Inbox Insanity

Many of the handful of people who read this blog know who John Van Vleet is, while a few of you may not. I realize that I'm probably overestimating my readership by describing it by using terms such as "handful" and "few" but they were the best I could come up with, so bear with me here.

John was an intern when I worked in minor league baseball. John lived on the outfield berm in a tent for the entirety of the minor league baseball season. When you consider that this means John lived in a tent in Florida during the summer, this is no small feat. This probably gives you some sense of how nuts John actually is. Though, to be truthful, this nugget does no justice to the overwhelming depths of John's insanity. I don't mean this as an insult towards John in any way. John isn't "unabomber crazy", though we all had our doubts when he moved out to Montana. John's more like the "Hunter S. Thompson genius/completely insane" kind of crazy. How else do you describe somebody who brought things into our lives such as "The Corey Dillon Song" (You can't stop Corey Dillon. Corey Dillon knows that you're comin'!...to be sung while running the ball with Dillon during Madden), "The Coke Penguin" and of course the classic Van Halen cover "Right Meow" (with accompanying illustration)? A smarter more learned man may have a better way to describe someone like John (sexual predator?). However, I, am not that man, so I'll just stick with genius level insane.

What's the point of all this? There isn't one really, other than to introduce the author of the short story that apeared in my inbox this morning. A short story that actually made me glad that I came into work today. Though to be truthful, that feeling wore off pretty quickly. Anyway, without further ado I present to you the second entry to John's new blog, Dikembe Mutombo, M.D.:

Episode 2- Operation: Operation


Dikembe sits at his desk, gigantic angular head in his gigantic sprawling hands, listening to a mixed CD of Cyndi Lauper's greatest hits and staring at the small brown picture frame to his left. The room is dark except for the small lamp behind the frame, and through his fingers, Dikembe stares at the image captured beneath the pane of dusty glass, mingling with the shadows and darkness of the room.

In the photo, two young boys, their rib cages covered by only a thin layer of fly-bitten skin, sit with their legs crossed, hovering over a red and yellow board game. One is smiling, the other holding a pair of tweezers.

"Hey, you set the time for the Alderman surgery?" Dr. Harris says, walking briskly into the room, breaking the silence that blanketed the office. "And why the hell is it so dark in here?"

Surprised by the intrusion and the question, Dikembe glances up
quickly and mutters, "You say Yusef?" Harris balks, raises his eyebrows and says, "Lay off the blow, Deke. I asked if you set the date for the Alderman surgery."

"Alderman, early morning," Mutombo says. "Early."

A takeout box of tempura chicken sits uneaten on the floor, the smell of Chinese food mixes with the sterile, bleach smell of the hospital. "It smells like someone boiled a bunch of your dirty underwear," Harris says. "Skidmarks and all."

Walking around the desk, Harris nearly steps on the white styrofaom box and
asks, "You gonna eat this chicken?"

"No hungry."

"Deke, you seriously look like hell," Harris says. "What's going on?"

Mutombo slams down the picture frame, looking up quickly at his colleague.
"Get out," he says. "And take damn tempura chicken with you."

Harris reaches down, spills some rice on the floor as he grabs the
chicken, and walks out silently, shutting the door behind him. Dikembe
puts his head on his arms, turns off the light, and lets out a deep breath.

Just outside the office, Harris runs into Sandy, who is leaving for the night.

"Sandy, do you know anything about someone named Yusef?" he asks. "I think Deke is going crazy."

"He mentioned Yusef?" she asks hurriedly. "What did he say?"

"Nothing in particular. I asked if he had set the time for a surgery, and he asked me about Yusef."

Sandy rubs her hands together nervously, her dark brown eyes darting around the hallway. "Yusef was..."

Mutombo's door opens and his massive body lumbers out, his head ducking under the frame as he steps into the hallway.

"...My brother."

"I didn't know you had a brother, Deke," Harris says apologetically.

"He die as kid," Mutombo says softly. "We play game
of Operation all the time in village. Listen to Cyndi. Beside kill wildabeasts, our only fun."

Harris and Sandy look at Mutombo's weathered face as he speaks, a three-day growth of facial hair interrupting his leathery skin.

"One day, all Yusef have left Charley Horse to win," he says. "We play with guy who live in shanty next to ours. Yusef just take out Water on Knee and guy get mad, he want win. Yusef take out Charley Horse and yells 'Victory!' Guy push him over, take Charley Horse and shove it in his mouth. Yusef start choke. I try to help him, try to save him, but fail. Yusef die in my
arms, make me want to become doctor. Me have to go."

Sandy and Harris watch as Dikembe walks down the hallway and out the door. They trade glances and Sandy begins to walk away.

"Wait! You knew about Yusef? Harris says. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She turns, looks to the floor and says "It wasn't my place. It wasn't my place."

Two blocks away from the hospital, Mutombo's jet blackVolkswagen Passat pulls into the parking lot of his favorite bar. He chugs the last bit of the pint of rum he stashes in his glove compartment and walks to the door. Swinging open the large, wooden door, Dikembewalks in to his home away from home and yells his customary greeting.

"Who wants to sex Mutombo tonight?"

Puking, grabbing boobs, ruptured tendons...has it really been ten years?

Apparently the people who read my blog don’t enjoy “diss tracks” nearly as much as I do. That’s really not that surprising when you consider that I have an unnatural love for that sub-genre of music. It’s of little importance anyway since soon I’ll be back to spewing sports-related nonsense on a regular basis. By soon, of course, I mean in a couple of weeks when college football comes back home and the pennant races begin to really heat up. With the current dry spell in the sporting landscape (there is NOTHING to watch on the weekends) it ended up being perfect timing that my high schools class’ ten year reunion was this past weekend. To be honest with you, I wasn’t really looking forward to my reunion. In fact, if I wasn’t currently dating a girl whom also happened to graduate in the same class there’d be no virtually no chance that I would’ve even considered attending. It’s not that I’m too good for my former classmates (well, actually it is). Rather, this reticence to attend stems from the fact that I live in the town where I went to high school and see a large percentage of my graduating (or non-graduating depending on the person) class on a fairly regular basis. Ultimately though, the idea of my girlfriend holding my refusal to attend this event over my head for the next 6-12 months was not appealing to me and eventually led to my agreement to attend said festivities.

I’ve got to admit that I’m glad my girlfriend made me participate. Friday night was an informal gathering of our class at a local bar that serves as a reunion place of sorts over the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. Most towns have places like these where locals congregate when home from college and such. I figured this event would end up being somewhat sparsely attended and didn’t arrive until sometime shortly after 11. By this time the bar was absolutely jammed, primarily with members of my class. For the next three hours I chatted with a ton of people that I hadn’t seen in some time while still managing to be fairly anti-social (read: short, quick conversations with long lost “friends” followed by bad excuses for cutting a conversation short. These excuses usually had to do with alcohol and ended up getting me extremely drunk by night’s end.) I won’t bore you with too many details other than to say that my girlfriend ended the night by falling on her ass in the parking lot as we (and 20-30 other people) made our way to our respective forms of transportation.

Saturday night would be the official reunion. Earlier in the day, a friend of ours had a little barbeque for a small group of people. It was a nice gathering of people with many of our former classmates bringing their kids to show them off. I didn’t bring either of my kids to the bbq because they live in Memphis and don’t really know who their “daddy” is, but that’s a story for another time. Once Saturday night rolled around, it seemed like a night that was destined for a good time. One of my old roommates from grad school was coming into town and we had convinced him to attend the reunion with us. The way we (we meaning “me”) rationalized the whole scenario was that my old roommate (Federico) had actually never graduated high school. Thus, this would be his de facto high school reunion. You see, Federico actually grew up in between Colombia and America and ended up back in Colombia when he was 16. Though he was a junior in America, the Colombian school he attended wanted to make him a freshman. Instead of doing this, Federico’s mom arranged for him to purchase his high school diploma from another school in Colombia. I’ve never seen the actual diploma but it must be pretty good because it’s fooled both the American government as well as the admissions staff at the University of Florida. Fed has used this bogus diploma (along with its attached teacher comments) to join the Marines, become an Embassy guard in both Lima and Rome and (eventually) graduate from Florida. So, with that background in his mind, Fed showed up at my house on Saturday afternoon ready to hit up the reunion. Fed and I then set out to pick up my friends Kurt and Dave for the reunion and eventually headed back to my house to pick up the last member of our crew for the evening, my girlfriend before stopping by my local bar for a beer and a shot to loosen us all up.

