I was 10 years old when my father, Jack Hague, passed away in 1971. I was truly devastated by the loss. He was my Little League coach, my life mentor, my biggest supporter, my friend. He was sick, dead and gone in a matter of three weeks, dying on New Year's Eve. His illness was the way I found out the truth about Santa Claus, because we didn't celebrate Christmas that year.
After my Dad died, I was extremely moody. I cried an awful lot. I kept to myself mostly, except for a few close friends. It was a tough time for all of us, but it was really hard on a growing, impressionable young boy who thought he knew it all _ and didn't want anyone to tell him otherwise.
The next summer after Dad died, my neighbors in the St. Paul's of Greenville Parish did a wonderfully nice thing for me. They raised a lot of money to send me to the NFL Players Association football camp at Lehigh University in Pennsylvania. I don't know whose idea it was to send me to the camp. It was either my St. Paul's grammar school football coach Bill DeFazio or my sixth grade teacher John Tennessen. They both believed that football would point me in the right direction in life.
It was the first time that I was away from home on my own. I was 11. My mother, who didn't even know how to drive yet, went with me to the Port Authority Bus Terminal to get on the bus to go to the camp.
As I got off the bus, carrying my brand new gym bag bought in the Great Western for three dollars (never had a gym bag before), the organizers said that quarterbacks went one way and running backs went another. I thought I was going to be the next Johnny Unitas, so I went with the quarterbacks. In fifth grade, it was the only position I knew.
But one of the big, burly organizers pointed me with the linemen. "You're a lineman, son. You're a big guy."
He must have known something, because I was not the behemoth I am today by a long shot. Believe it or not, at age 11, I was somewhat of a runt. I later evovled into Gigantor in high school.
There was a problem to all of this. I didn't want to be a lineman. I wanted to be Johnny U, my idol.
So when I was pushed off with the bigger kids, I started to do what I always did back then. I cried.
I was away from home. I wanted to go home. Right there and then. I was done. I knew I wasn't too far from my brother's house, so he could come get me. But I also thought of all those people who donated a dollar here and there to send me to the camp. How could I let them down if I came home after the first day? I'd be a disgrace to the neighborhood.
So I sat on a log and I cried. Cried some more. Got made fun of by the other kids, but I didn't care, because I didn't know anyone. I cried and cried. They started football activities right away, but I just sat on this log by myself and cried.
Then this huge burly guy came over to me. I couldn't see his face because of the sun. I looked up and just saw a gigantic figure.
"Son, I heard you don't want to be a lineman," the voice said. "Well, I'm going to teach you to become a lineman."
He stuck out his huge hand and helped me off the log. As I stood up, I recognized the face right away. It was Merlin Olsen, the All-Pro defensive tackle of the Los Angeles Rams, who after he retired, became famous for his roles on "Little House on the Prairie" and "Father Murphy" and as a sportscaster or even more importantly as the spokesperson for FTD flowers on commercials.
Olsen is the reason why I became a Rams fan. And I'm still a diehard Rams fan today. I have an autographed picture of the "Fearsome Foursome" hanging on my bedroom wall, with Merlin's signature right there. My friends gave it to me for my 40th birthday.
At the same camp, my counselor, who was in charge of me and about 20 other kids, was the starting quarterback at the University of Oklahoma back then, a wonderful young man named Steve Davis.
Davis and I hit it off pretty well that week and he promised to keep in touch if I gave him my address. So I did.
About three weeks later, the UPS delivery man came to my house carrying a huge box. It was addressed to me. As an 11 year old, I never got boxes before, so I was thrilled. In the box was an assortment of Oklahoma stuff, a hat, a pennant, a T-shirt, bumper stickers, posters, notebooks, pencils, you name it. The letter in the box was from Davis.
"Keep working hard, James," the letter was signed.
I was a Sooner fan for life and still am. Steve Davis made me a Sooner fan and Merlin Olsen made me a Ram fan and that has never changed.
I got to see Steve Davis several times at Giants Stadium, when he was working the Kickoff Classic for CBS Sports. I had to remind him who I was, but he remembered and we shared memories of that memorable week at Lehigh.
Yesterday, as I sat down at my computer to cover the Devils-Rangers game, I clicked Yahoo! Sports like I do almost every day. The first story that popped up was that Steve Davis was killed in a plane crash Monday. The private jet he was in hit a row of houses in South Bend, Indiana. Steve Davis, the starting quarterback on two Oklahoma national championship teams, was 60 years old.
I paused for a second and then did what I did when I was 11 years old. I cried.
I hadn't seen Steve since perhaps 1996 or so, but every time I put on one of my 35 Oklahoma T-shirts, one of my 25 Sooner hats or my gaudy Oklahoma fleece, he always came to mind.
It also made me reflect that some of the most inspirational people in my life are now all gone _ my Dad, my coaches like Bill DeFazio, Dick Branagan, Bill Gargiulo; and then those two people who changed my life in the summer of 1972, Merlin Olsen and Steve Davis. They're all gone and that's a shame.
I hope OU recognizes Steve Davis in some capacity this season. It's almost eerie to think that he went down in South Bend and the Sooners play there this fall.
I will always remember how good Davis was to a moody 11-year-old and how good he made that kid feel when that box arrived. I felt like a king, pulling one thing after another after that box. For that _ and for making me a Boomer Sooner _ I'll always be grateful. Rest in peace, Steve.
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Just a quick bit on Seton Hall basketball. The worst kept secret since Michael Strahan got to sit next to annoying Kelly Ripa every day became official when one of the two talented players on the Pirates' roster, Aaron Cosby, came through with what was rumored and announced he was leaving the Hall to transfer elsewhere.
Losing Cosby was yet another blow to the tenure of Kevin Willard, who has done very little to earn this six-year contract extension that is also being rumored about.
Willard has done no recruiting whatsoever, except getting the quartet of lackluster performers from the same secondary school in Spain. None of those four kids can play.
The one good recruit was Cosby and he's now left, because he was not happy with the way Willard treated him.
And the two recruits that Willard went after have now both been charged with felony assault.
That's just awesome. The Pirates went 13-17, lost almost every single game under the sun since New Year's Day and don't have any top recruits coming in for next year. There were several top New Jersey players who the staff didn't even bother to approach.
Reggie Cameron and Kavon Stewart of Hudson Catholic? Nope. Didn't get a call. Hallice Cooke and Josh Brown of St. Anthony? Sorry. Trevis Wyche of St. Peter's Prep? Not him either.
Right there are five kids less than 15 miles from the South Orange campus and they didn't get a sniff, but those four kids from that school in Spain panned out great, right?
Haralds Karlis, who can't put the ball in the basket whatsoever, would not play at neighboring NJIT. He's not good enough. Tom Mayaan, who was supposed to be a god-send point guard, also can't shoot his uniform number. By the way, he wore 0.
That program is a complete mess and Willard gets a six-year extension? That's because the new AD, Patrick Lyons, worked with Willard at Iona. The new head of the Pirate Blue Fund? He comes from Iona, too. They're also pursuing the Iona women's basketball coach to replace the departing Anne Donovan as the Pirates' head women's coach.
Since when did Iona become the pattern school and athletic program that everyone should follow? They're turning South Orange into South New Rochelle, a Gael-force wind of changes. Iona was no big shakes, a program constantly flirting with NCAA probation. "I-O-N-A, Idiots on North Avenue," is the chant that the Fordham student section used to spew to rile up the Iona faithful. Well, that's where Seton Hall is headed. A bigger, less boisterous version of Iona.
Which makes no sense whatsoever _ just like this reported extension Willard received. Until Willard landed a good solid local recruit, he shouldn't have received an additional penny, never mind six years.
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OK, here goes, the great predictions on the entire NCAA Tournament
In the Midwest, we're going with Louisville over whomever they play first round, Missouri over Colorado State, Oklahoma State (this Marcus Smart kid is a player to watch) over Oregon, St. Louis over New Mexico State, Memphis over St. Mary's (I think, this play-in crap has me reeling), Michigan State over Valpo, Cincy over Creighton and Duke over Albany.
