Just so you know...

...my other blog (The Bowler and Benny) is what I'm currently posting on these days. I've been writing here on So It Has Come To This for a little over a year and while I've enjoyed it, I think I'm done for the time being as I alluded to just a few inches south of here on this very page. Besides, the all-sports collaborative blog with a best friend is a much more appealing work in progress. If you've stumbled here in error, curiosity or were simply coerced by the threat of physical violence, please stick around for a little bit. I'm actually quite proud of some of the stuff on here and I'm told that the contents below has demolished the productivity of some very industrious people (at least for an hour or so). Some of the greatest hits include:

An heartfelt ode to the low times and the sometimes unexpected people who pick you up

A snippet from a short story I wrote in college about my brother, whom I admire most

Recounting one of those vacations that a couple glossy 8 x 10's could never quite capture

The honest words of a defeated yet resilient Bears fans hours after Superbowl XLI

Three of the biggest reasons why I'm a Chicago Sports fan

We all look like famous people. Sorta.

Godspeed and thanks for reading, you obviously have good taste.

-Donny boy (aka AK)

Please update your fantasy baseball magazines accordingly...

The Bay Area 4

Don King wrote
at 12:47am on October 30th, 2006

A year after the fact I still find this picture hilarious. I barely remember the moment just before it was snapped when I told myself to conjure up some fake soberness and look as composed as possible. Instead I look like Rodin's The Thinker had a glamour shot taken. Grant has gone completely insane with booze at this point having just spent the last three hours drunkenly wandering around the bleachers at SBC Park befriending small children and horrifying their parents. Shawn, you might say, looked like he blinked. But no, this was his expression for the majority of the night. And then Bauer comes over the top with, well, I'm not quite sure what he's doing here...

Great moment.

Kurt G. Bauer wrote
at 11:52am on November 2nd, 2006

it is understandable that you revisit this moment out of the weekend, because it is the only truly clear moment, preserved for posterity in film. we were in rare form. and, as you state, it's been just over a year since that fateful weekend when we blew into town on a stiff tailwind and tore apart the bayside confines with calculating jabs and verbal scuffles amidst the giants' apologists. after all that, what were we to do but formulate some semblance of memory from the evening.

this is the best we could do with whatever brain function remained after hours of abuse. varying poisons running through our blood stream conspired to create those drooling, nearly expressionless faces.

The Infinite Abyss: Chicago Basketball

Michael Jordan was my childhood. His highlights were the salve for whatever ailments arrived in my early life. You see, before I discovered MJ, I was a painfully shy kid with a speech impediment in elementary school who was an easy target for bullies. I wore my heart on my sleeve and that sensitivity only bred more ammunition for taunts, mostly from kids in the grade above me. I was, however, always a good athlete. I played flag football, baseball and soccer with a silent fury. I derived most of my self confidence from these activities. I'll never forget hitting a game winning home run off my biggest bully, Andy Schmeising, in little league. I remember his third grade fastball being intimidating on a level that seemed ungodly at the time. He struck me out my first time up and I went back behind the dugout and shed some quiet tears. My Dad found me and told me in a stern but loving way that toughness was something earned, that crying was not a productive way to combat disappointment. He was right. I popped out my second time up, but the contact felt good in my arms and hands. Then, in the final inning with the game tied and a runner on first, I belted one of those ungodly fastballs deep into the gap in right center. I rounded the bases like my demons were chasing me. When I crossed home, my teammates hoisted and carried me off the field. Someone later told me that Andy was crying when he left the field, I never looked back though, it didn't occur to me. My Dad drove me and my buddies home and we relived the moment with big toothy grins. The following Monday, I bumped into Andy at recess and he, surrounded by his friends, asked derisively, "What did you hit, a double?"

I quietly corrected him, "No, a home wun."

They all laughed at me and my inabilities to pronounce my R's.

I shrugged my shoulders, saw the masked pain in his eyes and walked away feeling ten feet tall. It was the ultimate affirmation that sports were my salvation from a world that I sometimes felt I didn't belong.

The Jordan legend firmly took hold of my imagination during 1990 when the Pistons had our number in the playoffs. I would watch those games and have these wildly unhealthy mood swings for a boy my age, but something clicked for me on those agonizing spring afternoons - THIS was my sport. The baseball mitt and shin-guards got tossed in the garage to collect dust and I resolved myself to shoot jumpshots until dusk every afternoon. I would also follow the Bulls wherever MJ would lead us. It was official. The artistry of his game transformed me during those first championship years. Bulls games were required viewing which everyone understood as bedrock. On those special occasions when you got to witness MJ in person at the Chicago Staduim, you treated it as a sacred journey to the hoops Mecca. A gift from the basketball Gods. Deafening decibel levels were expected and always delivered. The Knicks and Pistons were LOATHED. The Cavaliers were mocked. The entire aura of "Chicago hoops culture" gave us a civic pride that could not be understood unless you were a part of it. The identity of a Chicago Bulls fan carried with it a certain swagger that caused you to bound through the turnstiles, dripping in red, hungry for basketball and fully expecting a hoarse throat by the final buzzer. People throw the phrase "Glory Days" around, but I don't. The Chicago Bulls are the reason.

Around the time Jordan left and the Bulls started losing basketball games at a harrowing clip, you could hear two *thumps* around the city scape. The first was the ground shaking from all the casual fans jumping off the Bulls bandwagon. The second was the season tickets prices falling back to earth, opening up previously untouchable seats. My Dad, the shrewd and loyal business man that he is, went in on second row season tickets during the lean years (although there is technically nothing lean about Eddy Curry). As I mentioned in a previous post, the Bulls averaged 19 wins during the six year span following MJ's departure. It wasn't the same experience, but I think my Dad and I went out of habit. We had faith that things would turn around eventually. We mused to each other that Ron Artest would be a good NBA player if he could control his emotions. We felt bad for Elton Brand's nightly 20-10 going to waste. We read the newspapers when our second overall pick ran his motorcycle into a lightpost in Lakeview, effectively ending his career after one season. We watched Jalen Rose average nineteen field goal attempts per game during an entire season (which should NEVER happen under ANY circumstance). We sat in our seats for all of this, still rowdy, still optimistic, still engaged because in a strange way, we felt in debt to this team and all the wonderful memories.

Now, here we are in 2007. A new era with new faces, but the name on the front of the jersey remains the same. I went to the game last night, the biggest Bulls game since Jordan left. Hands down. The game itself was a major let down. Great energy in the first half, complete stagnation in the second half. The third quarter was PAINFUL to watch. Skiles should have brought Nocioni or Tyrus in for P.J.or Big Ben to cause more transitional offense, opportunities for run outs and at the very least some hustle plays. He kept the old guard in, who were giving up too many open jumpers and running a stand still offense where the ball would get passed around the perimeter for the entire possession before Gordon would be forced to drive it into the teeth of a stingy Pistons zone defense as the shot clock expired. That 16 point halftime lead we built evaporated to one point by the end of the 3rd quarter, after that the officiating was terrible in the fourth (not an excuse for losing) and we couldn't hit ANY crunch time free throws (getting closer!). Are the Pistons a better team that us? Probably. Could we beat them in a 7 game series? Absolutely. Just not this one.

