Mama said there’d be days like this . . .

All he had to do was win it all.

Great expectations do not come with refunds. You deliver or you die trying. You show the world you’re worth all that hype, or you wilt under the bright lights and become just another big talent that couldn’t handle the big moment.

Kevin Durant shined.

He didn’t just help the Warriors reclaim their championship belt. He led them to it; averaging more than thirty five points per game and serving notice to the King that his throne ain’t a forever deal. And maybe Durant isn’t there yet, because LBJ showed us that he’s still got plenty of tread left on his size 15’s. But here’s the thing. After the last week and change, Durant has officially entered the conversation.

So here’s to the man whose game I happen to be in deep love with. The man whose game is a prototypical wonder in an age of fast and furious athletic dynamism. The man whose game is best enjoyed (by yours truly) with the sound on the flat screen chilled and Curtis Mayfield served up piping hot. The man who took his surgical skills to those great expectations and delivered up the kind of thrill only the great ones get to own in perpetuity.

Here’s the Dear Kevin letter I penned last July. It was right after he signed on with the Dubs, who were fresh off a Finals meltdown that had tainted a regular season for the ages. A special thank you to the lovely Anna Beguins for coming up with the idea to re-post this.

My man, you went and did it this time.

You threw down a seismic dunk on the Association by joining a club that won 73 games last year and came within a Superman’s cape performance by Lebron of ‘Best Ever’ status. You’re not much for nuance at this stage of your career, and I gotta admit . . . I dig it.

Now, all you have to do is win it all. As Stephen Spielberg would tell you, you gotta kill the whole shark because the audience expects nothing less. And so while this new Death Lineup you have rounded out could make a legit run at 70 wins if all goes according to plan, it’s gonna come down to the 16 games you have to win in May and June. Your new mates won 15 spring games this year and were five points short of winning a second straight title when the clock struck midnight on their magical season. It might as well have been a hundred points because the end result still feels empty.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled for you. Really and truly and forever. I have been in deep love with your skills ever since you were a hotshot kid making Texas Longhorn basketball something worth watching. I remember the first time I watched you play, thinking that you possessed the silky smooth capture of a Jamaal Wilkes jump shot with the cool hand moves of George Gervin at go time. You had next in a league built on Rushmore legends, and I knew you had the kind of special to carve a spot of your own.

It began with that short stint in Seattle- which was a fitting destination for your supersonic talents- before making Oklahoma City your home. For nine years, you did the place proud, on and off the court. You went and took a football enclave and turned spring football into a fallback option. When you made the finals against Miami, it was a bittersweet proposition for yours truly. I would’ve been thrilled with a tie. But that’s not how it works in sports.

As you well know, it’s all about winning the last game of the season. No matter how great you are, no matter how transcendent a player you might be, people demand that 35 wins a ring. In OKC for sure, in Golden State? Most definitely.

Anything less than a ring will be considered an epic fail. So lemme be the first to recognize that you did not take the ‘easy’ route as your critics claim. These people have no idea how to set a pick and roll, much less master it. They never made a defensive stop when they needed to, or sank a free throw with the season on the line or knocked down a three as the clock went blank. There is no such thing as ‘easy’ in professional sports. As Pat Riley once opined, there’s winning and there’s misery. He knows of what he speaks from his time in Los Angeles and Miami. Building a Hall of Fame lineup guarantees you nothing, other than the vitriol of every fan base that ain’t yours.

The haters are pulling out archival proof that you’re a phony because your decision doesn’t jibe with their opinions. I guess you were supposed to base a life changing decision on the Twitter feed. Rest assured, many of these same critics have taken turns trashing and adoring Lebron for more than a decade. So there’s that.

As for the revisionist history being thrown around, let’s review. The critics contend that back in the day, star players were anchored to their teams like a Norman Rockwell painting. Which is interesting, seeing as how Maravich, Wilt, Kareem, Moses Malone and Charles Barkley all changed uniforms in their primes. That last fella has been awfully noisy about your move, but he changed zip codes a couple times in search of a ring. Funny how that works.

I wish the haters would stop throwing the halcyon days of Magic, Bird and Jordan in your face when they get on their soapboxes. Such talk fails to acknowledge the chasm that exists between their past and your present. It asks us to consider their motives retroactively, because that’s the only way their argument can work. Thanks but no thanks. I’ll stick to understanding the league and its players inside the times we’re living in.