Continuing there, then it's Louisville over Missouri, Oklahoma State over St. Louis, Michigan State over Memphis and Duke over Cincinnati (sorry Darren Savino).
Then I have Louisville over Oklahoma State and Duke over Michigan State and Duke over Louisville in the final.
In the West, I got Gonzaga over Southern, Pitt over Wichita State, Ole Miss over Wisconsin, Kansas State over my mother, Arizona over Belmont, New Mexico over Harvard (take that, Tommy Amaker), Notre Dame over Iowa State and Ohio State over Seton Hall North, oops, I mean Iona.
Staying there, I like Pitt over Gonzaga (the first big upset of the tourney), Ole Miss and Andy Kennedy and Marshall Henderson over Kansas State, Arizona over New Mexico and Ohio State over Notre Dame. Then I like Pitt over Ole Miss and Ohio State over Arizona and Pitt to go to the Final Four, joining Duke.
In the South, let's go with Kansas over Western Kentucky (in a nailbiter) and North Carolina over Villanova, who I still can't believe is in the tournament. Then I have VCU over Akron and Michigan over South Dakota State, UCLA and my boy Kyle Anderson over Minnesota and Florida and my boys Mike Eusebio and assistant coach Rashon Burno over Northwestern State. I like San Diego State over Oklahoma (only root for Sooners in football) and Georgetown over Florida Gulf Coast, which sounds like a place I'd rather be right now than cold Kearny, NJ.
Staying there, I like Kansas over North Carolina, Michigan over VCU, Florida over UCLA and Georgetown over San Diego State. Then I have Michigan over Kansas and Florida over Georgetown and the Gators of Florida going to Atlanta in the Final Four with Duke and Pitt.
On the East side, I like Indiana over the Jersey City YMCA, then NC State over Temple, UNLV over California and Syracuse over Montana (although the Grizzlies' people were sure nice to this Biggun when I visited Missoula). It's Butler over Bucknell and the Golden Eagle Warriors of the greatest Jesuit university this side of Lake Michigan taking care of Davidson. Coach McKillop is a nice man who I met at the Coaches Party in Detroit and had a few libations together, but he's not taking out Buzz and the boys from my alma mater. I also like Colorado over Illinois and Miami over Pacific.
Staying there, I have Indiana over NC State, Syracuse over UNLV, Marquette over Butler (avenging that horrible loss to begin the season) and Miami over Colorado.
Then it's Indiana over Syracuse and Miami over my beloved Marquette. Some have picked Marquette to go further. I can't see it. If Buzz pulls that off, they should rename Wisconsin Avenue as Buzz Boulevard.
Then it's Indiana over Miami to go to the Final Four.
So I have Duke, Pitt, Florida and Indiana at the Final Four in Atlanta, with Duke beating Pitt, Indiana beating Florida and then Indiana defeating Duke to win the national title.
And yes, my old friend Tom Crean gets a national crown, just not with my beloved Golden Eagle Warriors.
So there's the tournament in a nutshell.
Thanks for reading as always.
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You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com and www.dailyrecord.com.
Newer head shot
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
Memories of the Big East, as it once was
Georgetown will face Syracuse today in the Big East Conference tournament semifinals at Madison Square Garden.
If there's ever been a more fitting showdown for the final Big East tourney as we once knew it, it's a matchup of the Orange and the Hoyas, two of the original members of the old league, two of the titans of the Big East.
OK, so James Southerland isn't exactly Billy Owens and Otto Porter isn't the same as Reggie Williams, but the meaning is still there. Sure, it's Boeheim vs. Thompson, but this time, it's the big, burly Thompson's kid, not the menacing giant with the towel draped on his shoulder.
But it's almost like karma that these two teams face each other today for the very last time _ unless they somehow meet in the Final Four. Syracuse took the ACC's money and ran, a move that really didn't make much sense for their entire athletic program, considering Syracuse is only beginning to become relevant in football again after many years of dormancy.
I don't care what bowl game Syracuse goes to in the years to come, because the school was, is and always will be a basketball school _ make that a basketball powerhouse.
And we all know what Georgetown is.
But Syracuse leaving for the greener (as in $$$$$) pastures of the ACC can't exactly excite the rabid followers of Orange basketball. Are they getting pumped up right now for that classic Syracuse-Clemson showdown? How about the Orange against Virginia Tech? Or even Virginia, for that matter? I just cannot see 30,000 screaming basketball junkies jamming the Carrier Dome for those games. Sure, Duke and North Carolina will stir some interest, but the rest of the ACC? There are no rivalries there.
Not like Syracuse-St. John's in the heyday, with Pearl Washington going up against Chris Mullin. Or Syracuse against Villanova or Syracuse-UConn. Those were basketball games.
So this is the final year of the Big East as we once knew it. Sure, there will be a conference called the Big East next year and some of the familiar names, like Georgetown, St. John's and Villanova will be part of it, as will my alma mater, Marquette. They'll even play the tournament in Madison Square Garden, the arena that helped to build the Big East.
But will it be the Big East? Hardly. Not without Syracuse. Not without Pitt. Those were Big East mainstays.
For me, the Big East will be 1985, when three members of the league went to the Final Four in Lexington, Kentucky and Villanova shocked the world by stealing the NCAA title. Earlier that year, St. John's and Georgetown met in a regular season game at the Garden, with Patrick Ewing going up against Mullin and Walter Berry. They were the top two teams in the country, facing off on a Wednesday night, with the Garden abuzz. Lou Carnesecca had that ugly sweater and Thompson unveiled a matching one. It was classic showmanship.
That game was so huge that practically every sports fan in Jersey City flocked to bars in Bayonne, because Jersey City didn't have cable television yet. I remember standing the entire game watching in a now-defunct bar in Bayonne, where a Domino's pizza store now stands, and the place was packed with Jersey City basketball fans.
There were other great moments, like Pearl Washington's three-quarter court running shot, like the 1996 tourney final pitting Allen Iverson against Ray Allen, like the six overtime classic between UConn and Syracuse, like the sharpshooting of Gerry McNamara.
There were even the two Big East Tournament titles won by local favorite Seton Hall, championships thought to be unreachable when the Hall was the doormat of the league in its inception.
It was a basketball haven for Hall of Fame coaches. Just think of all the coaching greats that participated in that league. Thompson, Boeheim, Carnesecca, Calhoun, Pitino _ all Hall of Famers.
So the Big East as we knew it ends this weekend. It should remain a strong basketball conference for the years to come with the Catholic 7, along with Xavier and Butler, forming a solid conglomeration.
But can it match what it once was? No way, no how.
And we can thank the pursuit, the greed of the almighty green, for the league's passing.
It's basically like Dallas replacing Barbara Bel Geddes with Donna Reed or the Three Stooges replacing Curly with Shemp. Sure, the show must go on, but it's just not the same show.
And for a basketball purist like me, it's sad.
I was already in love with college basketball by the time the Big East came around during my senior year of high school. I already watched Bill Walton capture my fancy with the UCLA teams and saw David Thompson became David Skywalker during his North Carolina State days in the early 1970s.
And of course, I was hooked by the time my future school, Marquette, won it all in 1977.
But the Big East became my home. I gobbled up those games, those tournaments, those memories.
It's a shame that it all ends, the way it was, this weekend. That's why Georgetown-Syracuse tonight proves to be something special, one for the ages, one last dance to remember what it once was.
===============================================================================
I am so totally through with Mike Francesa.
The blow-hard egotistical windbag sealed that deal earlier this week, when he took yet another passing blow at the New York Jets and especially head coach Rex Ryan.
Now, I'm not a Jets fan, but Francesa made it a point to open his show Wednesday morning taking more pot shots at the Jets and Ryan. However, this time, the narcoleptic know-it-all actually went as far as to say that maybe the Jets could play all four quarterbacks at the same time. He thought that was funny.
But when he went as far as to say, "And where is Rex during all of this? He's invisible. He thinks he lost so much weight that he can't be seen."
Now, Francesa should have taken a slice of life from his former good friend Bill Parcells, who used to be as thick as thieves together, owning horses together, and now don't speak. Gee, I wonder why.
