Like Richard Nixon, I'm a coach not a player

Not everyone was happy about the breadth of the punishment that the New England Patriots received for being caught stealing play calls from their opponents. Voicing his distaste of the matter and offering a more appropriate sanction was Kevin from O'Fallon. Kevin wrote into the St. Louis Post Dispatch suggesting that the Patriots had also cheated in Super Bowl XXXVI and that the only way to make amends would be to play the game again...this November.



Kevin's treatise, perhaps edited by the Post's staff (hey, been there Kev--they edit out the good jokes :( !!LOL!!), failed to offer adequate specifics. Where, for example, would they play? Back in New Orleans? But that's merely semantics, other hard questions: Would the Rams have to be coached by Mike Martz or Scott Linehan? Who would play? Does Aeneas Williams come out of retirement? Kurt Warner and Marshall Faulk reunited? Where's Tony Horne nowadays--not playing softball on our team, that's for sure.

All of which makes me believe, that Kev's tongue was firmly entrenched in his cheek when he wrote into the paper. Although, it is funny to imagine him (whoever he is) picking up the Sports section, reading the article, and destroying his house a la Chris Farley when he was told he was drinking Colombian coffee crystals. "You...son of a...You lied to me!"

(Sorry about picture size)

So maybe O'Fallon has produced another in a dying breed of satirists, one capable of keeping us all in check and balancing out the doom and gloom of Mallard Fillmore. And if so, that's a good thing.


Thankfully as followers of sports media we've had writers keep us in check--like Bill Simmons who reminded us that not only was there a war going on, but people are dying: "We live in a world in which global-warming activists charter private jets to take them from speech to speech, then tell people not to use so much toilet paper. We live in a world in which American kids are getting killed every day in the Middle East and nobody will mobilize a valid protest until the President finally decides, We're having a draft lottery...So save me the moral indignation about CameraGate. The whole world is screwed up." Yes, the whole world is screwed up and until the problems in the Middle East are solved and global warming is ended then, will you be allowed to think, "Wow, that was kind of a sleezy thing for the Patriots to do," without being a total dick. It's just too bad that you can only feel bothered by a certain number of news stories at a time. "Hey what do you think about the Jena 6?" "Who whoa whoa, hold up there guy, have you heard about a little thing called global warming? Or I don't know, maybe the war in Iraq? Those are the two issues we're concentrating on right now. Come back when those are solved and we'll talk about your Civil Rights crisis." And I love (this has offically become a tangent) that in the same paragraph (cut off by my elipses) Simmons mentions Friday Night Lights compared to Perez Hilton's new show--how one will be cancelled and the other is trash! Of literally the tens of thousands of things in the world to be morally indignant about, Bill Simmons chooses the fact that NBC might cancel Friday Night Lights. In his defense, though, it was a kick ass pop culture reference.


While that was one end of the spectrum, the other end was likening this whole scenario to Watergate. That little old political scandal which resulted in the resignation of the President of the United States and in combiantion with the Vietnam War sent America spiraling into an era of political skepticsm. Yeah, come to think of it, it was sort of like that. "Patriots have their Watergate." "Belichick's actions Nixonian." Give me a break. This would have sort of kind of been like Watergate had Roger Goodell told Belichick to tape the Jets, then denied the whole thing and fired Gene Upshaw when he tried to uncover the truth.

Where has journalism gone? I actually don't want to know the answer to that question, I really just want to hear Skip Bayless tell me how to feel about Barry Bonds.

AOS Celebrity Encounter Tuesday: Carlyle Holiday Does Not Find Me Funny

I like to think I'm a pretty funny guy. Throughout the years there have been some clever jokes, a couple of good anectdotes, a well placed reference here or there to Vai Sikahema or Hammurabi which brings a smile to a few faces. But there is one person, who did not laugh at my jokes--his name was Carlyle Holiday. He used to play quarterback for Notre Dame.



I met Carlyle Holiday at a bar in South Bend, IN one summer. I was introduced to him and he told me that I had just missed seeing Drew Brees. I was a little taken aback by this because by this time Drew Brees was established as an NFL starting quarterback, so what he was doing in a South Bend bar in the middle of the summer I don't know. Anyway, Carlyle continued telling me that he had wanted to beat up Drew Brees that night, but decided not to. Good choice.


Carlyle Holiday and Drew Brees' Mom: Neither big fans of Drew Brees

As fate would have it, Carlyle Holiday and I ended up moving to the same city. He in pursuit of his profesiional football career and I hoping to impart some American History on eager students--in hindsight neither of us were super successful. But, the point is this: Carlyle and I had a chance for one more night on the town together. My roommate and I were invited to go hang out with some of the Arizona Cardinals' rookies, who were there early for Rookie Camp. It was your cliche bar/nightclub, too many people dancing, too few willing to discuss what happened in 1066. I returend to the enclave where we had set up camp, past (maybe?) JJ Arrington, a lineman from Boston College, and found Carlyle Holiday. Everybody was having a great time joking around, telling stories, and enjoying life. So I figured, I would throw my hat into the ring and spin some yarn for the guys. Nothing but crickets. I even went to some of mainstays: a couple of college stories, some teachign experiences, a tough luck date. Nothing. In fact, at one point I thought I had offended Carlyle with a story about helping a friend win a Buffalo Wild Wings Eating Contest. My head fell in shame and I retreated. It may have been paranoia, but I had the distinct sense that as I walked away Carlyle was shaking his head in disappointment, expecting more, receiving less.

One guy, though, that was close to giving me a high five for a joke was wide receiver LeRon McCoy. He asked me what I thought of a specific girl on the dance floor. I went with the Wayne's World 2 reference: "Limber." LeRon appreciated the reference. So maybe this post should be retitled: "The Night I made LeRon McCoy Laugh"

Rememberance of Things Past

Terry Tempest Williams once wrote an essay entitled, "Why I Write." Due to the stringent copyright laws of this country, I won't transpose the whole piece, but here are a couple reasons she gave for writing. (As an aside I would direct anyone who is interested in writing creatively to not only read this, but to try and answer the question yourself):

I write to begin a dialogue.

I write because it makes me less fearful of death.

I write to forget.

I write because then I do not have to speak.

I write for the love of it.

I wanted to figure out what the point of writing this 'blog' is. I think it comes down to wanting to understand sports in America and speciifcally our fascination with professional and collegiate sports.



