When I found out that two of my buddies, Jericho and TimboSlice, were competing in the 2009 Hawaiian Islands Bodybuilding competition, my first thought was NOT, “Wow, I really want to go.” It was more along the lines of, “dudes in thongs and chicks that look like dudes in thongs? Thanks, but no.” But both of them had trained incredibly hard and dieted fastidiously over the past six months — That’s right, six months of dieting. No drinking. Incredibly limited carbs. Almost no salt, so little, if any, seasoning. Jericho came to my daughter’s first birthday party and wouldn’t even eat grilled chicken or sausage. Instead, he brought plain tilapia and green beans. Yum. So, I decided to show up and support them.

Consider me a changed man.

Bodybuilding is not a bizarre freak show or comic spectacle. It is a captivating display of science, physiology, and hard work, willpower and mental strength on display in grand fashion.

It’s easy to sit around with your buddies and laugh about comically inflated muscles and meatheads with biceps so big they can’t touch their shoulders. In fact, I fully expected to write about the laughable largess of physical fitness taken to the bizarre extreme. But, when I sat in the audience, watching bodybuilders of all shapes and sizes display their incredibly toned and finely crafted physiques, I was simply impressed and amazed at the physical capabilities of the human body.

Sure, a few of the competitors looked like poster children for a “Dangers of Steroids” video (“Hey, guys. Do you crave the inability to touch your shoulder? Want your intestines to swell so your stomach distends like a starving Somalian? Dying to have your very own set of firm, plump womanlike breasts? Then have I got the thing for you…”), and yes, there’s something inherently comical about athletes on stage in thongs and shimmery body glitter — let’s just say they take the idea of a body as a “well oiled machine” a tad too literally, but for the most part, each competitor was jaw-droppingly fit and a stunning testament to hard work.

So, I want to give a big JBorhood salute to Jericho and TimboSlice, who came in 2nd and 3rd in their respective weight classes and, in the process, completely changed my opinion of bodybuilding. They both accomplished, far and away, the most impressive feat I’ve ever seen from a man in a thong and body glitter.

(I respectfully reserve comment on the extent of my experience in this regard.)

As luck would have it, I found this video of TimboSlice (the guy in the middle) competing on YouTube. If you can believe it, the video doesn’t even do him justice…

A lot has happened the past two weeks, but I’ve been hard at work on some exciting upcoming developments for the site and have not had time to adequately address them.

So go grab an ice cold beverage (alcohol admired, but not required), fasten your seat belt, and get ready, cause it’s time for…

JBORHOOD QUICK HITS!!!

Wait, wait, wait. The Lakers are going to be BETTER next year???

The four things the Lakers lacked last season were a point guard, long distance shooting, defense and toughness. By signing Ron Artest, they immediately addressed three of the four. Now they not only have three seven footers, but an additional perimeter scorer who can create his own shot, and the best perimeter defensive tandem in the game (Kobe/Artest).

Most importantly, they added a bit of crazy to an otherwise vanilla group of guys. Rightly or wrongly, last year’s Lakers were viewed as a bit soft. A group you wouldn’t mind walking your grandma across the street, or sharing a cup of tea and a crumpet with at the Country Club.

Now?

Forget about it.

I can’t think of one acceptable situation involving Ron Artest and my grandma and I’m getting a little creeped out just trying.

So, say hello to your overwhelming 2010 NBA Championship Favorites.

I think the Spurs, Celtics, Magic and Cavs might have something to say about that…

Though it’s probably not a good thing when your professional sports league resembles feudal England (Why do I get the feeling I’m the only one that laughed at that joke?), the ridiculous concentration of talent on only a few teams should make this…

(wait for it)

(wait for it)

(wait for it)

…the most exciting season in NBA history.

(there it is)

That’s right. I said it. 2010 is shaping up to me the most exciting season in NBA History. The Lakers look unstoppable, but San Antonio added Richard Jefferson to a team that won over 60 games last season; the Celtics added an all-star caliber power forward to a team that won the NBA title a year ago and already had the most dominant front court in basketball; Cleveland added an inside scoring presence (Shaquille O’Neal) and versatile wingman (Anthony Parker) to a team that only lacked an inside scoring presence and a versatile wingman; and Orlando added Vince Carter to a team that went to the NBA Finals.

That’s five teams with a legitimate shot at winning the title and doesn’t even take into consideration Denver (the same team that almost knocked off the Lakers with an older, wiser Carmelo), Houston (provided they get Yao back), and Portland (Brandon Roy makes anything possible) who could all arguably contend if everything fell into place.

(No Pistons fans, overpaying for the rights to two non-all stars, Ben “I Learned Everything I Know About Defense From France” Gordon and Charlie “I Use Twitter During Halftime” Villanueva, doesn’t make you a title contender. Hope you enjoy losing in the first round of the playoffs for the next five years.)

So save those vacation days now because come next May, it’s going to get crazy.

Brazil paid America the ultimate compliment: they actually tried.

Yes, the United States got absolutely pantsed in the second half of the Confederation Cup Finals. Yes, it was a choke on an epic scale. Yes, US Soccer still isn’t ready for prime time.

BUT… and this is a huge, Beyonce-Sized but(t)…

We made Brazil play.

It reminded me of when I played ping-pong against my older brother growing up. He’s four years older than me, so he would routinely kick my ass. Beating me was far too easy, so he’d start trying ridiculous shots. He smiled and cracked jokes while we played. He’d let cross court shots drop in rather than dive to get them.

But, I still couldn’t beat him.

When I turned 15, I started practicing. Practicing my serve. Practicing putting spin on the ball. Practicing hitting back hand shots. After a few months of practice, I noticed a change in my older brother’s play. He stopped hitting ridiculous shots. He didn’t smile as much. He stopped telling jokes. All of a sudden, it got serious.

It was at that moment, I realized that I’d finally arrived. I couldn’t beat him, but I made him work for it.

When Clint Dempsey and Landon Donovan scored world class goals to launch the US to an early 2-0 lead, I noticed that the Brazilians had the same look on their faces my brother had when I could finally challenge him at ping pong. All of a sudden, it was on.

Brazil came out for the second half like bats out of hell and put on one of the most dominating 45 minutes of soccer I’ve ever witnessed. They overwhelmed the US in every phase of the game. I’m surprised the final score wasn’t 75-2.

But, they had to work for it and they finally took us seriously.

Good job, boys. You’ve arrived.

Andy Roddick did America proud

Though he came up short, Andy Roddick gave it his all in one of the most epic matches in Wimbledon history last Sunday and…

Oh who am I kidding? Even I don’t care about tennis.

I’ve never met a beer I didn’t like.

Well, actually, that’s not true. My freshman year in college, my buddy Jon-E bought a twelve pack of this foul swill called Blatz. Yes, Blatz. I believe the name comes from what you spend the next day doing. (”Sorry, dude. I can’t play ball right now. I’m in the bathroom taking a mean Blatz.”) The “beer” — I use the term loosely — tastes like skunky, watered-down, alcoholic seltzer water. Jon-E, me, and two other buddies took a sip and simultaneously spat out a mouthful of Blatz. You might say we Blatz’ed all over ourselves.

None of us finished our beer and we used the remaining cans trying to hit a STOP sign across the street. (Haley, if you’re reading this, please understand that Daddy often needs to exaggerate his stories to enhance their comedic value. We actually drained the remaining cans, took them to the nearest recycling center, and donated the redemption money to a local children’s hospital. Also, drinking is bad and you can’t date until you’re 35, so stop asking.) We didn’t chill them. We didn’t bring them to a party. We didn’t even put them in a beer bong. We just threw them away.

Let me repeat that so it sinks in: Four broke, college-age males THREW AWAY 12 FULL BEERS.

At that point in our lives, we would have drank bong water if it had enough alcohol in it, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to have one more sip of Blatz. To this day, Blatz remains the only beer I’ve ever thrown away.

So, I have met a beer I didn’t like, but only one.

That’s not to say that I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every beer I ever drank (save one notable exception). There are some God awful beers out there. Natural Light, or Natty Light as the kids are sayin’ these days, should come with a warning label that says “if your hand isn’t uncomfortably cold when you’re holding this beverage, you should set it down and walk away”. My thoughts on Stella are well documented. I think Corona would taste better if the Mexicans DID piss in it. But that doesn’t mean I would pass up a Natural Light, Stella, or Corona if offered. I think these beers have a time and place and enjoy them on occasion, but I also recognize that they are more than moderately mediocre and understand why the vast majority of people can’t stand them.

It’s the same reason why the vast majority of American’s can’t stand soccer: American soccer sucks.

It doesn’t “Blatz” suck. It’s not unwatchable. But, for the most part, American soccer is bland, uninteresting, and unappealing, the sporting equivalent of Natty Light. And those are the good games.

I understand this might come as a bit of shock to the American soccer fans out there (all 25 of them) riding high after the US National Team’s shocking upset of Spain, the number one team in the World, but it has to be said in order for us to move forward. Admitting we have a problem is the first step towards fixing it.

So, repeat after me.

“American soccer sucks.”

Again!

“American soccer sucks.”

LOUDER!

“AMERICAN SOCCER SUCKS!”

One more…ok, this is getting ridiculous.

