let's pretend that it does. How does one get the urge to cut a rap album or even a track?

I understand how it works when you're trying to rap your way out of poverty.. when your only lyrical fodder is guns, violence, and the tragic circumstances of your life. But when you're a professional athlete sitting on millions upon millions and, quite often, with championships to your name, how does the mood strike? Are you sitting in your Cribs-esque home (or dorm room), watching the three girls you just banged walk past your MVP trophy and think to yourself, "Damn. Being me owns. I oughta rap about it and tell everybody how hard I am." Is that how it works? Or is it just an extension of the theory that all singers want to be actors, all actors want to be Hamlet, and all comedians want to write novels? Whatever it is, it has to stop.

If you played any of these efforts at a party, your guests would mock you and leave in disgust. 

• Chicago Bears Shufflin Crew: Super Bowl Shuffle, nominated for a Grammy
• '86 Oakland Raiders Music Video
• Deion Sanders: Prime Time
• Shaquille O'Neal: Shaq Diesel, Shaq Fu: Da Return, Kazaam soundtrack... :(
• Kobe Bryant: Visions (with Tyra Banks singing the hook on the single K.O.B.E., sounded like a weak, latter day Will Smith)
• Clint Dempsey: Don't Tread
• Tony Parker: TP
  
• Terrell Owens: Eagles' Diss Rap
• Mike Ditka: that Grabowski crap where he wore those Zubaz pants
• University of Michigan's Measly Penny Crew
• University of Miami's 7th Flo Crew
• UConn basketball's Ed Nelson: Pickup Truck
• Ron Artest: My World
• Allen Iverson: Non-Fiction (homophobic anthem sung by A.I.'s alter-ego "Jewelz")
• Roy Jones, Jr.: Round One: the Album, Body Head Bangerz Vol. 1
• Jason Kidd, Gary Payton, Dana Barros, JR Rider, et al: Basketball's Best Kept Secret
• Ricky Watters: Eye of a Hawk
• Chris Webber: Too Much Drama
• Macho Man Randy Savage: Be A Man (rags on Hulk Hogan in a Rob Zombie sort of way)
• Hulk Hogan: posing as or living vicariously through Brooke Hogan; I can't figure it out
• Multiple WWF/WWE compilation albums
• Didier Drogba: Drogbacite

I'm all for exploring one's talents but at no time in the history of rapletes has any one of these blokes had a sodding lick of it that didn't involve hand-eye coordination. Now, if Tony Parker or Shaquille O'Neal or Clint Dempsey wanted to take up professional juggling or hacky sack, that would make perfect sense but rapping?

The fair majority of rap requires absolutely no talent. Anyone armed with a 3rd grade vocabulary and a pair of Timberlands can be one of millions paid to repeat asinine phrases like "skeet skeet skeet," "till the sweat drips off my balls," and "slap her with a dick." 

But rap done properly - the type where the voice is used as a rhythmic instrument instead of thuggish grunting and inane rambling for a club - actually requires talent, intelligence, and skill. So if you're a professional athlete, why subject yourself to the humiliation? Why be the guy music critics compare to a latter day, watered down Will Smith? Part of being a pro is having an ego the size of Wyoming but if you have a modicum of pride, why add yourself to the millions of faux-thug tools whose lyrical skill is based in telling you exactly why they're fly and precisely why you're not (the answer is:"I'm hot 'cause I'm fly; You ain't 'cause you're not"), and if asked not to use a verse that includes some Chronic 2001 cliche, their brains might explode?

It makes no sense to me.

Crikey! Stingray Kills Crocodile Hunter!

So how's this for random and tragic? Steve Irwin, known worldwide as The Crocodile Hunter, is dead, the victim of a stingray barb to the chest while filming a documentary off the coast of Australia.

Yeah, that's right - a stingray. Not a crocodile or a snake or even Albert, the Florida Gator. A bloody stingray.

According to marine biologists, stingrays are typically non-aggressive animals that are only dangerous if provoked, making it "quite rare" for anyone to die from contact. Most stingray attacks occur when people step on them and even then, the injuries are minor.

Sadly for Irwin and his family, he suffered a puncture wound to the left side of his heart rather than the foot or leg; the location of the wound likely resulted in a fatal heart attack. Though an emergency Queensland Rescue helicopter crew, including a doctor and paramedic, was flown in to revive him, Irwin was dead before they arrived.