There has to be a purpose right? The time and energy we invest in watching, following, playing sports has to be more than just escape. Or does it? I have to say that on occassion I've gritted my teeth when reading Bill Simmons, but recently he's been very insightful. Anyway, he was talking about this recent NBA scandal (more to come), and he said something:

"If you're a diehard Suns fan, this now becomes the toughest playoff loss in NBA history. You have a legitimate case that you were screwed."

That's interesting pronoun use isn't it? "you were screwed." No you weren't. A team that you follow lost. But you didn't lose, a group of 12 men who have possibly never met you before lost, and they probably retired that night disappointed, shook it off, and prayed that the sun would shine tomorrow so that they could be redeemed. But you. You did nothing but watch and become emotionally invovled. Who are you? Who are we? Why do we care when we have nothing to gain and everything to lose? Trust me, you can only be disappointed when following sports. There is never a championship moment. Your team may win, but when the alcohol is wiped away and the confetti picked up, there's a moment you realize you didn't accomplish anything. But we watch and we follow and we become disappointed and feel let down by people we haven't met, or never will meet. So we find outlets for this disappointment. We play softball, or soccer, or talk about old high school football games. We need to feel connected, we need to feel like we could if God hadn't cursed us with these poor genetics.

So, after this disgression, here's my abbreviated answer to Why I write:

I write to understand

I write so there is a place for the thoughts that inundate my mind most nights before I go to sleep.

I write to drown out other people who say things like "'Nuff said," or "I didn't get the memo."

I write because I have something to say, even though on occasion I don't necessarily say it well.

Bus(c)h League Soccer: Hey at Least it wasn't a Shutout

Boom Shaka Laka's stay at the top of the Bud Sports Adult Soccer League was transient at best. There's no other way to put it--we ran into a buzz saw this week, and were unceremoniously dismantled 6-1*. An asterix seems appropriate since, I personally felt that PNH United's final goal with 10 seconds left, was a little much, but I was also raised in a house which extolled the virtues of fair play and good sportmanship--unless you're playing Monopoly, where flipped boards were sort of par for the course

In our defense we were short handed--missing three of our better players. Plus, the "ringer" we brought in last week who notched two assists was nowhere to be found. But as a result the highlights were few and far between. Neil, Drew's brother, found the back of the net late in the second half cutting the lead to three. The low light of the game was definitely this week's ringer, an engineer at Boeing, who became frustrated half way through the second and left. I spent most of the game in the defensive zone, where my sole highlight was a collision with their forward on a crossing pass.



With Neil's goal this week and Drew's last week, I feel confident in saying that there has not been a brother combo this dominant since the Sedins were torching the Blues in the playoffs and leading me to Fantasy Hockey glory.



But in the end PNH United just had too much firepower. Their captain, John, was a pretty solid player, picking a couple goals and a few assists. Plus he just had a motor, hustled the entire game the entire game--it was like trying to run with a zebra on the plains of the Serengeti.

Casual observers may say we weren't ready to play, maybe we didn't deserve to win. Obviously our dedication to the weight room is lacking, but with a full team who knows how the game would have turned out, since it wasn't so much PNH United as it was John, he's good.

Faith is the Highest Passion

Where do we find meaning? Is it being able to exert grace under pressure? Is it surviving in the face of adversity? Rising above and discovering who lies inside? The NBA playoffs operate on an existential plane. You define yourself. Willis Reed. Jordan over Ehlo. Robert Horry in the last three seconds. Kobe to Shaq. Lebron slays Washington. In the playoffs no player is bound to the constrictions of past humans. No player is bound by the past.

There has been much written and much discussed about the apathy and lethargy of the NBA's regular season. Teams spending time position themselves for Oden and Durant, suspensions, fights, uninspired play. But there has been an equal amount written about how these playoffs will make us all forget about that. That the past has no bearing on the present.

“The self-assured believer is a greater sinner in the eyes of God than the troubled disbeliever”


In the playoffs you got to bear down. Defense wins championships. But there's something about Nash pulling up and hitting that three while the shot clock reads 18. Or Barbosa scorching past Smush for the lay up as the shot clock scrolls from 20 to 19. There's Amare, right where he needs to be with 17 left on the shot clock. They'll play defense another day. Right now, they're busy disproving your antiquated theory.


“There is nothing with which every man is so afraid as getting to know how enormously much he is capable of doing and becoming.”

This is Chris Bosh's chance. He defines himself in this series, if for noother reason than he is facing Vince Carter. No matter how he left Toronto, Carter is the face of the Raptors--it took one slam dunk contest to prove that. But moreso, Carter was the one who took them to the playoffs. It was Carter who had them a shot away from the finals. It wasn't McGrady. It wasn't Doug Christie. Possibly Charles Oakley, possibly. But now Bosh has the chance to have people forget them all. And he knows it. "...[W]hen you have a guy who was pretty much the cornerstone of basketball north of the border.When you thought about the Toronto Raptors, you thought about Vince Carter, the Air Canada thing. It's been about two or three years now and people are still talking about it. That shows how important it was." This is Chris Bosh's chance to put to rest the past and define himself.

"Acting is a question of absorbing other people's personalities and adding some of your own experience."


I will never forget watching UMass-Georgetown in the Elite Eight, when Marcus Camby and Allen Iverson were playing a different game than the eight other people on the court. Now they're teamed up? Yikes. But that was then. There's been a few clicks on the old odometer since. Questions about melting were asked and answered by the media. This group never questioned. They embraced their current existience and went about figuring it out.

“Face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are.”


From 1990 until this point the only real significance the Warrior had was a guest appearance on an episode Hanging with Mr. Cooper. The one where Mark Curry tries out for the team, only to be stymied by the pranks of Tim Hardaway. Think about that. This was an organization that earlier this decade was composed of Richardson, Arenas, and Jamison. They could have been the evolution of Run TMC. Now though, Stephen Jackson is redeeming himself. Don neslon is adding a new chapter. Monta Ellis is getting his due. no longer do they need to team up with Rodney Peet's wife to get noticed. They don't even need a gun being fired in the air outside of a strip club. All they need now is Andris Biedrins and Baron Davis. The rest is taken care of.

“Pleasure disappoints, possibility never”


Can you imagine this with Steve Francis? It had to be McGrady and Yao didn't it. We waited for three seasons, drooling over the possibility of what could be. But then there were back aches, and knee problems. Now though, not even Bonzi Wells can submarine this. There's a good chance Battier took a charge while you were reading. Steve Novak makes you ask what ever happened to Travis Diener? Yeah, that is Bobby Sura. Injuries are so last year, possibility and potential are giving way to reality

Hell is other people.