You get the point. Americans do not play soccer at a high level. Our National Team is competitive (just ask the Spaniards), but we aren’t a threat to win a major international competition (No, soccer sycophant — would that be a soccerphant? — the “Confederation Cup”, which, for the record, I had to Google just to make sure I had the name right, does not count as a “major” international competition. There’s one major international competition — two, really, but the US does not participate in the European Championships for obvious reasons — and it’s called the World Cup.), the MLS is a joke in comparison to other top flight international soccer leagues (English Premier League, Italian Serie A, or Spanish Primera Liga), and, most importantly, the United States Soccer Team does not have any identifiable superstars.

We have some good players, but no superstars. No Ronaldinos. No Kakas. No Cristiano Ronaldos.

Everyone’s abuzz about Jozy Altidore after his game winning goal against Spain, but Jozy Altidore is just another way of saying Freddy Adu, which is another way of saying Landon Donovan, which is another way of saying DeMarcus Beasley, which is another way of saying Brian McBride, which is another way of saying Claudio Reyna, which is another way of saying Tab Ramos, which is another way of saying Alexi Lalas, which is another way of saying… ok, I’m out of names.

Any time an American soccer player emerges with a modicum of talent, the sports media dubs them the “Michael Jordan of Soccer” and guarantees that they will transform soccer in America and establish the USA as a World power in the sport. Soccer fans keep buying into the hype and telling their friends that this time will be different. This player is the real deal. Trouble is, none of them are the real deal and after selling the casual sports fan a bill of goods for over a decade, the American soccer fan has completely lost his credibility.

If American soccer fans want the casual sports fan to truly embrace soccer, they need to be honest with them. They need to look them in the eye and tell them the truth: “American soccer sucks, but it’s getting better.” In fact, in my lifetime, I should be able to use phrases other than “not entirely embarrassing”, “vaguely watchable”, and “refreshingly plucky” to describe soccer in America.

And, frankly, I can’t wait.

Because while soccer in the USA might suck, soccer as a whole, most definitely, does not suck. In fact, soccer is one of my favorite sports and one of the most thrilling and dramatic to watch. You just have to understand it.

It’s become rather en vogue to say that soccer is boring. Soccer’s detractors point to the lack of goals as irrefutable evidence that soccer lacks drama or excitement. What they fail to realize is that the lack of constant scoring is exactly what makes soccer so exciting.

Because teams score only a few goals in a typical soccer game, each goal is incredibly important. And while a game may contain only a small number of actual goals, it consists of a never ending series of shots on goal, near misses, and scoring opportunities, each of which is an edge-of-your-seat moment due to the chance that it might lead to the ever important goal. Watching a close soccer match is like watching the bottom of the ninth in a one-run baseball game with a runner in scoring position, if the bottom of the ninth lasted AN HOUR AND A HALF. (That’s right, a soccer game is only 90 minutes and, because there are no stoppages in play aside from half-time, there are no commercials. If you want to watch a football game or baseball game, you’re making a half-day commitment. With soccer, you can start a game at breakfast and be done in time for brunch. Brilliant!)

Sure, there are boring soccer games, but for the most part, a small handful of plodding, defensive 1-0 soccer games give the rest of the games a bad name. And, to be fair, every sport has boring games. A 76-63 basketball game is boring. A 10-3 football game is horrible. A 1-0 baseball game is debatably more appealing than watching two sloths hump in slow motion on the Discovery channel. But, regardless of the score, games in all sports have a certain appeal if played at a high enough level. Even a 1-0 soccer game, if played between Brazil and Argentina, or Spain and England, or Manchester United and AC Milan, is almost always engaging, exciting, and thrilling from start to finish.

And that’s where we need to get with US Soccer.

Right now, bad US Soccer games are downright Blatz terrible and good games are luke-warm Corona funky. For soccer to truly take off in America, we need the bad games to be slightly-chilled Coors light eclectic, and the good games to be ice-cold Maui Brewing Company Big Swell IPA on the beach at the North Shore at sunset spectacular (If you haven’t had the transcendent experience of enjoying the best beer from, what is, in my opinion, the best local brewery, on the beach, at the North Shore, at sunset, you haven’t lived). Until then, there’s no use trying to convince casual sports fans to watch soccer, because no one wants to watch two hours of the sports equivalent of Blatz.

Not even me.

I want to tell you that the Lakers were far better than the Magic.

I want to tell you that Phil Jackson put on a coaching clinic for the ages and thoroughly outclassed Stan Van Gundy.

I want to tell you that Dwight Howard established himself as a bonafide NBA super-duper-star.

I want to tell you that Kobe Bryant finally made the leap from ultra-talented player to transcendent legend.

But, sadly, I cannot. Not because these statements aren’t true (they are, well, all except for Kobe making the leap, but I’m getting ahead of myself) or because I don’t believe them (I do).

I cannot tell you because… I didn’t watch the NBA Finals.

Sure, I caught bits and pieces of games, watched highlights, and looked at stats, but I never sat down and watched a full 48 minutes of basketball.

I can rattle off a myriad of justifiable excuses (both my brothers were in town from the mainland, my 10-year High School Reunion was last weekend, two friends from out of town were staying at my house, I’m entrusted with the care of a 13-month-old drunken pterodactyl), however, the real reason is far more embarrassing:

I don’t have television.

Yup, that’s right. I’m a die hard sports fan, amateur sports columnist, and part time sports radio pundit and I don’t have television.

I have a TV, just no television programming. No ABC. No NBC. Certainly, no ESPN. I form my opinions based on box scores, highlights, internet articles, and second hand recaps.

But, while I no longer have intimate first hand knowledge of most sporting events, I still have my finger on the pulse of sports. For instance, today, Hawaii boy and Sportscenter anchor Neil Everett interviewed Kobe Bryant on ESPN. I was watching the interview on the elliptical trainer while sculpting my guns at 24 Hour Fitness and heard Everett ask “If I had never seen you play, Kobe, how would you describe your game?”.

I instantly thought “Passionate”.

Kobe’s response? “Intense. A lot of passion.”

I don’t know what this proves, other than after hearing ESPN talking heads expound on the depth of Kobe’s passion for the past month we can all agree that Kobe is most likely passionate about basketball. However, I’d also like you to take this as a sign that I maintain some rudimentary knowledge of sports and that you should trust what I say.

But, truth be told, you probably shouldn’t trust what I say. As the parent of a 13 month-old banshee on Red Bull, I’m in a permanent state of sleep deprived insanity. I have trouble piecing together coherent sentences, let alone breaking down the subtle nuance of the modern athlete.

Now that I’ve thrown any and all pretense out the window, take what I say with a Godzilla-sized grain of salt and let me tell you what I learned this past weekend, TV or no TV.

Kobe Bryant joined the discussion for ‘Who is the greatest NBA Player ever?’

Please note that I said joined. He joined the discussion. Now, instead of dismissing him altogether, we’re obligated to bring his name up, before quickly dismissing it and sharing a spirited laugh at his expense. He’s become the George Lucas of the NBA.

The main issue I have with Kobe is his insistence to do everything himself. In big moments, Kobe attempts to beat two or three members of the other team before launching a contested jump shot while his teammates stand around and watch. Boston recognized this last year and consistently forced Kobe into making bad decisions. This year, Orlando failed to capitalize on Kobe’s lack of faith in his teammates and LA won.

I kept waiting for something to change, for a switch to flip, and for Kobe to make the same leap Michael Jordan made between the 1990 and 1991 seasons when Phil Jackson taught MJ that he didn’t have to do everything himself, but it never happened. I thought it was going to happen after Kobe’s amazing performance in Game 1, but he reverted to forcing shots in Game 2, highlighted by the final play of regulation, where he drove the ball into a triple team and heaved a contested jumper that was blocked from behind by Hedo Turkoglu, rather than passing to one of his wide open teammates.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Kobe. I think he’s amazing. Top fifteen, maybe top ten to ever play the game. Love his effort, love his passion, love his killer instinct. But the list of potential best players ever still starts with Michael and ends with Jordan.

Phil Jackson cemented his legacy as the greatest coach in NBA history

With his tenth NBA Title, surpassing Red Auerbach’s nine, Jackson now has the best regular season winning percentage, best playoff winning percentage, the most Championships, and the most playoff wins in NBA History. Aside from the oft-dismissed metrics ‘looks the coolest smoking a cigar’ (Red Auerbach, hands down) and ‘most likely to leave a Soul Glow gel stain on your couch’ (Pat Riley, running away), Jackson leads every major NBA coaching measure, most by a considerable margin. He may have been blessed with superior talent, however, as Tony Sollitto pointed out in his recent interview on the Rob and Russ Show, big talent comes with big egos, and no one did a better job of dealing with those egos than Phil Jackson.

The only question left is whether Jackson has surpassed John Wooden as the best basketball coach ever. Personally, I say yes, but I’m an admitted Bulls fan and I really enjoy taunting my cousin who graduated from UCLA. (Check out Rob and Russ’s interview with Warrior Basketball Assistant Coach and former UCLA basketball player under Coach Wooden, Larry Farmer, for his thoughts on the subject.)

(If you think this section wasn’t largely a veiled attempt to plug two of our previous interviews, then you don’t know me very well.)