Ok, so here's the main reason I really walked away from this game with such a sour taste in my mouth and the impetus for this post (well, I also wanted to tell you a little about my little league homer to be strictly honest). The crowd was bordering on docile at times when the Pistons would string some hoops together. The people in our section were especially reluctant to put their hands together and holler. Now, I know, I know, you aren't likely to bump into a painted face and mustached big belly on his tenth beer in the primo seats, but this isn't just any game. You gotta show some spirit! This is a MUST WIN in the conference semis against THE PISTONS! Now, the upper deck was raucous with their chants and towel waving, but by the time the sounds trickled down to the court, the madness seemed all too distant. Perhaps my expectations were too high, but the impassioned rally cries certainly didn't seem to align with the magnitude of the event. The people sitting in front of us in the first row, IN THE FIRST FUCKING ROW, were musing outloud if they should split during halftime with the Bulls up by so much (even in jest, this is completely inappropiate on a level I can't even begin to fathom). The people behind me (who thought I was drunker than I actually was) kept making snide remarks about my constant cheering, even asking me at one point if I minded taking a seat. IT'S THE PISTONS! WE NEED TO WIN THIS GAME! TAKE MY SEAT AND THROW IT IN THE INCINERATOR FOR ALL I CARE! I HAVE NO USE FOR IT, YOU ABSOLUTE JAGOFF! Well, that's what I should have said. Anyway, you get this little picture I'm trying to paint. I was disillusioned walking out of that building, but it was probably my fault for assuming a simple playoff run could recreate that lightning in a bottle from the Jordan years. The Sport's Guy wrote last week that the quintessential basketball crowd from yesteryear is virtually extinct due to league expansion diluting talent, high priced modern arenas relegating the diehards to the nosebleeds and the overall cultural shift towards fuzzy sideshows and kiss cams. The basketball is no longer THE reason you attend a game. I didn't buy that. Well, now I'm forced to nod, swallow hard and accept that painful reality. My boy Benny put it best on IM this morning, "The lack of passion and enthusiasm that are becoming commonplace in our sports venues is a malaise that appears to be eating at Americans in general...I think America is rotting from the inside from indifference...nothing is sacred...nothing really matters."

It's a sad day in Chicago for those who woke up this morning and finally realized that Michael Jordan is not walking through those doors again. There's not enough beer on Clark Street to drown that kind of sorrow, but I’ll give it a shot...

Go Cubs.

A Blog Interrupted

It's strangely wonderful how the mind works when it conjures up old memories on its own. Sometimes you hear a song and you are immediately transported back to a specific place in time while sharing a fond moment with a favorite person. You smile and with a simple closing of the eyes and a twist of the volume knob, you relive what was previously left for dead in the infinitesimal recesses of your brain. This unexpected sprouting of emotions creates a self-referential pathway, a subtle way to connect with the events that shaped you into the person you are today. Anything can flip the switch: an obscure movie that gave you nightmares, an intersection in a familiar city, an article of clothing that found its way back to you. It's quite cyclical in that respect. Everything we witness on a daily basis holds the potential to unlock forgotten memories if we allow our minds to wander far enough. Anything significant enough to be remembered, even the seemingly insignificant, will eventually be remembered if we wish them to be.

I thought about this as I watched the Bulls play the Heat yesterday in the first round of the NBA playoffs. I thought about my childhood and the intensity with which my love burned for this team. I thought about how I squeezed my Dad tight when he informed me that my grade school graduation present was going to Game One of the 1996 Finals against the Sonics with him. I thought about how my boiling contempt for Isaiah Thomas and John Starks sometimes made it difficult to breathe. I thought about watching Game Six of the 1993 Finals during a thunderstorm in rural Virginia, reception fading in and out, losing my mind as Johnny Paxson stroked the three-peat clinching shot. I thought about 72 wins and how impossible that seemed even as it was happening.

As the game went on, I thought about the last two seasons with the "Baby Bulls". Two years ago to the week is when they played the Wizards in their first playoff appearance since MJ graced the halls of the United Center. I was just arriving in San Francisco and settling in at this time and I remember the excitement I felt. I remember watching a Saturday game with Kane and Steveo (two gents I consider dearest of friends) and polishing off a case before the final buzzer. The Bulls ended up losing out, but I was just happy to be there. On the West Coast. On my own. Less than a year out of college. Life looming as this complete uncertainty over me.

A year later, when the Bulls were battling the Heat in the first round, I was preparing for a cross-country move from SF back to Chicago with my entire life meticulously stacked inside my Volvo. I also started writing this blog right around this time (I reference it in the earliest post). So, once again, a Bulls playoff run is neatly coinciding with more transition in my life. Well, it only seems appropriate that, with another Bulls playoff, comes more change...

As some of you may or may not know, I've made some big changes in my life recently. Some lifestyle decisions as well as some overall life direction choices. I just started a writing project within the past two weeks which will involve a tremendous amount of dedication. I would just say, "I'm writing a book," but that usually only earns incredulous tilts of the head and sarcastic pats on the back, so let's just call it a "year-long writing project" and leave it at that. I'm also enrolling in summer workshops to attack the entire writing process a little more wholeheartedly. I'm interested in elevating my writing from casual pastime to substantive pursuit, in whatever form that takes. Considering this new aim of mine, I've decided to put this blog on hiatus until future notice so as to dedicate the proper time needed to achieve my goals. I've really enjoyed the exercise of writing this blog as it has kept me always aware, always concerned with the world around me. I've been constantly interested in the content of my fleeting thoughts, from things that get scribbled on napkins in smokey bars to ideas that get dreamed up in the small hours of the morning. It's been a wonderful opportunity to express myself and I hope, for you, it provided some quality distraction. Thanks for looking out, I'll catch you guys on down the road...

In addition to my writing project, I also plan on submitting articles to webzines and other online literary journals as the summer goes on. I'll make sure to link to those on this blog once that happens so please check back every once in a while.

Mahalo,

Donny

Spring Training in Arizona

After spending the greater part of my life celebrating a dogged love affair with the game of baseball, it goes without saying that March is easily the most joyous month on my calendar. Most people identify March with the NCAA's and I think that's completely reasonable. The annual madness that is held on the hardwood splashes out of the sports section and into the cultural consciousness, riveting the most casual of fans. Saint Paddy's Day slowly becomes a greenish blur of drunken subway rides and busted brackets. "Kiss me, I'm Irish and I just took a leak in the alley" are the wobbly sentiments of a generation just trying to keep their balance until the next game starts in a crowded bar at noon. And don't get me wrong, I love March for those moments of purest drama, of clutch performances, of dare-to-be-great scenarios playing out above. However, I believe that the underscored sentimentality of Spring Training is the true anchor for sports fans. Those who spent their formative years kneading sweaty leather gloves and spitting sunflower seeds. This month marks the rebirth of the American year; the month when the snow retreats back up mountainsides and dusty sandlots across the nation once again capture the imagination of a new crop of lifetime practitioners. Simply put, basketball is what riles us up, baseball is what calms us down...