Where in the world does Francesa get off criticizing someone for losing weight? As Parcells once said, it was time for Francesa to take a long look "at the man in the glass," because Francesa is beyond portly.
I've had it with Francesa's condescending tone to callers, his hypocritical approach with interview guests, where he kisses their collective asses when they're in front of him, then blasts them when they're gone. I'm done with him constantly repeating himself, over and over, to the point of annoyance.
Did anyone catch his reporting of the new Pope? It's beyond ridiculous. And for that, he gets paid in the millions.
But when you're a fat ass (like I am as well), you have no right to make fun of someone's weight loss. If you are in dire need of a salad to go along with that Diet Coke you swill, then you cannot poke fun at a guy like Ryan, who had the lapband surgery and has dropped over 100 pounds.
I'm done with him. I was an avid listener and even called the mo-mo to knock him down a few pegs when he was wrong about St. Peter's playing Monmouth in that 6 a.m. game a few years ago. He had no idea what he was talking about.
Now, I won't listen. I have better things to tune in to. Like 80s on 8 on XM Radio.
Come on Eileen from Dexy's Midnight Runners. Much better than blowhard Francesa any day.
=============================================================================
You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com and www.dailyrecord.com, where I have a great feature about famed figure skater JoJo Starbuck and her twin sons. Check it out.
If there's ever been a more fitting showdown for the final Big East tourney as we once knew it, it's a matchup of the Orange and the Hoyas, two of the original members of the old league, two of the titans of the Big East.
OK, so James Southerland isn't exactly Billy Owens and Otto Porter isn't the same as Reggie Williams, but the meaning is still there. Sure, it's Boeheim vs. Thompson, but this time, it's the big, burly Thompson's kid, not the menacing giant with the towel draped on his shoulder.
But it's almost like karma that these two teams face each other today for the very last time _ unless they somehow meet in the Final Four. Syracuse took the ACC's money and ran, a move that really didn't make much sense for their entire athletic program, considering Syracuse is only beginning to become relevant in football again after many years of dormancy.
I don't care what bowl game Syracuse goes to in the years to come, because the school was, is and always will be a basketball school _ make that a basketball powerhouse.
And we all know what Georgetown is.
But Syracuse leaving for the greener (as in $$$$$) pastures of the ACC can't exactly excite the rabid followers of Orange basketball. Are they getting pumped up right now for that classic Syracuse-Clemson showdown? How about the Orange against Virginia Tech? Or even Virginia, for that matter? I just cannot see 30,000 screaming basketball junkies jamming the Carrier Dome for those games. Sure, Duke and North Carolina will stir some interest, but the rest of the ACC? There are no rivalries there.
Not like Syracuse-St. John's in the heyday, with Pearl Washington going up against Chris Mullin. Or Syracuse against Villanova or Syracuse-UConn. Those were basketball games.
So this is the final year of the Big East as we once knew it. Sure, there will be a conference called the Big East next year and some of the familiar names, like Georgetown, St. John's and Villanova will be part of it, as will my alma mater, Marquette. They'll even play the tournament in Madison Square Garden, the arena that helped to build the Big East.
But will it be the Big East? Hardly. Not without Syracuse. Not without Pitt. Those were Big East mainstays.
For me, the Big East will be 1985, when three members of the league went to the Final Four in Lexington, Kentucky and Villanova shocked the world by stealing the NCAA title. Earlier that year, St. John's and Georgetown met in a regular season game at the Garden, with Patrick Ewing going up against Mullin and Walter Berry. They were the top two teams in the country, facing off on a Wednesday night, with the Garden abuzz. Lou Carnesecca had that ugly sweater and Thompson unveiled a matching one. It was classic showmanship.
That game was so huge that practically every sports fan in Jersey City flocked to bars in Bayonne, because Jersey City didn't have cable television yet. I remember standing the entire game watching in a now-defunct bar in Bayonne, where a Domino's pizza store now stands, and the place was packed with Jersey City basketball fans.
There were other great moments, like Pearl Washington's three-quarter court running shot, like the 1996 tourney final pitting Allen Iverson against Ray Allen, like the six overtime classic between UConn and Syracuse, like the sharpshooting of Gerry McNamara.
There were even the two Big East Tournament titles won by local favorite Seton Hall, championships thought to be unreachable when the Hall was the doormat of the league in its inception.
It was a basketball haven for Hall of Fame coaches. Just think of all the coaching greats that participated in that league. Thompson, Boeheim, Carnesecca, Calhoun, Pitino _ all Hall of Famers.
So the Big East as we knew it ends this weekend. It should remain a strong basketball conference for the years to come with the Catholic 7, along with Xavier and Butler, forming a solid conglomeration.
But can it match what it once was? No way, no how.
And we can thank the pursuit, the greed of the almighty green, for the league's passing.
It's basically like Dallas replacing Barbara Bel Geddes with Donna Reed or the Three Stooges replacing Curly with Shemp. Sure, the show must go on, but it's just not the same show.
And for a basketball purist like me, it's sad.
I was already in love with college basketball by the time the Big East came around during my senior year of high school. I already watched Bill Walton capture my fancy with the UCLA teams and saw David Thompson became David Skywalker during his North Carolina State days in the early 1970s.
And of course, I was hooked by the time my future school, Marquette, won it all in 1977.
But the Big East became my home. I gobbled up those games, those tournaments, those memories.
It's a shame that it all ends, the way it was, this weekend. That's why Georgetown-Syracuse tonight proves to be something special, one for the ages, one last dance to remember what it once was.
===============================================================================
I am so totally through with Mike Francesa.
The blow-hard egotistical windbag sealed that deal earlier this week, when he took yet another passing blow at the New York Jets and especially head coach Rex Ryan.
Now, I'm not a Jets fan, but Francesa made it a point to open his show Wednesday morning taking more pot shots at the Jets and Ryan. However, this time, the narcoleptic know-it-all actually went as far as to say that maybe the Jets could play all four quarterbacks at the same time. He thought that was funny.
But when he went as far as to say, "And where is Rex during all of this? He's invisible. He thinks he lost so much weight that he can't be seen."
Now, Francesa should have taken a slice of life from his former good friend Bill Parcells, who used to be as thick as thieves together, owning horses together, and now don't speak. Gee, I wonder why.
Where in the world does Francesa get off criticizing someone for losing weight? As Parcells once said, it was time for Francesa to take a long look "at the man in the glass," because Francesa is beyond portly.
I've had it with Francesa's condescending tone to callers, his hypocritical approach with interview guests, where he kisses their collective asses when they're in front of him, then blasts them when they're gone. I'm done with him constantly repeating himself, over and over, to the point of annoyance.
Did anyone catch his reporting of the new Pope? It's beyond ridiculous. And for that, he gets paid in the millions.
But when you're a fat ass (like I am as well), you have no right to make fun of someone's weight loss. If you are in dire need of a salad to go along with that Diet Coke you swill, then you cannot poke fun at a guy like Ryan, who had the lapband surgery and has dropped over 100 pounds.
I'm done with him. I was an avid listener and even called the mo-mo to knock him down a few pegs when he was wrong about St. Peter's playing Monmouth in that 6 a.m. game a few years ago. He had no idea what he was talking about.
Now, I won't listen. I have better things to tune in to. Like 80s on 8 on XM Radio.
Come on Eileen from Dexy's Midnight Runners. Much better than blowhard Francesa any day.
=============================================================================
You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com and www.dailyrecord.com, where I have a great feature about famed figure skater JoJo Starbuck and her twin sons. Check it out.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Santana delay is sign he's done
Once again, the Mets are trying their very best to dance around the truth. In fact, they have become better dancers than Fred Astaire and Denny Terio combined.
They danced around the fact that they were never going to sign Michael Bourn. They made themselves look good in the eyes of their fans for a few weeks, saying that they "were interested" in signing the former Brave All-Star, but when push came to shove, they used the excuse of not wanting to give up the No. 11 pick in the MLB Draft.
That was such a crock. They didn't want to sign Bourn because it was going to cost them $50 million. Heck, they wouldn't re-sign Scott Hairston because he wanted $6 million for two years. He ended up signing for $5 million. The Mets turned their back on their lone right-handed outfield power source for a measly $1 million. So they were "interested" in Bourn? Get real. That was all such a huge tease to get Met fans to buy tickets this season.