We made it to the reunion by a little before 8 and quickly settled in. Fed decided to wear my name tag (with appropriately awful senior picture) and see if he could convince anybody that he was me (no.). The reunion went like most reunions go, I assume. Random conversations amongst people who aren’t likely to interact again for another 10-15 years followed by dinner, more random conversations and, of course, quite a bit of drinking. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of discernable activities at a reunion or the forced nature of it all, but what I do know is that there were an awful lot of drunk people (and fittingly drunk actions) by around 10:30 or so. In order to make this post wrap up a little more efficiently than most of my narrative driven posts, I’ll go over the rest of the evenings/weekends highlights in bullet form:

- Fed and Kurt had water balloons dropped on them by some kids staying at the hotel while they were smoking out on the deck of the hotel bar. Of course, both Kurt and Fed felt the need to enact retribution of their assassins. Going on a tip from somebody else in attendance, Kurt and Fed went to room 708 and proceeded to bang on the door and shout various verbal threats at the occupants of said room. Naturally, the occupants weren’t the offending parties, but a single mother and her child. As you might imagine, Kurt and Fed scared these two half to death and nearly end up getting arrested by the cops.

- A former high school teammate of mine, Phil, groped, not one but, two of our female friends in public. First, while discussing their children and her spouse, Phil reached around and grabbed my friend Becky’s ass. When Becky asked him what the hell he was doing, Phil responded (in full Ron Burgundy mode), “I just want to be around you and your nakedness.” Yes, he really said that. I wish I was joking. Secondly, during a conversation with Kurt’s ex-girlfriend Cindy, Phil reached into Cindy’s shirt and underneath her bra and grabbed her boob. As Cindy recoiled in horror, Phil leaned in to kiss her. When Cindy again recoiled and uttered something in protest, Phil (no more than 6 inches from her face) blurted out, “You’re a bitch! You’re a fucking bitch!!” I guess we should’ve known something was up when Phil was drinking wine straight from the bottle earlier in the evening.

- Later in the night a few of the non-graduates from our class decided to crash. Since I brought a Colombian with no affiliation to the school at all, I decided not to say anything. One of these people was a friend of ours named Damon. Damon is, more accurately, the brother of our friend Hunter. Damon has a drinking problem. Damon has a drug problem. Damon has had both of these “problems” for quite some time. At some point shortly after he showed up, Damon and Kurt were outside on the deck having a smoke. As they were talking Damon began to wobble a bit. At this point, Kurt leaned in to make sure Damon didn’t fall over. It was at this point that Damon lost control of himself and proceeded to wretch all over Kurt. To sum up, Kurt made numerous trips outside to smoke. On two of these trips, Kurt was hit with a water balloon and thrown up upon. Smoking is bad.

- As the night was winding down, Fed came to me with his eyes glassed over, clearly intoxicated. Because I’ve known Fed for many years I knew exactly what the wanted: my keys. When Fed gets drunk to a certain point, he cannot control his desire to sleep. This leads to an awful lot of Fed passing out in cars. He’s passed out in my car more times than I care to count. He does it everywhere, outside bars, parties, baptisms, wherever. The one problem on this evening is that we had already rented a hotel room. I, being the asshole that I am, decided against reminding Fed of this fact and let him go sleep in my car. When he eventually awoke at 4 am in my car, Fed had no idea where anybody was (in our room) and eventually hitchhiked his way home to my house where Erika and I would find him around noon on Sunday.

I eventually got to bed around 4 am. My girlfriend ended up going swimming in the ocean with some friends of her at about 5 am. Amazingly enough, she was not attacked by sharks, and found her way back to our room by 5:30 or so.

All in all it was a pretty enjoyable weekend. That is, until I woke up on Sunday morning.

With all the drinking I was doing I had planned to wake up thinking “Jesus, who hit my head with a ballpeen hammer last night.” Instead, my head felt fine and I awoke thinking, “Fuck. Who shot me in the leg last night?” Somehow, through the night I’d managed to rupture the plantaris tendon in my leg, though I wouldn’t discover this until I’d spent most of my Sunday in the ER. Apparently this tendon is fairly useless and doesn’t even exist in about 10% of humans but also happens to be quite painful when it does actually exist and rupture. I won’t bore you with too many details, other than to provide these links and tell you that I’m on crutches for at least a week and won’t be able to do much (if any) lower body activities (save for physical therapy) for the next month or so. As you might’ve guesses, I’m more than a little bitter about all of this. I’m in the best shape I’ve been in since I was 19 or 20 and play basketball at a local park 5-6 days week. Now, I have to try and not fall apart physically until I can at least begin to start some light running or stationary bike work in a couple of weeks. To say nothing of the city league that I have starting up in a few weeks that it looks like I’ll miss a nice portion of. Just think, none of this shit would’ve happened if I’d have just refused to go to my damn high school reunion. Something to consider when the 20 year mark rolls around.

Here to brighten your day...

There’s a noticeable hop in my step today because today is undoubtedly one of my favorite days of the year. No, its not the beginning of fall practice for my beloved Gators. That was Saturday. Rather, the source of my joy on this Wednesday is the resumption of class for all public schools here in Brevard County. For me there’s really nothing quite like the feeling I get when I see all those little rats, that have mocked me all summer with their aimless wanderings (to and fro…those punks), standing at their bus stops early in the morning. Some might say that deriving this level of satisfaction from a group of people’s collective pain makes me a petty person or, even a jerk. To that I say, “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Since I’m writing today about things that put a hop in my step, I figure I’ll keep the ball rolling.

Most people who know me are aware that I love hip-hop like few other art forms. Within this genre there are any number of sub-categories to choose from. However, no category of song in hip-hop elicits the kind of reaction from me like the well honored hip-hop tradition of the “diss track”. Even if your last concert featured the Kenny Chesney-Manning Brother love triangle belting out twang filled lyrics on stage, I’m pretty sure that the term “diss track” is descriptive enough not to merit further explanation from me. With that in mind, I present to you a breakdown of what I consider to be the world’s greatest diss track: Tupac Shakur’s Hit ‘Em Up

While many diss tracks feature the same composition as most other hip-hop songs (3-4 verses and 2-3 choruses) Hit ‘Em Up is so filled with anger and vitriol that the song seems to bounce from subject to subject with little regard for story telling, or even overall direction. Under normal circumstances this would present a problem. However, it is this scatter brained fury that makes this song so very powerful and engrossing. What follows is my best attempt to break down all the shots and insults encompassed in this 4 minute opus of abhorrence, venom and good old fashioned ill will.

Tupac swings for the fences in the songs first line, firing his first shot across Biggie’s bow by exclaiming “Thats why I fucked your bitch you fat motherfucker.” Well then, I think we all know where this is going. After this, Tupac says that he and his crew are quote “Bad Boy Killers”. The first, but certainly not the last time he will claim to be such. All of this plus some other claims all come before the rapping even begins. Almost a foreword to the novella of hate that is to follow.

Eventually, Tupac begins to rap by shouting, “First off, fuck your bitch and the click you claim”. I like how Pac is itemizing here in the beginning. Kind of his way of letting the listeners know that he’s got a long list of stuff to get to. My mom does this when she calls me with numerous newsworthy items to deliver (sans the gratuitous profanity). Later in the verse, Pac refutes Biggie’s claims of playadom by once again stating that he f’ed Big’s wife and again states that he’d like to shoot all of the Bad Boy crew (I’m keeping a running total of some things here that I’ll get to at the end). As the verse continues, Pac proceeds to call Puffy “weak” and label both Biggie and all of Junior Mafia as “mark ass bitches”. Extra credit to Pac for using the term mark ass bitches…always a crowd pleaser. After this, Pac decides to throw a little venom toward some of Big’s associates, lest they feel left out. It’s at this point that Pac threatens to cut Lil Cease’s “young ass up” and then tells Lil Kim that she shouldn’t “fuck around with real G’s” while intimating that she’s a woman of the night by saying he will “snatch her ugly ass off the streets” and finally, in the interest of rhyming, exclaims “Fuck peace”. Good thing Pac added that nugget, I was beginning to get the wrong impression. Pac ends his first verse by saying that Bad Boy will get “murdered on wax AND killed” (just in case we thought he was saying all this euphemistically I presume) and then promises to peel the respective caps of the Bad Boy crew.

After all of this, Tupac finally makes his way to a chorus. A chorus that’s near perfect as far as I’m concerned. I’ll simply let the words speak for themselves in this instance:

“Grab your glocks when you see Tupac/ Call the cops when you see Tupac (uhh)/ Who shot me, but you punks didn’t finish/ now you about to feel the wrath of a menace/ N*gg# I hit em up.”

It’s at this point that Tupac actually insults the very people with whom he rhymes on this track (The Outlawz) by exclaiming, “Check this out. You motherfuckers know what time it is. I don’t even know why I’m on this track. Ya’ll n*gg#s ain’t even on my level. I’m going to let my little homies ride on you bitch made ass Bad Boy bitches.” I love this little interlude because I always imagine the other rappers sitting in the studio hearing this and feeling a little dissed by Pac (rightfully so). Yet wisely deciding not to say anything that might further enrage the rapper, lest they receive a vicious pistol whipping reminiscent of Kane’s bludgeoning of Chauncey in Menace II Society.

