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?

Straight Outta Compton: Afflalo does UCLA proud

Nothing has ever stood about Arron Afflalo, short for maybe his name. As a shooting guard, he’s hard-nosed, gritty and possesses a smooth jumper—yet he never leaves you with your mouth agape the way that other players do.

He slashes to the basket like an acrobat, nails three pointers without a conscious and locks down offensive stars, yet he’s never been the center of attention.

Even being the UCLA fan that I am, Afflalo has never been my particularly favorite player: in recent years, those honors probably go to “The Prince” Luc Richard Mbah a Moute and Jordan Farmar. He’s just not the kind of guy that people necessarily gravitate toward.

Sure, I recognize how important he has been in UCLA basketball’s immense success over the last few years. But for some reason, he’s still easy to ignore.

Well, screw all the haters, including me.

Barely any draft predictions had Afflalo going in the first round, and I personally thought he’d drop deep into the second round.

But the Pistons knew better. They picked up the perfect hard-nosed player for their system—there really isn’t a better fit for either party. I couldn’t be happier for Arron. I would have liked to see him return for his senior season with UCLA, teaming with Darren Collison, Josh Shipp and Kevin Love to bring home banner No. 12 to the Bruins, but he made a professional decision. He did what he had to do.

You could argue that even now, despite his first round selection, Afflalo still doesn’t stand out in any remarkable way. And you might be right.

But you know what? He’s got a guaranteed contract, a spot on the Detroit Pistons and a bright career ahead of him. Rock on, AA. You've always had the class, now you got the money to match.

A Tale of Two Schools

Posted June 21, 2007

I have always seen the world from a dialectic point of view—a struggle between the forces of good and evil, the strong and the weak, the haves and the have-nots. And forget Karl Marx. I’ve had that take on life since I was five years old.

To me, the National League stood for everything that was good and great in the world while the American League and their nasty tactics embodied all that was wrong. Coke was an emblem of what it meant to be American, while Pepsi was little more than a good-for-nothing wannabe brand.

And, growing up in Los Angeles, UCLA was naturally the quintessence of all good in the world, while USC was—well, USC.

In the next four hundred words or so, I’m going to explain exactly why USC is the bourgeoisie, why Tommy the Trojan is a plague to society and why the University of Southern California stands for everything that is wrong in the world.

Note: the rest of this isn’t meant to be taken seriously. This is not a pissing contest of any sort between UCLA and USC. Please don’t be offended—unless you go to USC, of course (just kidding, I swear).

So here it goes: the Manifesto of Los Angeles, a city eternally divided by the universal forces of good and evil.

The following are proof of why UCLA stands for all that is good and great in the world, while USC is the epitome of all that isn’t:

1) UCLA is a public school.

It represents the citizens of California. Haven’t you seen that one inspiring commercial where people of assorted ethnicities and backgrounds talk about how UCLA is THEIR school?

USC has always been, and will always be for the Republican, tax-evading private-school assholes that pervade Orange Grove Blvd. in Pasadena.

Fucking Republicans.

2) The colors.

Both the Bruins and Trojans share their own hues of gold, but they deviate in their other colors: UCLA wears a beautiful baby blue while USC dons the menacing “cardinal.”

UCLA’s blue is soothing and pleasing to the eyes. Blue can stand for the sky, the ocean, or any of the other wonderful delights that nature has to offer.

Red (I refuse to associate USC’s colors with the mascot of my very own school, Stanford) is emblematic of blood, death and the devil. If you had to pick one color to embody the most evil and ugly things in the world, you’d choose red in a heartbeat. Coincidence? I think not.

3) The Figureheads.

The most recognizable representative of UCLA—among many other distinguished figures and heroes—is Jackie Robinson.

And who would USC’s most recognizable figure be? O.J. Simpson.

I’ll leave it at that.

4) The Mascots.

Joe Bruin is a cuddly, upstanding mascot who exudes character with every step he takes. Tommy the Trojan is a prehistoric, wannabe macho man with a plastic sword stuck up his ass. Enough said.

5) Location.

UCLA is located in the hip and cultured milieu of Westwood. Take a walk down the street and you might see a star or two.

USC is located in South Central. Take a walk down the street and you’re likely to either a) get shot, b) witness a drug deal or c) get shot while witnessing a drug deal.

6) Education/Academics.

This might be a touchy subject for some, so I won’t go into detail in trying to belittle USC or praise UCLA.

I’ll let the facts speak. UCLA’s better.

7) December 2, 2006.

13-9, UCLA.

Money

I was lying in bed last night when an interesting thought came to me--when it comes to money, there are only two kinds of people in the world:

1) those who see money as strictly utilitarian, and 2) those who view money as having inherent value in itself (i.e. just having money for the sake of having money is an asset).

I think that those in the first group are generally more happy, relaxed, and take life as it comes. The second group often comprises what our society defines as success, but I'd rather enjoy my life as a fleeting, meaningful and beautiful experience as opposed to a rat race to the ten million dollar mark.

The first group is where I strive to be, and I think (or at least hope) that's where I'm headed. Just a year ago, I was probably the greediest person I've known. I didn't want money just to buy stuff, support myself or take trips--I wanted money for the sake of having it. But now, I realize, that, well, money is no more than a means to an end. It's a great thing, but getting too caught up in accumulating your net worth or liquid assets soon becomes sickening.

I know for a fact that my first year at Stanford elicited this change in me.

Who knows? Maybe by the time I graduate I will have gone from a money-thirsty Wall Street wannabe to a wandering journeyman. I guess we'll just have to see.