F U, Tim Donaghy

“This is rigged,” I said to my couch bum friends, disgusted but merely joking after witnessing questionable calls and dubious administrative decisions throughout this year’s NBA playoffs.

Tim Donaghy

After a controversial call may have won the Miami Heat the title in ’06, I had the right to be skeptical. And this year’s playoffs didn’t do the league any more credit, either; the Suns were unnecessarily forced to play without Amare Stoudemire and Boris Diaw in a Game Five that would decide the series and other dubious calls abounded (a ridiculous amount of flop calls and LeBron James’ three-point shot to tie Game Three of the Finals when he was clearly fouled, just to name a few).

Although I joked, I never actually thought the League was rigged. It was just a joke. Tongue-in-cheek. Not meant to be serious.

Oops.

With the recent development that NBA referee--now former NBA referee--Tim Donaghy was involved in an organized gambling ring, my worst nightmare had finally come true.

Although much is left to be discovered, it is suspected that Donaghy bet on games that he was officiating. It’s one thing to compromise a sport’s integrity in the first place; it’s a whole other thing to be betting on the very games that you’re officiating.

Now ubiquitous in the world of sports (let’s not let Michael Vick off of the hook just yet), the FBI is currently conducting its investigation into exactly what happened.

As NBA Commissioner David Stern suggested on Tuesday, Donaghy may just be a “rogue” who needed to cover his gambling debts and made a bad decision. But if it is revealed that there were other referees or even NBA officials involved in the scandal, then you better believe that the shit’s going to the fan. The possible ramifications are mind-blowing to the point that I don’t even want to think about it. And even if it is true that the Donaghy scandal was an isolated incident, the damage may already be done.

Because this isn’t the only incident. Donaghy might be the only one, or he might not be. Regardless, though, these kind of dysfunctional and concerning symptoms are not “rogue” to the League in recent years.

From the ugly brawl in Detroit to horrible calls in the playoffs to the controversy over the new dress code, Stern and the NBA have been tainting what I know to be the greatest game on earth.

I was outraged after Stoudemire and Diaw were suspended for Game Five, a horrible decision that ruined one of the best playoff series in decades. And it’s not exactly pleasing to hear that an NBA referee was betting on the very games he was officiating. As a fan of the game, I can only cringe. More than any sport, the NBA features world-class athletes yet a mediocre product. It’s frustrating to watch on so many levels, and the Donaghy debacle may be the last straw for a lot of avid basketball fans like myself.

Because you know why? We’ve got something better.

It starts on October 15th around college campuses every year, a feeding frenzy and roller coaster of emotion and excitement that doesn’t end until the beginning of April. It takes its way from a tiny gym in Maui for a preseason invitational tournament to the Georgia Dome in Atlanta for the Final Four.

College basketball is what I’m talking about, and for years it’s dwarfed the NBA in importance on my radar. Sure, the best athletes in the world might be in the League, but I’m sick and tired of watching a slow, unexciting and now corrupt game.

As a basketball guy, it’s depressing to see all this happening with my favorite sport. But at least I have my escape while David Stern and all the bureaucratic higher-ups can sift through this mess.

As for me? I‘m trying to fight off the sweltering July heat, but March feels like its right around the corner.

He might be fat, but he still kicks ass

July 22, 2007

With the constant influx of crap that we are exposed to on the television, the radio and in the movies, it’s easy to be predisposed against almost anything that you hear or watch.

For example, if anything is played on 102.7 KIIS FM, I generally disregard any of its artistic and musical qualities and immediately label it as crap. It’s a pretty snobby and pretentious thing to do, but most of the time it’s warranted.

So naturally, after hearing Sean Kingston’s “Beautiful Girls” for the first few times, I thought nothing of it.

A sample of “Stand by me?” Give me a break.

“You’ll have me suicidal.” Bullshit. Man up and be true to your lyric.

After a while, though, something happened. Unlike most shitty pop and other junk that masquerades itself as music, his infectious Rastafarian voice started to grow on me. After his latest single, “Me Love,” I knew that I had found my newest guilty pleasure: Sean Kingston.