High School Reunions are high comedy

It’s amazing how quickly a collection of ex-classmates will revert to behaving as if they’re still in high school when thrown into a large group together.

It’s been ten years since I graduated High School and ten years since I’ve seen the majority of my classmates. Yet, just over 30 minutes after I arrived at a reunion event at Rum Fire, an old classmate ran up to me with an excited look on her face and said, “Justin, come over here. We saved a bench.”

Me: “That’s awesome. Let me go grab my Nirvana CD, put on a pair of Z Cavariccis and some Doc Martins and I’ll be right there!”

Just kidding. That’s what I should of said. What I actually said was:

[Cue dead silence]

I wish I could go back in time and see my expression. My head listed slightly to the side, my brow furrowed, and a look of humor, revulsion, and disbelief combined into a gaze that rendered my classmate speechless. If it wasn’t for another friend serendipitously arriving with a round of Patron shots, I think she might have ran off crying. (God bless the social lubrication of Tequila.)

Needless to say, I can’t wait for 2019.

Unless Orlando, Cleveland, Houston, or Denver markedly improve, the Lakers will win another title in 2010

We already know Orlando can’t hang with LA as currently constructed.

Cleveland lacks the inside presence or wing play to hang with the Lakers front court and perimeter shooters.

Houston needs a crunch time scorer to pair with Yao Ming and Ron Artest. (No, Tracy “I-decided-to-have-knee-surgery-when-I-found-out-I-was-going-to-be-traded- to-make-me-untradable” McGrady does not count as a crunch time scorer. It’s never a good sign when a team plays better without their superstar.)

Denver can’t reasonably expect Kenyon Martin and Nene to stay healthy for another full season and Chauncey is another year older.

Barring a remarkable return to health by KG, Boston lacks the weapons to hang with LA for seven games.

Chicago and Portland are too young.

San Antonio’s too old.

Dallas can’t play defense.

Phoenix is too old and can’t play defense.

And nobody else is remotely good enough.

So, barring a major shake-up, we’ll all be watching another Laker victory parade, hearing about Kobe’s passion, and talking about whether Kobe can win another title in 2011 and tie Michael Jordan with his sixth championship.

But don’t take my word for it, I don’t even have television.

Sorry Chee-Hoo Nation, but there is no Rob & Russ show on Tuesday. Furthermore, a few technology snafus (I have to be honest, I just wanted an excuse to say snafu) prevented us from recording any of last Thursday’s show.

But never fear, the Almighty J is here and hope is near. (Do I make myself clear?).

In order to waylay the cold sweats, nervous ticks, and pressing sadness that comes from Rob & Russ withdrawals, I’ve created a list of the top five things to do on Tuesday in lieu of listening to Hawaii’s #1 sports show hosted by people whose names begin with the letter ‘R’.

5. Read The JBorhood Archives

If you think I’m above shamelessly pimping my own content then you don’t know me well enough. I’m vain, braggadocious, and a shameless self-promoter, but witty, engaging, and hopelessly endearing. So take a moment, let your hair down, crack open an ice cold Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and join your friends and JBors in…

The JBorhood

4. Watch the NHL Finals Game 6

Oh wait. I’m sorry. I forgot that no one cares about Hockey. Nevermind.

3. Get your Warrior Football Fix at uhfootball.blogspot.com

With less than 3 months til kickoff, it’s never too early to get caught up on all things Warrirors. Friend-of-the-Show Tombo Ahi updates the site on a daily basis with a steady stream of fabulous football fever.

If it involves the Warrior Football team it’s happening at uhfootball.blogspot.com.

[Author's Note: We here at Rob & Russ love all things UH Sports. If you know a great Warrior Web site let us know @ the Scott Hawaii Primo Slippah Mailbox, RobandRuss@am1500hawaii.com, or in the comments section and we'll let Chee-Hoo Nation in on the secret.]

2. Take a one-day hiatus from sports and spend some time outdoors.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Just kidding, everyone. I may be ridiculous, but I ain’t crazy.

1. Watch Dwight Howard, Rashard Lewis and Hedo Turkoglu put the smack down on Kobe Bryant and the overrated Lakers.

(Yes, that was a thinly veiled attempt to rile up Laker fans and make them sound off on the comment board. Thanks for asking.)

Have a terrific Tuesday and we’ll see you back on Thursday!

Love the suggestions? Hate them? Did I miss anything? Leave your thoughts in the comments section below…

On July 10, 2001, Sony released the ground breaking racing game Gran Turismo 3. In the weeks leading up to the game’s release, the media hype surrounding the new racing game reached a fever pitch.

“No one game has ever captured the broad essence of driving cars that hail from all walks of auto-racing life like Gran Turismo 3 does.” - GameSpy.com

“GT3 offers the finest racing, the best cars and the highest-quality automotive audio-visual feast available on any gaming system anywhere.” - IGN.com

“GT3 is like waking up from a dream about sleeping with a Brazilian supermodel and finding her still in your bed…with her twin sister.” - CompletelyFabricatedGameSite.com

(Ok, I made up the last one, but it’s not much of an exaggeration from the reviews at the time.)

I was never a big fan of racing games and never played the original Gran Turismo or Gran Turismo 2, but I got so caught up in the hype surrounding GT3 that I decided my life would be a hollow, empty shell without the divine glory of its sublime racing perfection. So, on the morning of July 10, 2001, I waited for Toys & Joys to open and was among the first people on the island to get my hands on the game.

I raced home, ripped open the game box, tossed the instructions aside, fired up the PS2 and prepared myself for pure digital driving ambrosia. Only, it never happened.

You see, GT3 isn’t a racing game. It’s a racing simulation.

Before you ever race, you’re presented with the option to change the tires, add a muffler, lower the chassis, get a new paint job, place fuzzy dice over the rear view mirror, modify the color of the fuzzy dice, adjust how far the dice hang on either side, etc… You could do just about anything EXCEPT race your car.

Somewhere, in this mess of tweaks, adjustments, and modulations, the game turned into “The Real World” of Racing. “Gran Turismo 3: Where racing stops being fun and starts getting real.”

Sure, once I finally figured out how to customize my vehicle and actually raced, the game was quite enjoyable. The graphics were spectacular. The tracks were varied and well thought out. But, sadly, it took so much effort to play, the game felt lost in the shuffle and included so much detail that it forgot to be fun.

This phenomenon of over-complication has begun to infect most sports and, as a result, detracted from our enjoyment of them. Previously, when Kobe Bryant scored 30 points, we agreed he had a good game. Now, announcers say, “Kobe may have scored 30 points, but he only shot 35% from the field, had no assists, a .936 points to shot ratio, and seemed churlish and imprudent at the post-game press conference.” I know more about the average NFL third round draft pick than I do about most of my cousins. It’s impossible to flip on a baseball game without an announcer rambling on about BABIP (batting average on balls in play), VORP (value over replacement player), or ITPAPINTHS (is this player Albert Pujols, if not, than he sucks).

We need to step back for a moment, take a collective deep breath, and remember why we love sports.

This past Saturday, I did just that. I participated in a sporting event that reminded me of everything I love about sports. A simple, beautiful exercise in competition. A fierce, yet friendly battle of the human spirit.

What was this beautiful game, you ask.

The NBA Eastern Conference Finals?

The Stanley Cup Finals?

Nope.

While the rest of the world watched Dwight Howard assert his dominance over King James and the Red Wings and Penguins battle for NHL supremacy, I played the timeless classic…

Drink, Slide, Drink.

Never heard of it, you say? That’s because it was invented this weekend. Allow me to explain.

On Saturday, my wife and I threw our daughter a First Birthday Party at Kapiolani Park. Or, I should say, we threw ourselves a first birthday party for our daughter or, more appropriately, a holy-crap-we-successfully-brought-a-schizophrenic-pterodactyl-to-the-age-of-one party. Because, in all honesty, no one throws a first birthday party for the baby. You think a one year old wants to go on a pony ride and watch a freaky stranger in face paint make balloon animals? The only thing a one-year-old wants to do is stumble around, drink her bottle, eat some birthday cake, and take a nap in the shade. (As I type this, I realize that my daughter and I have more in common than I realized.) With that in mind, we eschewed the standard baby festivities and had a barbecue instead.

As the party drew to a close, we noticed a group of college-aged kids laying four long sheets of plastic on the ground. It looked like they were setting up a giant slip-and-slide run at first, but they arranged the sheets in a diamond shape with gaps between each sheet. Were they going to put down ramps to launch from one sheet to another? Was it a slip-and-slide exercise routine? Were they arranging a ritual suicide?

The crew began to attract a group of onlookers, equally curious about the grand design of the mysterious plastic sheet array. Finally, intrigue got the better of me and I wandered over to get some answers.

Me: What’s crackin, bro? What’s up with all the plastic?

Bro: Yeah, dude. We’re setting up a slip-and-slide race. It’s gonna be epic!

As he said this, I noticed a few of his friends setting up tables in the gaps between the sheets and filling up Dixie Cups with Milwaukee’s Best on each table. I had an epiphany.

Me: Are you setting up a slip-and-slide drinking game??!??!?

Bro: Hell yeah. You want in?

Me: You had me at ‘Yeah, dude’. So, how do you play?

Bro: …

Me: You don’t know?

Bro: We’re kind of coming up with the rules right now.