Now, here comes Dance No. 2. Johan Santana was shut down after having nothing left in that arm. He has no velocity whatsoever and no control with his famed change-up (a major warning sign). So the Mets say that they're going to give Santana until March 10 to see if his arm miraculously gets stronger.
Gee (not pitcher Dillon), spring training is just a week old and we're already shutting down pitchers? Face facts. Santana is done and the Mets know it. They don't want to say it, because they were really hopeful that someone would take that ridiculous $25 million contract off their hands, which is like hoping that Ted the Bear is going to hang out with you and drink brewskis at the neighborhood bar.
No one wants Santana, especially not with that contract. But the Mets, once again, think that fans are so stupid that they will buy this latest dance around the truth.
Why not try to recoup some of that $25 million by forcing Santana to retire because of the injury? They did that with a washed-up Mo Vaughn several years ago when Vaughn was done. Makes perfect sense here.
They can then send Santana out to pasture and allow phenom Zack Wheeler to begin the season with the big club, instead of shipping him to Triple A. Everyone would rather see Wheeler anyway, rather than a finished Santana. And please, don't give me a dose of Jeremy Hefner. I'd rather shave my head with a cheese grader and chew on aluminum foil than watch Hefner pitch.
So the Mets will continue to disco the night away instead of facing the truth. It's really not a good thing for a team in a so-called major market to do. Maybe Met fans would accept the hideous situation more if the front office would just tell the truth instead of doing the tango.
And while we're at it, is there a worse outfield in the majors? The Mets actually believe Lucas Duda can hit 30 homers? Did they watch games last year? During late July-early August, Duda couldn't hit a beach ball with a two-by-four. He struck out more than Screech with Lisa Turtle on "Saved By The Bell." He's not a good major leaguer. Mike Baxter? C'mon. Kirk Niewenhuis? Oh, good God.
So we're supposed to get excited about this team? Sandy Alderson, who somehow gets a flier from the media, even though he's just as bad of a liar as owners Freddie Coupon and Coupon, Jr., said that the Mets are looking at 2013, but shooting for 2014. Is that right? Then why should I go this season? To see Marlon Byrd? LaTroy Hawkins?
This is a team that will be really lucky to win 70 games this year. They'd be a last place team if Jeffrey Lauria didn't take out a pocket knife and proceed to gut the Marlins.
This is a bad baseball team, but hey, at least we know the front office can dance.
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The college basketball season is winding down toward the days of March Madness and unlike last year, when you could have crowned Kentucky as national champ in November, there really isn't a sure-fire favorite to win it all this year.
Is it Indiana? Not so sure. Duke? The Blue Devils sorely miss Ryan Kelly. Miami? It's been a great run by Jim Larranaga, but can the Hurricanes actually win it all? Or is it another Cinderella darling?
Honestly, I don't know. Things can change between now and St. Paddy's Day. But it certainly will lead to an interesting and possibly exciting NCAA Tourney. Anyone can win it. That makes it exciting.
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My work life has been insane, with coverage of the Nets, the Devils, Seton Hall basketball, high school sports. Every day is something new, so that makes it exciting as well as hectic.
That's why the blog has taken a beating. Only the second one of the year? C'mon that's just wrong. I promise to find more time to write the blog in the weeks and months to come.
=======================================================
You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com and www.dailyrecord.com.
They danced around the fact that they were never going to sign Michael Bourn. They made themselves look good in the eyes of their fans for a few weeks, saying that they "were interested" in signing the former Brave All-Star, but when push came to shove, they used the excuse of not wanting to give up the No. 11 pick in the MLB Draft.
That was such a crock. They didn't want to sign Bourn because it was going to cost them $50 million. Heck, they wouldn't re-sign Scott Hairston because he wanted $6 million for two years. He ended up signing for $5 million. The Mets turned their back on their lone right-handed outfield power source for a measly $1 million. So they were "interested" in Bourn? Get real. That was all such a huge tease to get Met fans to buy tickets this season.
Now, here comes Dance No. 2. Johan Santana was shut down after having nothing left in that arm. He has no velocity whatsoever and no control with his famed change-up (a major warning sign). So the Mets say that they're going to give Santana until March 10 to see if his arm miraculously gets stronger.
Gee (not pitcher Dillon), spring training is just a week old and we're already shutting down pitchers? Face facts. Santana is done and the Mets know it. They don't want to say it, because they were really hopeful that someone would take that ridiculous $25 million contract off their hands, which is like hoping that Ted the Bear is going to hang out with you and drink brewskis at the neighborhood bar.
No one wants Santana, especially not with that contract. But the Mets, once again, think that fans are so stupid that they will buy this latest dance around the truth.
Why not try to recoup some of that $25 million by forcing Santana to retire because of the injury? They did that with a washed-up Mo Vaughn several years ago when Vaughn was done. Makes perfect sense here.
They can then send Santana out to pasture and allow phenom Zack Wheeler to begin the season with the big club, instead of shipping him to Triple A. Everyone would rather see Wheeler anyway, rather than a finished Santana. And please, don't give me a dose of Jeremy Hefner. I'd rather shave my head with a cheese grader and chew on aluminum foil than watch Hefner pitch.
So the Mets will continue to disco the night away instead of facing the truth. It's really not a good thing for a team in a so-called major market to do. Maybe Met fans would accept the hideous situation more if the front office would just tell the truth instead of doing the tango.
And while we're at it, is there a worse outfield in the majors? The Mets actually believe Lucas Duda can hit 30 homers? Did they watch games last year? During late July-early August, Duda couldn't hit a beach ball with a two-by-four. He struck out more than Screech with Lisa Turtle on "Saved By The Bell." He's not a good major leaguer. Mike Baxter? C'mon. Kirk Niewenhuis? Oh, good God.
So we're supposed to get excited about this team? Sandy Alderson, who somehow gets a flier from the media, even though he's just as bad of a liar as owners Freddie Coupon and Coupon, Jr., said that the Mets are looking at 2013, but shooting for 2014. Is that right? Then why should I go this season? To see Marlon Byrd? LaTroy Hawkins?
This is a team that will be really lucky to win 70 games this year. They'd be a last place team if Jeffrey Lauria didn't take out a pocket knife and proceed to gut the Marlins.
This is a bad baseball team, but hey, at least we know the front office can dance.
================================================================
The college basketball season is winding down toward the days of March Madness and unlike last year, when you could have crowned Kentucky as national champ in November, there really isn't a sure-fire favorite to win it all this year.
Is it Indiana? Not so sure. Duke? The Blue Devils sorely miss Ryan Kelly. Miami? It's been a great run by Jim Larranaga, but can the Hurricanes actually win it all? Or is it another Cinderella darling?
Honestly, I don't know. Things can change between now and St. Paddy's Day. But it certainly will lead to an interesting and possibly exciting NCAA Tourney. Anyone can win it. That makes it exciting.
================================================================
My work life has been insane, with coverage of the Nets, the Devils, Seton Hall basketball, high school sports. Every day is something new, so that makes it exciting as well as hectic.
That's why the blog has taken a beating. Only the second one of the year? C'mon that's just wrong. I promise to find more time to write the blog in the weeks and months to come.
=======================================================
You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com and www.dailyrecord.com.
Monday, January 28, 2013
I'm still not buying T'eo fable
Manti T'eo has given interviews to ESPN's Jeremy Schaap and Katie Couric of all people to try to explain the bizarre and even more confusing saga of his imaginary girlfriend and the way he was duped into a strictly Internet relationship.
I've listened to his words and tried to rationalize the whole thing. Only one problem. I just can't.
I can't buy the fact that this intelligent young man, who received an education at Notre Dame, could totally fall for this so-called prank and hoax.
I mean, we're led to believe that T'eo never met the girl, but was madly in love with her, talked about marriage and was convinced that this was the love of his life.
Fall in love? Over the Internet? Without ever meeting? Happily ever after and all that? T'eo said that he had planned to meet the beautiful fraud known as Lennay Kekau, but it never came to fruition.