Now, I never thought Irwin would live to appreciate the benefits of AARP, as there are only so many times you can tempt fate when dealing with wild animals and his so-called "hands-on" approach often bordered on the reckless... or insane. But I sure didn't think he'd go down to a ridiculous creature on a one in a million shot to the chest. It just seems so silly and bizarre.

Having said that, it's sad to see his life cut short. Irwin was an enthusiastic, entertaining bloke who did wonders for the animal kingdom and he'll be sorely missed. As Justin Timberlake once eloquently noted, "He's like Dr Dolittle, for real. He knows what those crocodiles are thinking."

Too bad he didn't know what the stingrays were thinking. 

Hot Sand and Hard Bodies

It's Beach Volleyball time! I wish I was tall enough to play beach volleyball (or good enough)! Maybe if I was 5'9 or 5'10, I could've been a contender! I could've worn skimpy outfits and shown the world that my ass is like Kapow!

But alas. It was not to be.

Check out the scene at WCSN Beach Volleyball Channel for an update on the summer's exciting mens and womens events. Also be sure to take a gander at the photo gallery - Word is, it's "asstastic."

Playboy All-American Weekend, Sponsored by Schmitt's Gay

Until last year, I believed that the Playboy All-American Weekend was three days of boobs, boobs, and a brief photo shoot when everyone needed a cool down from the boobs. But it seems that I was way off, as the only boobs to be found are the supple numbers found on offensive linemen. In my update today at SportsbyBrooks, you can read up on that, as well as my musings on a few other things, which include:

• Jeff Francouer - the last player to figure out Jeff Francouer
• A Texas Longhorns player sells his National Championship ring on eBay
• Duke Women's Lax squad raises awareness 3 months too late
• The scout that discovered Albert Pujols is where...?
• Rockstar Games releases Grand Theft Auto: Table Tennis
• and more

I also had a great link on the widely circulated Avery Johnson incident where I brought back the adorable "He got injured... injured bad" boy. Well, it didn't make it past the editor's cyber desk but since I'm such a pip, have a laugh at both videos:

You know what Avery Johnson did? He hit Josh Howard in the penis!

He was injured... injured bad!

Nice Game, Pretty Boy!

There's something special about the body's reaction to loss of consciousness. I don't know if it's the way the knees buckle or the amusing manner in which the arms go limp and fall lifelessly to a person's sides but I do know one thing -- It's cases like this that make me glad the NHL has returned. Check out Brian Campbell of the Buffalo Sabres (cleanly) welcoming Philly Flyers rookie R.J. Umberger to the NHL [PS. The cartoon-sized eyes are pretty good too]:

In other news, Keith Hernandez has proven himself to be an even bigger douchebag than his self-portrayal in the Seinfeld episode "The Boyfriend." During the second inning of the Mets-Padres game last Saturday, Mike Piazza managed another homerun and after returning to the dugout, he high fived Kelly Calabrese, a full-time massage therapist for the club. Hernandez spotted the shenanigans and had a mild freakout -- "Who is the girl in the dugout, with the long hair?... What's going on here? You have got to be kidding me. Only player personnel in the dugout." He was later advised that Calabrese has been with the Padres' training staff since 2004 but stood by his comment that she didn't belong with the team during a game.

"I won't say that women belong in the kitchen, but they don't belong in the dugout," Hernandez said. He then laughed and said: "You know I am only teasing. I love you gals out there -- always have."

That was pretty funny since we all know the only place Keith loves to see the "gals" is on his penis.  I'd ask where Keith was when the rest of us joined the 21st century but it's probably safe to assume that he was reliving the good old days in a coke den somewhere with other members of the '86 Mets and missed the memo. As such, here's a note to other men that ever need to apologize for being chauvenist pricks -- Put the Keith Hernandez method at the top of the "how not to" list and avoid using the word gals in the apology. If you do, the only thing people will believe is that you're an outdated, facetious wanker... either that or you're a candidate to join the other estrogen-deficient senior citizens in my Bubbe's Mah-Jongg club.

Is Mike Golic On Curb Your Enthusiasm?

Are Celebrity Lesbians Less Superficial Than the Rest of Us?

The WNBA Is Over. Thank God.