Listen, I daydreamed about you in a Miami Heat uniform. And I agreed with my son when he said Boston was a pretty solid idea. Not to mention, I was intrigued about your chances in OKC next year with a team that had added Oladipo and possessed a belief that they could take the Warriors out next time around.

But see, here’s the thing. Those were my wishes and opinions. Not yours. And I think the critics are forgetting how all this free agency business works. But I won’t, promise. I’ll be rooting for big things from you in your new Bay area digs. And if you win it all, I’m gonna be pretty damned happy about it. I rooted like hell for Cleveland this June, but as a ball fan, I’m allowed to change things up. And so are you.

All that has to matter, all that should matter is what you feel in your heart. And not for nothing, but if Mom is good with it, you’re doing just fine. Your career to this point has been a basketball life well lived. All that’s left for you to do is write the ending. So don’t worry about the critics and the clowns. You just keep doing what you’ve been doing all along.

Finish strong.

 

It’s Not Over Until James Brown Says So

What a difference a year makes.

This time last June, I was rooting my ass off for the Cavaliers to bring a long deserved title back to the city of Cleveland. I blame it on the Believeland phenomenon because I really didn’t give a piping hot pizza bagel about the Cavaliers but for the snake-bitten history of the franchise and its town. Granted, the great Lenny Wilkens not only played for the team, he later coached them. And yes, Lebron’s history with his home town team is now the stuff of legend. But for reals, this organization has given the NBA more cool names than titles. A top five cool names list? On it!

The Cool 5 of Cavaliers Lore 

World B. Free

John “Hot Rod” Williams

Campy Russell

Bingo Smith

Zydrunas Ilgauskas

This time around, I’m more chill. And while I can’t bring myself to pull for the Warriors (It would be like rooting for Brad Pitt to get laid, really), I most certainly can be alright with them winning it all. Because it means Kevin Durant will find himself at the top of the basketball world, and . . depending on how this series goes down, perhaps the new King of his sport. Because if he plays the rest of this series the way he played tonight, who could argue he hasn’t supplanted Lebron as the game’s top player? I wouldn’t.

My allegiance to the Heat and Lakers prevents me from rooting for other teams unless they are prohibitive underdogs, which kinda cancels me out of this series altogether seeing as how these clubs were chalk from the get. I’m not hating on the “threematch” because I happen to dig the drama of a rock opera rivalry with the sexy contrasts. It’s hot and it’s cool. Both! And it’s why I love this game.

Hey, I’ve been in love with the Association ever since I went to see a hot shot young gun by the name of Larry Bird play the Knicks like a rec team at Madison Square Garden. I got to see Bird, McHale and Dennis Johnson, Bernard King and Sugar Ray Richardson that night. And then things got real. Over the years I took in Kareem and Magic and my all time biggest man crush . . Pat Riley, coaching them up. I saw Artis Gilmore, Sydney Moncrief, George Gervin, Adrian Dantley, Dominique Wilkins, Julius Erving and Moses Malone and Elvin Hayes. Once I got wheels, I trekked down I-95 to Brendan Byrne Arena off Exit 16W where the joint was much less romantic but the patrons were every bit as involved. I took road trips to Philly where my friend George would take me to dinner and a Sixers game at the old Spectrum. A few years later, I was involved with a young lady who was dating a member of the Sixers (The dude was married, but I never could get a name out of her). Lemme tell you, those tickets were like Studio 54 to a young man who loved the game the way I did.

Admittedly, I’m a lapsed fan as far as live proceedings are concerned. I went to one lousy game this year, and watched my Heat get their 13 game winning streak snapped by the Sixers. I’m guessing that was the Karma Police paying me a visit. It’s okay, I deserved it (Even if Pat Riley didn’t.)

As for the Dubs and Cavs, I’m picking Kevin Durant and leaving it right there. He played like the best player in the universe tonight, and I’m loving the idea that the Cavaliers have no blessed idea how to stop him unless they plan on dropping a MOAB on Oracle Arena. Durant was every bit of his bad self, with a karate kick finish. And now he’s played in six Finals games (five with OKC in 2011) and is averaging just a split of a tic under his jersey number 35. He’s that good, and better. And . . and . . and . . if that wasn’t plenty ’nuff, he stared down Rihanna after she yelled ‘Brick!” while he was shooting a free throw. My. Man.