I just have this feeling if it was Phoenix versus Kobe, the Lakers would have a better shot of winning.

Man is not the sum of what he has already, but rather the sum of what he does not yet have, of what he could have.



It seems lost in the Suns and the Mavericks' win streaks. Forgotten amongst Bosh and Howard. Michael Finley who? Tell me about Ty Thomas. That's where the Spurs are. Duncan holding three rings, three MVP's, wanting people to remember that he's ready to play. He's bounced Shaq before. He's beaten Dirk. How many titles does Nash have? Didn't he drop Billups and Hamilton? He's ready, and since you don't remember, he doesn't mind reminding you.


Man is fully responsible for his nature and his choices.



Not enough has been written about Chris Webber. He has not received enough attention. When we talk about tragic characters his name comes up. But when we talk about villains of the game, shouldn't he be there as well. He was nearly indicted. He destroyed Michigan basketball. He quit playing in Philadelphia and now he has become rejuvenated in Detroit. But that was the past. In the new season, he has the potential to fulfill his homecoming. Caesar crosses the Rubicon. Webber wins a championship for the state of Michigan. Big Ben who?

Life has no meaning the moment you loose the illusion of being eternal.


Fourteen in a row. Eighteen in a row. "To the lose the way they did last year..." For some reason though, I can't stop thinking about Dirk throwing Terry under the bus. The disunity. The kicked weight machine. Is it really theirs to lose?

AOS Celebrity Encounter Tuesday: Lorenzo Romar Wants You to Give it Your All

In light of Saint Louis University's recent firing of head men's basketball coach Brad Sodberg, I thought it would be relevant to tell of the time I met former men's basketball coach and current University of Washington head coach, Lorenzo Romar.

On Saturday mornings, while a senior in high school, I checked ID's at a local gym. The job was pretty easy: pick up towels, change the water cooler, sweep the floor, make sure nobody blew out their knee, etc. Most of the time I read or studied biology (Probably the reason I remember that Mitochondria = powerhouse of the cell).

Anyway, from 9-12 the gym was reserved for pick-up basketball games. The demographic of this gym was mostly middle age doctors and business man, some local celebrities that your parents would be excited about meeting, and every now and then a former collegiate player--Troy Robertson, Scott Highmark, even Anthony Bonner showed up, until my buddy gave him a hard foul and jeopardized his ten day contract with the Knicks.

On the particular Saturday in question, Highmark showed up accompanied by Romar. For those of you who don't know, Highmark played basketball at SLU in the mid 90s and with Erwin Clagget, H. Waldman, Donnie Dobbs, led SLU to back to back NCAA tournaments.

Now I didn't know much about Lorenzo Romar, but I knew he had played in the NBA. A quick look at Wikipedia confirms that he did indeed play five years for the Warriors. So the field of participants was an All-Conference USA forward, a former NBA player, and a bunch of doctors who had no cartilege in their knees. Bone on bone.



Romar started the game being very defferential. Doing the little things that made him the perfect teammate. Fighting down low for rebounds, solid entry passes and off-the-ball screens. Soon though, his team started to fall behind and that's when Romar morphed into Teen Wolf. Not Jason Bateman Teen Wolf II either. No, we're talking Michael J. Fox, i'm taking this game over Teen Wolf. I mean he was grabbing rebounds at one end, dribbling down the court, pulling up and sinking the shots in another guy's face. Romar was putting on a clinic and brought his team back within one.



But much like the premise of Teen Wolf, the other players became disenchanted with just winning, they wanted to share in the glory. Next time down the court, the ball made its way into the hands of another player. The guy, I believe he was a dentist, was wearing a brace for every appendage, and decided to take a three, which clanked off the rim. Romar was not pleased with the shot selection and decided to let him know about. Romar goes off on this guy at half court explaining the situation, how he has the hot hand, and basically the shot wasn't needed. The dentist tried to defend himself, but Romar would have none of it, telling him next time down the ball had to go through Romar's hands.

Lorenzo Romar: In it to win it

Bus(c)h League Soccer

Three things have disappointed my father more than anything else:

(1) I never read any of the Lord of the Rings Books
(2) I never did Boy Scouts
(3) I was inept as a soccer player

Now that I'm 25 and realize the sacrifices that my pops has made for my betterment I decided to try and make amends. So I signed a letter of intent to play for Team Boom Shaka Laka of the Bud Sports Adult Soccer League.

Last weekend, the team took the pitch for the first game of our eight game regular season. We knew very little about our opponents, Team Evil, but their apparent lack of attention to pregame calisthetics led us to beleive they would be a push over. However, that was before we realized that they had former World class goaltender Jorge Campos minding the net.



This guy was ridiculous. Leaping saves, diving saves, kick saves, he did it all. Even when Andy cleated him in the face, earning a yellow card, he came back, better than ever. Just a true competitor. The first half ended with both teams deadlocked at one, and Team Boom Shaka laka regretting having done nothing for the past seven years but smoke two packs of Lucky Strikes a day. Tad out of shape.

The second half was much of the same. Our team spent the majority of the half in the opponent's zone but continued to be stymied by the brick wall. The minutes melted away and with a tie seemingly imminent, I declared a moral victory, but my roommate Drew had other intentions. Doing his best Thierry Henry impression, he netted the game winner with less than five minutes to go. Unfortunately unlike Henry, though, Drew's celebratory dance was a little more subdued.

Heading into next week's game the Bud Sports League Power rankings have us listed at number one, although a closer look makes it seems that these rankings are based on wins and then alphabetical order. But, you never know.

AOS Celebrity Encounter Tuesday: The Day I Disappointed Az Hakim

I was adequate as a high school football player. I started a few games, caught a couple passes, even ensured that our team would win by 41 instead of 34 with a fourth quarter touchdown once. In the long run, I received my fair share of high fives, pad slaps, and chest bumps. But the glory of my high school days did nothing to save me one afternoon during a game of touch football with current Dolphins wide receiver Az-zahir Hakim.

For several summers during college I worked as a camp counselor with a group of 5-8 year olds. The entire day was spent sitting by the pool and participating in kick ball games which became surprisingly competitive. One afternoon, however, the schedule was changed to include a game of flag football.

Hakim had showed up at the athletic club apparently to participate in a flag football camp as part of a PR appearance on behalf of the Rams. Darius Blevins was also present, but much like his Rams career, he spent the better part of the afternoon on the sidelines, enjoying the game.