Bob Goodenow Resigns, Moves to Peru

"I sat down with members of the executive committee and we talked about the future," Goodenow said Thursday. "The decision was made that it would be best if we made the transition now."

Jeremy Roenick is a Stooge

"If people are going to sit and chastise pro athletes for being cocky, they need to look at one thing and that's the deal we're going to be signing in about three weeks," Roenick said. "Pro athletes are not cocky. Pro athletes care about the game. Everybody out there who calls us spoiled because we play a game, they can kiss my ass. I will say personally, to everybody who calls us spoiled, you guys are just jealous. We're trying to get this thing back on the ice and make it better for the fans. If you don't realize that, then don't come. We don't want you in the rink, we don't want you in the stadium, we don't want you to watch hockey."

Mayweather Viciously Destroys Gatti

I flashed back to the countless drinking races I've been in, cracked my neck, and foolishly demonstrated what I've been doing the past few years. My record at school still stands at 12 ounces in 3.18 seconds, unspilled. I didn't touch it tonight but I made the mistake of licking my lips and smiling in triumph like I had.

It wasn't until a nearby man congratulated me on my skill ["That was like you opened up your throat!"] that I stole a glance at my dad and saw his mouth hanging open. Trouble was brewin. Luckily, Maussa, a fighter who might best be described as an awkward slugger, then landed an absolutely brutal left hook, putting "Vicious" Vivian on his arse and diverting my father's attention. The second the fight was over, I ran away to escape the inevitable questioning of my "skill" and didn't return for 20 minutes.

When I got back to my seat, Boardwalk Hall had become electric. The entire crowd was pro-Gatti; the chants of his name grew louder by the minute and if Mayweather had fans besides Allen Iverson, they weren't making their presence known. The fight got started smoothly enough and through the 1st round, I truly believed that Gatti could pull out a victory. I knew he could keep up with Mayweather at the very least, and if he could lure Pretty Boy into a brawl, he could manage a knockout. But this fight proved as lopsided as Mayweather was impressive.

Mayweather lit Gatti up with every combination from every possible angle and danced out of danger, so quickly, so easily, that comparing him to Sugar Ray Leonard in that regard would understate his performance.

Mayweather was too slick, too fast, and, surprisingly, too powerful. To make matters worse, he put together a fight of tactical brilliance that helped him outslug one of boxing's best sluggers.

Whether on offense or defense (which was rare), Mayweather's freakish quickness and ferocity left the crowd in stunned silence for 6 rounds.

But then Gatti, eyes nearly swollen shut, didn't answer the bell for the 7th round and it all came to an end - a merciful end.

Soon after leaving Boardwalk, I tried to make a post to recount what I'd just witnessed, but nothing came to mind other than "goddamn." And now, hours later, all that can really be said is that in the end, there was no thunder. The only thing Gatti ever had on his side was the crowd, as his will was no match for Pretty Boy's skill.

This is the most devastating, non-heavyweight title fight that I have ever seen. It was an absolute slaughter. Wright-Trinidad and Hopkins-de la Hoya were truly great matches where the unappreciated fighter toppled the heralded champion but neither Wright nor Hopkins can boast this level of frightful mastery over their opponents.

I went into Boardwalk knowing that Mayweather was a good fighter, but I left assured that he is the next great one.

Floyd Mayweather put on a dazzling clinic of epic proportions and beat the most popular boxer of this era into abject submission... And it was a breathtaking performance to watch.

I Love the Sweet Science

Since then, I've been hopelessly drawn to the most brutal of sports. Foolishly, many believe that boxing isn't an athletic competition but a showcase of barbaric corruption that brings the masses to that primitive place in their souls and feeds their lust for bloodsport.

But boxing is the closest any athletic contest comes to purity. It is a nasty reflection of life, rife with pain and failure, greed and hate, dishonesty and corruption. For the worthy, it offers pride and grace, honor and nobility, but the worthy are few and far between.

All my love for soccer, football, baseball, and basketball does not change the fact that boxing has always been my favorite. The sport has declined in recent years but it remains a beautiful display of determination, durability, and power that demands constant training of both the body and the mind. Miss a workout, skip some roadwork, waste some time partying and chasing wool, and you'll be exposed in the ring.