Beautiful. I’d stumbled upon a drinking game Garden of Eden. Not only was a raucous bout of drinking, sliding, and hilarity about to ensure, but I would get to have a hand in shaping exactly how it went down.

My first thought: “I can’t wait to write about this in the JBorhood.”

My second thought: “I can’t remember the last time I had a lukewarm glass of Beast.”

My last thought: “I’m 28 years old, the father of a one year old daughter, been married for five years, and about to attend my Ten Year High School reunion. Am I too old for this?”

Before I had a chance to contemplate the subtleties of this question, Bro shoved a Dixie Cup full of Milwaukee’s Best in my hand and said, “Have a beer, dude. My name’s Colton.” There are many things a man is capable of while drinking an 85 degree paper cup full of watered down horse piss, but thoughtfully examining the maturity of his actions is not one of them. Before I knew it, I was introducing myself to Cade, Colton, Eric, Nick, Eric — There were two Erics. I didn’t get drunk and introduce myself twice. I think… — Phil, Erin, and Leslie, debating potential rules, and forgot all about lingering questions about the propriety of my actions.

Phil: I think each person should slide down their section of the course, drink a beer (to be fair, a “beer” was a 6 oz. Dixie Cup) and then tag the next person.

Colton: What if we drank before we slid. That might be a little easier to do.

Me: What if we did both. Drink a beer, slide down, drink another beer then tag the next person. Drink, slide, drink.

Phil: Drink, Slide, Drink. That’s awesome! That’s what we should call the game. Drink, Slide, Drink!

Thus, Drink, Slide, Drink was born.

(A brief aside: Before the game started, my wife, the Editor-in-Chief, who is every bit the hooligan I am, insisted on testing out the slides before the game started. As soon as she took off, our daughter Haley took one look at her mother barreling down a slip-and-side and decided it looked like the most fun in the world. After a brief discussion of whether or not sending a baby down a slip-and-slide warranted a call to Child Protective Services, we grabbed Haley by the arms and started slowly sliding her down the long plastic sheet. About halfway down the slide, Tori lost her grip on the baby, causing Haley to start tipping over and spinning out of control. Our initial wave of panic instantly subsided when Haley, who seemed to think it was the greatest moment of her life, started giggling with glee, however, my older brother snapped a photo that should be on Fail Blog with the caption “Parenting Fail”. I include the photo for your amusement.)

As soon as we stopped laughing about the questionable nature of the baby slip-and-slide, we formed teams (Colton, Eric #1, Erin, and Me vs. Nick, Phil, Eric #2 — in name only, and Cade), filled up two Dixie Cups with beer for each person and got in to position. I wanted the opportunity to seal the deal for our team, so I lined up last. As I started to plan the proper sliding strategy, Colton flipped me a plastic bottle and said, “Here you go, dude. Lube up.”

I looked down and saw the unmistakeable clear bottle and pink cap of Baby Oil.

Me: Ummm… Baby oil? Really?

Erin: Yeah. That stuff’s nasty. Don’t we have some baby shampoo?

Colton: I don’t know. I think this should work just fine.

Cade: Yeah, let me give it a shot.

Cade preceeded to give himself the porn star lube down and rocket down the slide.

Cade: Woo hoo! Works great!

The other guys followed suit, slathering their bodies head to toe in clear, glossy, viscous, and undeniably floral scented oil. I shared a look of disbelief and horror with Erin. Before I could think of a way to politely excuse myself from a full body lube job, Erin saved the day.

Erin: There’s no way in hell I’m doing that. I’ll be right back.

Erin quickly ran to the tourist mini-mart accross the street from the park and returned, smiling, with a tiny yellow bottle. I have never been so happy to see a bottle of baby shampoo in my entire life. Continuing our string of good ideas, Erin and I decided to lube the slide, instead of ourselves, which worked like a charm.

With the lube crisis behind us, everyone got into position and prepared for the showdown. A small crowd of onlookers came by to get a closer look at the group of glossy young men lined up around four plastic sheets. Colton and Nick got into position with a beer in their hands at the starting table. A hush fell over the crowd as the pair tensed up and prepared to chug.

On your mark. Get set. Go!

Colton and Nick quickly downed their Dixie Cups, took long running starts and barrelled down the first slides. With the adrenaline pumping, both guys popped up off their slides, approached the second table and downed their second cup almost in unison. As everyone cheered them on, Eric #1 and Phil quickly followed suit and then hurtled themselves down the second slide. Phil came up a little short of the end of his slide and since the rules dictate that you have to make it to the end of your slide before standing up, began frantically pushing himself along the plastic with his hands.

The cheering grew louder. The intensity level rose.

Eric #1 finished his beer just as Phil got up, giving Erin a slight head start over Nick. However, confused by the layout of the track, Erin lept down the other teams slide!

Confusion reigned.

Somehow, amidst the shouting, drinking, and laughing, Nick decided to switch teams. He took a huge running start, a flying leap, and hurtled himself at high speed down our slide. Even though Erin had a small head start, Nick’s flying leap helped him catch up considerable ground. He hit the end of the slide at a run, popped up and pounded his second cup just as Eric #2 began the final leg of the race for the other team.

Now, I don’t mean to brag, but when it comes to pounding beers and hucking myself down a plastic sheet with reckless abandon, I’m kind of a big deal. I’ve spent many years perfecting both my chugging and sliding abilities, so I was confident that I could make up the ground. I tossed back the Dixie Cup of Beast in record time, got a full head of steam, took a Michael Jordan-esque leap into the air, tucked my arms to my side, and hit the slide with the force of a runaway freight train. I pulled my head and chest up, lifted my legs slightly, and brought my arms in to reduce friction with the slide — That’s right. I used physics to help me slide faster. (Science. It works, bitches!) The cheering and yelling turned into a distant blur as I rocketed down the slip-and-slide. Time stood still and I watched the park and the people fly by in slow motion as I neared the end of the track.

As soon as I reached the end, I slammed my hands down, popped up, and made a break for the table. I hit the table at a full sprint, grabbed the cup, tossed it down like Lindsey Lohan fresh out of rehab, and threw my hands into the sky.

Victory was mine.

Following the race, the group was all smiles. No taunts were exchanged. No one complained about Erin and Nick switching teams. No one said anything about people starting early or not finishing their beers. We were too busy laughing, smiling, and recounting the excitement of the contest.
Pure. Simple. Fun.

So the next time you’re at Aloha Stadium, Stan Sheriff Center, or Les Murakami Stadium and you feel the urge to apply regression analysis to the Warrior’s previous five years of statistics to determine exactly how the current squad measures up to the teams of the past, sit back, relax, take a deep breath, and just enjoy the spectacle. And, most importantly, make sure to bring your baby shampoo.

Author’s Note: Mahalo to Cade, Colton, Eric, Eric, Nick, Phil, Erin, Leslie for helping me remember exactly what I love about sports. I wish you much more drinking, sliding, and drinking in your future!

When I dreamed about my first time covering a live sporting event as a member of the media, I generally dreamed about a close game, capped by a thrilling comeback, a walk off victory, and a raucous post game celebration. Last night, all those dreams came true when I attended the UH Rainbow Baseball Team’s opening game in the WAC tournament as a media correspondent for AM 1500 The Team, Hawaii Sporting News.

Closely contested game? Check. Thrilling comeback? Check. A walk-off victory, followed by raucous celebration? Check and check. Yet, when the game ended, rather than relishing the moment and celebrating the loss of my sports media virginity, I sat silently with my head in my hands and a vacuous emptiness inside.

You see, when the game played out in my dreams, it was always the Rainbows walking off victorious, not the other way around.

Last night’s Rainbow Baseball game was an absolute stomach punch, a complete and unbridled disaster. The kind of game you don’t bother trying to explain, you simply try to forget.

Before the game started I decided to keep a log of my evening so I could comment on my transition from fan to reporter and attempt to highlight the interesting (and humorous) differences between the two perspectives. As it turned out, watching the game as a member of the media is wildly different than watching the game as a fan. However, in the end, it doesn’t help soften the blow of a tough loss.

I wish I could tell you that the following story ends well.

Sadly, all I can tell you is that it ends. Swiftly. Abruptly. Painfully.

But tomorrow is another day and the Rainbows remain alive in the double elimination tournament.

In honor of their effort the JBorhood marches on.

WAC Baseball Tournament 2009: Game 1, Hawaii vs. Louisiana Tech Running Diary

6:35pm: Pass the Kapiolani off-ramp, perfectly on time. I smile and exhale.

6:36pm: Reach for my phone to call Rob DeMello and figure out how to meet him and get my press pass. Have the stunning realization that I left my phone charging on my dresser at home.

6:37pm: Execute an expletive studded emergency U-turn.

6:55pm: Finally arrive at the stadium. Rob instructs me to enter the stadium via the “Media Gate” and tell the ushers behind the desk that I’m “Justin D’Olier from Hawaii Sporting News” to get my press pass, then meet him upstairs in the Press Box.

6:56pm: I enter every gate BUT the “Media Gate”. Start to wonder whether this is a media member initiation joke.

