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.

Chicago Sports Weekend (Part Two)

I had the honor of attending the Bears/Vikings game this past Sunday with my Dad and great family friends Nick and Mary. As it turns out, watching an embattled quarterback for four quarters in the freezing cold with a division title on the line is a damn good way to spend your Sunday. So I kept a running diary (props to Bill Simmons) and I’m glad I did...



***


11:49am - We arrive 40 minutes early to Soldier Field due to eerily light traffic. So, after we find our seats, I decide to do three laps around the mezzanine level to keep my circulation going until the game starts. I’m dressed in layers upon layers, a grey hooded sweatshirt, my Salaam jersey stretched over that, a jacket and an orange wool cap. Since people can only see the #31 in front, it doubles as a Vasher jersey.

(One thing I don’t understand is wearing a dated (as well as questionable) jersey to the game. It’s one thing to display them proudly (and ironically) out at a bar, but sporting a Rick Mirer or Bryan Cox jersey at Soldier Field in full war paint on Sunday afternoon makes me scratch my head just a little)

I return to my seats with eleven minutes to spare. I’m ready for some football.

11:59am - The National Anthem ends with three fighter jets doing a flyby as the word “Brave” is sung. Then, with the roar of the jets still ringing, that “Let’s get fired up/generic rock music” bleeds in and people begin hopping up and down, an expanse of cascading warm breath puffs. This place is ready to burst.

12:01pm - Sheed Davis fumbles the opening kick return on our 31 yard line. Minnesota recovers. So much for that.

12:04pm - The Bears defense forces the Vikings into a 4th and 18 situation and out of field goal range. Let’s try this again.

12:20pm - After a promising drive stalls for the Bears, they punt the ball away. Then Brad Johnson and Rex Grossman trade interceptions. Rexy really needs to settle down. The crowd is searching for an excuse to go absolutely nuts, but knowing Grossman is strug-a-ling, they don’t quite know what to do with all this pent-up energy. Every time the Bears get the ball, it’s like 60,000 people waiting for the other shoe to drop.

12:24pm - My Dad makes his first prediction, “This looks like it’s going to be another 9-6 game. It’s So Depressing.”

The funny thing is, I was thinking the same thing. As a Bears fan, whenever things get off to a sluggish start, that’s usually how they’re going to end. That’s the result of constantly watching Good Defense and Bad Offense paired together year after year.

12:32pm - With 2:31 left in the first quarter, this whole place shakes with noise. Everyone is on their feet as the Vikings are trying to convert on a third-and-long. Right before the snap a yellow flag comes spiraling out of the sky from the sidelines as Minnesota has been charged with their second false start penalty, virtually assuring the punt. At this point, Tank Johnson is pointing at the crowd. We are pointing back to him. My Dad, Nick and I have started barking. Things are starting to pick up.

12:39pm -
PA System: There’s A Timeout
Crowd: Where?
:::pause:::
PA System: On The Field.
Crowd: Oh.

This happens seven or eight times a game and it NEVER gets old.

12:41pm - The second quarter starts with Rex launching a bomb down the right sideline that gets caught up in the swirling wind and comes up five yards short. Interception. “Grossman Sucks!” and “Bring in Griese!” begin to roll out of the stands. I’m willing to give him until halftime.

12:43pm - The PA System has just notified us the game time temperature is 20 degrees (7 degrees windchill) with 14mph winds gusting from the SW.

The crowd erupts. More barking.

12:46pm - My Dad leans over, “Hester’s returning this”.

12:47pm - Devin Hester has just electrified the crowd with an seemingly impossible dream of a return. Running 45 yards to paydirt, he sheds tackles and bounces off hits as he wills his body into the endzone like he is dragging the stone of triumph behind him. I would tell my Dad to say that before every Hester return, but I don’t want to tinker with his odd familiarity with how the comos seem to work.

12:57pm - Ulacher gets flagged for a bogus “roughing the passer” penalty which sets up a Longwell chipshot. Bears 7, Vikings 3. There’s 8:54 left in the second quarter.

Nick, concerned with the veracity of the referee’s interpretation of the rules, posits to anyone who’ll listen, “We’re playing football here, aren’t we?”. Things have become very philosophical all of a sudden.

1:13pm - An interesting sequence of events just unfolded before us. The Vikings are forced to punt from their own endzone and everything seems right with the world. However, punter Chris Kluwe glances the kick off his foot in such a manner as to influence the ball with a certain “dying quail” quality. It travels roughly 20 yards and hits a Bears blocker who is high-tailing it down the field to assist in the return. Minnesota recovers. We are then indulged to yet another three-and-out from a listless Vikings offense. On the ensuing punt, the SAME exact thing happens. Only this time, the Bears regain possession when the ball bounces harmlessly out of bounds.

“I think this might be their new offensive strategy,” says my Dad.
“I wouldn’t rule out anything at this point,” I reply.

1:26pm - Urlacher & Co. stand tough and give us the ball back with :33 second left on our 20 yard line. Rexy kneels on it. Sadly, this play is a marked improvement over most of his others this half. Meanwhile, Nick tries to get Mary’s attention to make sure she’s not frozen solid. She jostles in her seat, looks at us and says, “I’m here”. Nick looks relieved.