Unlike team sports, where ineffectiveness and laziness are rewarded by a teammate picking up the slack, all a fighter has is himself, and no matter how badly he's losing, he's still in the game. If a team is down by three touchdowns with 3 minutes to go, they need four, Peyton Manning, and some help from God. But in boxing, a fighter can lose 9 straight rounds but only needs one punch, that knockout blow, to shift the tide.

How can you not love that? The footwork, the dips, slips, bumps, and pushes... The sweet science is poetry in motion and there's nothing better in sport than watching two professionals with a true understanding of their trade putting on a show. And tomorrow, my dad and I are going to Atlantic City to watch Arturo "Thunder" Gatti put his Super Lightweight Championship on the line when he challenges boxing's best pound-for-pound fighter, #1 ranked contender "Pretty Boy" Floyd Mayweather.

I'll be in the 7th row, just far enough away to avoid flying sweat. This will be a beautiful fight to watch.

Jackson Rehired. Think He Can Succeed?

Danica Patrick & Dan Wheldon: Afternoon Delights

At Least They Have the Space Needle

Wednesday Nighters

"We do not take this lightly," said Gard Shelley, an amateur hockey player in his mid-50s. ... "I'm frustrated as most hockey fans are that the NHL and the NHLPA lost the season. I don't know which side of that issue I'm on. I'm just frustrated with the fact that there is no hockey being played. I don't think that's what Lord Stanley intended. I think he had a higher purpose for his donation."

Zantac Fantasy Baseball League

One of these things...

Spider-man's Greatest Bible Stories

Welcome back, Spring Breakers. I'd like to trust that you're all returning sans police records, pregnancies, baby mamas, and featured segments on Girls Gone Wild but I'm just not that naive. To those of you who became statistics in the last week, I'm sorry and I'm sure there's a support group for it.

In other news, I'm now in a fantasy baseball league, which means that I'm now developing an ulcer. I've played in many fantasy leagues but all were for football and futbol, two topics of which I have a large amount of knowledge. Fantasy baseball, however, always seemed like the venture of the ultimate stathead... the guy that could not only name the starting lineup for every club in the game but the hot AAA prospects ready to receive the call; the guy that understands why on base percentage trumps batting average; the guy that was willing to commit 6 months of his life to the daily ins and outs of Major League Baseball because he loves the game that much. I was certainly not that guy. But Matt prodded me a little and in time, I agreed to join up. In doing so, however, I failed to consider how much this decision would change my life.

As most of you know, I have a frightful case of OCD and an addictive personality. I'm not Monk... I'm functional in regular society. But all the same, I have some issues. For those of you who alphabetize your cds and dvds and therefore think you can identify with me, just put it away... you can't compete. In any case, Matt explained everything that I need to do in preparation for MLB draft day, the most intense of all fantasy experiences. I listened intently, developed a written plan of attack, and then immersed myself in the game with maniacal researching, examining, organizing, and compiling information on nearly 550 baseball players and the sleepers in their midst. I rank ordered the players by position and then again by every applicable category before creating an overall wish list. These 20 sheets were printed, 3-hole punched, and placed in a binder. I was going to own this 25 round draft... I mean, all of that should have been enough, right? When I snapped the clasps shut late Saturday night, I felt exhilerated. It was like having a great week of practice before a huge game. But as I kicked back with my Coke and Cheez-Its, fear and doubt crept in. When have any of you had a great week of practice that fully translated into results that weekend? How many times have we heard our coaches excited about the upcoming game simply because we had a great week getting ready only to watch the basketball team or the football team embarrassed to no end. Who knows why it happens. Maybe things go so well in preparation that you get too comfortable and fail to get in the right frame of mind for competition... maybe the week wasn't as good as you thought. Either way, too much success in practice seems to often result in a mediocre product on the playing field. I remember a week of practice before the Classic junior year that was easily our best to date. Everything was fluid and crisp, the flow was strong, and frankly, I thought I'd been infused with a bit of The Force. But when the game started that Friday night, we had our arses handed to us in a shutout that still causes my brain to swell. Could this happen to me in the draft? Surely there were factors that I missed. Had I prepared long enough? Was there a website that I didn't see? A mock draft whose results I'd failed to consider? Needless to say, I spun out.