To me, Spring Training has always been an abstract idea. When I was in grade school, I could grasp the concept of a glorified try-out. So that's what it was. The stars show up, shag some fly balls, play 18 holes of golf and get ready for the season. The young guys are bundles of nerves in pinstripes, feeling the exquisite sting of every booted groundball and backwards K. I could understand this because I too knew the how it felt during Little League "talent assessments" to be backpedaling hopelessly for flyballs while rows of Dad's with clipboards looked on. When I reached high school, my cynical Cubs side overtook things. I toted my Sports Illustrated and Tribune Sports onto the EL and spoke with my fellow comrades about false hopes and dashed opportunity. Cursing names like Mel Rojas and Rodney "Don't Call Me Randy" Myers each Spring. However, now that I'm older (and presumably wiser) I've gained the clarity that can only accompany honest perspective: Spring Training is for the fans. The ultimate priming of the pump. The unmeasurable serenity that one can only find at a ballpark after a bleak winter. The immortal Harry Carey put it best, "It's the fans that need spring training. You gotta get 'em interested. Wake 'em up and let 'em know that their season is coming, the good times are gonna roll." And I know, I know, this ground has been treaded upon before, nothing new here, but I still think it's paramount when considering what makes baseball so timeless: the fanbases, young and old, in the sun, collecting outs on a scorecard, talking that one common denominator...

***

TK, Joey, Jay, Easy, Ryan and I arrive at Scottsdale Stadium while the National Anthem is playing. The Giants are hosting the Cubs on this 90 degree day, not a cloud in the sky. As a matter of introductions - Joey and Easy are Giants guys, Ryan and Jay like the A’s and TK and I hold down the Cub fort. All are TK's high school buddies from Marin, all around 31, all good sorts. I know them mostly from BORP’s weekly wheelchair basketball scrimmages in Berekley when I used to live out in the Bay Area. Each one of these guys posses that good-natured California wit that belies a group that, once assembled, is constantly on the verge of unabashed revelment. Tough to keep up with on a night out, tougher to legitimately crack up. Okay, enough about those clowns.

We make our way to the bleachers through the mezzanine, a sea of Cubbie blue and Giant orange move by us in the opposite direction. TK and I try to hide our overwhelming excitement, but that gives way when we pass this dry erase board:
The starters are playing, Zambrano is pitching and Barry is batting in the three hole. Perma-grins all around.

We settle into our "seats" on the grassy knoll in right-center. The TOP of the first inning lasts and lasts. Ten batters, six runs, a couple errors. You can't really blame Matt Morris, the ball is eating up some of his core defenders. Anyway, we already have some highlights: With two on and no outs (when things were still salvageable) a can-of-corn is lazily launched to left field. Barry settles under it, raises his glove and then... raises his elbows, covers his head and moves hesitantly to-and-fro... the ball drops a few yards behind him, another run scores. The crowd is an awkward blend of high fives and people crouched over with their head in their hands. Personally, I was excited about this play for a couple reasons. Obviously, it's funny to see an eight-figure 43-year-old losing a ball in the sun. That's intrinsically funny. But even more than that, it brings up something which I don't think gets enough attention. Bonds was an elite fielder in the 90's amassing 8 Gold Gloves while crashing into walls for third outs. He was a beast out there. Now? He can barely run, nor does he have any urge to. He's given his body's best years to this game (and most likely to synthetic substances) and there's nothing left but a record to chase. In Moneyball, the overall value of a player is determined by how many run shares that player helps produce in relation to how many runs they concede in the field. Unless the MLB institutes co-ed softball rules and lets the Giants stick a tenth player in left-center, that Chevron logo in the gap at Pac Bell park is getting peppered. Barry will break the record, but I think it will come at the price of a 70-win season. I'm worried for the sanity of my Giants friends at this point.

Ok, still in the TOP of the first inning. Zambrano comes up, two outs, two on. He takes his two big cuts, both misses. If this were four years ago, Chip Carey would pretend that Big Z is trying to corkscrew himself into the earth as Steve Stone would pretend that Chip was funny. The next pitch Zambrano unloads on an 0-2 curveball which would have landed in the centerfield basket in Wrigley. Instead, it smacks against the top of the wall and shoots away from Winn as our lumbering pitcher is rounding second base. He realizes this and kicks it into another gear, mentally preparing his "I can't believe I hit an inside-the-park homerun in Spring Training either" speech. Then, between second and third:

Never have I heard so much cheering instantly morph into gasps of horror. Every Cubs fan immediately thought, "Did our Ace just dislocate his shoulder while trying to stretch a triple into a homerun in Spring Training?". Flashbacks of Prior, Nomar and Lee going down danced in our heads. Luckly, he hopped up and sheepishly jogged into third. Jumping up and down on the base to let the crowd know he was okay. Once Soriano made the last out, I went directly to the beer stand. Just... Wow. Anyway, Big Z capped off the BOTTOM of the first inning with strike outs of Bonds and Feliz. He's in midseason form, pointing to the sky, foaming at the mouth, yelling at himself.

Since we had a six run cushion after one frame, I decided to roam around watching the game in different places. For the second inning, I stood next to a kindly old man standing by himself in full Giants regalia. We were right next to the rightfield foul pole and we talked about pitching staffs. He likes Lowry and Cain but is worried about Morris. "Gives up too many homeruns," he says. He thinks Zito will either be a resounding success or a colossal failure because of the contract. "There's no middle ground with money like that," as he pounds more water, eyes darting around the field like he a bench coach. I didn't talk much, just asked questions because I could tell he was a little put off by the first inning, but he was exceedingly warm and excited to dole out his information. I had the feeling this wasn't his first Spring Training. That's what I learned quickly in the Arizona sun, you don't understand March baseball unless you make the trip. The good vibes are almost disarming. I saw two sixty-year-old men walking by laughing at a joke, one wearing a Cardinals hat, the other a Tigers hat. Families rolling around amidst surprisingly restrained drunk Cubs fans; kids transfixed by their heroes while fathers wore broad smiles of satisfaction that the family trip wasn't to Disneyworld this year.

The generated mist started to rain down on the infield seats as the second inning concluded. I wiped the sweat from my brow and decided it's time for a stroll around the nice seats. I nod to the kindly old man and wish him luck. He tells me that my team could probably use it more (you know, in the cosmic sense). I think he's right.

The third inning starts with Zambrano doubling to left. He's the best. The requisite jokes begin from nearby fans, "Are they going to leave him in for the cycle?" and "He should be our DH for interleague games." I'm mildly amused. Only mildly.

The fourth inning starts and I have a moment of Zen. I've got my second beer and a pocketful of sunflower seeds. I've snuck into a seat on the 3rd base line and I'm taking notes while the game moves about before me. It doesn't seem like a big league baseball game psychologically at this point. There are hundreds of millions of dollars out on the field and all I can think about is the simplicity of it. The smaller, more intimate park coupled with the fact that these games don't count makes it almost seem like a neighborhood game. Men are walking around selling bottles of beer out of ice-filled buckets. Kids are gliding by on those gym shoes that have wheels on the heel. The stadium is bordered by endless earth tones, gorgeous outcroppings of desert rock. The euphoria of the game in the purest form. Damn, a couple is standing here giving me the ole stinkeye. I better move.