1:42pm - Start of the 2nd half.

1:47pm - Tommie Harris goes down. It’s his knee and it looks season ending. The crowd is standing around like a DMV waitline. It’s awkwardly quiet and people are frantically looking around, searching for answers. Nervous energy holds sway.

1:54pm - The Vikings drive down the field with an alarming degree of ease, running the ball at the gap Tommie Harris usually fills. They settle for another Longwell chipshot to make it 7-6, Bears with 10:07 left in the 3rd quarter. The Grossman critics are now adequately drunk and I’m feeling bad vibes.

Please God, no more INTs.

1:59pm - Grossman’s first pass of the 2nd half is tipped at the line of scrimmage and intercepted by some anonymous linebacker. The Boo Birds are out and they’re swooping about at this point. As the crowd charges into “Grie-se! Grie-se!” chants, Lance Briggs steps in front of a Brad Johnson telegraph for the pick, turning the anger into euphoria. This was jarring for the Boo Birds, but I have a feeling they’ll be back.

2:02pm - Minnesota is penalized for encroachment. Mary turns to me and says, “That’s one thing Rex has going for him. The hard count.”

Needless to say, I’m extremely impressed.

2:11pm - The Vikings commit their fourth false start. They look terrible.

2:15pm - WOW. Ricky Manning, Jr. jumps a Travis Taylor route, makes the pick and runs it back. Bears 14, Vikings 6.

2:18pm - Lance Briggs storms into the backfield and causes yet another ill-conceived Brad Johnson ball that was thrown RIGHT AT Urlacher. This place is temporally insane.

2:20pm - AND JUST LIKE THAT... Ced Benson takes a 4th and 1 handoff up the right sideline for a 24 yard touchdown run. Bears are now up 15 points with 3:04 left in the 3rd quarter. It’s beginning to sink in that the Bears are clinching the NFC Norris Division in front of us. Can’t wait for the inevitable “Ugly Win” Bears commentary on EPSN Primetime.

2:21pm - Brooks Bollinger is in.

2:22pm - Brooks Bollinger is on his back.

2:24pm - Brooks Bollinger is on his back again. No seriously, this is exactly how is went down.

Vikings face another 4th and 17.

2:29pm - The fourth quarter starts. My Dad and Nick have the following exchange:

Dad: “I think there’s a Bourbon and water in my future.”
Nick: “How about a Bourbon and Bourbon?”
Dad: “Sounds even better.”

2:32pm - Bears safety the Vikings. We’re exhausted from cheering.

2:40pm -
PA System: There’s A Timeout
Crowd: Where?
:::pause:::
PA System: On The Field.
Crowd: Oh.

2:50pm - The Vikings finally get in the endzone. Bollinger is running around the field pumping his fist like MJ against the Jazz in ‘97. We’re not concerned. Six minutes are all that separate us from the playoffs.

2:53pm - The Vikings just pull off a PERFECT onsides kick. The crowd implores the D to slam the door.

Nick checks Mary again. Not frozen. Whew.

3:00pm - The Vikings are strapped with a 3rd and 12 after their fifth false start of the day. Once the ball is snapped, Adewale Ogunleye simply slides past his blocker and DRILLS Bollinger. 4th and 17 is then followed by a delay of game. 4th and 22. Another Vikings Punt.

My Dad takes out his binoculars and surmises the situation: "It seems like Bollinger is out of it... stumbling around on the sideline... might have a slight concussion..."

It's generally not a good idea show up the defense by over-celebrating your garbage time touchdown. I'm just saying.

3:10pm - PA System: Rex Grossman had 34 yards passing today.

I'll just put it this way. The crowd's reaction was too priceless for words.

3:14pm - The Bears recover a Vikings fumble with 1:12 left. Game Over. Bears 23, Vikings 13. What a ride.

Chicago Sports Weekend (Part One)

This past weekend, I had the privilege of going to the Bulls-Wizards game Saturday night and the Bears-Vikings game on Sunday afternoon thanks to my Dad hooking up some tickets. Since the Bears could clinch the division and the Bulls were on a three game winning streak and opening up their 8-game home stand, I decided to take a running diary of both. I know this is Bill Simmons territory but I figured if they were fun to read, they might be fun to write.

As it turned out, I was correct.



***


7:33pm - My Dad and I get to our seats and begin to settle in, but not before swapping photos in front of the Jordan Statue outside the East gates. I think the reason this particular piece of civic art culture is so profound is because of what MJ accomplished in this city. Those memories that are firmly tucked into a daily subconscious of a time when June was the happiest month of the year. “MJ Soaring” personifies this.

I’m not sure why, but I’m very optimistic at this point.


7:40pm - They play a virtually Alan Parsons-free intro and have tweaked the Jumbotron graphics. Instead of the classic build up of “Sirius”, there is a deep baseline like beating hooves as we watch a stampede of bulls tear through the Wizards team bus parked outside the UC. I guess it’s okay, but it’s different. The crowd isn’t feeling it so much and I am reminded of how much I miss The Stadium.

7:48pm - Loul streaks down the left side of the court in transition, receives a laser of a half court pass from Kirk, shifts pass Arenas who is casually attempting to take the charge and scores. And One.