The next verse isn’t much to write home about other than the rappers numerous threats on Biggie, Junior Mafia, and Puffy. If nothing else, it’s impressive in it’s efficiency. Somehow this guy manages to cram 7 death threats into a measly 12 lines of lyrics. Nice work. This verse is followed by the aforementioned “greatest chorus ever”.

Tupac comes back for verse #3, starting the verse off by saying that he and his crew “keep it real as penitentiary steel”. I have no idea what this means but I’ve never been to jail and Tupac had (numerous times) so I’m going to cede to the expert on this one and assume that penitentiary steel is as real as it gets. Next, Pac informs the listener that “this ain’t no freestyle battle” in case we weren’t sure of his intentions and then follows this up by telling Biggie and Co. that “all you n*gg#s getting killed with you mouths open(?)”. I’m guessing that this is a much worse way to get killed than with your mouth closed. As the verse rolls on Pac begins to expand his “diss game” by insulting the financial security of both Biggie and Junior Mafia by rapping “Talking ‘bout you getting money but its funny to me. All you n*gg#as livin bummy while you fuckin with me.” To further shame his targets Pac shouts “I’m a self made millionaire (umm, I think Suge Knight might have had a hand in that Pac…just saying) Thug livin, out of prison, pistols in the air.” In order to further prove Biggie’s lack of wealth Pac brings up the past by announcing “Biggie remember when I used to let you sleep on the couch and beg the bitch to let you sleep at the house?” Pac goes on to finish the verse by referencing the five bullets he took and how they couldn’t even stop him. Finishing with true panache by saying, “Now I’m back to set the record straight. With my A-k I’m still the thug that you love to hate. Motherfucker, I hit em up!”

The next verse features another one of Pac’s aforementioned “little homies”. As was the case with the earlier verse, this one lacks a lot of truly memorable lines, save for a few choice cuts. Especially funny to me is the line where he calls the Junior Mafia the “Junior Whopper Click”. I’m not sure why the comparison of a low grade rap group to a discount burger tickles my funny bone but it does, time and time again.

This verse is followed by one more little homey verse that includes lots of average rapping lines about killing, shooting, killing, and just a dash of murder. Oh yeah, he also calls Biggie “softer than Alize with a chaser”. Which (I assume having never drank Alize) is extremely effin' weak.

Finally, Tupac re-enters the track. However, Pac’s approach on his third time around is just a little different than the previous two efforts. To label this as “rapping” would be tremendously narrow minded of the listener. What Tupac does on the rest of this song is more akin to spoken word poetry than rapping. Spoken word poetry that is laced with profanity and not-so-vague threats on people’s lives, mind you.

There’s some truly fantastic material in here. Pac gets started right away by calmly stating, “Now you tell me who won?/I see them, they run/They don’t want to see us/Whole Junior Mafia click dressing up trying to be us/how the fuck they gonna be the mob/when we always on our job/we millionaires/killing ain’t fair/but somebody got to do it."

As a matter of record, those last two lines (beginning with “killing aint fair”) are my senior yearbook quote. Alright, that’s a lie, but only because we didn’t have yearbook quotes at my high school.

Pac isn’t done yet, far from it. His vitriol spills over and begins to spread towards many other rappers as Pac calls out such rappers such as Mobb Deep, “Oh yeah, Mobb Deep/You wanna fuck with us/You little young ass motherfuckers/Don’t one of you n*gg#s got sickle cell or something/You fucking with me/You fuck around and have a seizure or a heart attack or something/You better back the fuck up before you get smacked the fuck up.”

From here things quickly deteriorate as Pac utters that famous Shakespearean phrase, “We bringing drama/Fuck you and your motherfucking mama.” Shortly after this Pac starts to become homicidal in his tone as he calls out everyone from Biggie to Mobb Deep to Chino XL (I’ve still never figured out how he ended up in Pac’s cross hairs) to even members of the Bad Boy Staff and record label by repeatedly exclaiming “Fuck you too” after each person’s (or groups) name is uttered.

Finally, Pac gets back to his hateful tribute to spoken word by ending the song with this classic piece of prose:

“All of ya’ll motherfuckers/Fuck you die slow mother fucker/My fo-fo makes sure all yo kinds don’t grow/You mother fuckers can’t be us or see us/We mother fuckin Thug Life riders, West side ‘til we die/Out here in California we warned ya/We’ll bomb on you mother fuckers. (Can somebody tell me how the California TDC hasn’t commissioned this slogan yet?)

But wait, Pac’s not done yet: “We do our job/You think you the mob, n*gg#, we the motherfuckin mob/Ain’t nothing but killers and the real n*gg#s/all you mother fuckers feel us/Our shit goes triple and four quatro (Uhh, ok?)/You n*gg#s laugh cause our staff got guns in they mother fucking belts/You know how it is when we drop records they felt/You niggas can’t feel it/We the realest/fuck ‘em/We Bad Boy Killers!!!

Its really just beautiful isn’t it? Even as a fan who always preferred Biggie to Tupac, its easy for me to see the artistry involved in such a hate filled song. I may be wrong but I don’t think any of us will ever hear a diss track so complete in its scope for as long as we live. Unless of course the Sheena Easton-Gloria Estefan diss track from back in ’86 is ever leaked on the internet.

You DO NOT want it with Sheena. Seriously, just back up.

As promised, here are the totals for some of the more common themes expressed on Hit ‘Em Up:

- Claims on relations with Faith Evans: 3

- Labeling himself and his crew as “Bad Boy Killers”: 4

- Shout outs to the “West Side”: 6

- Plain ole F-Us: 11

- Use of the word Motherfucker: 19

- Various threats of killing/stabbing/shooting, etc.: 32

Finally, for sticking with this post until it’s completion. Here’s one last thing that makes life a little easier to deal with, a Ruben Patterson story.

Fuck, fuckin yeah!!

I'm busy dealing with politicians all day today so I won't be posting anything this afternoon. However, even the stench of dirty money and empty promises can't ruin my day. That's because today marks exactly one month until the college football season begins in earnest. A month from today I'll be sitting on my couch drinking beer and controlling 6-10 football games at a time with nothing more than two remotes and one hand. The guys at EDSBS called today the beginning of Football Advent and that sounds just about right to me. Sure, Christmas was great when I was young but it pales badly in comparison to football now that I'm all grown up and responsible. Well, grown up at least. With that in mind, here's a little video of Gator commit Chris Rainey torching a few kids at a passing camp earlier this summer. Can we get him on campus now?

Oh yeah, sorry about the gratuitous profanity. It's a college football reference (even if it's a little inside) though, I swear.

Not writing today. Too busy prepping for an ass kicking.

I was all ready to write something this afternoon. Really, I was. That is until I received word that I'll be playing in a semi-pro basketball game this evening. Based on what many of you know of me this may sound a bit out of character. Sure, I play basketball on a regular basis. I even play on a very successful team in the local city league. However, I do not live a lifestyle that one would normally associate with high level (or even mid-level) athletics. Besides the fact that I drink too much and cast more papal ballots than your average hackey sack player, I also happen to be 5'10" (maybe), white and damn near 30 years old. With all that said, I knew that this was a possibility as of last week. It's just that I didn't really give it much thought until yesterday when it became increasinlgy apparent that my services would be needed. I'd even considered declining the invitation to participate in tonight's game up until a few hours ago when I finally decided, "Shit. When am I ever going to get a chance to play in a semi-pro league for anything?"

More than likely, tonight's game will be a decidely one-sided contest. You see, I'll be suiting up for team that has never played together (save for the three of us who play on the aforementioned city league team) against the local semi-pro team who has been playing and practicing together for the better part of two months. Add to that the fact that we'll also be the lesser team in terms of size and overall talent tonight and I'm pretty sure that you can figure out that tonight's chances of victory for my squad will be right on par with Bartolo Colon's chances of winning a triathalon.

Bartolo winning the Ironman vs. My squad winning tonight= Push

So there's my excuse for not posting today. I've got better things to do. It's really that simple. I'm also leaving work today at 3:30 so that I can tend to a few things before it's time for my game this evening. Did I mention that former Magician (and Greg's all time favorite sixth man) Anthony Bowie is going to be my coach this evening? No? Yeah, well he is so at least we have that going for us.

Not only my coach this evening but also Ricky Davis' triple-double role model.

Oh, I'm also leaving for Tallahassee tomorrow so don't expect anything else from here until Monday. Believe me when I tell you I'd rather be working tomorrow than driving up to that hell hole.

It's been a long time...