The kids were not nearly as exicted about playing football with the Rams as the counselors were. In fact, the kids were down right insubordinate to any activity which did not involve air conditioning or a water. So as they sat in the shade, enthralled more with recent grass clippings then Darrius Blevin stories, the counselors began playing touch football.

With the third overall pick in the draft, Hakim took me. To this day I do not know whether this was based on my perceived athletic prowess or his distrust in the female counselors that remained, we may never know. Now, Hakim had played quarterback in high school, so I was prepared for a west coast offense of short precise passes, but mixed with St. Louis Ram like timing routes. For the most part this was exactly what we got. We were coming out of cuts, turning our heads, and Bam! The ball was there, you'd better be ready.

After a series or two, the defense began playing tight at the line, whereupon Az gave me the sign to go deep. He hiked the ball, with an incredible swim move I gained separation. Noticing the six year old safety doing pirouettes instead of providing adequate over the top coverage, Hakim aired out a perfect spiral. I stretched out my hands all the while thinking about how cool it was to catch a touchdown pass from a former NFC special teams player of the week, when the ball caromed off the whispers of my fingertips. Incomplete.



Shaking my head I scuttled off to pick up the ball and return to the huddle, but before i made it back, Hakim met me half way.

Hakim: What happened there?
Me: I guess I just stopped running.
Hakim (staring into the depths of my soul): That's exactly what you did. Don't let it happen again again.
Me(mumbling, too broken a spirit to speak clearly): Ok.

From that point on Hakim tended to look at his other options. however, I was able to let him down one more time that afternoon. After a fellow counselor hauled in a touchdown pass, we met in the endzone to commence a bob and weave celebratory dance. "Az, get over here!" I beckoned. A succinct, "No," made his opinion and impression clear.

You Lose Everything You Love

"It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest. We address ourselves, not to their humanity but to their self-love, and never talk to them of our own necessities but of their advantages."--Adam Smith, Wealth of Nations

It is difficult for me to see the tragedy in the college basketball coaching carousel. Over the past few weeks, Bill Donovan's stayed. Billy Gillispie's left. Bobby Huggins has slithered. Dana Altman has changed his mind. And a slew of mid major coaches have mortgaged their careers for a chance at glory. Amidst it all Gillispie and Huggins have caused the most

Fans at Texas A&M and Kansas State are in an uproar over the perceived betrayal by the two former basketball coaches. Both of whom spent the past week trying to assuage the doubt by saying that they left for their dream job.


Kentucky will always be on the same plain as Duke, North Carolina, UConn, and UCLA as the preeminent basketball schools in the country. Texas A&M was coming off a magical season and losing its top player, Acie Law IV. People justify Gillispie's decision by saying that you can't turn Kentucky down, it's a chance of a life time

Booby Huggins graduated from West Virginia But with Huggins, this seems like another Bill Simmons type revelation. Haven't we been watching Huggins for decades? Are we really surprised that he acted in a way that a reasonable, upstanding person would not?

A joke that will never get old: With Bobby Huggins at WVU, get use to incorrect spelling

In the end I suppose that's what the real tragedy. This is not just self preservation. It's more than the Big XII conference suffering. The real tragedy is that these coaches bolted for what they perceived as a better opportunity.

Basically, what I'm saying is should you always answer the door when a better opportunity knocks? Isn't there an inherent pride in building something and sticking with it. I should stop writing about OJ Mayo, but I find his story fascinating. He said the onyl reason he is going to USC is that he wanted to be remembered as the greatest player to ever play for USC. If USC didn't take him, he said he would have gone to an all black college and attempted to achieve the same recogniton. Many people see this as haughty, and when he invariably jumps to the NBA after one year, I suppose you could say the same thing as I'm saying here. But in some respects you can argue that what Mayo is doing is noble. He does not want to pick up where some else left off, he wants to build himself. Sure you could pay someone to cut your grass, but sometimes it makes you feel good to stare out on a lawn and know that you accomplished something.

In the long run, as usual, the lyrical stylings of Ludacris give us guidance on what most likely is the best way for K-State and A&M fans to handle the situation.

"We didn't take no money from Chingy/Thought I was cool with him/I wish his ass well, but I don't want nothing to do with him...Don't trust nobody but your goddamn self." --Ludacris,

We Stumble and Fall More than We Walk

"I apologize to you all -- the children of America and South Africa -- who must cope every day with dangerous street gangs. I no longer participate in the so-called gangster lifestyle, and I deeply regret that I ever did.... I vow to spend the rest of my life working toward solutions."--Tookie Williams

When I was a kid I rarely missed an episode of the X-Men cartoon series. In hindsight, the premise of the show was fairly formulaic. Magneto stirs up some trouble. Wolverine is a loner. Gambit a quipster. X-Men come together and defeat Magneto. Week in and week out, this is how it worked. Then one week, they decided to throw the entire series on its head. I am a little fuzzy on the specific episode (and for some reaon I remember everybody being sent back in time and having to fight a T-Rex, but that could be way off), but the point is that Magneto and his rogues were forced to band together with Professor X's pupils for the betterment of all. It was a great moral, put petty differences aside for the good of all. But at the end of the episode, Professor X asked Magneto if this could become a recurring alliance. Magneto looked at him and said, "Times change, Charles, people don't."


Times change, people don't. I used to teach religion to a group of freshman, and when you think about it, such sentiment is the exact opposite message I tried to convey. Times change and so do people. That is why we have religion, it gives us hope, it dissolves despair. Even though we fall, we can always get up. The Prodigal Son. Dismus, St. Paul--all redemed themselves. All accepted the mercy of God. In the end wasn't that Judas' greatest sin? He refused to believe he could change.



Sports offers a strange twist on this. In baseball, redemption is only one at-bat away. A slump and derisive fans disappear with one hit. We, as fans, are unlike God, we condition our mercy. As long as talent is present, then we forgive, we forget. Leonard Little avoids jail as long as he gets ten sacks. There was always one more strike for Steve Howe, because there was always one more strike in his arm. I wonder sometimes if talent is the reason? Do we feel it would be a waste to take these "gladiators" away from the arena? Will they do more good, provide more for society exhibiting their talent?

Elijah Dukes has been arrested six times. He has been suspended from his team for drug use and a poor attitude. His hitting coach at Durham, a man whom Dukes lunged at said about him, ""He will snap in a minute. He couldn't keep his mouth quiet and his ears open. Tampa's given this kid how many mulligans?" But who are we to say how many mulligans? When is it too many chances? Is it ever?

Dukes hit his first major league home run in the season opener in Yankee Stadium this year. Redemption?