6:57pm: Finally locate the media gate and obtain the press pass. I feel like Wayne and Garth in Wayne’s World walking backstage at the Alice Cooper concert with backstage passes. I resist the urge to flash my media credentials to everyone. (Barely)

7:00pm: I walk up the stairs to the upper deck of the Stadium and meet Rob sitting outside the press box. He informs me that there is no room inside the Press Box so we sit outside. My media career is off to a bumper start.

7:01pm: Ryan Morford starts the game with a leadoff single in the top of the first. Yes, the top of the first. Because Louisiana Tech is ranked higher than the Rainbows, the Rainbows find themselves in the interesting position of being visitors in their own ballpark. Weird.

7:05pm: Hooray! Kolten Wong hits a sharp grounder to the short stop with the bases loaded to a push across an early run in the top of the first.

7:15pm: Dave Reardon exits the press box and Rob introduces us. Dave informs us that there’s one open spot in the box so we can come inside if we want.

7:16pm: Rob, Dave and I enter the press box and Rob introduces me to Ferd Lewis, who’s keeping score, listening to the radio broadcast and taking notes. I try not to think too much about the fact that the Star Bulletin’s premier sports writer has just invited me into the Press Box where I proceed to meet the Honolulu Advertiser’s premier sports writer and focus intently on not embarrassing myself. I succeed. (Barely)

7:20pm: Ferd Lewis clears off a space on a long wooden desk barely big enough to fit a legal pad, pulls out a small plastic chair designed to comfortably accommodate a pygmy infant and invites me to sit down. I carefully distribute my weight on the chair so as to not split it in twain and take a look around.

Trust me when I say the Pres s Box at Les Murakami Stadium is not a glorious venue. It’s two long desks, one down below, the other set back and above it, a mishmash of uncomfortable plastic chairs circa 1975 and a view that is almost entirely obstructed by thick black window frames. It’s like watching a game through a checkerboard with the middle of the squares cut out. From my chair, I can see the pitcher in one window and the batter in another. The ball disappears briefly when it leaves the pitchers hand and reappears right before it reaches the batter. In order to see the scoreboard, I have to lean forward so far it threatens to snap the seat off my chair.

On a positive note, the Press Box has a cooler with free Pepsi. Score.

7:30pm: Rainbows spark a rally with a squib hit, a botched throw to first, a dropped pop foul, and a stolen base to put runners on the corners with one out. In baseball, it’s frequently better to be lucky than good.

7:35pm: Rainbow 3B Vinnie Catricala flies out to left on a 0-2 pitch with the bases jacked to end the threat. My back begins to hurt from sitting in the booster seat. I view neither as a good sign.

7:39pm: Rainbow starter Jayson Kramer records his fourth straight ground out to start the bottom of the second inning. If you played a Jayson Kramer drinking game where you took a shot for every ground out, you would probably die by the sixth inning.

7:40pm: With a 0-2 count and 2 outs, La. Tech 3B Mark Threlkeld (my God is that hard to spell) takes a time out to talk to his third base coach. I imagine the conversation went something like this:

Mark: What should I do here coach?
Coach: Nothing. You’re #@%! ed.
Mark: Oh…

7:41pm: Mark flies out to right on the next pitch. Good talk.

7:44pm: I stop writing to watch Rainbow Outfielder and Western Athletic Conference Freshman-of-the-Year, Kolten Wong, come up to bat. Watching him swing the bat is a thing of beauty. They could do a remake of American Beauty where the creepy boyfriend has a video tape of Kolten Wong at bat instead of that stupid plastic bag. But I digress…

7:45pm: Kolten Wong crushes what I swear is the most beautiful fly I have ever seen out to center field.

7:47pm: My phone rings. Am unsure of whether I can answer my phone in the press box. Nervously look around. I imagine Ferd Lewis throwing me out the window. Decide against answering.

7:54pm: Kramer escapes a bases-loaded jam with a tailor-made double play ball to Rainbow short stop Greg Garcia who scoops up the ball, steps on second and rifles the ball to first.

7:56pm: Crack open a free ice-cold can of Diet Pepsi, my first of the night. Oh the lavish life of the sports writer.

7:57pm: I close my eyes and try to imagine it’s a Coors Light.

7:58pm: I give up the charade.

7:59pm: I send my little brother a picture message of the view from the Press Box letting him know that he has a better view of the game than I do. (For the record, my little brother is in California and unable to watch the game. I stand by my statement.)

8:00pm: In the play of the night so far, Rainbow outfielder Matt Roquemore hits a deep fly that the La. Tech left fielder bobbles and drops. Sensing the opportunity, Roquemore takes a big turn around second base, sprints for third and slides head first into the bag, slamming into the third basemen just before the ball arrives. What a play! Turning the double into a triple was one hundred percent heart and hustle. Matt Roquemore, take a bow.

8:01pm: Capitalizing on Roquemore’s hustle, Rainbow catcher Kevin Fujii slaps a one-hopper through the hole between the SS and 3B to give the Rainbows a 2-0 lead.

8:07pm: The scoreboard operator offers everyone in the Press Box some “Midnight Pomegranate” scented hand sanitizer. We briefly discuss the supposed difference between “Midnight” and “Midday” Pomegranate. We fail to reach consensus.

8:09pm: Rainbow shortstop Greg Garcia boots a sharp grounder to put men on first and third with no outs. I blame the hand sanitizer and decide not to say my joke about the dire consequences of mixing midnight and midday pomegranate.

8:10pm: Kramer induces a (you guessed it) ground out to 3B Vinnie Catricala, who holds the runner on third and guns down the batter at first.

8:11pm: HOLY F-ING ****!!!! Rainbow left fielder Sean Montplaisir makes one of the best defensive plays I’ve ever witnessed. After catching a pop fly in mid-depth foul territory, Montplaisir uncorks a throw I can only describe as a frozen rope laser beam (Yes, that’s right. It’s the ONLY way I can describe it. I am actually incapable of describing it any other way.) to catcher Kevin Fujii on the fly that beat the La. Tech runner to the plate by three feet. You couldn’t have fired a more perfect ball to the catcher out of a cannon.

(A random aside: Between Matt Roquemore, Chase Koissian, Sean Montplaisir, and Vinnie Catricala, the Rainbow Warrior baseball team has to be the hardest group of player names to spell in the history of college baseball. From now on, I think I may have to stick to radio segments for Rainbow Baseball…)

8:15pm: The crowd hushes. Birds stop singing. Time slows to a halt. Kolten Wong approaches the plate.

8:16pm: Wong crushes what I swear is the second most beautiful fly out to center I have ever seen in my life. The ball flew so high, I believe it grazed the sun. From where I sat, it looked like the ball had a tan.

8:17pm: I rest my right hand on my chin. I look in the window and see Ferd Lewis resting his left hand on his chin in the reflection. It dawns on me that he is a tall, white, skinny, glasses wearing sports writer making the exact same gesture as this tall, white, skinny, glasses wearing sports writer.

I feel vaguely like I’m looking into the future. I find this a bit creepy and try to forget about it.

8:22pm: Kramer starts the inning out with a ground out, an error (on a ground out), and another ground out, bringing his total to 10 for the game midway through the fifth. I remain more convinced than ever that a Kramer ground out drinking game would end in certain death.

8:23pm: La. Tech outfielder Patrick Thomas hits a line drive into the outfielder to score the unearned run.

8:25pm: Kramer ends the inning with, you guessed it, another ground out. Good Lord, Jayson Kramer is a machine.

8:30pm: With men on first and second and no-out, Rainbow Manager Mike Trapasso has Mike Roquemore bunt fresh off hitting his triple. The bunt is fielded cleanly by the pitcher who nails the lead runner at third. I pass unfair retroactive judgment condemning the decision to bunt. I smile and think about how much easier it is to criticize decisions than make them.

8:32pm: Chat with Dave Reardon about Twitter while he works on his article and chats with a friend on Facebook. I remain more convinced than ever that print media is soon to become an anachronism.

8:36pm: La. Tech intentionally walks Ryan Morford to bring up Rainbow shortstop Greg Garcia with the bases loaded.

8:37pm: For the first time in the game, the crowd raises their voices to an audible level. (I don’t know whether the crowd was absurdly quiet or whether the Press Box is relatively sound proof. I decide to give the crowd the benefit of the doubt.)

8:38pm: Garcia grounds out.

8:39pm: Dave Reardon offers me a Tic Tac. I accept. It helps ease the pain.

8:40-9:00pm: Leave the press box with Rob DeMello to go grab some food. Unfortunately, the University only provides the media with an endless supply of caffeinated beverages, not delicious treats.

(While getting food, my timeline is spotty, so I include everything that happened in the period.)

The TV at the concession stand IS NOT PLAYING THE UH GAME. It’s playing Baseball Tonight. While we wait for our food, we watch the Royals, Cleveland, Padres and Giants, but no Rainbows. UH, if you’re listening, FIX THIS NOW.

An audible groan from the crowd indicates that La. Tech has just tied the game with a solo HR.

Order a slice of pizza. I’m not sure why, but ordering pizza at a stadium is like watching a movie on an airplane. Regardless of the quality, it’s going to be fantastic. I think the crust was half dough, half cardboard, but it tasted like heaven.

As we arrive back at the Press Box Kolten Wong gets beaned between the shoulder blades on a pitch that was clearly intended to hit him. I wonder if I’ve ever seen someone get plunked for hitting two fly-outs before. If I can, I don’t remember.