Since Shaq left you. Actually since Shaq left me. Today is the tenth anniversary of the day that Shaquille O'Neal officially left the Magic Kingdom for the bright lights and bad movies of Hollywood. WOW. Has it really been that long since Shaq left Central Florida? I can still remember the billboards all over Orlando lambasting Shaq for being greedy and selfish, when he was simply making a move to a team with a far more competent front office (Jerry West anyone?) and a town with infinitely more resources for increasing Shaq's Q rating. It's tough to blame Shaq for that move when you consider some of the things that have gone down within the Magic franchise since his departure:

• Penny Hardaway reveals himself to be a fragile little bitch (both emotionally and physically)
• Dennis Scott proves himself to be certifiably crazy, much to the dismay of hundreds of attendees to his basketball camp.
• Chuck Daly bails out on coaching in Orlando.
• Penny Hardaway gets Brian Hill canned.
• Penny reveals himself to be an even bigger bitch than anyone could have imagined, sans Shaq.
• Magic GM John Gabriel drafts amazing talents like Brian Evans, Johnny Taylor, Geert Hammink, Jerryl Sasser, David Vaughan, Amal McCaskill & Brooks Thompson.
• Grant Hill. Is a description really neccessary?
• Gabriel is succeeded by the one GM who could have possibly made him look remotely competent, none other that Mr. Hockey himself, John Weisbrod.
• Weisbrod is fired after less than a year of service.
• The Magic draft Fran Vasquez who quickly resigns with his team in Spain rather than have to suffer the indignity of actually suiting up for Orlando.

Now, it hasn't been all bad times in Orlando since Shaq left. Remember back in 2003 when we were up on Detroit 3-1 in the first round? Oh wait, that's a bad example. Seriously though, their have been some good times. They just seem to be escaping me right now.

Filthy, just filthy...and I'm not talking about Shaq's shoes either.

What all this proves, besides the overwhelming ineptitude of the Magic franchise, is that Shaq was a step (or three) ahead of the rest of us and shouldn't be villified for leaving Orlando. Hell, if I'd have known what Shaq was clearly figuring out as Nick Anderson was busy pissing Game 1 of the 1994 Finals away at the foul line I'd probably have moved to star in shitty movies too.

It's been a while...

Since my last post of any significance, and it's going to continue to be a while. You see, I have an inordinate amount of work to do over the next few days (extending into next week) and there's not gonna be much chance for me to craft any type of worthwhile column. I'll try my best to get a post together next Tuesday or Wednesday before I head off to a conference next Thursday evening.

If you're looking to waste some valuable company time while I'm away, the Orlando Magic's website is offering free coverage of all the Orlando Summer League games on their website. It's a pretty nice diversion for people with time to spare...jerks.

For anybody who has a problem with this latest development, feel free to tell me in the comments section. I'll gladly meet you after work one night and rip one of your eyes out like your name was Capt. Turner.

The Good and Bad of an Ugly weekend.

My presence around these parts has been admittedly lacking over the past week or so. While some of you may have thought that I decided to take my own life after the Magic selected JJ Redick, I’m sorry to report that none of you are that lucky. While I did briefly contemplate running my head through a plate glass window I figured that I ought to be grateful that the Magic didn’t trade the rights to the #11 pick for the Nets’ rights to Christian Drejer. You know, just so Fran would have somebody else to keep him company over there in Spain.

In actuality, the reason for my lack of posts as of late is far less depressing than using a lottery pick on a one-dimensional, unathletic shooter with a questionable back. Far, far less depressing. You see, I was on vacation. I didn’t go anywhere on vacation but I did have five consecutive days off of work. I don’t know about you, but where I come from that’s close enough to count. There’s not a whole heck of a lot to tell about those five days (or any of the other unaccounted for days between now and then) so I’m going to give all my random thoughts in the terrifically non-specific Good/Bad format.

Good: Five consecutive days off during the summer. Five days that were (for the most part) absolutely gorgeous.

Bad: My insistence on drinking heavily for pretty much the entire five days off (or the nights anyway).

Good: Fourth of July (daytime). Some friends and I attended a party near the river that featured (among other things) free beer, free liquor, and an ungodly number of girls in their early twenties of questionable morals. A truly entertaining and enjoyable day.

Bad: Fourth of July (evening). After a solid five hours of drinking I met up with my girlfriend who immediately proceeded to pick one of the most fantastic fights I’ve ever seen with me. That’s just great. Fighting is exactly what I want to do when my wits and intellect have been severely diminished. Go America.

Good: The location of said party. It was across a major road from the “mouth of the ghetto”, as I was referring to it. The location was in a great spot with tons of parking and a heck of a view of the river. Even better, the location’s proximity to the ghetto led to a number of stragglers attending the party who clearly didn’t fit in with the rest of the crowd. Not only were many of these attendees more than eager to help themselves to free food and booze but many of them were also quite willing to make a scene of themselves as the day wore on.

Bad: See above.

Good: My read during a game of poker on July 3rd. With three people left at the table, I was dealt Ace-2. I stayed in because I hadn’t gotten shit all night. Literally. This was the second best hand I’d been dealt in almost an hour. When two more 2s came out on the flop I checked. Both of my opponents jumped in with large bets. As the call came back to me, I calmly called "all in". They both matched me. When we showed our cards, one had a pair of Kings and the other was sitting on two pair, completely unaware of a straight draw he’d picked up.

Bad: The River. Johnny Two Pair picked up a six on the river to give him the straight and beat my Ace-high, Three of a Kind. Even worse, his brother (the other opponent) had to clue him into his luck. I not only lost the pot, but lost the game in one fell swoop. The moral: Poker sucks.

Good: Playing a ridiculous amount of beer pong at my friend’s house warming party on Sunday. Good God, I haven’t played that many games since undergrad.

Bad: Partnering with my girlfriend, who (apparently) hadn’t played beer pong since high school.

Good: The Brazil-France match. For my money, this was the best game of the Cup thus far. Italy-Germany might have had more drama and a more exhilarating finish, but this game’s level of play was something you just don’t see very often. Any soccer fan knew that this game was going to be a good one based soley on the individual talent level that each side boasted. It will be a long, long time before you see that many legendary, world class players (Ronaldo, Zidane, Ronaldinho, Henry, R. Carlos, L. Thuram, Cafu, Viera, etc., etc.) on the field together at one time. However, it wasn’t simply the players on the pitch that made this game so fantastic. Rather, it was the overall pace of play and intensity of the teams, combined with the tremendous artistry and stakes of the game that made this match stand out above the rest.

Bad: Missing out on the Italy-Germany match. From what I heard and the highlights I saw this was every bit as entertaining as the Brazil-France match, if not played at as high a level.

Good: France advancing to the Finals. I’ve said it in this space before, as much as I hate the French I cannot root against Zidane. He’s absolutely perfect as a player, in my opinion. In the spirit of full disclosure here I’ve even begun to think of ways to convince any future wife on the merits of Zidane as a first name for a boy. For the record: Yes, I know its pathetic and yes, I know it’s his last name. I don’t care and I happen to think Zinedine is just a little too ridiculous. If that makes any sense.

Dude, you should totally name your next kid after me!

Bad: Italy advancing to the Finals. As if it’s not bad enough that they stole a game from the US and that they flop more than Derek Fisher and Manu Ginobilli combined, my girlfriend’s family happens to be Italian. Full on, off the boat Italian. If Italy wins on Sunday I’ll never hear the end of it. All my I-talian jokes will be worthless for months, possibly longer. I can’t emphasize this enough. I'm not talking about a family of greasy guidos out of New Jersey here. I need to be able to make fun of “a county full of espresso swilling pansies”. Just for the record, I’m much more bitter at her and her brother’s support for Italy than either of her parents.

Here’s why: Her parents were born and raised in Italy. Moving here when they were in their early 20s and now running a fine dining Italian joint. Her brother (born in America by the way) goes so far as to refer to Italy as “we” during World Cup matches (even against the US). This is a guy who drinks Bud light, smokes Marlboros and drives a Chevy pickup…you’re as American as it gets. I’m not even very patriotic and he pisses me off.

Good: It’s Friday and I’m out of here in a half hour.

Bad: My effort on this column.

Here & Now...

You may not think that you remember this song by Letters from Cleo, but I assure you, you do. It’s the mid/late 90’s song that is most famous for the girl singing extremely fast jibberish all throughout it’s refrain. As I was listening to it play on my radio on the way to lunch, it struck me that this song was perfect for tonight’s upcoming NBA Draft. Why? Because tonight’s draft can best be summed up by the two most recognizable lines (other than the song title, of course) in the entire song.

First, there’s the line “You’ve got much to think about” which accurately sums up each and every GMs position at this point. Unlike most drafts (even the abysmal 2000 Draft Lottery) there isn’t a single GM out there right now who possesses absolute certainty on whom they will select during this evening’s first round. The second (and even more famous line) is the aforementioned jibberish which goes something like, “yodeberebersunaneverwitadun….”. Of course, this line applies to people like us, the fans, who have no goddamned idea who their favorite teams will select this evening. Just like none of us ever knew what that chick was actually saying during the chorus. This draft is truly one of a kind…and I don’t mean that in a good way. Sure, there's some real depth in this draft and they’ll be some players who end up being steals but, the fact remains, this draft (like Duper) just isn’t sexy.