I would love to see KD in a closeout game. And I would love to see who guards him in the most pivotal moments of that game. And I would love it (very much) if Lebron was the guy, because hey, to be the King . . you gots to beat him. And I would really, really love it if last year’s 73 wins needed 35 in order to find redemption. And if that happens, I just might hoop and holler the way I did for Cleveland last June.

I’m very okay with that.

Lost and found playbooks, Brett Favre-less adventures and Elvis watching.

It’s nice to see a story that didn’t end in “worst case scenario” for a sports town that has seen its fair share.

You have to think it was a good sign for the Falcons when Kyle Shanahan’s backpack was returned to him forty five minutes after he lost it, with the contents undisturbed. All he had in that backpack were some personal effects, game tickets and . . oh yeah . . . the Falcons Super Bowl playbook. And maybe it’s a good sign that Bill Belichick didn’t get to play like Mr Potter to Kyle Shanahan’s George Bailey. And so maybe there are signs, and good ones, to be had for a sports town that is seeking sports title number two, that their quarterback’s number happens to be two.

Unlike most of the football public, I don’t hate the Patriots, I just happen to be rooting for the Falcons in this one. And not because of the “Rise Up” theme or because their uniforms are way cool, or even because Julio Jones is my newest gridiron crush. Nope, I’m with ’em because I want to see Georgia’s capital city win a day. As it stands, the Braves are the only team to have brought a championship to Atlanta.

Lots of peeps don’t remember the old Atlanta Flames hockey team, which is perfectly understandable seeing as how they played mostly forgettable hockey for the eight years they called Atlanta home. But they did sport some of the coolest sweaters in the business and the hell’s fire “A” just added to the exotic nature of a Southern based ice hockey team.

The Hawks will always be Dominique Wilkins’ team as far as I’m concerned. The “Human Highlight Film” was disco on the hardwood in the ’80’s. I had never been to space until I saw him play at the old Spectrum. It didn’t seem possible that a human being could jump that high without rocket boosters. The dude could have dunked a basketball from the top of the key with a full glass of water atop his head and not lost a drop of it. He was a controlled fire in high tops. His teams were solid if unspectacular; perennial contenders who were one star shy of serious title contention.

It seemed as if the Braves owned the deed to the National League for most of the ’90’s. They were stapled to October like Michael Myers, and their starting rotation serves as a Hall of Fame quiz. It was as impressive a run as the modern era has seen, and it was only surpassed by the team that cost them a couple more championships- the New York Yankees.

The Falcons have had their moments over the last fifty one years but many fans tend to remember them as the team that traded Brett Favre before he was Brett Favre. The Steve Bartkowski days provided a brief remedy for all the losing that preceded it, but the Dallas Cowboys always stood in the way of bigger play dates. The Jerry Glanville Edition- with Neon Deion and “Bad Moon” Rison and the head coach leaving a ticket for Elvis at Will Call- was about as much fun as a team could be without actually winning a title. And the ’99 squad surprised everyone by making it to the Super Bowl. Well, everyone except John Elway.

So now the Falcons are back again. Ready to try this whole thing on for size again. With a different Sheriff and a different posse and the kind of firepower that would’ve made Glanville blush. And they’ve got a ring leader who has never gotten the due he deserves in Matt Ryan. All that blather about his struggles in the postseason is a convenient way of dismissing his big numbers in the 2013 postseason, when his club was a play away from making it to the Super Bowl.

And not a blessed stitch of all that sports history matters right now. Because the Falcons have their game plan, safe and sound; and it doesn’t read of Patriotism in the least bit. And they have a bunch of fellas who probably wanted to see the Patriots here, because that’s how hungry prize fighters think. And they have a coach who ain’t just happy to be in the big game and a GM who worked this whole dream into being and an owner who actually gives a shit about his team and his town. Something tells me they don’t give a damn about signs, even if it is a pretty cool thing that they’ll be spending their fifty first year of existence playing in Super Bowl 51.

I’d like to think Brett Favre will be watching the game with Elvis.

 

 

 

 

Dear Kevin

My man, you went and did it this time.

You threw down a seismic dunk on the Association by joining a club that won 73 games last year and came within a Superman’s cape performance by Lebron of ‘Best Ever’ status. You’re not much for nuance at this stage of your career, and I gotta admit . . . I dig it.