His music is just so full of energy, vibrance and--well, fun. There isn’t a single ounce of inhibition or reservation. For some reason, I get an almost transcendent vibe (I am not being sarcastic, I swear to God) from him in the pure energy and joy that he brings. I get the feeling that there’s something inherently good about him as a human being--that might sound ridiculous, but it's something that just know after hearing one of his songs (I later read that he refuses to cuss in his music, which is respectable). A testament to this, both of singles are written about supposedly sad things, yet you can’t help put a smile on your face when his nasal voice hits the airwaves. He’s just being himself, having a good time and doing what he truly loves: making music. And as crazy as it may sound, people like that are often hard to find in any form of entertainment today.

Sure, his lyrics aren’t on the level of The Beatles or Pink Floyd, but he’s 17 freakin’ years old. I think some of the sillier lyrics give even more credence to him, if anything: there’s almost a certain charm to them. And he'll obviously mature as a human being and an artist as time goes on.

His producer, J.R. Rotem deserves a huge amount of the credit, too. Kingston’s album is coming out on July 31st, and it’ll be the first album I’ve bought in almost a year. I haven’t been this pumped about a musical artist in a long time--I’m not quite sure why, but it’s kinda cool.

"As an artist, my whole goal is to make powerful and classic music," Sean divulges. "I want everyone to feel me and understand where I'm from and that's what this album will do. The music is all about the authentic Sean Kingston vibe."

RESPEK

To all the Bonds haters out there

July 15, 2007

Open your eyes.

You, the Cincinatti Reds fan who openly encourages his son to boo one of the greatest athletes of our time.

You, the overly righteous sportswriter who criticizes and ostracizes the very man he was praising just years ago.

You, the major league player who knows very well just how juiced-up today’s game is, yet decides to place all of his misguided anger on an outcast of a player--a player who might be the best of all time.

You, the commissioner who turned a blind eye to the juiced era during the 90’s and into the first half of this decade.

But most of all, you. Yes, you. If you watch baseball, then there’s a good chance I’m talking to you. You, the fan who digs the long ball, the fan who cried tears of joy when McGwire and Sosa left Roger Maris in the dust and the fan who stood in awe at Barry’s 73 home runs during the 2001 campaign. You’re the very same hypocrite in the stands now, trying to demean one of the greatest players of all time by waving a silly homemade asterisk.

Open your eyes, all of you.

With Bonds just a few homers shy of breaking Hank Aaron’s all-time home run record, mixed feelings and even those of anger have abounded around the country. Many think that Bonds’ does not “deserve” to break the record. He’s a cheater, they say.

Fans around the country, regardless of their location and team affiliation (unless that would be San Francisco) have rallied around in their disdain and hatred for Bonds. Yeah, he probably did cheat. The evidence in the Game of Shadows is convincing and leaves readers with many of their suspicions confirmed. And yes, it’s physically evident to the naked eye that Bonds gained a significant (and suspicious) amount of weight as his career progressed.

But what about the other guys?

What about guys like Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire, Rafael Palmeiro and Jason Giambi? They were all heroes to fans, and for some reason, they still are. Sosa has been proven to be an even bigger cheater than Bonds--who can forget the corked bat incident in 2003? Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa were heroes to you, yet Barry Bonds is a menace and a cheater. Something’s missing here.

Some of these guys may have even lied during grand jury testimonial, yet they still are seen in relative favor. They’re just as big cheaters as Bonds--if not bigger--yet baseball has turned a blind eye to their situations.

Because after all, Bonds isn’t the real culprit in this whole ordeal.

It’s you, Bud Selig. You’ve promoted a juiced game and reveled in the profits of a juiced product. And now, caught up in the gusts of a media storm and feelings of self-righteousness, you threaten to not even show up to one of the games’ most historic moments.

It’s you, Curt Schilling. You’ve competed in a juiced game for years and know it. You may have not been using steroids yourself, but you’re definitely aware of how it affects the game. Yet you still have the immature and pathological urge to call attention to yourself by blasting Bonds over the radio.

It’s you, the media who did its best to portray Bonds as a darling during his run in 2001 and now ostracizes him at every possible turn.