OK, so we'll give T'eo the benefit of the doubt that he might have become smitten with the girl he never met. But when she first had this horrific accident that almost claimed her life, where was T'eo? He didn't go to her bedside.
And when she was stricken with leukemia, again, where was T'eo? Still in South Bend. And when she finally died, where was T'eo? Again, not with her.
Don't you think that if T'eo was madly in love with her and planned to marry her, he would have rushed to her bedside to be with her in her last moments? If that's not a red flag about this, then nothing is.
T'eo also had all these voicemails from the alleged Lennay that he saved on his cell phone for years. Who saves voicemails like that? Hell, I've inadvertently deleted messages that I wanted to save. You have to be a total cell phone technician to keep messages that long. And once she allegedly died in September, would you want to keep the bad messages?
In all my 30-plus years of being a sportswriter, this is clearly the most bizarre and ridiculous fable I've ever heard. Either T'eo is the most naive and gullible fool that ever lived or he's the most cunning genius to pull off such a hoax since Alexander Mundy on "To Catch a Thief."
I honestly don't know what to believe. Except one thing. T'eo was in on something before this story broke. He has lied several times and doesn't seem too believable in these interviews. His Notre Dame teammates have expressed that they didn't believe T'eo's girlfriend even existed.
Could have T'eo contrived the whole thing in order to gain attention to try to win the Heisman Trophy? Who knows? One thing is for sure. He wouldn't have finished in second place in the trophy balloting if he played at at any other school than Notre Dame. Even a linebacker at Alabama wouldn't have received the votes that T'eo did.
And T'eo gained attention and was placed in the spotlight because of the dead girlfriend, the Hawaiian leis that were worn and waved at the Michigan game in honor of the dead girl, the game ball presentation after the Michigan State win, when head coach Brian Kelly gave T'eo the ball and said, "Bring this home and give it to Lennay."
Hell, if I was a Notre Dame defensive football player and helped the Irish upend Michigan State along with T'eo and didn't get a game ball and watched Kelly present a game ball to a ficticious woman, I'd want to kick T'eo's Hawaiian ass all the way back to Honolulu.
We haven't heard all of this yet. Apparently, the other guy involved with this so-called hoax is going on Dr. Phil later this week. Let's face it, Aesop didn't have fables like this one. It really takes the cake. I never even dreamed of something like this. One thing is for sure: It's not over and I'm still not buying that T'eo was the innocent victim of a hoax.
==============================================================
Not tooting my own horn at all, but I hate to say "I told you so," when it comes to that fraud Lance Armstrong.
I knew since 1998 that Armstrong was cheating, when I found out from some of his colleagues at the Goodwill Games at Wagner on Staten Island, an event that I worked.
One cyclist gave me details of the stuff that Armstrong was doing, like the blood doping, and said that "no cancer survivor with stage 4 anything could come back that quickly and cycle like that through the hills of France seven months later."
Now we all know it was done by a cheating Armstrong, who is still a little too boorish and unrelenting in his ways even after admitted he was a fraud.
I feel horrible for the millions of cancer survivors who believed so steadfastly in Armstrong and wore the yellow "Livestrong" bracelets. It's a shame that the excellent charity was based on the actions of a cheating, lying fraud.
=============================================================
As someone who worked at St. Peter's College when both the men's and women's basketball teams were not only good, but were dominant, it's sad to see that the current Peacock squads have combined to win a total of two MAAC contests this year.
That's right, the men have won once inside the league. The women were 0-18 this season before defeating Manhattan for their lone win.
When I was the sports information director at Harvard on the Boulevard, those programs won 20 games every year and contended for the MAAC title every year.
Now, it's a complete disaster. They have a new name in St. Peter's University and a new way of losing every game.
The men's team had great wins this season against Rutgers at the RAC, at Cornell and at LIU. They even beat Central Connecticut twice.
But to have only one win in a MAAC that is very top heavy, with good teams at the top and mediocrity throughout, is not acceptable.
The women being 1-18 is almost laughable, considering that legendary coach Mike Granelli would lose 18 total games over a five-year span. Never in the same season.
It's sad to see the basketball programs at St. Peter's University being so irrelevant these days. But that's what they are.
==============================================================
You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com, and www.dailyrecord.com. There's a nice feature in the Hudson Reporter about the winning ways in Weehawken. Check it out.
I've listened to his words and tried to rationalize the whole thing. Only one problem. I just can't.
I can't buy the fact that this intelligent young man, who received an education at Notre Dame, could totally fall for this so-called prank and hoax.
I mean, we're led to believe that T'eo never met the girl, but was madly in love with her, talked about marriage and was convinced that this was the love of his life.
Fall in love? Over the Internet? Without ever meeting? Happily ever after and all that? T'eo said that he had planned to meet the beautiful fraud known as Lennay Kekau, but it never came to fruition.
OK, so we'll give T'eo the benefit of the doubt that he might have become smitten with the girl he never met. But when she first had this horrific accident that almost claimed her life, where was T'eo? He didn't go to her bedside.
And when she was stricken with leukemia, again, where was T'eo? Still in South Bend. And when she finally died, where was T'eo? Again, not with her.
Don't you think that if T'eo was madly in love with her and planned to marry her, he would have rushed to her bedside to be with her in her last moments? If that's not a red flag about this, then nothing is.
T'eo also had all these voicemails from the alleged Lennay that he saved on his cell phone for years. Who saves voicemails like that? Hell, I've inadvertently deleted messages that I wanted to save. You have to be a total cell phone technician to keep messages that long. And once she allegedly died in September, would you want to keep the bad messages?
In all my 30-plus years of being a sportswriter, this is clearly the most bizarre and ridiculous fable I've ever heard. Either T'eo is the most naive and gullible fool that ever lived or he's the most cunning genius to pull off such a hoax since Alexander Mundy on "To Catch a Thief."
I honestly don't know what to believe. Except one thing. T'eo was in on something before this story broke. He has lied several times and doesn't seem too believable in these interviews. His Notre Dame teammates have expressed that they didn't believe T'eo's girlfriend even existed.
Could have T'eo contrived the whole thing in order to gain attention to try to win the Heisman Trophy? Who knows? One thing is for sure. He wouldn't have finished in second place in the trophy balloting if he played at at any other school than Notre Dame. Even a linebacker at Alabama wouldn't have received the votes that T'eo did.
And T'eo gained attention and was placed in the spotlight because of the dead girlfriend, the Hawaiian leis that were worn and waved at the Michigan game in honor of the dead girl, the game ball presentation after the Michigan State win, when head coach Brian Kelly gave T'eo the ball and said, "Bring this home and give it to Lennay."
Hell, if I was a Notre Dame defensive football player and helped the Irish upend Michigan State along with T'eo and didn't get a game ball and watched Kelly present a game ball to a ficticious woman, I'd want to kick T'eo's Hawaiian ass all the way back to Honolulu.
We haven't heard all of this yet. Apparently, the other guy involved with this so-called hoax is going on Dr. Phil later this week. Let's face it, Aesop didn't have fables like this one. It really takes the cake. I never even dreamed of something like this. One thing is for sure: It's not over and I'm still not buying that T'eo was the innocent victim of a hoax.
==============================================================
Not tooting my own horn at all, but I hate to say "I told you so," when it comes to that fraud Lance Armstrong.
I knew since 1998 that Armstrong was cheating, when I found out from some of his colleagues at the Goodwill Games at Wagner on Staten Island, an event that I worked.
One cyclist gave me details of the stuff that Armstrong was doing, like the blood doping, and said that "no cancer survivor with stage 4 anything could come back that quickly and cycle like that through the hills of France seven months later."
Now we all know it was done by a cheating Armstrong, who is still a little too boorish and unrelenting in his ways even after admitted he was a fraud.
I feel horrible for the millions of cancer survivors who believed so steadfastly in Armstrong and wore the yellow "Livestrong" bracelets. It's a shame that the excellent charity was based on the actions of a cheating, lying fraud.
=============================================================
As someone who worked at St. Peter's College when both the men's and women's basketball teams were not only good, but were dominant, it's sad to see that the current Peacock squads have combined to win a total of two MAAC contests this year.