It’s becoming quite clear that Loul is making the leap from versatile small forward to legitimate potential All-Star and I couldn’t be happier. But he did attend Duke for a year. So I’m not sure what that means about me. I’m even a Duhon guy. Ditto Jay Williams. So there’s that too. It’s gotten to the point that if I had to root for J.J. Redick, I think I could.

:::shuddering at the thought:::

7:54pm - Four Gentlemen seated directly in front of us in the mold of “Da Super Fans” begin in on the refs. “I’ve had tree beersh and even I could see dat wasa foul,” in that lazy midwestern brogue. Meanwhile the others muse on the similarities between Etan Thomas and R.W. McQuarters braids.

I love this city.

7:58pm - The Total Cheer Academy just performed during the timeout. The act was comprised of roughly twenty 90-pound H.S. freshmen girls launching each other into the air to techno music, all twenty of them were wearing the same terrified “I hope I don’t crack my skull in front of 20,000 people” look. Say what you want about the United Center, they keep you entertained.


8:00pm - Note to self: Ben Gordon IS Vinnie Johnson


8:03pm - Watching Big Ben shoot free throws is like witnessing the painfully shy kid in junior high deliver a speech to the class. He’s uncomfortable, we’re uncomfortable for him, all concerned parties just want to get through it as painlessly as possible. (Big Ben misses the front end by a mile. Ugly Shot. Never even hints at flexing his knees at any point. Second shot is the same, but Wallace judges the carom correctly and gathers the ball much to the delight of the crowd. He feeds the ball inside to Loul who is promptly fouled and sent back to the line. At this point, Skiles subs out Big Ben and the crowd lights back up, almost as if saying, “We need you to know we love you and Jay Mariotti is a miserable human being who doesn’t speak for any of us.”)

8:04pm - Brendan Haywood and Michael Sweetney just checked in and are guarding each other. According to the program, that’s 533 pounds of man in the post. I’m guessing it’s closer to 600. It’s like watching the Nature Channel at this point.

8:07pm - Big Moment. Scottie Pippen just arrived at his seat right under the basket next to the Bulls bench. My Dad informs me that he sits there for all the home games and usually arrives halfway through the 2nd quarter like this. The crows is abuzz. What a Pimp.

The Superfans in front of us spot him, but more importantly, they spot his arm candy. She’s a stunning woman with amazing, ahem, eyes. She’s the perfect combination of Eva Longoria and Eva Mendes. She’s the Uber-Eva. Anyway, they yell LOUDLY “Nice Pull Pippen!” and “You Motorboat Scottie?”

Scottie glances over and chuckles reluctantly. Uber-Eva is either oblivious or silently seething. My Dad informs me that she is, in fact, his wife.

Once again, I love this city.

8:13pm - Nocioni slices through the lane for two of his game-high 15 points. Bulls up 36-26 with 8:54 left in the half. Now that I think of it, I think Noc is making the leap too.


8:19pm - Ty Thomas hits a nasty jump hook in the lane to put the Bulls up 16. This could get out of hand very quickly.

8:27pm - Haywood just annihilated Tyrus. Dunking it ALL OVER HIM and drawing the foul in the process. The crowd makes a collective gasp of disbelief. Haywood snarls and stalks back to the line while teammates surround him shouting and smacking him on the back of the head. All the Bulls are looking at the floor. Now, THAT was harrowing... Even Scottie is noticeably upset.



8:30pm - One of the Superfans (on his fifth beer by now) waits for a lull and yells at Antwan Jamison who is currently standing ten feet away waiting to inbounds the ball,

“Hey Jamison! You’re losing by 22!”

Jamison is noticeably unamused.

8:36pm - Halftime. 62-44 Bulls.

8:52pm - We’re back from halftime which consisted of three BMX riders going off ramps. Good times.

Noc gets the ball in the early going, drives to the hoop and is clobbered by Jamison who turns to the ref and makes a forlorn “Who me?” face. At this point, Dad yells so Twan can hear him, “Oh No! Not YOU Jamison! Of Course You Fouled Him! T Him Up!”. The Superfans bristle with delight and similar sentiments while our entire section begins humming with activity. Dad collects himself by (under his breath) reiterating the words “ridiculous” and “unbelievable”. Then he leans over for some confirmation:

“He went to UNC, right?”

I reply back in the affirmative and he gives me the “Damn Straight” look.

My Dad is the man.

9:01pm - Ben Gordon just took LITERALLY FIVE STEPS before finishing a fast break layup. I’m convinced traveling is off the books.

9:06pm - The Superfans (on their seventh beers by now) are confused about just exactly who is on the court right now for the Wizards:

“Hey Lang! WHO ARE YOU?”
“Is this the JV Squad?”
“Who’s got a program?”
“We need some back story here!”

To their defense, I was just as lost as they were. I mean, I follow the NBA and I was grasping for straws when my Dad asked me who was playing. In no particular order: Donell Taylor, James Lang, Andray Blatche, Antonio Daniels and Jarvis Hayes. If it’s not out of hand already, it shortly will be.