Eventually, I regained my composure and decided to engage in a little snooze. Sadly, the snoozes never came. Resigning myself to insomnia, I sat through a positively abysmal Dolly Parton movie on HBO. She was honest and straightforward Shirlee Kenyon, a small-town bird that chucked her loser boyfriend in a Jerry Springer moment and went to the big city (Chitown). In a fluke mixup (of course), she ends up hosting a Frazier Crane type call-in show and becomes the toast of Chicago. Disregarding Shirlee's objections, the station insists she call herself "Doctor Shirlee," and as her popularity grows, this smarmy local reporter (James Woods) starts digging for the truth by trying to romance her. Problem is, the more he is around her the more he fancies her. Naturally, by the time he has the whole story, he's completely in love and there's the whole ethical dilemma.. Well Lenny from Law & Order was his boss and was not down with Woods' newfound sense of ethics. It was gripping drama ... easily on the level of that crap the people on the TNT commercial are always yapping about. What is drama? Drama is Straight Talk starring Dolly Parton, James Woods, and Lenny. Interestingly enough, this craptastic nonsense took my mind off my draft concerns, as I realized worse things in the world DID exist than the possibility that I wasn't completely prepared for a fantasy draft - namely, Ms. Parton's acting career... and the shame involved in voluntarily watching Ms. Parton act... and the late night oinking on ice cream, molasses-sugar cookies, jars of Gerber's apricots, and cherry Kool-Aid... and perhaps the additional shame felt in admitting to the above activities.

In any case, draft time arrived and aside from a computer freezing incident where I foolishly attempted to open 20 Excel files at once, things went relatively well. I could use a couple closers and another starting pitcher, but on the whole, I'm pleased. I started with Johan Santana, Adrian Beltre, and Eric Gagne and finished with Erubiel Durazo and some nice sleepers. I was pleased for about 12 minutes before remembering that though the hard part was over, I have 26 weeks of 24/7 attention to give to transaction sheets, waiver wires, and box scores...

My fantasy ulcer is beginning to sting mightily.

If you see this league starting to take over my life, please confront me. If/When I yell at you for daring to suggest that I have a problem, feel free to knock me around a little. [If you are use fantasy baseball as an excuse to knock me around without consequence, I will know it and I will hurt you.] I'm also open to intervention and other methods of deprogramming... they won't work but I'll appreciate the effort. In short, please save me in the event that I cannot save myself. Fantasy baseball is a demanding mistress.

Cheers!
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Original Comments

The Return of Sunday Mickelson

When I was 4 years old, my grandfather had his old clubs cut down to size so I could learn. I was re-fitted for new clubs whenever I grew and figured I was on the path to junior greatness. But when I turned 15, I got new clubs. Left-handed clubs. Though a lefty, I'd played righty golf for 11 years with no cause for complaint, but swinging the club left-handed always felt so much more natural for me. The transition was a smooth one. So as you can probably figure, I remember when Phil Mickelson first came on the scene. Like any person under 25, I was/am a diehard Tiger fan, but as a lefty, I was eager to support anyone standing on the "wrong side of the ball." This guy was young, left-handed, and the most obvious foe to Tiger's greatness. I awaited with great anticipation the back-9 battles soon to come; head to head duels between once and future champions that would define an era. Woods-Mickelson would become synonymous with Borg-McEnroe, Palmer-Nicklaus, Chamberlain-Russell, Ali-Frazier, hell, even Fischer-Spassky.

But alas. Choke after choke after choke. Mickelson exposed himself to be the master schmuck of the PGA Tour, one of the greatest chumps of all sports, and the only athlete out there that could get a sponsorship sporting Frank Costanza's mansierre. And though Lefty eventually won a major, I maintain that he only found his game after Tiger lost his. How can you respect that? Further, how can he truly think he has emerged as one of golf's greats if he can only do so amongst lesser competition? As such, I've waited patiently for Tiger to return to form. I had full faith that if forced to match Tiger stroke for stroke, Mickelson would wilt like a morning glory at noon. And on Sunday at Doral, I got my wish. While all the articles spout off about this great titanic battle on the Blue Monster, I saw two things: the return of Sunday Tiger and the return of Sunday Mickelson. Mickelson entered the final round with a 2 stroke lead and managed to lose by one. He simply couldn't hang. Sure, he didn't collapse like Greg Norman or Nick Foldo, but when it mattered, he tightened up like a sorority girl in a bucket of ice water and got the wood put to him.



Welcome back to reality, Phil.

Minor Complaints of Sport. Argh!