That's right, the men have won once inside the league. The women were 0-18 this season before defeating Manhattan for their lone win.
When I was the sports information director at Harvard on the Boulevard, those programs won 20 games every year and contended for the MAAC title every year.
Now, it's a complete disaster. They have a new name in St. Peter's University and a new way of losing every game.
The men's team had great wins this season against Rutgers at the RAC, at Cornell and at LIU. They even beat Central Connecticut twice.
But to have only one win in a MAAC that is very top heavy, with good teams at the top and mediocrity throughout, is not acceptable.
The women being 1-18 is almost laughable, considering that legendary coach Mike Granelli would lose 18 total games over a five-year span. Never in the same season.
It's sad to see the basketball programs at St. Peter's University being so irrelevant these days. But that's what they are.
==============================================================
You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com, and www.dailyrecord.com. There's a nice feature in the Hudson Reporter about the winning ways in Weehawken. Check it out.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Baseball Hall of Fame ballot lunacy
First, let me start out by writing that it has been way too long since I've added a blog. It's been over a month. A lot has taken place in that month. Avery Johnson was fired as coach of the Nets and replaced by my long-time friend P.J. Carlesimo (although P.J. probably doesn't want that association out there). The Giants and Jets failed to make the playoffs. Christmas has come and gone. We rang in a New Year and let's face facts, after what we all endured in 2012, we can definitely say "Good riddance."
Between the devastation caused by Hurricane Sandy in places that I adored as a teenager into adulthood, like Point Pleasant, Belmar, Sea Bright and Manasquan, places on the Jersey Shore that may never recover, to the horrific story of those innocent little children in Newtown, CT, 20 of whom were murdered and the rest terrorized, 2012 was not a year to remember.
On a personal note, I survived three hospital stays and five surgeries. I lost my beloved brother-in-law, as well as several other good friends. I won't forget memorable people like Jay Costello or Shawn Feeley anytime soon. Let's just say that we can easily turn the page on that nightmarish year.
Now, we've come across the first sports controversy of 2013. The National Baseball Hall of Fame held its recent balloting for players to be inducted and remarkably, not a single baseball legend earned the 75 percent of the votes needed for induction. It was the first time the voting failed to produce a single inductee since 1996.
If I was fortunate to have a vote for the Hall of Fame, there's no question that I would have voted for four people hands down. My ballot would have been cast for Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Mike Piazza and Jack Morris.
Let's address each one. Bonds and Clemens should be absolute no-brainers. Bonds won an astounding seven MVP awards. The same for Clemens with Cy Young Awards. They were two of the most dominant performers baseball has ever seen.
But they both were left off of nearly two-thirds of all the ballots cast by the the Baseball Writers of America. And why? Because both have been found to have used anabolic steroids or human growth hormones during their stints in the big leagues.
My feeling is this: Both Bonds and Clemens were Hall of Famers before they were ever introduced to "The Juice" in the late 1990s. Both had collective bodies of work worthy of induction before they ever saw a needle.
Now, I personally despise both people. Bonds is the second worst professional athlete I've ever dealt with in my 30-plus years as a sportswriter. One time at Shea Stadium, Bonds went out of his way to totally humiliate me and about eight other writers, trying to do our jobs, waiting to get a quote.
Bonds had a handful of the cardboard boxes used to carry hot dogs and drinks to your seat at a ball game. He then proceeded to place these boxes in a square around his locker and told the sportswriters, including yours truly, that we couldn't step inside the boxes to get to him, that we had to ask Bonds the questions from behind the boxes.
When we stupidly agreed to his rules, Bonds then got up and disappeared into the visting team's lounge, never to be heard from again. We were duped by a classless jerk. He treated everyone with the same disdain, including his own teammates.
I had only a few times to interview Clemens, so my feelings about him are more relegated to his actions on the field, throwing the ball at undeserving opponents, throwing the broken bat at Piazza in the 2000 World Series, then tried to say he thought the broken bat was the ball, which made no sense, because if it was the ball, why didn't he then throw it to first base and not at Piazza running up the line. He was just a hateful athlete.
However, I feel both belong in Cooperstown. They compiled enough of a resume to get there before a syringe touched their bodies. The steroids prolonged their careers and turned their careers into something never before seen by a player or a pitcher. It's unfair to give them their just due.
In the case of Piazza, he is the greatest hitting catcher to ever play the game. Sure, he's a personal favorite, because he's the best position player in the history of my favorite team, the Mets. But his statistics as a catcher are not matched by anyone inducted or who have played since. Piazza is also deserving of his spot.
So why did Piazza not earn induction? Some suggest that there have been hints that Piazza took steroids, but all of that is based on rumor and innuendo. It's never been proven. He wasn't indicted like Bonds and Clemens, yet there is some cloud of controversy swirling above Piazza's head. It personally makes no sense to me.
The player who got closest to getting the necessary 75 percent is Craig Biggio, who fell 39 votes short of induction. Biggio is a very nice player who got the 3,000 hits that used to seal a one-way ticket to Cooperstown. But Biggio was a .280 lifetime hitter who was never the best player on his own team. He deserves it over Piazza? That idea is simply laughable.
The one next in line is one of the best big-game pitchers of my lifetime, Jack Morris, who keeps inching closer and closer to induction, but he failed to get the votes once again. Morris is a Hall of Famer, no question.
True, this was definitely the deepest and most talented Hall of Fame ballot of my lifetime. Jeff Bagwell and my friend Tim Raines, who I worked with for two years when he was the manager of the Newark Bears, are both worthy candidates. When you add the steroid kings like Bonds, Clemens, Rafael Palmiero, Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire, that's a lot of guys to consider.
So that's the biggest reason why no one got the 75 percent. I can't see how Biggio would gain induction over Piazza. If it's because there's a hint and rumor about steroids, then that's ludicrous.
It sure makes for a very empty induction ceremony in Cooperstown come July.
=========================================================================
The NHL has ended its lockout and players are coming back to hit the ice this weekend for a shortened training camp. The teams will play a 48-game schedule and everything will be back to normal.
Or will it? Will the fans simply accept that they were kept away for three months, while the players and owners bickered over millions?
It's the second time in eight years that the NHL season was tampered with because of a labor dispute. The entire 2004-2005 season was wiped away because of an owner's lockout or a players' strike, call it what you want.
Do hockey fans forget about the greed and avarice and welcome the players back with open arms? It's going to be very interesting to see.
=========================================================================
You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com and www.dailyrecord.com.
And thanks for your patience with me as I produced another blog.
Between the devastation caused by Hurricane Sandy in places that I adored as a teenager into adulthood, like Point Pleasant, Belmar, Sea Bright and Manasquan, places on the Jersey Shore that may never recover, to the horrific story of those innocent little children in Newtown, CT, 20 of whom were murdered and the rest terrorized, 2012 was not a year to remember.
On a personal note, I survived three hospital stays and five surgeries. I lost my beloved brother-in-law, as well as several other good friends. I won't forget memorable people like Jay Costello or Shawn Feeley anytime soon. Let's just say that we can easily turn the page on that nightmarish year.
Now, we've come across the first sports controversy of 2013. The National Baseball Hall of Fame held its recent balloting for players to be inducted and remarkably, not a single baseball legend earned the 75 percent of the votes needed for induction. It was the first time the voting failed to produce a single inductee since 1996.
If I was fortunate to have a vote for the Hall of Fame, there's no question that I would have voted for four people hands down. My ballot would have been cast for Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Mike Piazza and Jack Morris.
Let's address each one. Bonds and Clemens should be absolute no-brainers. Bonds won an astounding seven MVP awards. The same for Clemens with Cy Young Awards. They were two of the most dominant performers baseball has ever seen.
But they both were left off of nearly two-thirds of all the ballots cast by the the Baseball Writers of America. And why? Because both have been found to have used anabolic steroids or human growth hormones during their stints in the big leagues.
My feeling is this: Both Bonds and Clemens were Hall of Famers before they were ever introduced to "The Juice" in the late 1990s. Both had collective bodies of work worthy of induction before they ever saw a needle.