Now, all you have to do is win it all. As Stephen Spielberg would tell you, you gotta kill the whole shark because the audience expects nothing less. And so while this new Death Lineup you have rounded out could make a legit run at 70 wins if all goes according to plan, it’s gonna come down to the 16 games you have to win in May and June. Your new mates won 15 spring games this year and were five points short of winning a second straight title when the clock struck midnight on their magical season. It might as well have been a hundred points because the end result still feels empty.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled for you. Really and truly and forever. I have been in deep love with your skills ever since you were a hotshot kid making Texas Longhorn basketball something worth watching. I remember the first time I watched you play, thinking that you possessed the silky smooth capture of a Jamaal Wilkes jump shot with the cool hand moves of George Gervin at go time. You had next in a league built on Rushmore legends, and I knew you had the kind of special to carve a spot of your own.

It began with that short stint in Seattle- which was a fitting destination for your supersonic talents- before making Oklahoma City your home. For nine years, you did the place proud, on and off the court. You went and took a football enclave and turned spring football into a fallback option. When you made the finals against Miami, it was a bittersweet proposition for yours truly. I would’ve been thrilled with a tie. But that’s not how it works in sports.

As you well know, it’s all about winning the last game of the season. No matter how great you are, no matter how transcendent a player you might be, people demand that 35 wins a ring. In OKC for sure, in Golden State? Most definitely.

Anything less than a ring will be considered an epic fail. So lemme be the first to recognize that you did not take the ‘easy’ route as your critics claim. These people have no idea how to set a pick and roll, much less master it. They never made a defensive stop when they needed to, or sank a free throw with the season on the line or knocked down a three as the clock went blank. There is no such thing as ‘easy’ in professional sports. As Pat Riley once opined, there’s winning and there’s misery. He knows of what he speaks from his time in Los Angeles and Miami. Building a Hall of Fame lineup guarantees you nothing, other than the vitriol of every fan base that ain’t yours.

The haters are pulling out archival proof that you’re a phony because your decision doesn’t jibe with their opinions. I guess you were supposed to base a life changing decision on the Twitter feed. Rest assured, many of these same critics have taken turns trashing and adoring Lebron for more than a decade. So there’s that.

As for the revisionist history being thrown around, let’s review. The critics contend that back in the day, star players were anchored to their teams like a Norman Rockwell painting. Which is interesting, seeing as how Maravich, Wilt, Kareem, Moses Malone and Charles Barkley all changed uniforms in their primes. That last fella has been awfully noisy about your move, but he changed zip codes a couple times in search of a ring. Funny how that works.

I wish the haters would stop throwing the halcyon days of Magic, Bird and Jordan in your face when they get on their soapboxes. Such talk fails to acknowledge the chasm that exists between their past and your present. It asks us to consider their motives retroactively, because that’s the only way their argument can work. Thanks but no thanks. I’ll stick to understanding the league and its players inside the times we’re living in.

Listen, I daydreamed about you in a Miami Heat uniform. And I agreed with my son when he said Boston was a pretty solid idea. Not to mention, I was intrigued about your chances in OKC next year with a team that had added Oladipo and possessed a belief that they could take the Warriors out next time around.

But see, here’s the thing. Those were my wishes and opinions. Not yours. And I think the critics are forgetting how all this free agency business works. But I won’t, promise. I’ll be rooting for big things from you in your new Bay area digs. And if you win it all, I’m gonna be pretty damned happy about it. I rooted like hell for Cleveland this June, but as a ball fan, I’m allowed to change things up. And so are you.

All that has to matter, all that should matter is what you feel in your heart. And not for nothing, but if Mom is good with it, you’re doing just fine. Your career to this point has been a basketball life well lived. All that’s left for you to do is write the ending. So don’t worry about the critics and the clowns. You just keep doing what you’ve been doing all along.

Finish strong.

The Great Debate: MLB vs NBA

After Christy went all scorched earth on me in that futbol vs football debate post, I decided to come back for more with Mama Mick. Because I’m a glutton for punishment, when meted out by lovely opponents.

Mama is under the impression the MLB is the bomb diggity of American sports not named the NFL. It’s a quaint notion for sure, not to mention entirely wrong.

This stuff never gets old

The Chicago Blackhawks started doing business back in 1926, which happens to be the same year Pontiac and Route 66 were born. The Tampa Bay Lightning started doing business in 1992, which happens to be the same year Euro Disney and Mall of America were born.