9:10pm - Tyrus Thomas is going to be an solid player in the NBA, especially if Greg Oden falls in our lap next summer (Thank you Isiah). Oden and Big Ben can play the “defensive stalwarts” role and hover around the basket establishing a presence while Ty is able to move around a little more using his incredible athleticism to make plays. I see him as a poor man’s Chris Bosh once his game is a little more polished. (Thomas finished the game with 9 points, 10 boards and a block in 27 minutes of action)

9:16pm - Bulls up 29 and just came out of a timeout pressing. I love Scott Skiles.

9:19pm - Sefolosha just faked a shot, drew two defenders and threaded the needle inside to Loul for two. It forced my Dad and I, in lieu of cheering, to turn to one other and make the same astonished look. We spent the next thirty seconds shaking our heads and saying WOW over and over again. My buddy Bauer and I coined the phrase “Thabo-lous” and I think it’s completely appropriate right there.

9:25pm - The 4th quarter begins in garbage time.

9:27pm - Roger Mason, Jr. Just checked in. Go Hoos. My Dad informs me that he’s giving up beer for the night. Both these events mean the game is ostensibly over.

9:39pm - An amazing sequence just happened. The Bulls just ran through 4 shot clocks on offense, working it down, missing the shot, getting the rebound, again and again... By the fourth time, the crowd simultaneously lept to their feet and started going nuts. Out of exhaustion the Wizards commited a lazy foul and sent Sefolosha to the line. This is fun.

9:40pm - When the Bulls score at least 100 points and win, every ticketholder in entitled to a free Big Mac. The game is in the bag, but I notice we’ve been stuck on 98 for about three minutes of game time. The crowd is restless. Sweetney then gets fouled, hits the front and... HITS THE SECOND!!! The crowd is going nuts. This has been going on since the Jordan days and never gets old (Of course, when MJ was around we had to score 120).

9:44pm - Note to Self: Ben Gordon IS Earl “The Goat” Manigault.

9:46pm - The “Kiss Cam” up on the Jumbotron just had a 75 year old man and an attractive blond 30-something go in for "the real thing”. The Superfans are loving it, “Way to outkick your coverage Old Man!”. My Dad is buckled over with laughter because he recognizes him as one of his good friend’s business associates. He tells me that this guy has never been married but always has a hot number on his arm. Him and Scottie are neck-and-neck for “Pimp of the Night” in my book.

9:51pm - Tyrus just jumped out of the gym and throws down a thunderous dunk with less than thirty seconds to play. Final Score: Bulls 112 - Wizards 94. Mahalo.











Part Two: The Bears Game is coming Wednesday.

Fantasy World

Stud.
Risk/Reward.
Five-tool player.
Handcuff pick.
Sleeper.
Bust.

If you have ever participated in fantasy sports with even a passing interest, chances are you've heard some of the above terms (perhaps even all of them). This language of the egregiously over-informed sounds, in many ways, as oddly appealing as a Fergie single. It's privately embarrassing to listen to London Bridge on your I-Pod on a crowded bus, just as it is acknowledging that you keep a fantasy mag and highlighter in your bag for the purposes of "scouting" players leading up to a draft.

If you do this, then you belong to the genus of dork known as "fantasydork" which belongs to the "sportsgeek" family. Your standard fantasydork says things like, "Pitchers and catchers is my favorite time of year" and "Is Ron Mexico still on the board?". Fantasydorks usually dwell in dark rooms, smelling of stale B.O. with scattered empty beer cans mixed in with mountains of printed-out stats. They will shuffle through those stats before they go to bed each night, commit a new trend to memory and vanish into a dreamland with little more than a notion of abstract greatness. This fantasydork spent Thanksgiving laughing with aunts, hugging grandparents, chasing nephews and eventually finding his way into the den with the father and the uncles. Football was on. Good beers were drunk. Fantasy implications were discussed. Life, as it happens, churned on.

That's how the existence of a fantasydork builds momentum, each season brings new conversations, new questions to ponder. Now, it should be known, that fantasydork's second cousins "problemgambler" and (the often self appointed) "fantasyguru" bare only casual resemblances. Problemgambler is a hopeless condition rooted in self sabotage. Covering spreads and predicting the upset are what keeps this species upright (but never for long, sadly). Fantasyguru is a rare syndrome by which the veil of fantasy has impaired the stabilizing ability to reason and rationalize. Under it's spell, the so-called fantasyguru will begin spouting non-sensical third person statements like, "Grant understands his superiority and welcomes the responsibility" or "Grant likes to take dumps bigger than your entire team’s output this week". These effects, however, can usually reversed with a healthy dose of humble pie.*

As an entrenched fantasydork, I've played just about every sport at least once:

NBA- As far as I'm concerned, this is the crown jewel of fantasy sports. Perhaps because MY WHOLE LIFE between the years of 1991 and 1998 was dedicated to hoops, however I think there's something else at work here. I love the fluid nature of the NBA, the way an extra ten minutes of playing time a night can transform the confidence and efficiency with which a player approaches the game. Let's put it this way, you're watching a seemingly meaningless game between the Jazz and Hornets last year. You notice that Deron Williams is being constantly compared with Chris Paul who is a lock for rookie of the year, even though the Jazz passed on him for Williams. You watch a hungry guy like Williams through college and into The League and he's struggling, but finishing the year strong with nothing but time in the off season to watch people love on Chris Paul while he represents USA in Japan. Flash forward to this year, Williams kicked up the conditioning, tightened up his game and is now taking over games for the 9-1 Jazz. He's averaging 10 more minutes a game, 8 more points a game and 6 more assists a game. And it unfolded very organically in front of everyone.