Now, I personally despise both people. Bonds is the second worst professional athlete I've ever dealt with in my 30-plus years as a sportswriter. One time at Shea Stadium, Bonds went out of his way to totally humiliate me and about eight other writers, trying to do our jobs, waiting to get a quote.
Bonds had a handful of the cardboard boxes used to carry hot dogs and drinks to your seat at a ball game. He then proceeded to place these boxes in a square around his locker and told the sportswriters, including yours truly, that we couldn't step inside the boxes to get to him, that we had to ask Bonds the questions from behind the boxes.
When we stupidly agreed to his rules, Bonds then got up and disappeared into the visting team's lounge, never to be heard from again. We were duped by a classless jerk. He treated everyone with the same disdain, including his own teammates.
I had only a few times to interview Clemens, so my feelings about him are more relegated to his actions on the field, throwing the ball at undeserving opponents, throwing the broken bat at Piazza in the 2000 World Series, then tried to say he thought the broken bat was the ball, which made no sense, because if it was the ball, why didn't he then throw it to first base and not at Piazza running up the line. He was just a hateful athlete.
However, I feel both belong in Cooperstown. They compiled enough of a resume to get there before a syringe touched their bodies. The steroids prolonged their careers and turned their careers into something never before seen by a player or a pitcher. It's unfair to give them their just due.
In the case of Piazza, he is the greatest hitting catcher to ever play the game. Sure, he's a personal favorite, because he's the best position player in the history of my favorite team, the Mets. But his statistics as a catcher are not matched by anyone inducted or who have played since. Piazza is also deserving of his spot.
So why did Piazza not earn induction? Some suggest that there have been hints that Piazza took steroids, but all of that is based on rumor and innuendo. It's never been proven. He wasn't indicted like Bonds and Clemens, yet there is some cloud of controversy swirling above Piazza's head. It personally makes no sense to me.
The player who got closest to getting the necessary 75 percent is Craig Biggio, who fell 39 votes short of induction. Biggio is a very nice player who got the 3,000 hits that used to seal a one-way ticket to Cooperstown. But Biggio was a .280 lifetime hitter who was never the best player on his own team. He deserves it over Piazza? That idea is simply laughable.
The one next in line is one of the best big-game pitchers of my lifetime, Jack Morris, who keeps inching closer and closer to induction, but he failed to get the votes once again. Morris is a Hall of Famer, no question.
True, this was definitely the deepest and most talented Hall of Fame ballot of my lifetime. Jeff Bagwell and my friend Tim Raines, who I worked with for two years when he was the manager of the Newark Bears, are both worthy candidates. When you add the steroid kings like Bonds, Clemens, Rafael Palmiero, Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire, that's a lot of guys to consider.
So that's the biggest reason why no one got the 75 percent. I can't see how Biggio would gain induction over Piazza. If it's because there's a hint and rumor about steroids, then that's ludicrous.
It sure makes for a very empty induction ceremony in Cooperstown come July.
=========================================================================
The NHL has ended its lockout and players are coming back to hit the ice this weekend for a shortened training camp. The teams will play a 48-game schedule and everything will be back to normal.
Or will it? Will the fans simply accept that they were kept away for three months, while the players and owners bickered over millions?
It's the second time in eight years that the NHL season was tampered with because of a labor dispute. The entire 2004-2005 season was wiped away because of an owner's lockout or a players' strike, call it what you want.
Do hockey fans forget about the greed and avarice and welcome the players back with open arms? It's going to be very interesting to see.
=========================================================================
You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com and www.dailyrecord.com.
And thanks for your patience with me as I produced another blog.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
College basketball loses a great one
It was the fall of 1980 when I first met the legendary Rick Majerus, who died Saturday at the age of 64.
I had two credits to finish my first semester schedule and didn't know what silly class I could take to complete the 18 credits. As I was standing in line in the old Marquette gym for registration (the school had the most ridiculous, antiquated way of registering classes with like 1940's IBM computer punch cards), I saw a class that exploded off the page.
It was called "Theories of Basketball," taught by Professor Rick Majerus, who at the time was also the beloved assistant coach for the Marquette Warriors. It was a class that met twice a week, 11 AM on Mondays and Wednesdays, for an hour, for two credits.
It was clearly the best educational thing I ever took, because Majerus was a joy to be with. We spent about five minutes every Monday talking about some strategy in basketball, and then the rest of the time, we spent talking about Marquette basketball, past, present and future.
The class was phenomenal. We would go over the previous game and talk about what Sam Worthen did right or wrong or what kind of recruits he was pursuing.
"I got this kid in Illinois," Majerus said back then. "I'm pretty sure we're going to get him. If we do, it's a big-time steal."
The kid was named Glenn Rivers. There was no hint of the nickname he goes by now as the coach of the Boston Celtics. He wasn't nearly a "Doc" quite yet. But when Rivers signed his letter to come to Marquette, we celebrated as the only way we knew how. We went to eat.
Majerus loved me because of my knowledge of basketball and basketball history. He loved the fact that I had the heavy New York accent and loved that I knew about all the New York players Al McGuire brought to Marquette, including my man Jimmy Boylan, the point guard on the 1977 National Championship team.
Whenever class was over on Monday mornings, he would say, "See you guys Wednesday," then say to me, "Hey Hague, where are we going to eat?"
I'd climb in his ratty car and we'd go all over Milwaukee in search of the perfect sandwich. My particular favorite was the sub sandwiches at Cousin's, right up the block on 17th and Wisconsin from my dorm room at McCormick Hall.
I must have enjoyed lunch with Majerus about 20 times during my days at Marquette. We would talk and laugh and talk some more. Even after my two credits were over, I remained pretty close to Majerus, through his eventual shortened stint as the head coach at Marquette, to his days at Ball State and later the University of Utah.
I remembered one particular game he had as a Marquette head coach, against Bobby Knight and Indiana, circa 1984 or so, an Indiana team that featured a young Steve Alford and tremendous center Uwe Blab, in the NIT.
Well, Marquette is getting hosed by the referees, so much so that as the game goes into double overtime, Majerus has only four players left. The rest fouled out. He played the second OT with four players, one of whom was fellow Jersey City boy Mandy Johnson.
In this game, Majerus gets so incensed by a call that he literally blew himself out of his sports jacket. It split in half, much like what Chris Farley did to David Spade's jacket in the movie, "Tommy Boy." The late Farley was also a Marquette guy, so maybe he got the idea from seeing Majerus tear his sports jacket to shreds.
And of course, we lost that game. Another heartbreaking MU memory.
He always remembered me. When we would see each other at college basketball events, it wasn't a handshake waiting. It was a big hug and a hearty laugh. He was so happy that I had a career in sports, doing what I love doing. He helped me tremendously when the Nets drafted his player, Keith Van Horn, and even went out of his way to introduce Van Horn to me after he got picked by the Nets, knowing that I covered the Nets.
I spoke to him about a year or so ago, after he asked a mutual friend if it was me who was pissed off at current coach Buzz Williams for keeping the locker room closed long after a game. He heard it was a Marquette guy who was pissed at Buzz and wondered if it was me.
When people find out that I went to Marquette, the first thing they ask is whether I knew Coach McGuire. The second is whether I knew Rick Majerus.
I didn't just know Majerus. I loved him, as did so many other brethren he had in the college basketball world. There isn't a man alive who could say a bad thing about Majerus. He was so totally beloved by everyone and the center of attention at the College Basketball Coaches convention every year at the Final Four.
We're all saddened today that we lost Rick Majerus. We hoped he would take better care of himself when he had countless heart procedures, but instead of rest and recuperation, all he wanted to do was get back to his team and coach basketball.
Rick Majerus was one of a kind and he will be so sorely missed. There's a part of me that died with Coach Majerus today, because I can't pick up the phone or drop an e-mail (HE HATED E-MAILS) to him anymore.
People come and go in our lives all the time. I've had too many funerals and wakes and memorial Masses to go to over the last few years. When someone dies, there's always this moment of reflection and thoughts. Mine for the last hour or so since I heard of Majerus' passing has been climbing into that car and going to have a sandwich.