With that in mind, I set forth with my draft preview. This won’t be a mock draft or anything like that, rather my thoughts on some of the players and rumors that will meet this evening in NYC. (Disclaimer: I haven’t read any of the new mock drafts or columns as of today. Hell, I’ve got to have something left to help me waste away the remainder of the afternoon).

Biggest Moneymaker: Sadly, I’m not talking about the Mike Sweetney kind of moneymaker here. Rather, the player who has made the most money over the last month of so. Surprisingly this is a rather easy pick: Shelden Williams.

Not only has Williams apparently secured a promise at #5 from the Hawks (thank god the Hawks are around to make the Magic look mildly competent) despite being undersized and underskilled (offensively) but he’s also managed to make even more millions in the process. Not millions for himself but millions nonetheless. While both Cedric Simmons and Alexander Johnson had good years for their respective teams, does anybody actually believe that they’d have gotten the level of pre-draft hype that each of them has had they not each lit up Williams on separate occasions this spring? I don’t doubt that each of these guys were on the NBA’s radar prior to torching Williams. I just feel like killing the two time National Defensive Player of the Year has raised each of their profiles considerably. If I was Williams I’d have my agent request at least 15% of these guys’ signing bonus.

Biggest mistake: The Celtics NOT drafting Marcus Williams. It's gonna happen too, just wait. We’ve all heard the knocks on Williams. Too slow, not athletic enough defensively, questionable character and jumpshot. How about focusing on what this guy does well for a change? He’s by far the most natural PG in the draft, he’s clutch, he plays with great pace and poise.

He’s is the perfect player for the Celtics as they’re currently constructed. You’re telling me that Paul Pierce wouldn’t love playing with this guy? Williams would take a lot of the ball handling pressure off Pierce while still getting the ball to Pierce in his comfort zones. If Williams made Armstrong and Boone look good at UCONN then what could he do for the confidence of young bigs like Kendrick Perkins and Al Jefferson. Finally, Williams would allow the Celtics to move Delonte West out of the starting lineup and into the role he’s best suited for: combo guard off the bench. West would end up playing the same amount of minutes but he’d be splitting time between the point and two while getting a chance to score more against second unit guys thereby maximizing his effectiveness.

The Magic: I’ve been dreading tonight since, oh…the moment that the Magic drafted Fran Vasquez last year. The Magic don’t have what I’d called an illustrious history of draft day steals. Basically, unless a Shaquille O’Neal or Dwight Howard fall into their laps the Magic front office have no clue how to properly evaluate talent with regard to their overall needs as a team. It’s been said for quite some time that the Magic covet Brandon Roy. Well good luck because he’s not going to be available at #11. Now, unfortunately, it’s looking as if maybe neither of the Magic’s backup options (Ronnie Brewer, Rodney Carney) will be available either. I’m not sold on either of these players but I would be able to rationalize their selections based on their overall ability and the Magic’s desperate need for a shooting guard.

I don’t know who I “want” the Magic to select if those two aren’t available but I DO know who I don’t want them to select: JJ Redick. I know that he is NOT Trajan Langdon and I know that he’s going to play in the NBA for ten+ years. I also know that he isn’t the right player for the team that the Magic are currently building. If the Magic had an already established two then I’d be on board with the JJ pick as he could ably fill the role of off the bench assassin. However, the Magic don’t have any two guard (Keyon Dooling are you listening?) and I don’t need to see both JJ and Hedo Turkoglu in starting lineup in Orlando. Finally, there is one player out there who, as Jerry predicted, could send me into a fit of arson inducing rage. That player’s name is: Thabo. It’s not that I’m a racist (though I am a bit of a timesist), it’s just that I can’t possibly take the thought of the Magic drafting a raw two guard with language issues who I’d never even heard of before the beginning of June.

God, if you’re out there, you won’t do this to me.

Finally, I’d like to end this column with some comparisons and suggestions. These are players in this year’s draft who I have yet to specifically mention in this (or any other previous column) and the players that I feel they most closely resemble as an NBA player. Or, the players and teams who form the best fit for one another in this years’ draft.

Comparisons:

JJ Redick: I can’t take credit for this one as my buddy Pat mentioned it a couple of weeks ago while we were drinking and talking basketball. Of all the ridiculous comparisons that I’ve heard between JJ and any number of players, Pat’s pick rang the most true to me.

Comparison: Dell Curry

Dell was a little taller than JJ. However, their wasn’t a deadlier three point marksman around during his prime than Dell. He could drop 25 on you on any given night. If you drafted JJ mid/late first and ended up with something like Dell over the next decade, wouldn’t you be happy?

Shawne Williams: 6’8”, athletic, good shooting touch. He’s also a guy without a true position (at this point), he only played one year of college (in Conference USA) and he managed to do a whopping zero reps of 185 lbs. on the bench (Are you kidding me?). I’m sure he has a ton of upside and he may develop into a heck of an NBA 2/3 but everything about this kid just screams bust to me.

Comparison: Rodney White

Kevin Pittsnogle: He’s seven feet tall with a great jumper and a hair trigger release. He lacks great athleticism but is still far from being a stiff. He’s also an underrated passer and an improving rebounder. While he may never start on a great team, he could easily be a major player off the bench of a title contender or even a starter on a lower tier playoff team. If he grew up in Europe instead of West Virginia then he’d be going in the late first round.

Comparison: Mehmet Okur

Team/Player Fits- 1st round

Good: Alexander Johnson & NJ Nets

Johnson was under the radar at FSU due to a combination of lackluster physical conditioning and the sorry state of Seminole basketball. However, once he got a trainer and started working out regularly he quickly changed his body and impressed NBA GMs with his 40” vertical leap. While it’s always risky to draft a player who has shot up due to his pre-draft workouts, I’m going to give Johnson the benefit of the doubt here because he was stuck playing with guards for the last three years who couldn't differentiate an entry pass from a shovel pass. Plus, in NJ all Johnson has to do is run the floor, catch alley-oops and grab rebounds. He would be a starter from day one in the Meadowlands.

Bad: Guillermo Diaz & Miami Heat

Evidently Pat Riley has a man crush on Diaz that’s reminiscent of Jerry’s undying love for Quincy Douby. Let me be the first to say: I don’t get it. Diaz is an unbelievable athlete without question. Given his relative inexperience in organized basketball it stands to reason that he has much more improvement ahead of him. However, even with marked improvement I still don’t see how he fits on the Heat. He’s 6’1” and he’s an average ballhandler at best. He doesn’t see the floor all that well and will never be a combo guard on even the level of a Jason Terry. So why would you want to pair this guy in the same backcourt as Dwayne Wade? If you’re drafting a guard (or trying to trade up to draft a guard) wouldn’t you want somebody who can take some of the ballhandling pressure off of Wade? Or at least a guy who has shown that he can continually and consistently knock down threes? The Champiosnhip has made Riley drunk on power…that is my only explanation.

Clearly hammered at this point...

Good: Quincy Douby & Cleveland Cavs

I know that I’ve already talked about this but I just wanted to go on record as believing that Danny Ferry should lose his job if he passes on Douby. I don’t even want to talk about what should happen to Ferry if he passes on Douby for Daniel Gibson, who he reportedly has promised at #25.

2nd Round

Good: Renaldo Balkman & Phoenix Suns

The ultimate energy guy on the league's fastest team. Balkman could probably average double figures as a rookie in the Suns' system. He would bring toughness and rebounding to Phoenix while also adding some much needed depth. He'll never be a star but his energy and ability to finish on the break would make him an immediate impact player (and fan favorite) on Team D'Antoni.

Good: Josh Boone & Orlando Magic

Apparently Josh has a confidence problem. That's the story that Jim Calhoun is telling everybody anyway. His down year couldn't possibly be a byproduct of Josh being a lazy slug could it? While Boone lacks the motivation and desire to be a dominat NBA big man, he does have enough size, athleticism and defensive ability to be an impactful front court sub. What would be a better spot for him than Orlando, where he could come off the bench for a franchise with traditionally low expectations. The fans' focus would be on the continued development of Dwight and Darko which would allow Boone to develop at his own pace. Furthermore, the small market of Orlando and his role off the bench would keep expectations low for Boone so that he could continue to grow as a player without shattering his confidence by playing against the likes of Duncan, Garnett, and Nowitzki for 30 minutes a night. Is this just wishful thinking on my part? Probably.

Oh yeah, my pick for most ridiculous suit of the night goes to...Cedric Simmons. Just makes sense, doesn't it?

Shouldn't we be allowed to have A drink at this point on a Friday afternoon?