Two weeks ago, those were the only facts I needed. I had little use for any professional hockey team coming out of a football state. Never mind that the Lightning actually won a Stanley Cup back in 2004 and never mind that they finished with the best record in the league this season. As far as I was concerned, the only peeps who were going to get away with rooting for the Bolts in these finals were the ones born in the Post-Clintonian Era.

I had my ‘Hawks winning this series in five games, easy. It took all of twenty minutes of Game 1 to change my mind. Because the Lightning had more game than Bob Barker, and it was apparent from the first drop of the puck. They ran a fast break offense . . . in hockey. They went six games deep- in spite of all the injuries- and they played the lights out of every faceoff, every period, every game. They didn’t shrink inside the moment, they grew up.

Which only makes this Chicago win that much sweeter. To beat a club that was every bit its equal for much of this series, and to close out the series at home for the first time since 1938? That’s what I’m talking ’bout.

Make no mistake, last night was Game 7 for the Blackhawks. Because if this series went back to Tampa tomorrow night, well . . . I love my team and I’m never, ever gonna count them out, but it would have been like letting Joe Frazier get one more round. Never a good idea.

So now the Blackhawks have three Stanleys in the past six years, and I’m not gonna bother myself with the semantics of all this dynasty chatter. Alls I know is that Chicago is the new Hockey Town (Take that Detroit!) and that my team knows how to close the toughest deals. The chances of Chitown getting back this way again are looking mighty friendly at the moment. They have two of the best players in the world, they have a goalie who will always carry a chip on his shoulder, they have youth, and they have a coach who is working up his Hall of Fame resume with each new summer party.

None of that matters once next season rolls around. Injuries, departures and clubs like the Tampa Bay Lightning are gonna have plenty to say about what happens next year. Which is why Chitown- as great a sports town as I’ve ever seen- is gonna stay chill all dog day summer long. Because they’ve got the best damn answer to any sports argument you can muster.

We win.

 

 

Since when is it a crime to play with your balls?

Call me silly, but the last time deflated balls were a big deal? Bruce Jenner was trading in his Olympic gold medal for estrogen treatments.

Hell if I can’t muster up the rage so many people are feeling over “Deflate-Gate”. I know, this isn’t the first time the Patriots have cheated the rules. And I know, over the last decade they have achieved a level of villainy right up there with the Yankees, Darth Vader and Cheesecake Factory serving sizes. They win with more regularity than Charlie Sheen’s little black book. They win with a coach whose reputation is shadier than the most ruthless Capo di tutti capi; with a quarterback whose life makes Brad Pitt’s look ordinary. And sometimes it seems as if they’re never going to stop winning, by whatever means possible.

The Patriots had the, umm . . . balls to try and gain a competitive advantage? Welcome to sports.

I don’t have to be a Patriots fan to appreciate the resonant quality of this organization, even with the most casual of fans. The Patriots are intriguing in a way most teams- my Dolphins included- can only dream of. All that winning amid all the questions as to how they went about their business, it engenders a deep seated enmity that will only grow more interesting as time goes on. Forget box scores, the Patriots are a political op-ed.

If a story came out tomorrow that the Jags deflated footballs, or the Jets spied on other team’s practices . . it wouldn’t even move the needle. Because those teams are the bottom of the food chain. And there ain’t no sexy in that. Tom Brady is the easy target, after all. He’s got the perfect smile, a Hall of Fame resume, and he wins the Super Bowl . . like, every night.

And am I the only one who finds irony in the fact that, of all these “Gates” New England has been linked to, they were basically given a pass for Aaron Hernandez? Which is precisely why I’m okay with applying some moral relativism to the New England Patriots of Brady and Bellichick when it comes to their on field shenanigans.

I could go all Chapelle on these NFL players who whine about the integrity of the game being compromised by deflated balls, but that’s too easy. Instead, I’d like to ask them one simple question: If Tom Brady is such a horrible guy because he didn’t fess up to his PSI preferences when given the chance to tell the truth . . why don’t they consider Ray Lewis a horrible guy for not fessing up to what he knew about a murder, when given a chance to tell the truth? Sanctimonious? Meet bullshit.

It strikes me, that if the proper PSI of a game used football was such a big deal, then the league probably should have been keeping tabs on it from the get. And all these players who are busy piling on the Patriots now should probably do what the league wasn’t doing.

Grow some balls.