The fifth inning begins with the Cubs up 7-2. I decide to walk around the mezzanine to find TK and the gang. I get about halfway there and I hear over the loudspeakers, "Now batting, number 25, Barry Bonds". I scurry down an entranceway along with a handful of others. Cheers, Boos, everything inbetween. People on tippy-toes to see him swing the bat. I've got to give it to him, he still has "it". I used to think Bonds was such a polarizing figure and either you hated him or you were a Giants fan. However, whenever he's in the batters box, Barry Bonds has a galvanizing force on everyone. Watching history, greatness, whatever is still one of the most enthralling things in sports no matter what package it's in.

Jeff Samarja pitched the 5th and 6th innings giving up five baserunners but yielding no runs. I'm impressed with his fastball and quick motion towards the plate. He has a little trouble putting guys away after getting ahead of them in the count, but he's got plenty of time to work on that. Basically, he "looks" like a Major League pitcher, but then again, so did Todd Van Poppel. In all seriousness though, I hope they put him in Double-A ball and fast track him into the show. I think he has a chance of being a very capable middle reliever when all is said and done. Remember I said that. Anyways, the game ended in a Cubs 10-5 victory. I laughed, I cried (sunscreen in my eyes), I got drunk. It was better than ten Superbowl XLI's. Can't wait til next year... I mean, this year. Go Cubbies.

The Chicago River 5-0

Remembering Mr. Jones

Thomas Jones has gotten a bum rap during his three year stay in the city of Big Shoulders and now he's gone. For all the "good riddance" people out there, you're all idiots. You'll all feel the pinch of those words come fall. You have no idea what we just lost.

I know I'm a little biased here because of my Virginia ties, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. I remember the day in early 2004 when T.J. inked a deal with the Bears. I was excited because I thought we got a real, genuine piece of the puzzle. Jones came out of UVa a polished specimen, finishing 5th (I think) in Heisman voting and carrying the weight of gigantic expectations. He split carries in Arizona and had some gawd-awful blocking during his first three forgettable seasons. But he showed signs in Tampa Bay and I knew from watching him in college that this was the REAL Thomas Jones. Now, when we signed him after the 2003 season, we were a laughing stock. Kordell Stewart's swan song was so excruciating to watch that when an ancient Chris Chandler filled in for him it was a breath of fresh air. THAT'S how bad we were. Rex Grossman was on his first injury and our offense was the most unstable thing at Soldier Field since Bryan Cox used to stalk the sidelines, spewing sound bytes, angling for a sportstalk radio gig once his lackluster playing days were up.

So anyway, Jones came in and did exactly what was asked of him. Averaged 4.0-plus yards per carry in his first season, blocked, caught passes, kept his nose clean. He split carries with a fading Anthony Thomas but still managed to show his meddle, just missing 1,000 yards. Now, after this first year is when they released A-Train and drafted Cedric Benson. Considering the fact that Jones had more receptions than the Bears leading wideout (David Terrell, 42 rec, 699 yards, 1 TD), I thought it seemed logical to grab a bookend WR to compliment the offseason acquisition of Muhsin Mohamed. But Bears GM Jerry Angelo went ahead and nabbed Benson with the 4th overall pick. It would be one thing if T.J. was in the twilight of his effectiveness, but he was just rounding into his prime. How the fuck are you supposed to respond to that? Well, Jones responded by having two hard running seasons, eclipsing 1,200 yards for the first time in his career. All the while, his job was precariously balanced on the whim of an organization who hasn't drafted a worthwhile running back since Neal Anderson in 1986. It was a lose-lose situation from that point on. Concede carries to Benson and he does well, people will want you gone. Concede carries to Benson and he flounders, then we're spending too much on a back-up and Jones should be scaled back until Benson finds his groove. Don't believe me? Both those things happened. During Benson's first year in 2005, after the rookie holds out all of training camp and then injuries his leg, Jones picks up the slack. He runs for 1,335 yards and 9 Tds while defenses stack the box, tempting Kyle Orton to throw the ball. Fans wonder why we invested in Benson in the first place, Angelo implores us to give "the future" some time. What about our present? Well, that happened last season. Benson came on and many jumped on that bandwagon, completely forgetting the seasoned running back that moved aside to make a Super Bowl run not only feasible, but entirely possible.

Critics say he wasn't a team player because he sat out camp before the season claiming he wasn't happy about his contract, his role on the team. I say, damn right. We treated him (as an organization) without any loyalty or respect. We took him for granted. We made it difficult to keep him by the steps that were taken. On a related note, two time Pro-Bowler Lance Briggs said earlier this week, "The Chicago Bears team? The coaches, players, city and fans? Yeah, I could stay there forever. I love it. But the Chicago Bears organization? I don't want to be there anymore. I won't play for them and I'll do everything in my power to keep from playing there." The funny thing was, after the Superbowl, I was waiting to see what happened with these two guys because I was either going to get a Jones or Briggs jersey for next year.

Bottomline, Cedric Benson has big shoes to fill and I hope he’s up for it. This isn't open mic night at the Bryn Mawr student union, this is running back for the NFC Champion Chicago Bears. You leave your ego at the door and you tote that football with all the fury of a runaway locomotive because that's how it's been done here for decades. Defense and running the football. Running the football and defense. At this point last week, I was comfortable with that premise. Now? I'm hoping on hope. A place no fan wants to be.

We'll miss you Thomas Jones.

Go Hoos.

Bulls/Warriors Running Diary

The Bulls/Warriors tickets fell through (although I did pick up some tickets for when LeBron comes in town later this month) but I decided to keep a running diary anyway. Listening to Johnny "Red" Kerr and "Stinky" Stacey King on WGN with the Warriors while drinking a six-pack is about as good as it gets for me. By the way, Stacey gets his nickname from being the ultimate warrior in garbage time for the Bulls in the early 90's. Onto the game...

7:39pm - Starting lineups for both teams are announced as the crowd settles into their seats. The Bulls are running out Gordon, Hinrich, PJ, Big Ben and Deng. Coach Skiles has been using P.J. Brown as a starter ever since Nocioni went down a few weeks ago. I love the move, keep it big, keep it physical, keep it heavy on the boards. The Warriors (ravaged by injury) are starting Harrington, Biedrins, Ellis, J Rich and Azubuike. Stinky Stace points out that Richardson is the only starter for them to have played any college ball. I'm feeling pretty good right now.

7:44pm - PJ Brown looks like the old man in a pickup game consisting of young guys. He demands the ball in the post, takes a "power" dribble into the lane, plods slowly toward the hoops, forces up an antiquated looking hook shot and calls his own foul. Meanwhile, all the young guards who want to run are looking at each other with sideways glances each time this happens as if to say, "Who the hell does this guy think he is?".

7:48pm - Ben Gordon is 3-for-4 from the field and has 7 points in the early going. He's one of the purest shooters in the game, hands down. He looks like a little Reggie Miller rolling off screens, squaring his shoulders at full speed and dropping his hand in the cookie jar (as the man says). The thing I love most about BG (besides the fact that he heats up so quickly and rarely forces up a bad shot) is his body language when he shoots. Just based on his release, you can tell with about 80% certainty whether or not the shot is going down. It's really uncanny.

Timeout with 6:49 left in the 1st quarter. Bulls 16, Warriors 6.