I’m not even sure why I’m bothering to write this afternoon. I don’t really have anything worthwhile to say. I skipped out on the first half of work yesterday so that I could watch the US-Ghana match from my couch. As you may have guessed, I was extremely disappointed with the result. I contemplated writing about the failures of this squad today but it’s already been beaten to death in the 24+ hours since the game went final. The team was a colossal disappointment, no doubt. However, the failure of this team can be attributed as much to the group which FIFA placed us in as anything else. We may not have been a great team and our offense may have looked as inept as a woman trying to piss while standing up, but I’ve got to believe that both of those problems would have been a whole lot less glaringly obvious had we ended up in a group like that of Mexico or Australia. While these donkeys were wading through groups with all the depth of a plastic pool available in Wal-Mart’s toy section, the US was assigned to a group that included 3 of the world’s 13 top ranked teams, which doesn’t even include one of the two teams who actually advanced from this group. If there’s anything to take from this year’s failure it’s that the US should continue to be a growing force in the world of international soccer. We may all be disappointed with the performances of Landon Donovan and DeMarcus Beasley but, the fact remains, that each of these guys (along with many, many others on this team) aren’t even at the peaks of their respective careers yet. Yeah, Sam’s Army (who made that crappy nickname up anyway?) may have sucked this time around but you’d be foolish to not expect a significant improvement in both play and results come 2010.

The other big news that has come and gone since I last checked in was the merciful end ( I say this because, other than Game 5 and the fourth quarter of Game 3, these Finals were a terrible, terrible bore when compared to the rest of this year's playoffs) of the NBA Finals. Unlike many, I’m not going to pretend that Dallas could have or should have won this series if the refs weren’t so enthralled by all that is Dwyane Wade, as the Mavs were outplayed and out coached in every way possible over the last four games. However, I’m also not going to pretend to understand how Dirk got whistled for a foul after Wade executed a Ric Flair-esque chop (WHOOO!) on him in the late (and extremely decisive) moments of Game 6. Let that be a lesson to Dirk. The aggressor will always get the call if he’s s superstar…always. If you didn’t already know (and judging by your inability to take control of any moment of the fourth quarter of Game 6, you didn’t), now you know. Finally, one last message to Dirk: Your “tirade” after Game 5 (I hesitate to even label it that) was an unabashed embarrassment. For Christ’s sake, you’re German. Your people have a long and storied history of violence. A history that you should be working to uphold. That’s the best you can do after having your career defining moment (to this point at least) ripped away from you by Bennett Salvatore? You’re a disgrace to Germans everywhere.

Dwayne Wade hit you harder Dirk. You should be ashamed.

Beyond those vapid rants I don’t have a lot more to contribute today. You see, my mind is too busy being cluttered with rumors, stats and all other types of NBA Draft related info. I can’t wait for the Draft. I’m positively giddy about it’s arrival. I’m not sure why, but I have an extremely unhealthy predisposition towards loving the evaluation process of athletes, regardless of whether it’s high school kids in the midst of recruiting battles or collegiate athletes who are preparing for their respective drafts. There is just something about successfully predicting greatness, or lack of greatness (bustedness?) for a specific player that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. It’s part of the reason why I love keeping up with the recruiting wars in college football so much. And it’s 100% of the reason why I would go Single White Female on Chad Ford today if I didn’t fear spending a life in prison for his murder and dismemberment. Seriously, this douchebag already had my dream job and now he gets to live in Hawaii to boot? Fuck. I won’t get into any NBA Draft stuff today (more to come next week, I swear) other than to say that I still fully expect the Magic to draft Ronnie Brewer with the 11th pick, and that I fully expect to spew expletives every time he shoots a jumpshot over the next five years.

Hoping against hope Ronnie. Hoping against hope...

Finally, you may have heard that they play some pretty good football down here in Florida. It may be regional bias but I’m of the opinion that a player who’s second team All-Dade County would/could be first team all state in 45-49 other states in any given year. This assertion doesn’t even begin to take into account all the tremendous athletes that routinely get underrated throughout the entire state of Florida in places like Jacksonville, Orlando, Ft. Myers, Tallahassee, Brevard County and the rest of South Florida outside of Dade.

With the kind of talent that Florida routinely pumps out, it should come as no surprise to anybody that last year’s USA Today National Champion hails from the Sunshine State. What might surprise is that this team doesn’t reside in Miami or any of the other aforementioned football breeding grounds. Instead, this team hails from the moderately sized town of Lakeland, Fla. Not only did Lakeland High win last year’s mythical National championship, they’re presently positioned to do the same thing again come fall. Mind you, their pre-season #1 ranking in the country isn’t on some “fill in the blank with the defending champ” steez. Rather, this Lakeland team was loaded with a class of juniors last year who were the driving force behind last year’s title. When I say loaded, I mean exactly that. The junior (soon to be senior) class alone boasts over ten division one prospects. I’m not talking Florida A&M and UCF here either. Nine of these guys (minimum) are players who’ll end up playing at the highest levels of college football. Want proof? 6 of them have already committed to the University of Florida. Six guys from one high school team have already committed to the same college. Has that ever happened at a traditional football powerhouse before? I’d guess no but I’m only 28, so what do I know? It’s still June so it’s tough to say if these commitments hold up. However, it’s not tough to say that this football team is going to challenge the mid-80s Dunbar (Md.) High School Boy’s Basketball team (that fetured Muggsy Bogues, Reggie Williams, & Reggie Lews) as the most absurdly talented high school team of all time. Don’t believe me? Check out the profiles on some of these guys.

Chris Rainey

LaShawn Pouncey

James Pouncey

Paul Wilson

Steven Wilks

Ahmad Black

The player who excites me most (and who got the whole commitment process moving) is Chris Rainey who, despite being smaller than me, is regarded as a player with Reggie Bush like versatility and explosiveness, if not overall talent. There's also one more Dreadnaught (that's Lakeland's mascot...it's a battleship stupid) that the Gators would love to see join the crew in Gainesville come fall.

Finally, for anybody who thinks I'm crazy with my asssertion that South Florida football players are a unique and rare breed, read this article on former All-Pro and ex-Gator Louis Oliver. Believe me, it's worth the time.

World Cup meets the NBA Draft

The World Cup is in full swing. Now is the only time in the next four years when many/most Americans will give the sport anything more than a passing glance and a dismissive comment. That’s not an indictment on the American public or the sport of soccer. That’s just the way it is. Of course, much of this is due to the overall lack of success that our national team has experienced on the international stage. Americans love sports, but they love winning more. Unfortunately for us, the level of athlete that generally ends up as an elite soccer player in the states is far from indicative of the type of elite athlete that American usually produces in most (if not all) of our preferred sports. It’s a bit of a vicious cycle. As a nation we don’t have an inborn passion for soccer, so our best youth generally don’t gravitate towards the sport. Because of this, we don’t stack up athletically on the pitch with other nations. This lack of success breeds more complacency amongst the American public towards soccer. And so on, and so on.

You often hear people lamenting this while wondering just how dominant a soccer nation America could be if the sport were of major consequence to the youth of this nation. Instead, the best athletes go into basketball, football or (in alarmingly less frequency) baseball. With that in mind (and because I’m obsessed with the NBA Draft), I’ve decided to construct a soccer team (actually a starting lineup) of players from this year’s NBA Draft. For the sake of simplicity I’ll go with the traditional 4-4-2 lineup.

Left Back: Randy Foye- He’s fast enough to mark strikers on the sidelines while also possessing the necessary creativity to start attacks from his position in defense. Think of a much, much bigger Roberto Carlos.

Center Left Back: Hassan Adams- He’s big, fast, & strong. His speed will allow him to help the wings mark fleet strikers on the sidelines while his strength would make it nearly impossible to muscle him near the box. Adams’ height and leaping ability would make him dominant in the air especially on corners.

Center Right Back: PJ Tucker- Tucker would be a fantastic enforcer in the middle of the field. His lack of overall speed could be a detriment in marking some of the elite strikers but that’s why he’s manning the middle. His physical presence and toughness would make even the bravest attacker think twice about making forays into the box.

Right Back: Shannon Brown- He would draw the #1 scorer most of the time. He’s an unbelievable athlete with great strength and outstanding straight line speed. Additionally, his leaping ability would be an major asset in the air, especially with the comparably less than athletic (vertically) Tucker playing next to him.

Left Mid: Kyle Lowry- Speed is his biggest asset. He would be able to push forward as an attacking mid without compromising his defensive position, due to his unique combination of speed and strength. He’s the ultimate hustle player so his insertion in the midfield is a natural.

Left Center Mid: Marcus Williams- The Maestro. The way he sees the floor makes him a natural for this position. From his spot on the left he could identify holes within the defense and set his strikers up for runs towards the box with pinpoint passing and strong ball control. His lack of conditioning would be a concern, but his feel for passing lanes and angles is too great to be without.