That's always why I feel strange watching action films. The bad guy always dies. Is there an underlying message? Are we to believe that death is the worst punishment? That God will judge much more harshly than we ever could? It seems the message is that people do not change. To leave this villain alive would to put us all in danger. His death saves us.

Many people doubted Tookie Williams changed. Many thought it was a show, a man grasping for straws in an attempt to save his life. Arnold Schwarzenegger, a man who knows about getting the bad guy, decided that clemency was inappropriate in Williams' case. Tookie was put to death. There was no room for redemption. That's not right.



There is something about watching Dukes and Cincinnatti Reds' Josh Hamilton, both who have come from dark pasts, rising above it and performing. Sure they both could relapse, but more importantly they were given the change to change. We all stumble, we all fall, albeit some harder than others, and it becomes a fine line to figure out or to decide what the final chance is because you always hope that one time Magneto looks Professor X in the eye and says, "You know what? I want to change."

AOS Celebrity Encounter Tuesday: Todd Zeile is my Lex Luther

This is going to be a (hopefully) weekly feature where someone relates a "celebrity encounter." Future subjects should include: Jarret Wright; Carlyle Holiday; Juan Uribe; Mario Lopez (AC Slater was a hell of a wrestler); and more. But today's subject is catcher turned third basemen turned first baseman who played for 11 major league teams: Todd Zeile


There's something about meeting a professional baseball player, and not just a professional baseball player, but a professional baseball player on your favorite team. Being indoctrinated as a St. Louis Cardinals fan, you learn from an early age about the pride of the birds on the bat. Your grandmother tells you about Stan Musial and Red Schoendist. Your dad entertains you with tales of Bob Gibson and Lou Brock. You grow up idolizing Ozzie Smith and Willie McGee.


Eventually though you mature and the novelty of seeing a Cardinal in public wears off so that it is not really that disappointing, or disheartening, to show at Humphrey's on Wednesday and see Steve Kline and Eli Marrero hitting on college-aged girls. But when you are a kid walking down the streets of Chicago and you hear your dad say, "Wow, that looks like Todd Zeile." Well, that's a whole other story:

It was July 4th weekend, 1995. Todd Zeile had just been traded from the Cardinals to the Chicago Cubs. I was a whippersnapper, who looked eerily similar to this guy:

Although I might have had thicker glasses.

Anyway, we had just finished dinner and were walking by Planet Hollywood when my dad spotted Zeile waiting in line to get in. This tells you a little about Todd Zeile--he had to wait to get a table at Planet Hollywood, a mere five years after finishing 6th in Rookie of the Year voting. My dad told me to go up and say hello to him.

Oh boy. My legs were like noodles. My palms--sweating like they had just run three pick-up games in a row. What could I possible say? How would he perceive me? Do I go with the hand shake or the high five? After conquering self doubt and being admonished by my dad, I walked up to Zeile.

Me: I'm sorry to bother you, but you really look like Todd Zeile.
Zeile (looking around): I am
Me: Can I just shake your hand?
Zeile (begrudgingly): Sure, I guess.

Todd Zeile wins again!

It does bear noting, though, that from the moment Zeile shunned me, the rest of the season he hit .210 with 7 HR and 25 RBIs, plus he had a deplorable .260 OBP. In contrast, that same year Tom Urbani gave me a high five after I complimented him on hitting a home run at Shea Stadium. He finished that season 1-2 with a 3.55 ERA, striking out 25 and only walking 9 in 38 innings.

That, Mr. Zeile is what we call karma.

A Different Kind of Alone

"I mean, damn, I'm doing things in this league nobody else is doing. Come on, now give me my respect. I'm not no big man. I'm a basketball player out here doing things at my size that no one else is doing." --Suns forward Shawn Marion from ":07 Seconds or Less" By Jack McCallum

Marion is unappreciated. He is passed over. He was in Phoenix first. He took the Suns to the playoffs before Nash--averaging in consecutive seasons 17-11, 19-10, 20-9. In the playoffs, he averaged 18-12. The Suns existed before Nash, and they were powered by Marion. But the only glory he received for his labor was an endorsement deal with the Roomstore, where he holds a basketball in front of an incredibly comfortable looking chair.


The unappreciated character is a staple of literature. And the path which the character chooses is usually what drives the plot. Will the unappreciated one take his slight as a personal affront and try to destroy all around him in an act of revenge, or will he suffer silently, all the while exuding an aura of contentment? Shakespeare used this plot device effectively several times, but perhaps no more effectively thant in creating Iago from "Othello" and Cordelia, from "King Lear."


Shawn Marion is no Iago. Sure he possesses the jealousy, but this jealousy has never shown signs of morphing into villainy. Iago was fueled by hatred and effortlessly destroys those around him, paying no thought to the consequences of his actions. Marion has never reached that level. Above most he is devoted to the team, although he is not the face of the franchise, he has never tried to bring down the team in revenge for his slight. Although such action is not uncommon in the League.

In the NBA, the role of Iago has already been cast.
In contrast, Marion exudes many of the characteristics which make Cordelia an unappreciated hero in King Lear. Cordelia is a paragon of devotion and honesty, but nevertheless is passed over and exiled. In the face of adversity and this banishment, Cordelia is still devoted, never stooping to the level of her sisters.

Marion's "banishment" is not nearly as drastic as Cordelia. Marion is still in Nike commercials, he still is an All-Star, and even has represented the country in the olympics, but at the same time if you asked someone to name three Phoenix Suns, Marion would not be in the top two (and maybe not even the top three, if you were talking to someone from France, or a fan of Nebraska basketball and Eric Piatowski.) Yet Marion is still devoted to the team despite the "cruelty" of the fans and the public relations staff. So he still scores 30 points, like against Denver last week, but in the backdrop there is still that slight, personified in his comments about his teammates finally getting him involved.

Marion skills make him one of the most valuable and talented players in the NBA. But while he has always been devoted to the Phoenix Suns organization, the more and more his feeling of inappreciativeness fester, the more and more the possibility or demand of a trade becomes. Since Marion would rather leave paradise then destroy it.

My Brain Hurts

Bill Simmons, in his blog dated March 27, wrote, "By the way, I made up the nickname "CHB" for Shaughnessy in 2001 -- happened right after Carl Everett derisively referred to him as the "Curly Haired Boyfriend." It remains one of my top 20 career achievements."

If you don't know the story, basically, Shaughnessy, who has a history of being confrontational toward certain players, was feuding with the volatile Carl Everrett. During an interview with another reporter Everett asked the reporter where his "Curly haired boyfriend" (Shaughnessy) was. Simmons then took Everett's quote and started referring to Shaughnessy as CHB. That is of the top 20 career achievements of Bill Simmons.