Now, if I wasn't a such a jackass taking the DeSagana Diop's and Channing Frye's of the world in the late rounds, I coulda had him.

MLB- This is strictly reserved for people who either A) regard baseball as their absolute forte or B) get a woody looking up OBP (On-base percentage) on baseballreference.com. As it turns out, fantasy baseball very closely mirrors being an actual baseball fan. Your team WILL slump from time to time and there is NOTHING you can do about it. Pitching can win it all for you although balance with your position players is crucial. HUGE trades happen all the time. Fantasy baseball has become, for me, an invaluable way to keep tabs on players in both leagues in what sometimes feels like a never-ending season. I like knowing what journeyman and utility players are all about. I also like mapping the course of a superstars career because you never know when the Cubs are going to offer him 136 million over 8 years. That's the thing about fantasydork's who play baseball every year - there are so many captivating plotlines, players, trends, possibilities, etc. that it can completely consume you, rendering your penis completely useless to women.

NFL- The clear favorite of America. The most inclusive statistically. The greatest potential for drama (since the games only happen two days a week). This is like the training wheels for an aspiring fantasydork because there are no categories to obsess over. Just pick players that rack up yardage and get in the endzone. I also find the universal appeal of fantasy football it's greatest strength. Have you gone out to a house party with a girlfriend that you had absolutely no interest in attending? You're not a big hit with her friends, but you love her, so you sack it up and pretend like you couldn't be happier to mingle with 50 drama majors for three hours. If you're anything like me, you bring a pack of cigarettes, smile your way to the porch where the keg resides and find another guy with the frantic "why am I here" eyes... you smoke and drink and talk football with this individual until your girlfriend tells you it's time to go. That's why fantasy football will never subside.

NHL- I'm currently in my second year of fantasy hockey and I still have no idea what is going on. I figured that since I didn't watch hockey but had some interest in it, that this would be the logical step. The problem is even with the new rule changes, I still don't watch the sport (possibly because I don't get OLN) but mostly because the Blackhawks are a joke. What I don’t fully grasp is that you GET points for penalty minutes, there is a seemingly arbitrary plus/minus stat and goalkeeping comprises 50% of your score. So if I had the foresight to draft Giguere and Brodeur in the first two rounds, I'd be doing a lot better than my current 6th place standing. Thanks Steveo, you're fucking up my entire universe.

This leads me to the league I just joined (thanks to Olivia) and the real impetus to this blog post. I think I may have found the rival to the NFL as far as universality goes. Ladies and Gentlemen, this Fantasy Celebrity League. Everyone knows about celebrities because we all live in a celebrity obsessed culture. Scoring occurs daily based on a calibrated "buzz index" and turnover is great because each season lasts just under a month. Although I’m a rookie compared with Olivia and Meg, I'm riding my first two picks Brit and K-Fed (the Larry Johnson/LaDainian Tomlinson combo platter) to the promised land. Never have I watched The Soup so closely and I'm not at all ashamed to admit this. If you have any interest, lemme know. A new season starts in December. Mahalo.





* To Grant's credit, he's having a great football season. He earned the right to talk some shit. But these days, he comes off like the spastic kid with a debilitating fear of girls who tries to hard to be liked at parties. Sometimes, you just gotta grab a beer and relax. The jackass who lets everyone know they have been on the beerpong table for two hours never get anywhere...

Writer's Block

I haven't been writing as much as I used to because I don't really have anything to say anymore and that bothers me. There was once a time when I'd be sitting in the back row of a 500 person lecture writing letters to good friends about the future, about the limitless possibilities and where they might lead us. I suppose the reason I'm so idle now in my thinking isn't the approach, but the fact that I'm freshly arrived at what I once day dreamed about... and the results are mixed.

I think the most difficult thing about life sometimes is not having remarkable things to share. By remarkable, I don't necessarily mean noteworthy or profound, but rather something consistent, something you can stake a claim to as an honest reflection of how you actually feel. For me, for these days, there tends to be an increasing emergence of subtle posturing, all the while just sitting back and letting the world trickle in at a convenient pace. For instance, I might stay in on a Saturday night, switch my phone to off and try to watch all three of my Netflix movies (usually falling asleep halfway through the last one). Or I might spend an hour walking around a secondhand store, listening to Coltrane on the headphones, wondering what kind of sandwich I'm going to make when I get home. I might even put a Rolling Rock or two in my jacket pockets, go to the park, sit under the first tree I get to and scribble curious little drawings in one of the dozen notebooks I keep amassing but never finishing. These are all nice little distractions during what, these days, amounts to an underwhelmingly normal life. I feel like I do these things because I enjoy them, but who knows, maybe I do them because I want other people to associate these things with me. With a void of substantive purpose, perhaps we spend our time subconsciously conjuring up a role we would be well suited to play to give ourselves (and others) something to talk about. Like all these little routines fuel us to tilt closer to that personal light we seek, quietly trying to tell the world just who we are and what we stand for.