You're good and all Pavel but you don't have shit on Marcus Williams

Right Center Mid: Mike Gansey- Though he’s a two guard by trade, Gansey is another player who has a innate feel for passing angles. He’s a better athlete than he’s given credit for which allows him to push forward and initiate attacks through both his passing and one-on-one skills. He recently put up 185 lbs. over 20 times so his strength should also prove to be a major asset when it comes to battles over possession in the midfield.

Right Mid: Dee Brown- More speed on the wing. He’s been known as the fastest player in college basketball for what seems like a decade now so his inclusion here should be no surprise. His natural scorer’s mentality would make him an attacking midfielder along the lines of DeMarcus Beasley (except, you know with some heart). A midfielder who is capable of impacting games with his own offense as much as any striker. Furthermore, his intensity and energy would be crucial to the pace at which this team would want to play.

Maybe DeMarcus should try a headband?

Striker: Quincy Douby- An extremely fast, lithe player with an almost intrinsic need to score. Douby’s frame just screams striker to me. Add to that some serious speed and the nerves of a cat burglar and you’ve got this teams’ #1 scoring option. It doesn’t hurt that Quincy is used to having to create scoring chances on his own.

Thierry Henry: Game & frame like that of Quincy Douby.

Striker: Rodney Carney- This was a tough choice between Carney and James White but Carney wins due to his proven willingness to subjugate his overall game for the greater good of the team. To borrow a phrase from Hubie Brown, Carney would be murder in the air. His unbelievable vertical leap and 6’7” frame could turn every corner kick or cross into an alley-oop waiting to happen.

Keeper: Rajon Rondo: Some may wonder why I wouldn’t go with somebody larger than Rondo. It’s simply a matter of preference. I prefer my keepers to be quick and agile rather than towering intimidators. Rondo has long arms, unbelievable quickness and terrific leaping ability to go with the biggest pair of hands this side of Oronde Gadsden. Rondo’s also a noted defender who specializes in deflections and takeaways. What more can you ask for from a top level keeper?

Speaking of those monstrous hands of his, Chad Ford told me recently that Rondo reached into his pregnant girlfriend and delivered their baby himself. His hands are that big. I’m sold.

That was fun wasn't it? Now for a little dose of reality, a letter from Mark Cuban's cheetah.

Dog days approaching...

Hurricane Season

It’s fucking miserable here today. Tropical Storm Alberto has covered Central Florida in a two day long orgy of grey skies, constant rain and just a smidegeon of flooding. Awesome. Less than a week into hurricane season and we’re already experiencing our first effects from the tropics. I’ve lived in Florida for most of my natural life and I swear that I’ve experienced more tropical storms/hurricanes in the last two years than in all my previous years combined. I’m not sure if it’s a byproduct of global warming or El Nino (which for those of you who don’t “habla espanol” is Spanish for “The Nino”) or just a mere coincidence, but whatever it is, it’s really starting to annoy me. Normally I truly enjoy the effects of hurricanes (read: free vacation days, binge drinking, days upon days of poker) but that all changed last night when I walked into my bedroom to discover that nearly the entire carpet had been soaked through with water.
Evidently my backyard had flooded during the afternoon, which caused the water to rise up through the foundation of my house and into the carpet that rests above it. As it was nearly 8:30 by the time I discovered this, I decided against doing anything instead preferring to push the problem off until today. This strategy backfired on me this morning as I stepped out of bed and directly into a puddle on my bedroom floor. The strategy looks even worse now, since it’s been raining harder and even more steadily today than it was yesterday. At this point, I’m just hoping that my dog hasn’t drowned in my flooded house by the time I get home tonight.

World Cup

I would have called work and told them that I had to be out while I wet-vaced (??) my bedroom today but I blew that opportunity when I lied about having to go home yesterday to meet the plumber. When, in actuality, I was going home to watch the US-Czech Republic match from Germany. What a waste of time that was. It was clear that the US had neither the necessary intensity nor chemistry to compete with the Czechs from almost the first minute. Passes weren’t crisp or decisive. Spacing was poor at best. Even the alignment of Bruce Arena was somewhat curious with Beasley playing on the right side (as opposed to his customary left side). About the only player who didn’t seem intimidated by the moment and/or the Czechs was striker Eddie Johnson who didn’t even get on the field until midway through the second half. Just an awful performance (both mentally and physically) all around. At least all I’ll have to do to watch the next match is roll my hungover ass out of bed on Saturday morning.

Music

I’m not much for “popular music”. Yet, every now and again, there is a group or song that fits into the categories that I most frequently listen to while also appealing to the general public’s pop sensibilities. Crazy by Gnarls Barkley is just such a song. It’s been a mainstay on both urban and pop radio stations for several weeks now. I’d like to say that it doesn’t appeal to me but that just not true. I’ve loved Cee-Lo’s voice since the first Goodie Mob album and have been following Danger Mouse since he’s was doing mashups on vinyl (check out his first big vinyl hit, a mashup of Nas & Portishead…utterly brilliant). I think it was Ian of Sexy Results fame who first dubbed Crazy for Hey Ya like fame. When I read Ian’s thoughts, I had yet to hear Crazy. After hearing the first verse of Crazy a day or so later I immediately concurred. Put simply, Crazy is a perfect musical storm in terms of being catchy, quick, unique and just easy enough for white girls to dance to. The fact that this song has become such a mega-hit is not surprise. Hearing it on the local rock radio station yesterday afternoon was a surprise, a major surprise. We’re talking uncharted territory here. Seriously, when was the last time that a hip-hop song crossed over to the point of receiving drive time play on a rock station? I’ve been thinking about this for some time and can’t think of a single one that didn’t involve a rock group or rocker in some form or capacity.

NBA Draft

I know, I know. The NBA Finals aren’t even over yet. I’m secretly hoping that my blatant disregard for the Finals in this space will play some role in the resurgence of the Miami Heat (Pat Riley loves my blog...seriously). Not because I give two shits about the Heat (I’m actually secretly hoping that Shaq and Wade start feuding so that Wade will decide to come play with Dwight in Orlando next summer) but rather because the Finals that only a week ago looked like the most intriguing since I was in high school have quickly eroded into a referendum on the decline of Shaq and the unbelievable coaching maturation of one Avery Johnson. At this point, I’d almost be cool with the Heat winning it all if only because it meant that we’d have to see at least a couple of competitive and exciting games within the next four or five. With all that said, I have a few thoughts on some NBA prospects that I’d like to share.

Brandon Roy: This year’s version of the age old question “How long can a guy be underrated before he becomes overrated?” Has anybody shot up draft boards like this guy in the past six months? At one point in December, scouts were calling him a late first round pick, at best. Now we’re hearing reports of the Bulls considering him at #2. Is he the most NBA ready player in this draft? Probably. Can he make an immediate impact for whatever team selects him? Definitely. Is he going to develop into an NBA superstar who will justify his status as the #2 pick? No way. We’re talking about a two guard with an average jumpshot and good but not great athleticism whose biggest assets are his basketball IQ and versatility. How does all of this equal a player worthy of the top 2 or 3 picks in the draft? I don’t know. Somewhere between 5-12 seems a lot more reasonable to me.

In the interest of full disclosure I should probably tell you that I would be ecstatic if the Magic picked up Roy (even if they had to trade up to 5 or 6 to get him). However, this has infinitely more to do with his ability to fill the Magic’s greatest need than any one aspect of Roy’s game that I’m particularly in love with. He would immediately slide into the starting lineup, giving the Magic one of the league’s most impressive young lineups. Of course, I’m sure this is all going to work out a lot like last year when I was pining for Channing Frye to fall to the Magic, only to watch the Knicks snatch him up while the Magic selected Fran Fucking Vasquez. My prediction current prediction: Roy goes to Portland and the Magic end up with Jerryl Sasser, er, um Ronnie Brewer.

Overrated, Underrated...whatever. Just come to Orlando already.

Shannon Brown: Or as I’m currently calling him, Mike Mamula. Take my word for it, this draft saga is going to end badly. He’s become the latest in a long line of guys to be totally overvalued by scouts due to his freakish combination of strength and athleticism. Did anybody really watch him last year at Michigan State and think to themselves, “Now that is a first round draft pick right there?” I know that I never did. Maurice Ager? Sure. Paul Davis? Maybe, since he’s 7 ft. and all. Shannon Brown? Yeah, not so much. Just read this scouting report from Chad Ford. The item that sticks out most to me is the comment about Brown being a weak ballhandler. Call me crazy but I’d like my guards who are 6’2” and under to be outstanding ballhandlers, not guys who struggle handling the ball during drills. I realize that Brown has a lot of things that you cannot teach athletically but he’s also a 6’2” shooting guard with below average ballhandling skills, an average jumpshot and little to no midrange game. Brown will end up going waaay to high on draft night while more skilled players (Quincy Douby) and players who actually fit NBA profiles for postitions (Kyle Lowry) are passed over. You see it happen in the NBA Draft every year with a couple of guys. Shannon Brown is that guy this year. My prediction: Brown to the Knicks.