I hate to harp on this but here's another quote from Simmons, this time from his blog dated March 29:

"Like it or not, Mayo's style of game resonates with a certain demographic, with his final high school dunk symbolizing the divide between traditional fans and the budding generation that was weaned on Slam Magazine and me-first "superstars" like Stephon Marbury and Vince Carter (neither of whom has played on a 50-win NBA team, by the way). Head over to YouTube and you'll find an unedited clip of the dunk that makes Mayo look like an attention-seeking punk, as well as a heavily edited clip of the same dunk that lionizes it. Is it alarming that a 19-year-old kid throwing himself a halfcourt alley-oop in the final minute of a 40-point win, dunking it, tossing the ball into the stands and getting thrown out of his final high school game, then soaking in a standing ovation could be considered a beautiful moment by some people? Probably not. That's just our culture now."

I might be reading through the lines here, but I tend to think that Simmons falls on the side of OJ Mayo being an "attention-seeking punk." I'm postulating this based mostly on the fact that the title of the blog was, "Down with OJ Mayo." Then Simmons also posted that letter saying that Mayo needs pity becuase the controversial dunk was the highlight of his life. Now Simmons did not say that, but I don't think it's a ridiculous leap to contend that Simmons tacitly agrees.

So to recap, Simmons disparages an 18 year old kid for being attention-seeking, but praises himself for the fact that he contracted a nickname Carl Everret came up with about a Boston sportswriter into three letters. Absolutely nothing attention-seeking about that. Nothing

Loosely borrowing from a McSweeney's idea: If Bill Simmons' writing were a Greek myth it would be Jason and the Argh-onauts

In the Thesaurus, I'm Next to Illest

I was all set to do a post comparing Talib Kweli and Greg Oden to Mos Def and Kevin Durant. Basically, I read this quote from Kweli: "Ain't nobody making music to not be heard and the easiest way to be heard is to be on the radio, but you should never compromise who you are, your values or your morals." And I thought that was kind of like Oden. Common sense says he should declare himself eligible for the NBA Draft next year, start playing and as soon as possible sign that max extension. But, reports continue to filter out about how much he enjoys school. How in high school Calculus he argued over one point, how he calls old high school teachers to talk about what he's learning, not mentioning basketball once. The goal of any college basketball player is to one day play in the NBA, but you should never compromise who you are. Maybe Oden enjoys being a kid, maybe he will put off today what he can do tomorrow. And in that way I thought he was like Kweli someone who, sure has some beats from Kayne West and Pharrell, but was always seemingly more interested in his lyrics, and not in catering his music to the masses.

Conversely, Mos Def was always much more commercially successful than his Black Star counterpart. Mos Def's single "Umi Says" was a Nike commercial, he has stared in movies with Bruce Willis, Halle Berry, Mark Whalberg, and Damon Wayans. Kevin Durant is Mos Def to Oden's Kweli. Durant was the AP and Big XII player of the year. There are already estimations that his deal with Nike will be between $35-$70 million. It is almost a foregone conclusion he will declare for the NBA Draft and there is no dcoubt he will be one of the first two picks. College was a stepping stone and he's ready to make the leap.

I started off by saying that I was wanted to post about the comparisons between Blackstar and the two most impressive players in the country. I wanted to argue that Kweli was more lyrically talented than Mos Def and that his resistence to the limelight has enhanced the quality of his music. I wanted to argue just as Kweli is superior, so is Oden. Even though his team in the Final Four because of his implacable block against Tennessee and rancorous play in the second half versus Memphis, Oden, himself has conceded that he's not ready for the NBA. His humility and openness to learn, I felt, made him that more impressive a player. I was going to write all of this, until I read about this guy:



His name is Ben Kweller and he wrote a song entitled, "In Other Words." The song was sampled in Talib Kweli's song, "Ms. Hill," off his lastest album "Right About Now." According to Kweller, Kweli did not have permission to use the song, and made no effort to point out that the music was Kweller's. In his defense, Kweli starts off the song by answering a phone and over the beat saying, "Yo who's this? Yeah, I heard it. I mean it's fire." So maybe he didn't know it was someone else's music. Maybe.

Finding out Kweli took that song made me rethink my view on Oden, whether right or wrong. Maybe Oden was just like Kweli in that these stories coming out about how much he loves school and that the NBA can wait, are just illusions. That maybe in the end, he's just like the rest of us, hindred by the rationale of Saturn, as discussed below. In the end, we do what we have to do. It's sort of like something else Kweli said, "Well if somebody's giving me a script, I'll consider it. But it's not something I'm chasing."

We Don't Do That Here

This is why I don't like Bill Simmons:

"Yesterday's blog elicited a few e-mails along the lines of this one from Mark Jacobs in New York: "I was very offended by your comments about last year's season being such a disaster that 'two white guys' were indisputably the best players in college basketball. Basketball doesn't require a non-white gene to be played well. You ought to look up Larry Bird or Pete Maravich. Did you write that the last football season was a disaster because two African-American coaches were in the Super Bowl? Didn't think so. Keep your comments to sports and athletics and stay out of the social arena."

Um, I was trying to be funny … I just forgot that we live in a world where you can't joke about anything. This nation is tighter than Meg Ryan's face right now. Loosen up. It's not a crime to joke about the fact that last year's college hoops season sucked so much that the best two players were white."



The first thing I thought of when I read this was the Simpsons episode where Mr. Burns tried to be more popular and so he goes on the faux Howard Stern show with Homer. To help Mr. Burns, Homer writes him several jokes which he brags about: "You see white guys have names like Lenny, and black guys have names like Carl." Basically that's what's Simmons "joke" broke down to: "You see white guys aren't good at basketball." When I first read his blog that talked about how college basketball was bad because last year the two best player's were white, I wasn't offended or even thought Simmons was offering earthshaking societal commentary. No, moreso I saw it as another poor attempt at humor from a sports journalist who seemed genuinely shocked that Bill Self struggles coaching in the NCAA tournament.