With men on second and third and two outs, La. Tech decides to bring in a relief pitcher. Here is his line for the season:

4.1 IP, 2H, 1 ER, 2K, AND 7 WALKS (I think it’s safe to say he lacks an out pitch.)

The Rainbow designated hitter falls behind 0-2 then fouls off approximately 47 pitches before working a (you guessed it) walk.

The crowd awakens again to cheer.

The batter grounds out to end the threat. I think I need another Tic Tac.

9:06pm: With one out and a runner on second in the bottom of the seventh, the Rainbows pull Jayson Kramer for closer Sam Spangler (relation to Egon unconfirmed).

9:10pm: Spangler comes out firing first pitch strikes (In my opinion, there’s a special place in heaven for relievers who throw first pitch strikes) and invokes a quick ground out and then a strike out on a dirty low outside fastball. Beautiful pitch.

9:12pm: Hawaii FCU comes on the loudspeaker:

(I forget the exact wordage, so I’m paraphrasing)
Checking accounts? THEY GOT IT.
Car Loans? THEY GOT IT.
Financial Services? THEY GOT IT.
Hawaii Federal Credit Union. THEY GOT IT.

Without skipping a beat, someone in the Press Box quips, “does anyone know if Hawaii Federal Credit Union has it?”

9:15pm: Rainbow C Kevin Fujii works a lead-off walk to start the top of the eighth. I decide there’s also a special place in heaven for batters who work leadoff walks.

918pm: At the desk below, the TV and UH staff jokes casually about the game. At the desk above, the sports writers sit with blank expressions, alternating between watching and typing. I question my decision to write this article.

9:19pm: La. Tech first basemen botches a routine ground ball to put Rainbow runners on second and third with no outs.

Say what you want about the Rainbows, they really put the pressure on opposing teams. They make smart plays, keep their runners active on the base paths and force the opposition into tough plays. They are not a freakishly talented group, but they execute incredibly well. I am impressed.

9:22pm: A passed ball scores Kevin Fujii to put the Rainbows back on top. The Rainbows keep the pressure on the Bulldogs.

9:24pm: With a man on third and one out, Vinnie Catricala goes down swinging. That one hurt.

9:25pm: Kevin McDonald is up to bat with a man on third and one out. If he can get on base, he’ll bring up Kolten Wong.

9:27pm: McDonald displays balls of steel by taking a pitch just off the outside edge with a 2-2 count. Unfortunately, he goes down swinging on the next pitch to end the inning.

9:31pm: With a man on base, La. Tech slugger Devon Dageford steps to the plate. I do a spit take when I look at his stats and see that he has a .849 slugging percentage. No, that is not a typo. I did not mean to say OPS. Dageford has an .849 slugging percentage. For the year, his line is:

185 AB, 18 2B, 21 HR, .849 slugging

Heaven help us.

9:33pm: Dageford works the count full and then fouls off an impossibly low and inside pitch to miraculously stay alive. I take a big swig of Diet Pepsi to help calm down. It doesn’t help.

9:34pm: YES! Spangler throws a nasty heater on the inside corner to nail Dageford looking.

9:36pm: Spangler gets the next batter, who (are-you-kidding-me???) also has a slugging percentage over .800, to fly out. Spangler is flat out dealing right now. I take more swigs of Pepsi and a few deep breaths.

9:38pm: Spangler records the third out of the inning by striking out the La. Tech batter on the same filthy inside fastball he used to KO Dageford. The pitch is brutal.

9:39pm: I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, but I really like Pepsi’s new look cans.

9:43pm: Kolten Wong starts out the top of the ninth with what I swear is the most beautiful weak pop out to first I have ever seen. (I may be reaching on that one…)

9:44pm: Headed to the bottom of the ninth. 3-2 Rainbows. It’s go time. If you think I’m not opening up a good luck Diet Pepsi right now then you don’t know me very well.

9:47pm: I introduce myself to Megan from the WAC office who runs the WAC Sports Twitter account. (http://twitter.com/WACSports).

Me: Running the Twitter account for WAC athletics, how many version of the joke “That is WHACK!” have you heard?

Megan: Zero.
::silence::
Me: Oh. I’m sorry. That was whack.

9:48pm: Vinnie Catricala can’t bare hand a shard roller to third and La. Tech puts the lead off man on in the ninth inning. I’m not sure if I’m more worried about the game or how bad my WAC joke was.

9:50pm: Spangler strikes out La. Tech hitter Kyle Roliard for the first out of the inning with his patented dirty laser beam. The pitch is unhittable right now.

9:52pm: Uh oh. La. Tech catcher Clint Ewing hits a deep drive to left. Silence fills the stadium.

La. Tech player pile out of the dugout and start jumping up and down at home plate.

Oh. ****.

The wind has been knocked out of me.

Writers stop typing. Blank expressions fill the press box.

For some reason, “Celebrate” is playing over the loud speakers, as if to rub salt in the wound. I tell the UH board operator that the song is a rather ironic choice. He says that La. Tech is the home team, so they need to act like it’s a neutral site. I look at him blankly. The music continues to play.

What a cruel joke.

I drop my head into my hands. I want to cry. I think to myself, what an auspicious start to my sports media career. I can’t figure out how to end the recap. I decide it is only fitting to end it like the game, a walk-off home run to the column, if you will.

I throw away my pen, leave the press box, and go home.

Aloha Friends and JBors,

Welcome to the inaugural JBorhood kick-off celebration here at RobandRuss.com! I’ve spent the vast majority of the past three weeks balancing my job, raising my (nearly) one-year-old daughter, and building this site and, frankly, I’m exhausted. Not just regular exhausted, but I-just-took-NyQuil-and-if-I’m-not-within-spitting-distance-of-a-bed-in-thirty-seconds-I’m-going-to-spend-the-night-in-a-heap-on-the-floor exhausted.

Rather than bang out a half-hearted article or try to fake my way through 2,000 choppy, vaguely related words, I’m going to break new ground, blaze a trail if you will. (Actually, I’m going to blaze a trail even if you won’t, but it’s easier on all of us if you will.)

Today, I’m releasing the first ever JBorhood audio article: seven minutes of pure aural heaven. (Yes, I used ‘aural’ correctly and, yes, it sounds dirty.)

So sit back, relax, and enjoy the smooth dulcet tones of the Almighty J.

Enter the Hood - 5/7/2009

It’s been approximately 364 days since my last Mint Julep, which is a borderline tragedy and I’m not going to take it anymore.

I hereby declare that the Mint Julep shall be associated with the following events to ensure that they are consumed on a regular basis:

• The French Open – What better way to toughen up the French image than associating it with a rugged, manly beverage?
• The Daytona 500 – Because the only people at the Daytona 500 not drunk on whiskey are the drivers…or so we like to hope.
• Pandemic Outbreaks – All this Swine flu talk makes me want to drink.
• Tuesdays – I think this speaks for itself.

I’ll write up a draft of my proposal and forward it to Mr. Obama. I can’t imagine he has more important things to worry about.

In order to tide you over until the impending Julep renaissance, allow me to present my rankings for Saturday’s Kentucky Derby. As always, my rankings involve a complex formula that accounts for odds, pole position, whether or not the horse is pretty and, most importantly, the quality of the horse’s name.

20. Mine That Bird (Odds: 50-1, Pole Position:
19. Summer Bird (Odds: 50-1, Pole Position: 17)

The only thing these horses will compete for on Saturday is which one of them has a worse bird themed name.

18. Join in the Dance (Odds: 50-1, Pole Position: 9)

One part hippie unity + One part ‘Lord of the Dance’ = A complete mess

17. West Side Bernie (Odds: 30-1, Pole Position: 1)

Can we all agree that no one, under any circumstances, should ever be named Bernie? I’m pretty sure “naming someone Bernie” is right next to waterboarding on the Bush Administration’s list of approved torture methods.

16. Advice (Odds: 30-1, Pole Position: 4)

You want some advice? Don’t bet on this horse.

15. Chocolate Candy (Odds: 20-1, Pole Position: 11)

I know that “Big Brown” won the Derby last year, but I still can’t get excited about a horse named after a bowel movement…

14. Nowhere to Hide (Odds: 50-1, Pole Position: 18)

I think we can all agree that it’s never good when a horse’s description begins with “the colt isn’t very accomplished or fast”.

13. Hold Me Back (Odds: 15-1, Pole Position: 5)

Why would you name a race horse “Hold Me Back”? It’s like naming a boat “Crash Me in to the Reef”.

12. Mr. Hot Stuff (Odds: 30-1, Pole Position: 3)

I find it difficult to get too excited about a horse with a name that is more befitting of an over the hill male stripper.

11. Flying Private (Odds: 50-1, Pole Position: 20)

If only they’d added an ‘s’ to his name…

10. Papa Clem (Odds: 20-1, Pole Position: 7)

Papa Clem sounds like someone I want to kick back and drink Mint Juleps with on the stoop. Papa Clem does NOT sound like a horse I want to bet on.

9. Atomic Rain (Odds: 50-1, Pole Position: 14)

Atomic Rain is small.

Atomic Rain is slow.

Atomic Rain has only won one race and it was only half as long as the Derby.