Seriously, why not? The Knicks could always use another undersized shooting guard and Zeke has never, ever given us adequate reason to think that he'd make a logical decision with regards to personnel and the logical construction of a team.

Freakin' Sweet!

I'll be back on Monday with some actual material. I figured it's better to let two full NBA Finals Games take place before I start opining on the series. Though I will say that I called the PG mismatch Terry/Harris vs. William/Payton far in advance of last night (though in the spirit of full disclosure I should admit that even I never thought Terry would dominate like that). Just so you don't think I'm tooting my horn here, I'm fairly certain that Beano Cook could've called that mismatch too, and he hasn't watched basketball since the ball had laces and the players were called "cagers". Well, there was that one time he and Johnny Majors watched The Fish that Saved Pittsburgh but that's another story unto itself. Anyway, I'm heading out for the rest of the day in a few minutes and will not be returning until Monday. That's when I'll attempt to tackle a little from both the NBA Finals and the earlyWorld Cup action, as well the normal amount of nonsense and tales of boozy mayhem that you've assuredly come to expect from this blog. (In all actuality, I hope that you don't expect anything from this blog, lest you become extremely disappointed and disillusioned with my presence, or lack thereof in your life).

While I'm in no way saddened by by abbreviated stay in the office today, I do feel for you poor souls who have another few hours left before you can effectively stick to the man for the weekend. With that in mind, I present to you the first (and more than likely) pictures of my sweet effin' beard (I've named it Pablo). I've had this thing up and rocking for over three months now.

Surprisingly, my girlfriend loves Pablo. Seriously. I have no idea why, so don't ask me. Not so suprisingly, the weather down here is making Pablo's days extremely numbered. With the temperatures forcecasted to reach the mid-90's this weekend, Pablo will be lucky to see Monday.

Better late than never...I guess.

Just as I was sitting down to write this I was informed by my boss that I “may be called into a meeting here in a few minutes” so you’ll have to forgive me if this post ends up a little scattered. It wasn’t going to be the most beautiful piece of literature the western world has ever seen to begin with but now I’ll be happy if I can actually get this thing out and finished before it’s time to head home for the day (I'm like psychic or something). Between catching up on work after a four day weekend and being dead ass tired because of a four day weekend there’s hardly been time to even think about what I should write about this week, much less actually write it. As a result of this, today’s post will be a collection of random thoughts/personal accounts from the last week or so.

As has been mentioned in this space, I recently attended a couple of concerts. The first of which was The Roots and Common at the House of Blues in Orlando. As always, it was a fantastic show. I was a little worried about the general energy level of everyone involved b/c they were all coming off of two straight shows at Radio City Music Hall which have already earned legendary status. When you’re talking about a Roots live show, that is saying something. Alas, I had nothing to fear at all. The show was a solid 3 hours of great music. The Roots started off and played for about an hour, eventually giving way to Common who went through a good chunk of BE before moving through his catalog of songs with crowd favorites like I Used to Love H.E.R., The Light, Resurrection and many others. Slowly, members of The Roots trickled back on stage to collaborate with Common on some tracks that they’ve done together in the past. After this, ?uestlove and Co. jumped right back into things by playing for another hour or so, eventually closing up the HOB at right around 2 am. The show was great and I had a fantastic view that also happened to be about 10 feet from the bar. As always, The Roots were well worth the price of admission. Oh yeah, the concert was sponsored by Kool cigarettes. Because of this, the entire venue was plastered with Kool logos and such. I had a silent chuckle about this on numerous occasions.

The second show I attended was in Orlando as well, at a small venue in downtown called The Social. The Social is an intimate venue that holds around 500 people. On this night, it was packed to capacity. People Under the Stairs were playing there first ever show in Orlando and the locals certainly came out to lend their support. The show was fantastic and PUTS played all of the songs that both Vitas and I were hoping for. Unfortunately these dudes must’ve had a plane to catch or something because they finished up their set at 12:30 am. I’ve been to at least 20 shows at The Social and never before had I seen one end this early before 2 am. Nevertheless, it was a good show and the encore even featured my favorite PUTS song of all time, San Francisco Knights. Unfortunately, with the show ending so early, this allowed far too much time for me and my compatriots to get into trouble in the streets of downtown Orlando. Mind you, we’re not talking Chris Henry in Orlando trouble here, but trouble nonetheless. Before the night was said and done, we’d met up with one of Berto’s friends at Berto’s office in downtown Orlando and managed to run up much heftier bar tab than was necessary.

As you may have guessed by now, the first part of the post was written last Thursday afternoon. I would’ve gotten it up last Friday if I had been in the office at all. Instead, I spent most of my day in Daytona Beach at a meeting. I try and make it a rule to stay out of Daytona for anything other than bachelor parties and Black College Reunion but this was an unavoidable commitment. On the bright side, I was home and done with my day/week by about 4.

Things have really been humming since then as a result of both Thursday and Friday’s meetings so I don’t have a tremendous amount to add today as most of the subjects that I had planned to take on are now horribly out of date or overdone by other bloggers and/or media members. So you’ll have to forgive me but I won’t being waxing philosophically on the criminal genius of AJ Nicholson and Fred Rouse (good thing you brought your embroidered receiving gloves to guard against fingerprints Fred) or the Conference Finals (since they’re, you know, over) or even Dirk’s ascension into the upper reaches of NBA stardom. However, I do have a few things to say:

- I’m not as down on Sopranos as most seem to have been this season but even I was disappointed in the lackluster season finale on Sunday (aside from seeing AJ’s hot girlfriend nekkid). In fact, the whimper in which Sopranos went out with only further served to whet my appetite for the new season of Deadwood because if we know anything about Deadwood, it’s that it will consistently bring the heat with murder, sex and other types of assorted debauchery. I’d be ten times more geeked for the season 3 to kick off it I hadn’t about the series' cancellation last week. Fuck. Now I want to murder somebody. Wait, now that I checked the link for this post it seems as if some sort of happy medium has been reached. It's not a foull season but it should keep me out of jail.

- Speaking of murder, I’m as excited about the return of Hubie Brown on Thursday as I am about any of the individual combatants involved in Game 1 of the NBA Finals. Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes me smile like hearing Hubie say things like, “Jason Terry is murder on that pull-up jumper going to his right.” Seriously, listen for it. I first noticed Hubie's proclivity for using the word murder during last year’s Finals and it’s been my favorite running subplot in ABC broadcasts ever since.

- ABC has actually done a pretty respectable job during the playoffs aside from the continued insistence on using that camera on a string thing that zooms all over the court. It makes me dizzy. Please stop. With that said, there is one thing that is bothering me. What’s with all the damn Tom Petty? I have no problem with the use of Runnin Down a Dream as it feels fairly appropriate and is surely a big hit with over 35 white folks. However, why in the hell is it necessary to use Tom Petty songs exclusively for all playoff related montages? Listen, everybody loves a montage. You gotta have a montage. That much we all know. I’m just having some trouble figuring out why ABC couldn’t have bought the rights to a couple of other songs for the 2006 playoffs. The playoffs last 2 months, give us damn variety already. Actually, I should probably just be happy that ABC didn’t hire out the Black Eyed Peas again.

- Finally, as further proof that I'm a certifiably awful dude I present you with this story from Saturday night. I met some of my friends up at the bar around 5:30 or so for some drinks and dinner. The plan was to grab some food and then chill out for awhile at somebody's house before heading out for the evening. Things did not go as planned. As the drinks began to flow more frequently, a number of our other friends found their way to the bar. My old roomate Federico was even forced to meet me at the bar as I hadn't yet finished my boozing by the time he made his way into town. Eventually, around 11:30, I finally manged to get myself extricated from the bar. As you can probably imagine, I had a significant buzz at this point. Federico had come into town to conduct some business with my friend Sammy so we decided to take care of that before going back out. So Sammy, Fed, Nick, Sammy's girlfriend Rachel and Rachel's friend (whose name escapes me) all made our way back to Sammy's house. Once there, our collective buzz was heightened, significantly. It was at this point that Rachel's friend took it upon herself to say something that I perceived to be an attack on my character (whether it actually was is still up for debate). Often times I would let something like this go without so much as a passing glance. This was not one of those times. Upon hearing her comment I quickly turned to her and said flatly, "Whatever size 10." After she picked up her jaw off the floor and Nick and Fed stopped pissing themselves she eventually said, "Umm...what did you just say to me?". To which I respnded, "You heard me 10."

I'm Mark...nice to meet you.

That certainly killed an afternoon...

I would have a post up right about now. Instead, as I was about halfway through typing it I got called into an impromptu meeting at work. A meeting that just now let out. I also have to go to Daytona for a meeting tomorrow that may last all day long.


Moral of the story: Jobs and responsibility blow. They blow donkey balls.

I'll try my damndest to get this post up and finished by tomorrow afternoon sometime. I'm not making any promises though.