Some people keep score at Cubs games to make everyone seated around them aware that they are true fans, students of the game. Others stand outside Starbucks with clipboards asking perfect strangers if they want to be part of the solution to display their honest dedication to *pick a cause*. Then there are those that are so tortured for attention and recognition that they begin a blog to write sentence fragments about how confusing twentysomething life can be (I know, I know, it's true). Perhaps these things that fill time in our lives, whether it's a side job or a co-ed sports league or a mild drug habit or a loving pet give us some momentum. They illustrate our ability to get out of bed on a rainy Monday and not curse whatever deficiency exists in our daily lives. Hell, maybe that very thing we hang our hats on is our primary deficiency and, unbeknownst to us, there is a gaggle of our good friends somewhere behind closed doors wringing their hands and wondering what's to be done about it.

I guess what my original thought on this matter was: What does the writers block mean? Does the lack of a persistent series of remarkable mini-miracles (like the recognition of watching seagulls strafing against the wind at sunset) mean anything? Am I asking too many pointless questions? Is the grass greener as far as memories go? Are we helpless to attain that exact thing we seek if we can't fully verbalize what it is? Do we pick up rocks on the side of the road only to one day trade them in for a rock collecting hobby because that's who we are, or does the twinkle of the amethyst distract us? It's all too much sometimes. I guess I should just leave it at that.

Dear Cardinals Fan

I jumped off the Clark bus at 10:45 the other night just outside Wrigley. I still had two stops to go, but I wanted soak up some memories on this night. The last night of baseball for the year...

You'll have to forgive me, but this whole thing feels like Deja Vu. A year ago to the day I flew into Chicago for a relaxing homecoming (my first visit back since I moved to San Francisco), a G Love concert at the Vic, a Bears game, a Halloween party. The dear friends I have greeting me with a beer toss and hugs that felt long overdue. Everything is right in the world of Donny. Except for the very real fact that the White Sox just blazed a historic run through the playoffs for their first World Series since 1917. To be honest, I didn't really care THAT MUCH. I mean, I've got good friends, good baseball men, who are Southside supporters so I was happy for those guys. I'm conditioned to dislike everything White Sox, but before they won it all, I had no real opinion. I didn't like them. I didn't hate them. I nothing-ed them.

So I land at Midway on October 27, 2005 with my Cubs hat on and my I-Pod ready with the Chicago playlist. I jump on the "L", send text messages to the appropriate parties and let "Sweet Home, Chicago" wash over me. As we approach downtown it occurs to me... There are seven Sox hats in this traincar alone and only one Cubs hat, which is on my head. Completely understandable. They just won it all, I mean, I know what's happening all over the Southside... "Kids, you're staying at your grandparents house tonight. Honey, put a nice dress on, the Sox just swept the Astros, we're getting drive-thru and doing it twice!" That's one thing, but these people on the train who were giving me smug looks were doing so beneath brand spanking new lids. Brims still rigid, nary a speck of wear and tear. I smiled to myself, tucked this little observation into the fold in my brain labeled "amusing" and rode on. Little did I know, this was a harbinger of things to come.

Flash forward one year. I'm sitting around with the same good friends, watching the Cards in a deciding game, wondering out loud if I should go with the Chris Farley coconuts-and-hula skirt Superfan or the more traditional George Wendt Mug-and-Stache Superfan for Halloween. At this point, White Sox fans are pretty much the most miserable people in the world with only a few notable and distinguished exceptions. Sports-talk radio callers have, as a population, become 30 IQ points dimmer in the past year. What ever happened to the Five-Year Grace period? They just won the World Series, and yet, as if possessed, Sox fans froth at the mouth with venom about their players. They, overnight, have become a force on the Chicago scene and it stinks of fearweatherism. Also, I don't understand how anyone can pull for A.J. Pierzynski, I'm sorry, I just can't.

Cardinals Fan, I fear our relationship is doomed to the same fate. Whenever we play and the place is packed with both fan bases, it's always fun. I circle that series on my calendar. It's a lasting institution on the baseball landscape, this rivalry, and I've always thought that mutual ground made things right. An old lady, dripping red from head to toe, keeping score at Wrigley during her annual pilgrimage to Chicago. A father, wearing Sandberg, and a son, wearing Lee, skipping work and school to see Opening Day. The learned fanaticism and devotion creating something exquisitely engaging. That is, until you went and won it all with your worst team in years. I've managed to befriend a Cardinals fan or two in my travels and I know they're out there... But I have the feeling this is going to get ugly soon. I mean, I get "Cubs Suck". That's standard fare, hell, even though they just won, Cardinals Suck. What lies ahead though will be a gradual change from healthy smacktalk to insufferable posturing. Impromptu and impossibly lame renditions of "We are the Champions" out at bars. A further proliferation of played-out stereotypes and tired anti-Cubs websites (Seriously, didn't we grow out of those weak "you're gay" jokes in grade school? Guess not.) will become more and more in vouge. I can't even fathom how the national media will run with this either. I'm just saying there has never been a time I can remember that being a Cubs fan is such a chore because of the other man's obsession with this thing called a curse. What a shitshow.