But dammit, Atomic Rain is the best horse name I’ve heard in my entire life.

8. Friesan Fire (Odds: 5-1, Pole Position: 6)

Friesan Fire is the anti-Atomic Rain.

Great endurance, great speed, great pedigree, but “Friesan Fire” is an unintentionally dyslexic nightmare.

7. Desert Party (Odds: 15-1, Pole Position: 19)

I got nothing. I just like to party.

6. Musket Man (Odds: 20-1, Pole Position: 2)

He lacks the elite speed needed to consider him a favorite, but he’s won five of his last seven races and starts with a great pole position. Plus, he’s named after an old bad ass gun, man.

5. General Quarters (Odds: 20-1, Pole Position: 12)

Approximately one fourth as good as General Dollars.

4. Pioneerof the Nile (Odds: 4-1, Pole Position: 16)

No, that is not a typo. There is no space between the ‘Pioneer’ and the ‘of’ in Pioneerof’s name, and it drives me crazy.

Someone thinks they’re really clever. I think they should be punched in the face.

3. Regal Ransom (Odds: 30-1, Pole Position: 10)

A tailor made great horse name: An element of class, blended with a hint of edginess, polished off with a sexy alliteration. (Plus, he’s SO DARN CUTE!!!!)

2. Dunkirk (Odds: 4-1, Pole Position: 15)

Dunkirk has all the elements of a Derby winner and his only loss was to pre-derby favorite Quality Road, who had to pull out of the Derby with a cracked hoof. Now that Quality Road is out of the Derby field, the only thing that stands between Dunkirk and roses is a name that would be more appropriate for a luggage company.

1. I Want Revenge (Odds: 3-1, Pole Position: 13)

Incredible speed + Great Pedigree + Solid Pole Position + A name that suggests the horse will shiv anyone that tries to pass him = Automatic JBorhood Favorite

Before I sign off, I want to dedicate this year’s article to last year’s runner up, Eight Belles who was euthanized after breaking both front ankles shortly after crossing the finish line.

You might be gone, but I haven’t forgotten you. Sweet dreams, princess.

Greatness is not elusive. It requires no searching or work to find. When you discover greatness, you know it instantly. It may take time to comprehend the extent of the greatness, but you never doubt that it exists.

Like oral sex.

Oral sex is undoubtedly great.

Anyone lucky enough to find themselves on the receiving end of its glorious wonder does not need a moment to weigh its relative merits. They’re too busy moaning in pleasure, giving praises to their deity of choice, and thinking about how much they’d pay for a lightly toasted ham and turkey with swiss (Really? Only me?). From the moment it starts, to the moment it reaches its final, toe-curling crescendo, the experience is undeniably great.

And that’s the great thing about greatness. It’s simple. If you have to ask whether something is great, it’s not.

Yet, even in the face of this indisputable simplicity, people continue to hold out hope that non-great things will somehow magically improve, evolve, and become great. Like the woman who tells her friends that her ex-con boyfriend has a really great heart and once he gets a haircut, curbs his alcohol abuse, gets a job that doesn’t involve asking whether people want to super size their extra value meal, stops robbing armored cars to pay for his heroin addiction, and quits killing hobos and burying them in the backyard, he’ll make a really great daddy.

But I’m not one to point fingers. I’m the guy that talked himself into believing that Rex Grossman would eventually be a quality NFL starter. (In Grossman’s case, I believe “quality” could be defined as throwing the ball to his teammates more than the opposing defense. *sigh*)

Sadly, us sports fans do this all the time. We so desperately want our favorite players to be great that we ignore all signs to the contrary.

“If Tavaris Jackson would stop peeing his pants at the first hint of pressure, skipping the ball off the turf before it gets to the receiver, and completed more than one out of every ten passes, HE COULD BE GREAT!”

“If Mark Prior could only stay healthy long enough to pitch six innings before complaining of nagging pains in his vaginal wall, HE COULD BE GREAT!”

“If Corey Patterson would learn that no one’s going to take away his dinner if he doesn’t swing at the first pitch, struck out less than a fraternity guy at Lilith Fair, and laid off the neck high fastball, HE COULD BE GREAT!”

“If Tyler Graunke could only start more games then he was suspended, HE COULD BE GREAT!” (On that note, I have to pass along my favorite Tyler Graunke story. When Tyler was backing up Colt in 2007, he hit on my buddies girlfriend, M&M, at a bar one night.

Tyler: Hi, I’m Tyler Graunke.

M&M: Who?

Tyler: You know, the Quarterback for the University of Hawaii.

M&M: Isn’t that Colt Brennan?

Tyler: Well…uh…I play too.

M&M: How nice for you.

(M&M walks away)

Let’s just say, after I heard that story, I never expected much from the Graunke era.)

Sadly, this misplaced optimism almost never pays off. Fans keep waiting for their maddeningly gifted, yet tragically flawed idol to take the next step, but it rarely happens. Occasionally, a Brett Favre, a David Ortiz, or a Chauncey Billups will flip the switch and make the leap to greatness, but those players are few and far between. Generally, the great ones are great from day one.

Which is why I’m so excited about Derrick Rose: Because Derrick Rose is great.

From his unassuming 11 point, 9 assist debut to his 36 point, 11 assist, 4 rebound explosion in Game 1 of the Bulls/Celtics series, Derrick Rose has consistently exhibited greatness. That’s not to say he hasn’t struggled – because he has – simply, that in every game, good or bad, you know you’re watching something special. Whether it’s his lightning quick first step, uncanny court vision, or the way he drives the lane, absorbs a hard hit in mid air, and still finishes strong, his uncanny blend of hustle, basketball I.Q., and freakish athleticism are on display at all times.

As a Bulls fan, I haven’t been this excited about a player since, well, since you-know-who. And I’ve been excited about A LOT of players, because the Bulls have had A LOT of high draft picks.

I convinced myself that Elton Brand was the next great power forward (when really, he was like a vanilla ice cream cone: tasty and satisfying, yet wholly underwhelming.)

I convinced myself that Jamal Crawford would be a human highlight reel (when really, his defense made him a human lay-up drill.)

I convinced myself that Eddy Curry would score at will from the low post (when really, he couldn’t even score in the low post with his male chauffeur.)

I convinced myself that Jay Williams would make a historical impact on the NBA (when really, the only thing he made a historical impact on was a utility pole. Ooooohhh…Too soon?).

But, every time I convinced myself that the next player in the long line of disappointing draft picks would be great, I had a nagging sense of doubt. I talked myself into it, but I didn’t truly believe.

Until now.

Now, I’m all in. No doubt about it. 100%.

Derrick Rose is great. The only question left is how great.

I’d stop and think about it, but I’m too busy moaning in pleasure, praying to my deity of choice, and, of course, thinking about how much I’d pay for a lightly toasted ham and turkey with swiss.

[Author's Note: In a failing of epic proportions, I wrote a tribute article to my favorite basketball player (Derrick Rose) and misspelled his name (Derek Rose). Needless to say, I have since corrected the error (and reexamined my practice of publishing articles at 1 AM). Kudos to JBor Kolsky for setting me straight.

And here I thought losing to my wife in the JBorhood March Madness Extravaganza would be my most embarrassing April mishap.]

Playoff Preview

Sadly, I’ve been so busy with a number of outside projects that most of the opening round series will have played three games by the time I post my predictions. On the plus side, I might actually get a few predictions right this year.

First Round

Eastern Conference

Cleveland Lebrons over Detroit Pistons

Ever since MJ retired in 98 (That’s right. 98. I don’t want to hear any nonsense about Washington. That never happened. You hear me? NEVER. HAPPENED.), basketball pundits have been dying to anoint players “the-next-Michael-Jordan”. Thus far, Kobe Bryant has come the closest, but even he hasn’t had the ability to single-handedly strap a team on his back and win a championship like Jordan did in 98 when Pippen was hobbled by a sore back, Rodman was one line of coke away from stripping naked at halftime in the playoffs and pissing all over the court, Kukoc had gained approximately 75 pounds from gorging himself on Big Macs after leaving Croatia, and the Bulls starting Center was Luc “a poor man’s Bill Wennington” Longley. This year, LeBron has a chance to step out from under the shadow of MJ, strap a scrappy, but largely untalented Cleveland team to his freakishly large back and put his own stamp on the league. First stop, Detroit. Next, the world.

LeBrons in 4

Heat over Hawks

I have to be honest: I can only name four players in this entire series: Dwanye Wade, Michael Beasley, Josh Smith, and Al Horford. When in doubt, might as well hitch my wagon to the superstar.

Heat in 6

Magic over Sixers

The Magic’s best player is Dwight Howard and the Sixers best player is Andre Igoudala. If your best player’s name is Igoudala, you have problems.

Magic in 7

Celtics over Bulls

Before this series started, I would have said Celtics in 4 or 5. Now, I’m not so sure. Without KG, the Celtics are vulnerable and the Bulls are young enough and dumb enough to think they have a chance. I think the Bulls put up a valiant effort and the series goes 7 games, but I just don’t see the Bulls winning Game 7 in the Boston Garden.