7:54pm - The Warriors switch to a 3-2 zone. I'm thinking the impetus of this move is their lack of size on the interior. With big bodies like Brown and Wallace moving people around, the Warriors tempt the Bulls to beat them from the perimeter while marganalizing their ability for cohesive team rebounding. What transpires is a barrage of treys (for both teams) as lazy rotation and deadeye shooting carry the rest of the quarter. I'm having one of those Sportscenter flashbacks when a team hits a record amount of three pointers in a game and the entire highlight is just a ticker of them raining bombs from downtown for 30 seconds. This is shaping up to be once of those games.

7:58pm - Tyrus Thomas just threw down an incredible dunk over J Rich off a Gordon alley-oop pass in transition. The play before Thomas came from the weakside and swatted Ellis into the stands. I think this whole Slam Dunk fiasco with Ty has helped him focus and let him just worry about what he can control which is being a high energy guy off the bench. In that respect he reminds me of Cliff Levingston (not style-wise mind you) from those early 90's Bulls because he comes off the bench going full speed and his effort is palpable almost immediately. Contagious effort is a commodity I wouldn't mind having in spades come playoff time.

8:06pm - Richardson hits a leaner from 40 feet with a hand in his face to end the quarter. His teammates seem only mildly excited. NBA players are freakishly good.

End of the 1st quarter. Bulls 31, Warriors 28.

8:12pm - The offensive rebounding by the Warriors tonight is astounding considering their personnel. Great energy. Never would have guessed they have lost their last three games and just played last night in Milwaukee.

8:14pm - Monta Ellis just launched a 21-footer from the wing that went 19 feet. Red Kerr brings up the stat that Ellis is shooting 25% from downtown this year which just further cements my claim that he's the new Tony Parker. Wonderful slasher, scorer in the lane and passer but just miserable shooting from distance. All he's got to do now is start dating an elfish-looking woman with a debatable degree of celebrity and rapping in foreign tongues and we have a copyright infringement on our hands.

Nellie immediately subs Ellis out for Sarunas Jasikevicius. I mention this because Sarunas is quickly climbing the list of "All-Time NBA Names that are Fun to Say" right there with Detlef Schrempf, Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf and Dikembe Mutombo.

Timeout with 8:42 left in the 2nd quarter. Bulls 36, Warriors 35.

8:24pm- Tyrus Thomas collects an offensive rebound in the paint and goes right back up (flat-footed) to flush it HARD over Adonal Foyle who's only true value is as a shot blocker. I mean, it was right in Foyle's mug. Somewhere Roman Adler just felt a chill go down his spine.

Timeout with 5:10 left in the 2nd quarter. Bulls 45, Warriors 44.

8:27pm - Gordon and Deng check back in. At this point I decide to myself that we should be up 10 by half. The very first time down the floor Harrington steps in a passing lane, weaves through three Bulls defenders on his one-man fastbreak and treats the crowd to a nice dunk. Coast-to-coast with all the ease of a stroll through Central Park. I've said it once, I'll say it again... What were the Pacers thinking?

8:34pm - Sefolosha hits another trey to make it eleven total points for the quarter. He's exuding confidence right now and I'm forced to call him a more athletic B.J. Armstrong right now. Great defender, fundamentally sound, plays within himself at all times. Just Thabo-lous.

Halftime. Bulls 62, Warriors 58.

8:57pm - The second half starts with a quick interview with an anonymous Bulls assistant coach. He says that the coaching staff spent halftime talking about how to attack the Warriors zone (which they presume will be used for the rest of the game). The half starts with the Bulls pushing the ball hard, catching the Warriors before they can set up. Within three minutes they have a 12 point lead and things look like they could get out of hand at any moment.

9:00pm - Tyrus SCREAMS after driving to the lane, drawing the foul but not finishing the three point play. He's got two big dunks in the early going of the second half and as a Bulls fan you absolutely have to love his newfound intensity. He hits both free throws and I ease back in my chair, comfortable for the first time tonight that the Bulls are in control.

Timeout with 7:18 left in the 3rd quarter. Bulls 78, Warriors 64.

9:09pm - The Warriors officially look tired. They are fouling the Bulls everytime down the floor and hurling up shots haphazardly without any of that offensive rebounding moxie they had to start the game. It's starting to look like Victor Khryapa and Malik Allen will be logging big minutes in the 4th quarter.

9:14pm - The Warriors finally switch back to man-to-man about a quarter too late.

Timeout with 2:28 left in the 3rd quarter. Bulls 88, Warriors 67.

9:18pm - Adrian "Old Man" Griffin is blowing by defenders, out hustling guys ten year his younger to loose balls... Golden State has officially checked out and I can't blame them. They are casually launching threes like the Dunleavy/Murphy Warriors of old. All players on both teams are now in cruise control and it shows. A prime example why basketball is the only sport where the college ranks are easily more watchable than their professional counterpart.

9:20pm - This stat flashes at the bottom of the screen: The Bulls are 21 of 24 from the line.

End of the 3rd quarter. Bulls 95, Warriors 69.

9:27pm - Just an astonishing couple of minutes of broadcasting... Red and Stacey spend three minutes discussing whether or not Michael Sweetney is out of shape. They ponder outloud if his weight is the reason that he's not getting more minutes. Um, what the hell is going on here? Is he just big boned? Is his nickname of Sweet Tits not enough proof for these guys? They use the example of Eddy Curry as an "extra-large guy" who still gets minutes because he can produce. Listen, as much as I despise Curry and his all-too-apparent lack of effort, he's a solid scorer. He's a woeful rebounder for his size, but he fills up the basket and that quality will be rewarded with playing time no matter what. Sweetney has all the carriage and desire of Curry with about as much touch as the Rock Biter from The NeverEnding Story.

9:30pm - The Bulls are out rebounding the Warriors 19-5 in the second half.

9:32pm - Sefolosha throws DOWN on the fast break. The Bulls are R-U-N-N-I-N-G right now. Tyrus and Thabo have both tied season (and therefore career) highs for points at 14 apiece. It's a good night to be a rookie in Chicago.

Timeout with 8:55 left in the 4th quarter. Bulls 103, Warriors 71.

9:37pm - The Bulls bench has outscored the Warriors bench 53-11.

9:43pm - Duhon steps in the way of a crosscourt pass and goes in for the uncontested dunk. This sparks two minutes of gushing from Red and Stacey about how Duhon is the ultimate role player. Stacey also informs us that, "Du used to be a big time scorer in high school". Red adds, "He needed to adapt his game to be more of a utility player in college for Coach K". I'm sorry, this has gotta end. Duhon is what he is. He's a back-up NBA guard that occasionally surprises but in no way is an exceptional athlete "reeling it in" for the sake of the team. What is it about this guy that makes everyone a well wisher? It’s like hearing a flock of parents at a junior high game lauding each other's children.

Timeout with 2:57 left in the 4th quarter. Bulls 110, Warriors 81.

9:52pm - In the closing minute, the United Center starts chanting "Nocioni!" even though he's in street clothes. He flashes a big grin and gives the peace sign to the crowd. Just a nice moment and a great way to bring this puppy to a close.

Final. Bulls 113, Warriors 83.