Sunday Morning Coffee Love

Yes, it has been a while since I posted one of these. I miss ’em. Almost as much as I miss strip clubs. Okay, I miss these posts way more than strip clubs. Seeing as how these posts are free, and they don’t contain glitter. Not to mention those Kodak snapshots that defy justification.

This post is just because. The just because that happens to be the life we’re busy living up. The life that happens in sways and sorrows . . all the way up to the “Duh” moment when you actually, croak.

I watched the first half of the Panthers/Seahawks clash last night, rooting up Cam Newton and his Panthers. If only because I love underdogs. Now, I realize my New York Yankees do not fall into the underdog category, but hey, that’s not my fault. I was born in the Bronx, Fort Apache . . . 1966. That right there would be enough to gain me entry into your understanding, but wait! There’s more, indeed. Mom is a Yankees fan. She grew up on Brooklyn logic before marrying a man- her first husband- whose pinstripes left her breathless enough to carry it into forever. Soooo, as you can plainly tell, my allegiance is as much a matter of survival as anything.

Anyways, when I woke up this morning, Lo? Had met behold. And youth had indeed been served, even if the result was totally predictable.

I would have taken a Panthers win as a sign. That anything’s possible. Instead, I was granted a different kind of reminder this morning, as I answered my red wine from the night before with some thick ass java and Bowie.

The reminder is a simple one. Miracles don’t just happen. They’re constructed over time. The Miracle on Ice didn’t happen deep inside the winter of 1980 in that old field house up in Lake Placid. And Joe Namath did a hell of a lot more than just predict an unpredictable outcome. Buster Douglas didn’t walk into Tokyo with Mr Miagi and knock Mike Tyson’s ass into the history books. Villanova had gone hot long before that night in Kentucky when they took down mighty Georgetown. These ‘upsets’, these perceived miracles, were really something else entirely. They were the byproducts of hard work, preparation, struggle, persistence and attitude. Built, not inside of one magical night, but a lifetime of unseen practice leading up to it.

The Panthers didn’t shock the world, because the Seahawks are just too damned good. Seattle also knew full well that anything short of their very best, and they’d be crying in their latte’s this morning. Because they understand the fallacy of all this miracle talk. They know that there’s really no such thing as an ‘upset’ at the highest level of the sport. Bring it or go home, that’s how it works.

I’m still a fool for the idea of surprise endings, and while that may not seem as sexy an idea as miracles and upsets, it’s still plenty fine with me. Because it means that the chances will always be in your favor, so long as you work hard and keep at it.

Anything’s possible.

Fun with Links! (The Northeast Ohio Edition)

Say hello to “Tebow”- our house guest for the next three weeks. He’s a two month old Terrier/Pit Bull who deals big on paws and personality. His interests include eating, chew toys, car rides, late night TV watching and peeing in the house. He’s getting better on the last count- thanks to pee pads, frequent walks and these Scooby snacks. The girl and I are fostering Tebow. He’s our going away party since she leaves for New Mexico next month.

Here’s one for my little girl.

Okay, now for the links that have absolutely nothing to do with the most influential player in professional golf. (Think about it.)

Why don’t we just tell Vladimir Putin that we’re going to bring out the big guns if he doesn’t shush up? I guarantee you he falls for it.

I found the John Boehner entrance song! It’s not admissible in court, or on Capitol Hill for that matter. No sweat, JB. Just swing by Union Jack’s in Bethesda on a Sunday night and have at it.

And here’s the entrance song I picked for President Obama back in March of 2008. When writing on his advance through the primaries back then, I referred to him as “Mr. Goodbar with Al Capone’s PIN number.”  Damn, that was harsh. Is it possible to be turned on by yourself? Okay, if you’re not Brad Pitt . . .

For the record, I possess no “Holy Cows” with my politics. I’m a card carrying member of the Martini Party.

This young fella best send Lebron James a gift basket for taking the spotlight off his extra-curricular activities this summer.

George Costanza 2K showed up at Yankee Stadium recently- and proceeded to fall asleep during a Red Sox/Yanks tilt, in seats that probably set him back a good steak dinner. And now he’s suing people right and left for making fun of him? I’ll parse my words since this is “The Link Post”. Who does he think he is? And, if Andrew (Yeah, I went Baconator on him, it’s “Link Post”) decides he wants to sue me . . I should warn him that I’m going heavy on my counsel.

And last but most certainly not least . . .