Celtics in 7

Western Conference

Lakers over Jazz

The most amazing development in Kobe’s game as he’s gotten older is deference. He’s finally learned to trust his teammates (frankly, I’m not sure I could blame him for not trusting his teammates before when the team’s Point Guard was named Smush, but I digress…), and the Lakers have taken their game to another level. Pau Gasol is a perfect big man for Phil Jackson’s triangle offense and when they stay focused the Lakers look unstoppable.

I’ll go out on a limb and say the Jazz win one, maybe Game 3, on a Deron Williams buzzer beater. (Before you get impressed, check the posting date of this article.)

Lakers in 5

Rockets over Trail Blazers

Remember how I said that you know greatness when you see it? Well… I hate to break this to Blazers fans, but Greg Oden isn’t great. He’s a decent rebounder and an average defender who moves awkwardly and can’t stay out of foul trouble. Meanwhile, Kevin Durant is on his way to becoming the league’s most dominant scorer. Sorry Portland, but Oden is the second coming of Sam Bowie.

Maybe it’s because I’m still bitter that the Bulls drafted Tyrus Thomas over Brandon Roy, but the Trailblazers do not excite me.

Rockets in 6

Dallas over San Antonio

On the subject of bad news, I hate to break this to Spurs fans, but your run as an elite NBA franchise is over. After playing over 1000 games and solidifying himself as possibly the best power forward of all-time, wear and tear have finally caught up to Tim Duncan. If Manu and Parker were healthy, the Spurs might have battled their way to one last title this year, but after Manu went down, the Spurs decade long run atop the NBA finally came to an end.

At least Spurs fans have four championship blankets in which to cry themselves to sleep.

Dallas in 6

Denver over New Orleans

Chris Paul is incredible (dare I say, great), but he’s a one man show. Plus, the Hornets quit on coach Byron Scott about a year ago.

Denver in 5

I’ll post my second round predictions next week, maybe, if we’re lucky, before three games have passed in each series.

Holy ****! The Chicago Bears have a starting quarterback!

I was totally prepared to write a 2009 Major League Baseball Season Preview last Thursday, when the Bears dropped a bomb on my world. After 60 years of offensive ineptitude, the Bears finally stopped ignoring the most important position in football and traded for a twenty five year old franchise quarterback in a moment that was like my Birthday, Christmas, and the first time I got laid all rolled into one. (To be fair, the first time I got laid was a little uncomfortable and awkward for all involved, but it was still a great day.)

I tried to write a celebratory article, however, my mind was trapped in a football themed “Being John Malkovich” sequel, “Being Jay Cutler”, and the only thing I could say was “Jay Cutler”. Here’s the introduction to my first draft:

JAY CUTLER!!!!

Jay Cutler, Jay Cutlerjay Cutler. Jay Cutler! Jay cut lerJaycu tler JayCut ler, Jay!

Jay.

Cutler.

JAY CUTLERJAYCUTLERJAYCUTLER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(The article went on like this for 47 pages, culminating in seven straight pages of exclamation points. Like I said, I was fairly excited.)

When I regained my grip on reality, I got out of the ditch, washed off the blue and orange body paint, put on some clothes, apologized to Kahala Mall security, and started to come to terms with the fact that life as a Bears fan would never be the same. You see, Chicago sports fans accept a few unassailable facts:

• The White Sox are irrelevant.
• The Cubs always lose.
• The Bears never have a quarterback.

These things are not up for debate. They just are. Ask any Bears fan to tell you the last great Bears quarterback and they’ll almost invariably say, “Sid Luckman”. (Sorry, Jim McMahon fans. McMahon was a great character, a fabulous leader, and a bad ass mofo, but not a great quarterback. Sadly, the NFL does not award points due to one’s ability to rock a headband or don a sweet pair of shades.) But who the hell is Sid Luckman? Did anyone ever see Sid Luckman play? Did he really exist? For all I know, Sid Luckman is someone a couple drunk Bears fans made up at a bar one night after getting sick of the incessant teasing from Packer fans.

Packers Fan: “The Bears suck! They’ve never had a great quarterback and they never will!”

Drunken Bears Fan #1: “Oh, yeah? What about Sid Luckman???”

Drunken Bears Fan #2: “Sid Who?”

Drunken Bears Fan #1 (under his breath): “Shut up, dude. Just play along.”

Drunken Bears Fan #2: “Oh, Yeah! Sid Luckman is the greatest quarterback who ever lived!!! He could throw the ball 200 yards, cure cancer, and blow up sheep with mind bullets. If he were alive right now, he’d beat you to death with your own hands and distill Single Malt Scotch from your liver.”

Packers Fan: “Wow. I wish I was a Bears fan.”

Drunken Bears Fan #1: “At least you’re not a Lions fan.”

(Hearty laughter is shared by all.)

According to Sid Luckman’s Wikipedia page, which features a photo that looks like someone pasted Marlon Brando’s face on a football player’s body, Luckman retired in 1950. That means the Bears played without a legitimate starter at the game’s most important position for over 50 years!
During that time, Bears fans had to endure:

• Cade McNown, who was about 4 feet tall.
• Jim Miller, whose best attribute was his ability to grow a really sweet beard.
• Henry Burris, who, I kid you not, threw the ball with his eyes closed.
• Erik Kramer, who spells his name with a ‘k’ like a sissy girl, which tells you everything you need to know.
• Chad Hutchinson, who I truly believe came to Chicago because the coaching staff told him he could surf on Lake Michigan.
• Rex Grossman, about whom enough has been said.
• Craig Krenzel, whose GPA was approximately equal to his quarterback rating.
• Mike Tomczak, whose game was, comically, worse than his name.
• Peter Tom Willis, who has half as many names (three) as touchdowns thrown (six).
• Jonathan Quinn, whose only discernible skill was launching the ball 15 feet over a receiver’s head.

(And that’s just who I can remember off the top of my head…)

I’d say that Bears quarterbacks set offensive football back 50 years. But, apparently 50 years ago, the Bears had someone that could actually run an offense.

The sad fact is that I’ve never cheered for a good Bears quarterback in my entire life.
Until now…

Now, everything has changed. Rather than talking myself into the Kyle Orton era and championing the subtle sexiness of the neck beard, (Editor’s note: If you doubt the chick repelling power of the neck beard just threaten to grow one the next time you’re hanging around that trick you can’t seem to get rid of…problem solved.) I get to watch Jay Cutler fire 30-yard strikes to Devin Hester with his laser rocket arm. And all the Bears had to give up were two first round draft picks (2009, 2010), a third round draft pick (2009), and a Quarterback whose deep ball pales in comparison to his neck beard (Editor’s note: ha-ha, he said deep ball). (In all fairness, most things pale in comparison to his neck beard.)

Like any trade, certain pundits (read: morons) say the Bears “paid a high price” for Culter or “gave up too much” for Cutler, but that idea is, frankly, hilarious. Jay Cutler is a 25 year old franchise quarterback, coming off of a Pro-Bowl season. Players like that aren’t traded for draft picks. Players like that aren’t traded at all. If the Bears called the Broncos and offered two first round picks and a third round pick for Cutler a month ago, they would have heard five minutes of unabated laughter. Now, the only laughter you hear is coming from Chicago.

The Bears gave up two first round picks?

So. What.

Let’s review the Bears first round selections under current General Manager, Jerry Angelo.

2001 – David Terrell, WR, Michigan (Toss up whether he was a bigger bust or asshole.)

2002 – Marc Colombo, OT, Boston College (Started ten games before suffering a season ending injury, after which he started only two games for the Bears.)

2003 – Alex Haynes, DE, Penn State & Rex Grossman, QB, Florida (Or, as I like to call it, 2Busts 1Year.)

2004 – Tommie Harris, DT, Oklahoma (A legitimate All-Pro, who is now a broken shell of his former self after suffering a knee injury in 2006.)

2005 – Cedric Benson, RB, Texas (The heir apparent to Ricky Williams in every possible way.)

2006 – No pick (Hey, if you don’t pick, you can’t screw it up.)

2007 – Greg Olsen, TE, Miami (A solid offensive contributor.)

2008 – Chris Williams, OT, Vanderbilt (Injured before playing any games in 2008.)

To recap, that’s one Pro Bowl player, one legitimate offensive starter, and six abject failures in eight years. So, thank you very much, Denver. Enjoy the draft picks.

But I’m not done. In fact, I’m just getting started.

Let’s imagine, for argument’s sake, that Denver’s rookie General Manager, Brian Xanders, whose first move on the job was hiring a 32 year old head coach who immediately fired the offensive coordinator and alienated the Pro Bowl Quarterback from the NFL’s second ranked offense, might do a better job evaluating talent then the Bears. According to reports, Xanders is considering trading the Broncos and Bears 2009 first round picks to move up and select USC Quarterback Mark Sanchez.

Now, we can safely assume that the Broncos 2009 first round pick is worth more than the Bears 2010 first round pick. In fact, we can probably assume that it’s worth more than the Bears 2010 first round pick and 2009 third round pick combined.

What does this mean?

It means the Broncos are considering trading more for Mark Sanchez than they received for Jay Cutler.

Game. Set. Match.

Thanks for playing, Denver. Write if you find work.

So while the Broncos begin the search for the successor to the successor to John Elway, the Bears begin to learn what they’ve been missing all these years.

I suppose in a town that hasn’t won a World Series for 108 years, 50 years can be considered a victory.