It’s you, the fan who willingly turned a blind eye to steroids back when Sammy and Mark were making history. But now that Barry’s doing it, it’s a threat to your morals, your children and the sanctity of baseball.

It’s all of us. We all caused this mess, yet in nearly biblical fashion, all of the fame is going on to one man’s shoulders.

And if you ask me, I’m sick of it. I’m sick of hearing people irrationally demean Bonds’ career. I’m sick of hearing about steroids. I understand that they’re a part of the game--it’s not something that I don’t relish but I live with it. Nearly every sport is going to have issues with performance-enhancing drugs, but does baseball need to take it to McCarthy-like proportions?

Because that’s all this really is. A modern-day witch hunt directed at one of the games’ best players of all time--whether or not he cheated and whether or not he holds both home run records. The American mob mentality at its finest.

Many fans have already dismissed Bonds before he even breaks the record. Never has such apathy been seen for the breaking of a record so hallowed and sacred.

As for me? I’m going to watch Bonds break the record. And I’m going to enjoy it. I’m going to appreciate his record for what it is--a remarkable accomplishment in a period of increased power and hitting. It may pale in comparison to the marks of Ruth and Aaron, but it is what it is.

As for the rest of you who don’t plan on watching: you might miss out on history, but just be aware that you‘re the ones who helped make it.

RIP Rocko (August 1994-July 2007)

My dog Rocko died tonight of a tumor in his liver. He was almost 13 years old.

I know that many of you were probably familiar with him and knew just how great of a dog he was. He loved everyone he encountered, and everyone he encountered loved him just as much.
He was playful and always had to be around people--no matter what. He was so eager to be with people that he’d follow us into the bathroom at times. He had an insatiable appetite and started eating Tacos from Taco Bell before the Taco Bell Dog ad campaign. But more than just that, he was loyal and always there for our family.

I still remember going to the middle of nowhere to pick up the runt of the pack. I can still see his little face in the corner, shy and terrified. I remember coming up with names for our new dog on the ride back, and our family finally settling on the choice of ‘Rocko.’ I’ll remember lying in bed with him just a few years ago, knowing that I wouldn’t ever find a more loyal and loving dog.

My mom, my dad and I were all present when he died. He died peacefully and with as little pain as possible. It’s a shock that this all happened so fast--just a few weeks ago he was still running around and being his usual self. It’s hard, but we know that he had a great life. The memories are endless. I know that years from now I’ll be able to sit back and smile just thinking about all the wonderful times we had with him.

We’re going to miss you, Rocky. Rest in peace.

One of the Most Happy Moments of My Life

Posted July 10, 2007

Reed and I settled down under a welcoming tree, lying awestruck in its color.

A draft of wind touched the neon green leaves and everything started to come together. The leaves were dancing in the wind, changing colors from bright green to yellow and back to green again. I lied under the tree in an absurd bliss and ecstasy--and then I started to think about my life.

A blur of visions, memories, places and people began to overwhelm me.

I saw myself as a four year old again, blowing out birthday candles in my backward while my doting parents stood behind me with faces of joy and love.

I saw my dog Rocko for the first time again. We were at the dog owners’ house; other people were also there to buy puppies. I remember how he was huddled in the corner--the runt of the pack, as they say--afraid to move the slightest ear or paw. His brown and white face showed complete fear and anxiety. Who knew that he would turn into the gregarious and sociable dog he became? I thought to myself.

These memories and flashbacks kept coming and going for a few minutes until I finally understood.

I understood that life is hardly concrete; if anything, the only thing we have as human entities is a massively eclectic volume of memories, feelings and thoughts that we can both subjectively and objectively draw back on. At this point, it hit me that life was nothing more than exactly what I was experiencing.

Life is a trip. A trip that travels to every last particle of the universe--yet ultimately nowhere--at the same time.

I couldn’t contain myself after coming to this realization.

“Reed,” I said.

Reed looked over. I could tell from the look in his eyes that he must have been experiencing the exact same thing as me. If it wasn’t the exact same thing, then it was pretty damn close.

He took a second to compose himself. He always did that.

“What?”