The Quiet after the Storm: The 2006 Chicago Bears

I was watching the second half of the Bulls/Jazz game last night by myself when my eye wandered to the clock on the wall. The symmetry was too obvious not to note, for it was exactly 24 hours since the Bears had lost Superbowl XLI. I sunk down in my chair to take an inventory, to surmise the pain. It seemed strange because I still felt reasonably normal (save for some minor pangs of sadness that another NFL season was over, but I get that every year) and whatever emotional letdown I originally expected wasn't yet taking hold. It was an odd sensation because here I was treating this sub zero Chicago Monday like any other, when all other indicators pointed to it being the saddest day in recent memory. Sure, I was experiencing some denial and participating in some mild aversion therapy (I holler obscenities at myself every time I instinctually turn on ESPN when channel surfing ) but I didn't expect to be able to stave off the heavy heart a diehard is supposed to carry on "the day after". My presumptions led me to believe that a loss would send shocks through the body - an unholy alliance of bitterness, rage, sorrow, hopelessness and disappointment. However, that wasn't the case...

I watched the game with some of my best friends. We had deep dish pizzas and wings. We took shots of SoCo and lime. We listened to the Power and the Glory music from NFL Films. We were bundles of nervous drunken energy by the time the game started... before Devin Hester made our initial worries fade to black. Peyton threw a pick on third and long and we're slugging beers and smacking fives. Now, we all know what happened after that, so I'm not going to get into it... rather than what happened, I was more influenced by how I watched what happened. Having everything unfold the way it did with those very special people is what I will remember the most. The familiar banter. The outright booing at lame commercials. The optimistic women in the room trying to cheer up the devastated stone-faced men after another Grossman fumble/interception. The halftime show that had nothing to do with Prince. The knowing looks at a best friend when things started to slip away, finally retiring to the back porch to grab a quick smoke once the unfortunate became the inevitable, not commiserating but simply enjoying the buzz and the company and the night.

Am I only kidding myself? Downplaying the importance to save face? Hiding behind the "good friends, good times" rap when I should be drafting an open letter and finding a length of rope? Perhaps, but I’m not entirely sure that's how I feel right now, nor do I see it playing out that way around the bend. For some perspective, I was physically ill when the Cubbies got bounced in 1989 and 2003 (not so much 1998 for some reason). I cried when the Bulls broke up after the 1998 season. I'm used to extremely visceral reactions when it comes to these matters because that's what I think I choose to feel. It seems to somehow validate how I felt about it all along. For instance, when you break up with someone very important it can be a tremendously traumatic experience. You can mope around and beat yourself up and dig into that shoebox of photos OR you can take a few days to get your act together before getting a head full of Jack Daniels and zeroing in on a rebound "encounter" that will surely find its way back to your ex. Either way, you deal with the pain in your own way. As time passes, you learn how to cope better and better once you've been through the wringer a few times. I think that's where I am right now. The way I see it, the seven-game series structure in baseball and basketball is a continual "on-edge" experience. If your team blazes a trail into the championship round, the playoffs are no longer enjoyable. It highjacks your life for weeks on end and turns you into a perpetual ball of worry, a bi-polar junkie for W's. Football is great because of its finality. One game. Sixty minutes. Heroes and goats are made in an afternoon. Then it's over. You can pick up the pieces much easier because there isn't as much to internalize...

This brings me back to the Bulls/Jazz game from last night. The CSN microphones were picking up EVERYTHING one Utah fan was saying. He was obnoxious, loud and consistently unfunny. "Hinrich! You gotta rash on your leg!" or "Deng sucks!" were heard over every lull in the action to the point where Red and Stinky Stace would sporadically acknowledge him during the broadcast. As the Jazz began to pull away in crunch time (we coulda really used Nocioni for matchup purposes down the stretch) I began to do my own fan profiling on this guy. He sounded around my age, probably Mormon (just kidding), obviously drunk (I hope for his sake) and somewhat diehard. Although the camera's never spotted him, I pictured him with a Jeff Hornacek jersey and matted hair. I'm guessing hygiene issues and verbal ticks kept him from meaningful relationships. He probably has a laundry list of phobias highlighted by, but not limited to, self-control and self-discovery. Then I started to think about what his likes and dislikes are... and things began to snap into focus. He HATES the Bulls. For me, this is just another game on a West coast roadtrip - Sonics, Trailblazers, Warriors, Jazz, etc. For this guy, it's probably much more. He certainly still remembers the sting of Jordan's Flu Game. His Airness and his Game 6 heroics. The tired pain of back-to-back basketball seasons ending on the ultimate stage to the same foe. Having two Hall of Famers submit to two better Hall of Famers. It's just the breaks sometimes. When it comes down to sports, I've had my joy and I keep it alive everytime I pop in a DVD. That's not to say I'm ever going to celebrate Peyton Manning (or Will Clark or Pudge Rodriguez for that matter), but I can take solace that the better team won. And that happens. Nothing will change.

So as long as I get to the point where I'm not choking on my own rage during a regular season Bears/Colts game in 2017, I think I will come out of this thing alright...

Bears/Seahawks Game

I was planning on writing another running diary for the Bears/Seahawks game this past Sunday, however I had some reservations about the limitations of such a design. Since the structure of a running diary is fairly rigid, I find that the large strokes are sacrificed for the minutia of the game time experience. Timeouts are documented. Quirk plays are noted. The overall feel of a Soldier Field Sunday afternoon is sprawled out, minute by minute, in what usually amounts to a very idiosyncratic list of events. It seemed apparent that a game of such magnitude needed something a little more free flowing. Something that could breathe. So I decided to take some sparse notes in lieu of meticulous ones. I decided to write something that better captured just how important this game was for me as a fan. This game that, no matter what fate awaits the Bears, will be indelibly etched in my mind forever.

Nick and Mary informed my Dad that they would be out-of-town for the first playoff game and kindly offered up their tickets to us. My Dad and I were joined by my godfather Bobby Stovall and family friend John McGregor. I absolutely could not pick a better line-up to fill in for Nick and Mary on this blustering Sunday in January. Bobby (aside from being my appointed "spiritual guide" during this crazy journey called Life) is one of the most colorful personalities to ever throw back a whiskey on the rocks. He's been one of my favorite people on this Earth from a very early age. I recall his high pitched Southern twang as he would bound through the doors of my childhood home, "DON ALAN! BOY! GIT OVER HERE AND GIMME SOME SKIN!" as his deep abiding laughter unfurled before me and shot off the walls. To put things in perspective, I was four years old when the Bears played in Super Bowl XX and while I didn't understand what was going on or why we had a new big screen TV, I knew that my Dad and Bobby were immensely happy. I remember the joy this Bears team created in that living room on 20 West Burton and I remember wanting to be a part of that. Now, John McGregor was a wonderful addition to our party for decidedly different reasons. He hails from Scotland and is a business relation turned fly fishing buddy to my Dad. Throughout the years the two of them have transversed the globe stalking trout and asking each other the same rhetorical question, "Should we open another bottle?" Mr. McGregor went to school in East London which fostered his allegiance to the West Ham Hammers football club in the FA Premier League. Yet despite his worldliness and sports acumen, he has never seen an American football game. Needless to say, he picked a good one to call his first.