Bill Simmons' jokes: both offensive and lame, which means they are doubly offensive.
This is why I dislike it when people send in letters to Bill Simmons:

"From T. Koutlas in Iraq: "Currently I am a surgeon at the 399th Combat Support Hospital in Tikrit, Iraq. I read your recent links to some O.J. Mayo stories and had to comment. See, I meet American kids O.J. Mayo's age every day here. I take care of them at the hospital here after they have been injured. I see them in the dining facility before they go out on a mission. I pass them at the gym. They are, without fail, polite and respectful. They go out every day and get shot at or have their vehicles blown up by IEDs. They don't get paid millions -- they volunteered to be here, like we all did. They make me feel very good about the future of our country. Then I read the story of O.J. Mayo's 'recruitment' by USC and am utterly disgusted. Trust me, I love sports, so do all the soldiers over here. But it gets to a point you have to ask yourself, what are these athletes doing to really earn all the money and respect they crave? When throwing a basketball off the backboard and dunking against a bunch of high school kids is the highlight of your life, you don't deserve honor and respect. You deserve pity."



First, I'd say that what T. Koutlas is doing in Iraq is truly admirable, an act of incredible self sacrifice. But, and you always hate to see that but, that will not be the highlight of OJ Mayo's life. I can close to guarantee you of that. I'm sure the highlight will be some sort of championship or scoring title, maybe even the honor of being the first pick in the 2008 NBA Draft. But, that's arguing minutia, my real problem is that I don't know anyone over the age of 18 that really "honors" athletes. I think when you graduate high school, and especially as you progress through college, the rose colored glasses about college sports, and professional sports to some degree, tends to lose its gleam. Once you realize you are cheering for people that are younger than you, once you comprehend the business aspect of major sports and major conferences, the sport loses its luster, or at least it should. This gets back to what I was trying to get at above, it's a tired joke: Atheltes are paid too much. Teachers are paid too little. Yep. That's sort of how the free market/capitalism works. Is it fair? Is it just? No, but that's the way it is. We shouldn't revere atheltes, we shouldn't honor or admire them. We should clap and congratulate them on achieving something we wish we could. We shouldn't look to them for anything more than an exhibition of skill or talent.

***EDIT*** As was also brought up, T. Koutlas admonishes OJ Mayo for dunking against high school kids, even though he, OJ Mayo, is himself a high school kid. I guess since you are playing against high school kids, you should not be allowed to dunk if you are in high school. Although such logic did not stop David Lee from dunking on my friend in 8th grade.

Saturn's Rationale

photo from:http://www.astro.ucla.edu/~colbert/saturn.jpg

I cheated on a test once. In second grade we were taking a spelling test and I blanked on the word picnic(you'll have to trust me that I just looked that up). Frantic that this misspelled word would jeopardize any chance of future happiness, and more importantly, a weekend slumber party at the only kid in the class with a Nintendo's house, I dropped my pencil, bent over to pick it up, and flipped through my spelling book. Having retrieved my pencil, I correctly spelt the word and turned in my test. In the end I did what I thought I had to do

I'm troubled by the steroid stories. Sometimes I'm surprised when i hear a new player's name, other times it's really not surprising, "You mean the muscular, mecurial relief pitcher who threw 100 mph was on steroids?" But most times I just don't understand. Why is this a big story? What do people hope is accomplished?

Isn't this Hester Prine revisted? Gary Matthews: S. Sammy Sosa: S. David Bell: S. Rafael Palmerio: S. The story radiates the familiar stench of grandstanding. Journalists are able to stand atop Moral Mount, looking down and castigate any player who is alleged to have used performance enhancers. Then on the 15th and 30th of each month, they cash their check, profiting on the story. With the public's interest perked, and their attention directed, the politicians decry the practice of steroids. Their faces are on Sportscenter. Their speeches transcribed on Espn.com. They now reach a larger audience then just the insomniacs who watch CSPAN at 3:12 am. They are giving a free pass as far as antiquated healthcare and dilapidated public schools in the name of the Commerce Clause.

In the wake of steroid accusations, the cries of "Asterix! Asterix!" echo from the rafters. Steroids have desecrated the game. Baseball thrives on nostalagia. A father takes a son to a game, describes to him, inning by inning, the first game that his father took him to, he then explains that his son will one day of a child, and his son will take that child to the game. The beauty about nostalagia, especially as it relates to baseball, is that you only have to remember the good. Therefore when we hear the stories of the past, we hear about the herculaen feats of Babe Ruth, the grace of Dimaggio, the tragedy of Mantle, the transient flicker of Munson. We don't have to hear about the womanizing of Ruth, or the callousness of Dimaggio or the demons of Mantle. Nostalgia allows us to remember Enos Slaughter's mad dash from first to home in the World Series, but nostalgia permits us to forget he refused to play on the same field (not team) as Jackie Robinson. Those issues are easy though, "It was another time." Oh, yes, another time...

He only did what he had to do. It was illegal. It was shady. It preyed on people's desire to sanctify athletes. But he did what he had to do. I have never really seen athletes as "human" until the steroids controversy. Don't we all want to be remembered? Don't we all want to be honored in some capacity? I remember a line from Mos Def, "I give a damn if any fan recall my legacy/I'm trying to live life in the sight of God's memory." I was always impressed by that, gained as much respect as one can for a person they have never met. And in an ideal world, that would be the way we carry ourselves. But in a world where we desire instant gratification and beyond this moment is unknown...well... We work hard, we think we deserve more than we have, we see others pass us by and we do what we have to do.

Pain Means Nothing, Fame Everything

photo from:http://www.holycross.edu/departments/classics/jhamilton/mythology/aeneas.gif

"Arma virumque cano..."--Virgil, The Aenid

Hyperbole and nostalgia saturate the NCAA tournamnet. But when viewed in the context of the theme conveyed, that of the athlete as hero, such hyperbole and nostalgia seem appropriate, not out of place. In the course of one month, legend status is bestowed on a handful of players, who rise from the ranks of relative unknown to deliverer. From year to year, players are interchanged, new stories replacing the faces we have just recently become accustomed to. Each year this occurs, the story becoming as familiar to us as the quick tale we would hear before we fell asleep and our parents returned downstairs to finish watching Cheers.

The elevation to demigod (or demagogue) status deviates slightly from the path of the classic hero. Players rarely, if ever, sacrifice themselves for something bigger. Instead, they perform a deed which sets them apart from all others. Some act which causes destiny to be as not as far fetched as we have been lead to believe. It is these acts which write the hagiography before our eyes and cause us to sing ballads of praise in rememberance of their struggles. Ballads which immortalize their names, so that someday in front of television sets or in smoky sports bars remembering them will elicit raucous toasts, rivalving that of only Bill Brasky. For there is no dignity in anonymity.