“Life is such a trip. When I think about it, the only actual thing I actually have is a random assortment of memories. How do I even know they’re real? How do I even know that I’m alive?

“You’re right, Jack,” he said. “Life is a trip. But I’m starting to think it’s more than just that.”

The leaves wouldn’t stop changing colors, but I made sure to keep my attention.

“Life is a dream.”

It was at that moment when I just lost it. With a giddy smile on my face, it was when I finally understood the fleeting and ethereal essence of life and all of its wonders. It was when I realized that life’s a bitch and then you die, but that it’s so much more than that. And it was at that moment when I finally knew that I loved my life and that I wouldn’t trade it for a thing in the world.

Not you too, ESPN...

Posted July 3, 2007

Like any true sports fan, I love ESPN.

Like any sane 19-year old male, I grew up on Sportscenter. Keith Olberman, Dan Patrick and Stuart Scott were just as much of my idols as were the athletes they reported on.

Over the years, ESPN has developed its product with the broad changes in communication. They created ESPN: The Magazine and ESPN.com, which happens to be my home page.

Regardless of the medium, however, the product has always been reliable, complete and entertaining. There’s a reason why ESPN is the world-wide leader in sports, the way that they claim.

Which is why I was so abhorred at the recent interactive series Who's Now: Determine the Ultimate Sports Star. Infusing the worlds of pop culture and sports even more, the ESPN mini-series intends to determine who the hottest athlete in America is today.

The judging standards are vague and ambiguous—in watching the inaugural episode on a recent of edition of Sportscenter, considerations such as who showed up at whose party and who had made headlines in the news recently were at the center of the discussion.

A 32-person tournament composed of sports stars was drawn up, and in the process, committing blasphemy toward the NCAA Tournament with mentions of 1 vs. 8 match-ups and 4 vs. 5 battles.

For one reason or another, some executives thought that it would be cool to literally have a popularity contest between the likes of Tiger Woods and Matt Leinart, Kobe Bryant and Ronaldinho and Maria Sharapova and Vince Young.

It sounds kind of cool on paper, but come on. Does anyone actually care?

But that’s not even the worst part. ESPN hired many of its respected journalists and writers such as Michael Smith, Michael Wilbon and Kirk Herbstreit (well, not him so much) to debate the question that people have pondered for ages: Who’s hotter? Reggie Bush or Danica Patrick?

Please excuse me while I go puke.

And I understand that this kind of stuff is commonplace in the 21^st century. With shows like Dancing With The Stars and The Bachelor making up some of the “best” that television has to offer, this recent ESPN series doesn’t seem all that bad.

The digital revolution has made means of communication more accessible and ready. As a result, the several realms of pop culture have a tendency to converge.

Heck, even Sports Illustrated, the king of sports writing since the beginning of time, has sections entitled Who’s Hot, Who’s Not and athlete factoids gauging their pop culture tastes.

But something needs to change. If we don’t stop stunts like this now, Shaquille O’Neal will be appearing in Avril Lavigne music videos and Matt Leinart will be dating Paris Hilton (oh, wait).

We need to stop this. Because unlike many other forms of entertainment, sports have never completely relied on pop culture and the media. The world of sports doesn’t need to associate itself on a basis of popularity and “hotness”—and shouldn’t.

A football game can captivate millions of people with its own raw energy and sheer human emotion. A walk-off home run will cause several thousands to rise to their feet not because the first baseman was dating Lindsay Lohan, but because walk-off home runs are probably the best thing since sliced bread. A buzzer beater can excite the masses not because of its implications on a cultural level, but because buzzer beaters appeal to some of the simplest human instincts: surprise and elation.

I understand that it’s inevitable for the worlds of pop culture and sports to collide—but media outlets like ESPN don’t need to force it upon the fans with a joke of a series called Who’s Now. It’s not necessary. And I’m pretty sure that any sports fan over the age of 8 years old isn’t going to appreciate it.

I’ve been watching ESPN since I was five years old and have rarely, if ever, been disappointed. The company has stood for both excellence and entertainment in the sports media industry since the day it was created.

But after viewing this debacle on Sportcenter a few days ago, the only thought that crossed my mind was: Et tu, Brute?