As you can probably tell, the crowd was confident but not boisterous as we entered our beloved Soldier Field. We'd been burned during home playoff games before (in 2001 and of course last year) so everyone was wearing an all too familiar "If we don't acknowledge our trepidation, it won't manifest" demeanor. That's not to say that things were not eventful outside the stadium. I saw three drunks (all in separate parties) who in their excitement slipped and spilled on the ice patched sidewalks. Applause and laughter coarsed through the herd. One man, with his arms raised in the air for the customary pre-entry patdown, gave the security guard a gracious and loving waist-to-waist bear hug to convey his drunken appreciation. (By the way, I love the lip service paid by the Bears administration towards unauthorized boozing in the stands. During my patdown, the guys hit my camera, wallet AND flask before waving me through. As we walked in, my Dad and I discussed this practice and concluded they didn't want any handles of Beam coming in. That's about it.)





Now, I've been to roughly twenty Bears games in my life but never one in the playoffs. Let me tell you something, nothing compares to energy of the crowd during a NFL playoff game. NOTHING. It's like eating PB&J's at lunch everyday for your entire life, same bread, same crust cut off, same glass of milk to wash it down. That's it. Then one day, out of the blue, you are presented with a Bar Burger with all the fixings and a tall, frosty pint of Stella. You almost can't believe your sensations. You almost can't fathom that you've lived all these years before witnessing something so good, so right. As the players were being introduced I caught some major chills. Urlacher was the last introduced as we hopped up and down like children on Christmas morning. It was time.

The Bears won the coin toss and chose to receive. Rex then methodically led us down the field on a 12 play, 80 yard touchdown scoring drive that took 6:25 off the clock. It's a good mix of running plays and intermediate passes that brings even the biggest pessimists out of their seats. The biggest play (possibly of the game) was a 37 yard completion to Sheed Davis on a 3rd and 10 from midfield. I'll explain my reasoning here. Seahawks CB Jordan Babineaux made a play on the ball just as it got to Davis. The tip was corralled by Sheed before he picked up another 15 yards after the catch. Now, if this ball is intercepted by Babineaux (which replays indicate was a definite possibility) then this entire game is turned on it's head. Now, I'd like to think Grossman could recover from this proposed obstacle and I think he could given the right play calling. What REALLY worried me was the crowd. I'd like to think that Mr. and Mrs. Bears Fan would be supportive through everything this 13-3 season has afforded them, however I'm not sure that option is still on the table. After the bombardment on Rex from the Chicago media, if he shows even the slightest deficiency in the early going we're conditioned to want blood (or in the event that blood is not available, then Brian Griese). Thank God this is only a "What If".

Mr. McGregor asks me after our post touchdown flask tilt, "That was quite good then?"

I nod, "Yep. It's just that easy."

I'll classify that one as a white lie, because no one got hurt.

After dueling punts, the Seahawks take the ball and march down the field on the strength of Matt Hasselbeck's arm. On the first play of the 2nd quarter, he finds Nate Burleson over the middle for a 16 yard TD pass. Bears 7, Seahawks 7. Everyone is now settled in. At this point, the four ya-hoos sitting to our right flag down the beerman. ID's and 20's are handed to us, we are now in assembly line mode. But for some reason, these guys want to pay separately (draining this poor guy's reserve of $1 bills). They also change their mind mid-pour, "Did I say MGD? I meant 2 MGD's and 2 Miller Lites". We're trying to act like this drunken ballet of words and fermented grain doesn't effect us, but both parties in our periphery are leaning in, straining over us, confused and pissed off. And then, in an instant, it happens. On the very first play of the ensuing drive, Rex hits Berrian in stride for a 68 yard touchdown. Bears 14, Seahawks 7. All beer related problems melt away.

It stays this way until this happens on 3rd and 7 with 4:27 left in the half:





After the fumble and four Shaun Alexander runs later, the score is tied at 14 all.

(EDITORS NOTE: If this were a Tribune article, this would be where the Rex Grossman bashing would commence. I would point out his inability to protect a lead and question his manhood in new and inventive ways. Then I would throw around Cade McNown's name because I know it causes my readers to see red. Then I would take a parting shot at Bears owner Mike McCaskey for no apparent reason out of habit. Please make a note of it.)

Luckly for us, this isn't the Tribune and Rex isn't some delicate wallflower that needs coddling. He runs a nearly perfect Two Minute Drill completing passes of 21 and 18 yards en route to another Thomas Jones touchdown run. Bears 21, Seahawks 14. Halftime.

FLASHFORWARD to 10:33 left in the 4th quarter. Seahawks 24, Bears 21.

It's too early to start panicing, but it's also turned too ugly on offense to expect the Bears score many more points. The defense is waffling and everyone in the stands is pretending like they aren't INCREDIBLY uncomfortable. I look over to my Dad who is usually my ace in the hole during the more dire moments in my life (this being one of them) and all he can do is shrug his shoulders. We're uneasy, still cheering loud, but it sounds less reassuring. The kick to Hester. Looks unreturnable. He stops, almost stands straight up and then a Seattle player goes flying past him. HE'S UP THE SIDELINE. WE'VE SEEN THIS BEFORE! COULD HE AGAIN!?!?! IS IT EVEN POSSIBLE!?!?! IT IS!!!!!

I high ten Mr. McGregor before I jump over him to hug my Dad. He's got tears starting to form in his eyes from the combination of cold weather and pure joy. And while a block in the back nullified the touchdown moments later, that was one of the Top Ten happiest moments I've ever experienced. I know, I know. It sounds stupid. How could some playoff game engender strong emotions that compete with a lifetime of experience. Well, because I honestly feel like this was not a singular moment in time. Rather, this was a culmination of so many happy memories. My Dad and I loosening our ties after church in the late 80's as we walked in the door, ready for 3 hours of Bears football. Just a little kid at December games in the snow with Bobby, Uncle Nick, My Dad and Bill Davis (my late Godfather) in these very seats. Clutching hot chocolate. Singing the songs. Learning the game from these larger than life men in my life. And for that brief, blinking moment... everything snapped into focus for me.

Several minutes later, Robbie Gould ties it up with 4:28 left in the game. I love Robbie Gould. Let me count the ways.


IN A COURTROOM SETTING. THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY RISES, PACES THE LENGTH OF THE BENCH AND LOOKS TO THE SKY BEFORE CLEARING HIS THROAT TO SPEAK: Your Honor, I only have one piece of evidence I wish to present before this court today which I believe to be sufficient. The following video takes place with two minutes left in the NFC Divisional Playoff game between the Chicago Bears and the Seattle Seahawks. Please keep in mind that the score is tied 24-24 and the Seahawks have the ball at the Chicago 44 yard line. The Down is 4th. The distance is a yard...





... Now if my client, Mr. Lance Briggs is traded at the end of this season. It will make a mockery out of everything this system of justice is based on. The very foundation of logic will crumble and anarchy will ensue. If you don't match any and all offers for this Pro-Bowl outside linebacker, well, your Honor... may God have mercy on your soul.

Tank Johnson brings regulation to a close with a sack on Matt Hasslebeck. I always knew that guy was alright.