Ok, time for Da Bears.

Chicago Sports Moments

There are rarified moments in life that seem surreal, especially as they are happening. They defy that which was previous known and expected and open up a whole new avenue of perspective. Like being knocked down by a perfect wave rolling into land, you experience it as a removed witness from your own bursting sensations. You pause, as if to acknowledge that this is an instant classic, because you feel something inside of you change. Something that will always be with you. And it's something different for everybody.

You could say a first kiss could have some of these qualities, but much of that is confused by expectancy and the inherent awkwardness of a 15 year old. Perhaps it's something closer to what some call a "religious experience" although I am largely suspect as to what exact ingredients comprise that sometimes hard-to-swallow philosophical stew. From personal experience, I've found Nature to provide some of the most fulfilling moments of personal reflection and peace. Standing on the summit of the Haleakala crater in Hawaii at 5am with my folks, ten thousand feet up there, above the clouds, watching the sunrise and the moon set simultaneously. Or canoeing away from Admiralty Island in Alaska on silver and black water in the middle of the night, the moon stunningly brilliant above.

In some ways I think we thrive on these private revelations. We construct our own meanings for them and understand them differently, but what remains is a common ground, a defining part of an elemental character. We struggle with the same need to understand, so really our ability see the other man's side amounts to seeing his or her humanity between the lines. The galvanizing impact of a series of events that leads to moments of collective clarity.

Ok, enough of that.

Chicago Sports Fan Moment Number 1



Chicago Bulls Player Introductions

I remember the Chicago Stadium in the early 90's. It was the loudest, wildest, most exhilarating place in the world as far as a 11 year old boy could tell you. A vastly important relic that hosted events that effected a civilization of much more than just basketball fans. It was where Michael Jordan played basketball. Period.

I recall it smelling like a gym locker room in there. It had graffiti crawling up the sides of it and everything looked dirty except the glossy golden court. The United Center is a finely maintained facility and (given the right company) a raucous good time, but it doesn’t quite measure up to The Stadium for me. They both, however, share that moment of deafening Zen. Turn up the volume and enjoy the goosebumps...

Sports Fan Moment Number 2

Hearing the Bears fight song while you shuffle
out of Soldier Field after a big win

Never fails. Walking out of there like a pack of orange and blue popsicles, all layered up, reliving big plays, laughing and prognosticating. Then you hear the horns start somewhere in the distance, a couple of old guys huddled around their van, belting it out of their trumpets like they've been doing for 30 years. Chanting crowds move past them toward Michigan Avenue, puffs of warm breath everywhere. But the drunks usually linger, singing, dancing, carrying on. The most fun you can have outside on a 5 degree afternoon in Chicago.

Bear Down, Chicago Bears.
Make every play clear the way to victory!
Bear Down, Chicago Bears.
Put up a fight with a might so fearlessly!

We'll never forget the way you thrilled the nation,
With your T formation.

Bear Down, Chicago Bears.
And let them know why you're wearing the crown.

You're the pride and joy,
of all Illinois.

Chicago Bears, Bear Down!

Chicago Sports Fan Moment Number 3

This is Addison, Doors Open on the Left at Addison

There is nothing like rolling up to your first game of the season, shoulder to shoulder in a crowded traincar, twenty minutes before the first pitch. Nothing.

Monday Night Football

At first I was somewhat reluctant to call Monday Night Football my new safe sanctuary away from the daily strife that occurs constantly around me, hovering about, just outside my very walls (as has been so thoroughly advertised in the "Is it Monday Night Yet?" commercials, billboards, radio promos, etc.) and I wanted to enjoy this weekly participatory social encounter as just another excellent (albeit transparent) excuse to get drunk on a weekday which lands before Thursday (which consequently, I might add, has once again attained the "Thursday Night, It's The New Friday Night" drinking status. Glad to see that coming back in vouge). I mean, I watch Monday Night every week because I am a football watcher by nature, but I'm not ready to jump head-first into the MNF sideshow that always seems to be accompanied by pointless fanfare. With the one exception, of course, being the Falcons-Saints game which I watched with the rest of the U.S. as we collectively clutched our sides with honest joy when the Superdome erupted after that first blocked punt/touchdown sequence. That was universally powerful stuff. But I tuned in early for the overhead shots, for the before-and-afters, for the reminders, for the ability to believe in a brighter tomorrow and for all that other built-in stuff that the NFL played up so brilliantly. The game itself was just an excuse to have New Orleans on display which was timely, needed and appreciated. That's one thing, that affects the coping mechanisms of a nation, that's a cause. But what happens when the game itself is the selling point, the reason to care. Then is all this artificially generated hype enough to fuel the fire? Does an Average Joe care about who sings the opening number or who's in the booth when the game is a yawner?

Week 2: Jacksonville 9, Pittsburgh 0

Which set the record for times Joe Theisman reminds the audience that good defensive football combined with sloppy execution on offense is also fun to watch. Which made me slightly homicidal, but I'm over it by now. For the most part.

Week 5: Denver 13, Baltimore 3

The frozen tundra of Investco Field, bad weather conditions, two great defenses, two aging vets who throw into double coverage, needless to say, you get the picture. I listened to the second half on Westwood One because I needed a little Marv Albert in my life and it was more enjoyable than had I actually watched the game. The only reason I kept listening was because there were fantasy implications involved..