Someday, remembering this will be a pleasure. It was always around this time of year that I regretted attending a D-III university. Although we did have a very solid basketball team, and I was able to pester a referee into a five second call one Tuesday evening, outside of the players on our squad, there were no stories. When an opposing team came to play, we had to invent our own background--there were no Bobby Knights, no Larry Eustachys, not even a Coach K to harass with incessant chants. The players were just as faceless--for all we knew the opponents were nothing more than a mixture of guys who were all-county acadmeic and those who Mike Miller once dunked over in the Corn Palace. Our jeers devolving into analogies, "Hey! No. 24 looks like the guy from 'Blue Lagoon.' Blue Lagoon! Blue Lagoon! Blue Lagoon!" But D-I basketball subsists on stories. The tournament gives us the unknown, and in the process of a week, they make them known. It is this evolution that the hero arises. The tournament is the vehicle through which, we are able to connect with these players devoted to a mission, players who have wandered for years before finally achieving destiny. They are a kindred spirit--a person passed over, unnoticed, finally garnering praise. That is why we sit with front row seats, we don't so much watch as we accompany. We are a part of the journey. We were there when they were in the process of becoming.

Man is something to be surpassed. The classic hero is the proof of this. Man is frail, man fails in the face of adversity. Man is susceptible to hubris and other flaws that make us common. But the true hero is the one who surpasses these vices. And the torunament gives this to us--players who constantly walk the rope across the abyss; players who are the lightning which follows the cloud. The tournament reminds us of our mortality, but allows us the glimpse of that which has surpassed us.
"I sing of warfare and man..."

Traditional Roles

photo from: http://korkos.club.fr/wood-01grand.jpg

In comparison to the 1996 NBA Draft, the 1997 Draft was a paragon of paucity. The '96 Draft featured five players who were all-stars this year, ten of the first seventeen picks still start in the League, two players have won MVPs, and eight were parts of NBA championship teams. In comparison, the '97 Draft produced three superstars (Duncan, McGrady, and Billups), and a multitude of role and complimentary players in addition to several European and CBA caliber players.

photo from: http://www.12-6curve.net/duncan/main.jpg

Of the three stars in the that draft, Duncan's has always shone the brightest. Rookie of the Year, Two time MVP, three time Finals MVP, Duncan has exuded quality throughout his career, averaging 22-12. But Duncan lacks "something." In this year's all-star game ten players gained more votes than Duncan, in 2006, he had the lowest vote total among the other All-Star starters. In 2005, he had the lowest vote total of the Western starters. In 2004, he finished sixth overall, in 2003, fourth among Western starters. In 2001, he was again sixth among all starters in votes received and in 2000, he was seventh. The point being that Duncan, who has been an all-star every year he has been in the league, a playher who has garned numerous NBA and collegiate awards, has never has been the fans' top vote getter. Do people not relate?

Known as "The Big Fundamental," Duncan has evolved into a bigger, more agile version of Geroge Mikan, his serene visage belying the ferocity of his play. But it is his dedication to the basics that has impeded him from being accepted by the casual fan. Even in NBA Street vol. 2, while McGrady kicks a bounce pass off Yao's head before throwing it down, Duncan methodically accepts the entry pass from Tony Parker before kissing it off the glass. We see Tim Duncan's flawlesss fundamentals, and we refuse to be impressed. His style of play reminds us of poorly ventilatd Church gyms, and two handed jump shots which start at the chest. We beleive that with a little practice and five to six inches, we could master the exact same style of play. But we are positive we could not do what Carter can, or McGrady. We are in awe when Kobe explodes for 81, our jaws drop when Arenas "hibaychis" his way to 50. And so even though Duncan will occassionaly go for a double take 40-20, it is not novel enough for us. We expect him to get his points and dominate the low post, so that when he does, we are disappointed that he merely met our expectations and didn't exceed them.

Duncan also has the distinction of being one of the few players to play four years in college, making him one of the League's elder statesmen. So perhaps, Duncan does more than merely define the traditional role of the dominant low post player, perhaps instead Duncan is the bridge of the League. He is too young to be a part of the "First Coming" of Bird, Magic, Jordan, Isaiah, Ewing, and Barkley, and too old to be a part of the "Second Coming" of Lebron, Carmelo, Wade, Bosh, Howard and Amare, instead he is the bridge between the two. Duncan is the son of then and the father of now.

photo from:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Stilllife_hermitage.jpg

From Chaos

photo from: http://britton.disted.camosun.bc.ca/goldslide/school_athens.jpg

"That which is conceived by opinion with the help of sensation and without reason, is always in a process of becoming and perishing and never really is."--Plato, Timaeus

Modern sport exists because of the path blazed by those who no longer play. In order to sustain public attention, sports need iconic figures that capture the imagination of the nation. They long for players who grace the covers of TIME and Newsweek. They yearn for hosts of Saturday Night Live. They thrive on identies that are so transcendant that they cannot be contained by a single forum. Anecdotes of mythic proportion need to sprout around them.

Baseball has been the preminent purveyor of this attitude over the years. McGwire, Sosa, and Ripken chased the essence of players long deceased, hoping to unleash a sense of nostalgia that would reignite interest. The NFL cycles through mixtures of Horatio Alger stories and Herculean feats of strength that both personify and inspire awe in their product.


photo from: http://z.about.com/d/atheism/1/8/k/d/SamuelAnointsSaul1.jpg

But while baseball and football have been able to implement the genius of Eli Whitney into their leagues with ease, the NBA has always struggled in trying to replace a person instead of an idea. In the decade that followed his retirement, the NBA embarked on an Odysseus like journey searching for the "next" Jordan. But like Israel in the Old Testament, the NBA relied on sense alone to anoint their king. Vince Carter, Grant Hill, Jerry Stackhouse, Penny Hardaway, Kobe Bryant, all fit the mold of the next Jordan, but there was little more than aesthetics to why. Each player was always on the verge of becoming the next Jordan, but no player reached the zenith. This futile search though has led the NBA to modify the way they market themselves: To succeed their must be harmony in proportion.

The part is always imperfect to the whole. Lebron does not exist without Carmelo, Dwayne, and Bosh. Durant will always be paired with Oden. The Pistons are an incomplete entity without all five players. So instead of the disorder that arises out of attempting to find the "next Jordan," the NBA has made their "Second Coming" full of order by replacing Jordan with not one but ten. Instead of finding one player to remind fans of Jordan, the League rests its hope on a group to generate the mathleticism, marketability, and swagger, that Jordan provided for fifteen years We both step and do not step in the same rivers.


photo from: http://www.methodstudios.com/project/952/images/2.html