Overtime begins and Matt Hasselbeck is conspicuously absent from the coin toss. Somewhere Ben Carthew is giggling to himself. The Seahawks win the toss as we explain overtime rules to Mr. McGregor. He responds, "Well, that hardly seems fair." We all solemnly nod in agreement. However, the Bears defense (emboldened by the strong 4th quarter) stiffens and forces the punt. What is usually the faint whiff or marijuana in the air has turned into the smell of opportunity. Then Rex (just as he did to start the game) finds Sheed Davis for a 30 yard completion on 3rd and 10 from Bears territory. Two Cedric Benson runs and an incomplete pass setup a Robbie Gould 49 yard field goal. Time stands still...





We FLOAT out of Soldier Field. "BRING ON THE AINTS" chants begin. Drums line the horizon. Strangers are hugging. My arm around my Pop.

"One more game," he says with a content grin.

One more game.

New Sports Blog

What's up people? I just wanted to do a quick plug for a new blog I'm doing with my buddy Ben from Uva. We lived in the same hall first year and spent the majority of that time playing Sega Genesis, making fun of Redskins fans and, uh, studying. We lived together second year, upgraded to a PS2, discovered fantasy sports and never looked back. Ben hails from Long Island but was raised a Packers, Brewers and Bucks fan through family affiliations. While I make fun of his man love for Brett Favre and he waits with bated breath for the Cubs 100 years of ineptitude party (tentatively being held at Medieval Times), we manage to pull for each other when the chips are down. We respect each other's commitment to team. He plays his Green Bay 1996 tape about as many times as I play my Bears 1985 tape. And that's how it goes.

Well, this blog were starting is just kinda exploratory and somewhat spitballed together. It's going to be 100% sports (or at least sports related) and it'll be updated more frequently than this blog. We figured it would be a good way to pass the time until we became charter fishing boat captains/mini-golf moguls. I hope you enjoy it and if you do, please pass it on.

Mahalo,
AK

My Celebrity Look-Alike

I love when friends in my everyday life share an unanimously stark resemblance with a universally famous person. I think we all do. For one, it's a devastatingly powerful weapon to wield when pressed to describe them to a third party. I could say, "She's a blond with blue eyes... She's got a great body.... um, She's very intelligent and always interesting," or I could say "She's a dead ringer for Jessica Simpson. Fiercely smart. Loves crossword puzzles, base jumping and skinny skiing." Which is more helpful? If I drop ole Jessica's name in front, I can more readily address her personality qualities and quirks. It's the name that helps, because now instead of thinking about what she might look like, my friend is now picturing Jessica Simpson's alterego doing all these things: Pensively tapping a blue ink pen against a twice folded New York Times in the morning, jumping off a suspension bridge at the height of the day and then flopping around in the evening mist for one last pass around Lake Wallenpaupack. See what I'm saying, the name is huge. Totally huge.

With this is mind, I find it important to make one absolute distinction. What I love even more than having a friend who looks like a celebrity, is having a friend who THINKS they look like a celebrity (and usually in a flattering way) except they don't at all. Examples I’ve heard in person have been Mariah Carey (she had the crazy part right though), Ricky Martin (he had flaming part down), Tom Cruise (he put on a jean jacket and went as him for Halloween one year, hilarity ensued) and of course Chris Farley (he actually adopted personality traits of Farley's different routines, which is either a brilliant homage to the late comedian or a wonderful way to go if you don't really know what to make of yourself during your formative years. Just assume the role of the drug abusing, painfully self-aware clown/party-animal when you go out on a Friday night with your buddies. A recipe for success any way you slice it).

I'm reminded of the scene from the movie Friday when "Janet Jackson" pulls up in front with her weave on and Chris Tucker rolls up to the car, makes an astonishing discovery, spends the next 45 seconds peaking as a comic actor and then sends "Ms. Jackson" on her way. It's that mistaken identity that throws people, the humor lies is the false perception. But here's the thing, there's really no way to tell your friend that he or she looks NOTHING LIKE the proposed star in question. The only true recourse to something like this is to immediately call other people who know your friend and inform them that the self-actualized celebrity comparisons are flying. Are you doing this to gauge reactions? To gain a third party perspective? Perhaps. But most likely you are already fully aware of the reaction. Unbridled laughter.

I also want to talk about the emergence of the "What Celebrity do I look like?"Wheel-O-Fun. It seems like these puppies are on every third Myspace page and I invariably end up looking at them going "Nope... nope... not even close... ugh-unh" inside my head. Now, I understand that the facial recognition software used here isn't from NASA and these findings are only really 60% accurate. But for me, I think we need to look a little deeper at what this seemingly trivial piece of web junk is trying to say:

"Look at my face. Do you see it? Are you sure? Have you looked hard enough? It's a good shot of me, don't you think? Do you think I look like these people? Cuz I got numbers here that support my claim! Okay, keeeeep looooking. Great! I'm fabulous. Let's do lunch.”

On a semi-related note: My ex-girlfriend used to tell me I looked like Mark Wahlberg. After informing me of this, I would often start doing the "New Kids Dance" wearing a confused brow and a well meaning smile. Then she would hit me and say no, not DONNIE Wahlberg. MARK Wahlberg. You KNOW! Marky Mark. The One with the FUNKY BUNCH. Then I'd pause and look at my abs (or where I’m told my abs are supposed to be) and then I'd look up at her and shake my head. But she persisted and made me believe she was completely sold on this fact. (Later I found out it was all just a ploy to get me to wear Calvin Klein boxer-briefs and not my usual standby of Homer Simpson boxers replete with memorable quotes. Long story.) Anyway, after enough confirmation that I looked like Mark Wahlberg, I started walking around my house with no shirt on, blue jeans sagging and a baseball hat on. I would play pool like this, I would watch Sportscenter like this, I would periodically excuse myself to use the powder room to do twenty push-ups like this. This went on in the King household for about a week when finally my Dad said to me,

"Son, what the hell are you doing? Put a damn shirt on! You're flexing at the dinner table now?"

I'll never forget that. He was right, I was posing. However, in retrospect, I think I was doing it all with a touch of irony. At least I hope so. If I wasn't, let's just chalk it up to high school and move on.

OK, so when you live in a society that values Cool like currency, I suppose it's somewhat understandable to try and link the ordinary with the fantastical. We do live in a very quotational place and time where our most viable social tool is having the information needed to be IN on the reference or joke. At the end of the day, we want to be able to walk into a room full of strangers and be able to hold their rapt attention while relating our interests and insights. By knowing what artist is playing on the stereo or by drawing the perfect comparison to a well documented story in the news, we begin to form a positive feeling about ourselves and our relevance within the surrounding world. Simply put, we want to be the guy with the finger on the pulse. Along with self-esteem maintenance, this is one of our primary motivators in almost every social exchange. So I suppose the forcing of a famous likeness with noble intentions is just a way of fitting in, of assimilating, which is completely understandable.

***

Well, after years of having "a familiar face" that hot girls "can never place in their minds" it appears that my possibility for a celebrity doppelganger may still have legs. In the past six months, three people have voluntarily informed me that I look like someone with a slight degree of celebrity. Now, the fact that these three people are completely unaware of each other and named a very esoteric person leads me to believe the comparisons are genuine and accurate. Now, I personally don't see the resemblance, but THREE PEOPLE CAN'T BE WRONG! Supposedly, I look like Jason Hervey. Don’t know him? How about Wayne Arnold? Kevin's older brother from Wonder Years?

Yeah. That's right. I guess I look like a fictional douchebag.

Good times.