I remember being here shortly after Lebron James went black hat in 2010. It was villainous to the rest of the NBA world outside of South Beach, but I was plenty fine with it, considering my very favorite nba mad man made it happen.

(Okay, no more links.)

It is rare to experience a day like this one in sports. Where the home town fans get their way and the league gets stronger and an athlete becomes transcendent while still in his prime. But it happened today, at high noon, when Lebron James let it be known that Michael Jordan’s six titles do not matter to him nearly as much as Cleveland’s one.

Thomas Wolfe was wrong today because the King is returning not as a player with little tread left on his tire but as the single most dominant force in his sport. Cleveland becomes the place to be and while I was rooting for LBJ to give Miami one more run, I can’t be upset with him for saying goodbye. He was on loan to South Beach, but he belongs to Cleveland.

He took his talents home.

 

 

 

 

Brackets or balls . . either way, mine are busted

There’s a good reason I’m not a college basketball fan. I don’t understand the sport. There are too many teams with funny names in too many conferences with funnier ones. The coaches all behave like used car salesmen and the players don’t stay with their programs long enough to catch a cold. And those mascots? Yikes.

For all the critics who bashed President Obama for spending his time on brackets instead of more important business? Lay off the man. Hey, if he wins? He can use that billion dollars for his healthcare website. Big picture, kids, big picture.

 

Anyways, I pay attention to college basketball once a year. At tournament time. And this year I was actually excited about the prospect of filling out my bracket thanks to Big Daddy Buffett and his billion dollar promise. Buffett promised to dole out a billion bucks for a perfect bracket. Easy peesy mac and cheesy.

The odds were stacked against me, but I knew that when I got married and that didn’t stop me. Okay, bad example.

Hours into the tournament . . .Easier said . . met done. I’m not gonna be a billionaire, thanks to Pitt and Dayton, Stephen F. Austin, Gonzaga, Baylor, UCLA and last but not least, Mercer. The reason I won’t be joining Michael Moore’s Most Wanted List is because I went with the other guys. Here were my reasons for going with the vanquished.

-I figured Colorado was a slam dunk since Susie Lindau lives there.
-Ohio State has a marijuana leaf for a logo. How timely is that?
-VCU is located in Richmond, Virginia (A hop, skip and fist bump from Richmond U.- My son’s school.)
-The Oklahoma State Cowboys have a billionaire alum in T. Boone Pickens! I mean, what ref in his right mind isn’t contemplating a European vacation when he’s calling that game?
-I went with Nebraska because I admire a school that has the balls to take a name like Cornhuskers into the 21st century.
-Tulsa’s club is known as the Golden Hurricanes. I had a couple of those in New Orleans and from what I was told, I had a lot of fun on that trip.
-I chose Duke because, well . . they’re Duke.

As you can see, I went all scientific with my choices and I got screwed. Thanks science!

If you’re wondering where in the hell Mercer U is located, so was I. Mercer is a Georgia school with three locations, the most physically gifted of which beat the vaunted Dukies. I had to Google that information, seeing as how I was curious as to how a retired boxer had taken out a college basketball behemoth all by his bad self. I mean, Ray Mercer was a hell of a boxer in his time, but five on one hasn’t been a fair contest since that renowned lady killer, Wilt Chamberlain, skipped town and took his voluminous black book with him.

ESPN’s Joe Lunardi is known as the Father of Bracketology. He even teaches a class on the subject at St. Joe’s University. This joins UCLA’s Tupac 101 and Richmond University’s course on The Wire as the biggest reasons why parents should take that college money and move to Cabo.

Alas, money doesn’t buy happiness. It just buys everything else. And really, what was I gonna do with a billion dollars anyway? Okay, a top five list.

1-A fully functioning, solid gold Aston Martin. That runs on gold
2-Pay off my hacked Target card
3-Buy partial season tickets to the Yankees
4-Sign Mr. Vera Farmiga up for the Mars Mission
5-Buy the Guinness Brewery, and move in immediately

I was living the dream, until tip-off happened on Thursday night. After which I had to go back to work, and apologize to my boss for the “Cheap imitation of Joan of Arc” reference. He was really pissed about that.

My Final Four picks- Louisville, Michigan State, Oregon and Florida- have been rendered mooter than John McCain’s take. On anything. But I shouldn’t complain since my abrupt removal from college basketball business allows me to focus on baseball. The only brackets those guys concern themselves with are related to taxes.

Play ball.