(Which actually reminds me how the phrase "fantasy implications" has now become this ominous word we men use in increasingly odd situations. For instance, two couples are out at dinner and the women begin discussing Eva Longoria and her split with Tony Parker. Then they talk about how they don't really like her Desperate Housewives character anyway and then they both decide that the whole show has been going downhill since the second season and they like Grey's Anatomy better... On the other side of the table, after hearing the Tony Parker news, the men immediately grab bread rolls and start gnawing on them pensively because they both have him in their keeper leagues. He won't be in a contract year until 2009, he's going to be chasing around NBA groupie pussy, he's going to get fat, slow down, dog it on defense, start settling for jumpers and slowly morph into Gary Payton. Those damn fantasy implications haunt us around every corner...)

Week 4: Philadelphia 31, Green Bay 9

The only reason to watch the Packers anymore is to bet the Over/Under on Brett Favre interceptions and to watch his postgame comments which usually stammer out, "Well, we're just not that good anymore, are we? We aren't there anymore and I, for one, don't know how else to say it. Not. Very. Good. It's what the facts are and those are the facts of the matter." The whole time he's wearing that affable expression, salt and pepper beard, an aww shucks! sincerity which is slowly driving cheeseheads mad... What can I say? It is to smile.





But then, MNF Week 6 happens. And everything I thought I knew or cared to know about this cultural phenomenon got turned on its head. I turned off my cell phone a half hour before kickoff because I needed complete concentration. I would be like the monks on high, attaining a level of ferocious effort, my mind balancing like a candle flame, striving towards truth and understanding. By halftime, I was two pitchers of Miller into things and elbow deep in a plate of buffalo wings. Enlightenment, indeed! To be honest though, I was worried and anxious and terrified that this 5-week Bears lovefest was over when the Cardinals trotted into the locker room up 20-0 at the half. I never wanted to turn on my phone again. I knew the Bye week was going to feel like forever with this Prime Time embarrassment hanging over us. I knew my SuperFans halloween costume replete with 19-0 shades (19 on one lens, dash, 0 on the other lens) would seem even more tragic and played out. I walked around the bar with a sullen expression during halftime.

The one moment of levity came when a drunken guy I never met before raised his hand to me, palm forward and yelled, "Vasher baby! Yeah! That’s a good one!" I tilted my head slightly in confusion and then he motioned to my jersey and the 31 that was scrolled across it. Then, understanding the situation, I turned around so he could realize that I was in fact wearing a Rashaan Salaam jersey (circa 1996). He crinkled up his nose and recoiled, lifting up his right eyebrow ever-so-slightly as he did, finally breathing out swiftly. He reacted as if I offered to smell his farts for a set fee per fart, which would be arrived at later after some lengthy haggling. And that's exactly the look I go for.

It still makes me proud to wear this thing, one of the biggest busts in Bears history which was all the more troubling because he showed so much promise with that 1,000 yard rushing rookie season. And then the fumbling began, and then the leg injury came, and then during a rehab stint he picked up a drug problem and then he faded into oblivion. The thing that kills me is that he won a Heisman Trophy and demonstrated that he was built to play on Sunday with the big boys. He had the tools to be the next Neal Anderson, but the drugs proved too tough to beat, but I'm not talking about painkillers or cocaine... No, he's a pothead. He's Ricky Williams Light. He should be in those drug awareness commericals instead of stoned teenagers in a drive-thru running over little girls on bikes. Rashaan bounced around in the NFL for a few years, tried the XFL and retired. Bottomline, I wear this jersey because I want that reaction from people. I want them to look and me and shake their heads and say, "Why?"

And I'll make a grand turn to them, look them square in the eyes, pause for effect, and say, "Why, indeed. Why...indeed."

Needless to say, we all saw what happened in the second half. How do I know that? Because it was on Monday Night Football, bitches. And that's the point of this whole thing. The games might be tough to watch or oddly marketed, but everyone watches them. It's like a cultural yardstick and I feel good that the Bears did what they did. They dispelled their mythic myth, displayed their mortality and made away into the dry Arizona heat with a comeback I'll never forget. I'm glad I understand once again. So MNF, like George Castanza, "I'M BACK BABY!"

I turned on my cellphone before I went to bed and these beauties rolled in as an eloquent timeline of the game. Enjoy...

Maloney - "The superbears going to let bearlaucher beardown so hard I'm going to have a bear-gasam"
Wags - "I love that Leinart is miked. This could make for great comedy."
Uncle Jeff - "Matt da bear killer?"
Hodnett - "M. Lienart... Golden Boy"
Kras - "WTF is going on with the bears?"
Hodnett - "Sexy Rexy"
Uncle Jeff - "Holy Shit"
Kate - "This game sucks"
TK - "What’s this ole bullshit?"
Beckwith - "I’m ready for some football. Is your team?"
Wags - "If I die tonite I will stand before my lord a humbled man."
Bauer - "Can you believe that SHIT?!?"
Mariano - "Holy Shit"
Stemmler - "Clean your drawers home boy, you shit yourself tonight"