Rick Majerus was a good man, a Marquette man through and through. We all should "Ring Out Ahoya" tonight in memory of a true basketball legend, a Warrior in every aspect of his life. RIP Coach Majerus. The next really good sandwich I'll have, I'll think of you.
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A couple of things have happened since I last blogged and I apologize for the delay. I've been a little busy.
First, I don't get Jason Kidd not even showing up for the Nets-Knicks game last week. I understand back pain very well. But what would have it taken for him to go to the game, sit there in street clothes, and wave to the fans who obviously still love him.
Because without doubt, there's no such thing as the Brooklyn Nets or the Barclays Center for that matter without Jason Kidd. If he wasn't traded to the Nets in 2001 for Stephon Marbury (wow, what a steal), the Nets, as we currently know them, wouldn't have existed. They would have been shipped to Charlotte or Oklahoma City or Las Vegas or Florida, all places that were talked about being moving points before the Nets got Kidd and instantly became the Eastern Conference champs two years running.
He saved the franchise, without question. He's still beloved by Nets fans. He could have attended the game, stood up, waved, and then sat down on his heating pad. Not even showing up for the first-ever New York NBA battle was just wrong.
Finally, I think what Gregg Popovich did the other night against the Heat was ridiculous. Sitting all four down on the same day? Not letting them even travel to Miami? C'mon. If he wanted to rest Tim Duncan, that's one thing. But to rest Tony Parker and Manu Ginoboli on the same day as well? He could have rested just Duncan that night, then gave Parker another night off and Ginoboli another night off. You catch my drift. Giving all four the night off together was basically mailing in a game, even if the Spurs almost overachieved and won the game.
It was a wrong precedent to start and the NBA did the right thing by fining the Spurs $250,000. Can't have this happen again.
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Yes, the new Barclays Center is very nice. The drive to Brooklyn has not been that bad. I don't get the location of it or the shape of the building. My buddy Dave D'Alessandro calls it a "rusted bed pan."
But overall, it is an upgrade for the Nets and it has also produced new Net fans that have rocked the building some games, giving the place an atmosphere that never existed in New Jersey ever, even when the Nets were the best team in the Eastern Conference.
However, the seating for the press is ridiculous. It's in the high back of the visiting basket, more than 100 rows off the floor. Sure, I'm spoiled rotted with all those years of sitting courtside at the IZOD or Pru Center.
But this is being put in Never-Never Land. It's dark and you can't see the notes. I can't see the floor. I know I'm getting old and need glasses, but this is up there.
I guess life goes on, as I sit in the press room and watch the games on TV, then run around to get quotes afterwards. I was spoiled. Now, I just can't see.
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You can read more of my work at www.dailyrecord.com (yes, it's high school football championship time in New Jersey), www.theobserver.com and www.hudsonreporter.com. This week in the Reporter, you can read about the intense damage that St. Peter's Prep suffered after Hurricane Sandy.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Not the way we're used to seeing Jeter
There was an almost funereal hush that quieted Yankee Stadium Saturday night _ and it had nothing to do with the go-ahead run scoring in the top of the 12th inning, eventually rendering that miraculous ninth inning comeback totally useless.
The eerie silence that enveloped Yankee Stadium in extra innings was caused by an unusual sight. The culprit that turned the Yankee Stadium bedlam into a silent dome was the image of the seemingly unflappable staple of Yankee baseball, the team's captain, Derek Jeter, rolling around on the Yankee Stadium infield, writhing in pain.
You knew by the way the always unsinkable Jeter couldn't get to his feet that he was hurt severely, that this wasn't your average sprain or twist. You could see in the replays with Jeter's mouth wide open in agony that this was a season-ender.
Anyone who has watched Jeter perform brilliantly over the last 17 years knew that this was a major injury, because every other time Jeter has gone down in his career, he got up.
He dove into the stands to catch that foul popup against the Red Sox and popped out of the stands, looking like something out of a John Wayne war epic, with the blood trickling down his cheek, and you knew he was fine.
You've seen Jeter foul pitch after pitch off his feet and shins, watch him hop around a little on the injured foot or leg, strap on a shin guard and head back out to shortstop. Sprained ankles, bum shoulders, banged-up elbows, you have it. Jeter fought all the nagging injuries off and went out to do his job.
Because that's who he is. He's Derek Jeter, the man who personifies being the captain of the most storied and well known franchise in professional sports. George Steinbrenner was brilliant in a lot of ways, but no more of a genius when "The Boss" decided to hand the larger-than-life title of being the Yankee captain over to Jeter a decade ago.
Because Derek Jeter is the Yankees. He's the heart and soul of the team. Now with Steinbrenner gone, he's the face of the franchise. And deservedly so. Jeter handles his enormous celebrity with dignity and class. He does things the right way.
Some other sportswriters think that Jeter is boring, because he's never going to say the words that will end up as the headlines on the back of the tabloids. He's going to utter the company line _ "We have to play hard and work hard"...."We have to come back to the ballpark tomorrow and get back to doing what we do best"... "We'll take them one day at a time." -- Cliche after cliche. But that's who Derek Jeter is. He's not going to instigate with words in the newspaper. He doesn't have to. He does it all on the diamond.
I've always said that there are just a handful of professional athletes who "get it." Who understand just how enormous of a celebrity they are, how they are perceived by everyone from eight to 80, how vital their place in society is. There are only a few who handle their roles and get it. Peyton Manning. Dwyane Wade. I used to think Tiger Woods and LeBron James were in that category, but not now.
And then there's Derek Jeter, who knows he's adored by millions, who undertstands that he personifies what a role model truly is and not what others unfairly pump them up to be and who lives every single day living up to the expectations of his public and is so deserving of their adoration.
That's why seeing Jeter getting carried off the field Saturday night with a broken ankle is so alarming and so different, because you never expect to see that. Our heroes aren't supposed to be fallible. Superman is always supposed to save Lois Lane from disaster. John Wayne always rides off into the sunset having saved the day. "Sully" Sullenberger always lands that plane on the Hudson River and Derek Jeter always leads the Yankees to victory. It's what heroes do.
This morning, Derek Jeter is sitting with a cast on his foot, his season over. The Yankees lost in extra innings after making that implausible and unthinkable comeback in the ninth inning. They're down, 1-0, in the American League Championship Series. It's going to be Eduardo Nunez's chance to be the hero now.
October has had a history of making unknowns into heroes overnight. Just think of some of the Yankee October heroes of the past, guys like Don Larsen, Bucky Dent, Brian Doyle, Chad Curtis, Scott Brosius, just to name a few, guys who were average regular season players that had a chance to shine in the postseason spotlight and performed like heroes.
More than likely, Nunez, who I believe has a world of talent and has a very bright future in this game, gets thrown into that spotlight now. The future is now. Because the captain isn't there to save the day this time.
And there's something wrong with that image. Jeter is supposed to be the one leading the way, not the one on crutches. Life goes on. The Yankees have to somehow find a way without their leader.
But with or without their captain, there are a lot of guys who have to look in the mirror this morning and figure out what in God's name is going wrong, guys like Nick Swisher and Curtis Granderson and Robinson Cano (can a man with all that talent actually go 2-for-29???) and of course, the whipping boy, the $27 million a year part-time player named A-Rod.
They're all too good of players to all go south that quickly, although A-Rod is showing signs with these slow, swooping, lazy swings that he might be done for good.
They all have to take a deep look at themselves as they shave this morning and wonder what in the world is going on, because the next few days are going to be a hell of a lot tougher without their fearless and seemingly inviniceable leader.
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Just one last piece on the Lance Armstrong debacle. We're not going to mention any names, but one of the people who gave downright damning testimony against Armstrong to the United States Anti-Doping Association recently, forcing USADA to strip Armstrong of all his championships, including his seven Tour de France titles, was the same guy who admitted to me back in 1998, at the Goodwill Games cycling event at Wagner College (an event I worked at), that Armstrong was involved in blood doping and steroids.
This informant opened up to me during a break in the action (of course, off the record) in Staten Island, telling me that people with cancer don't just recover that quickly to become a dominant force in cycling, that he wouldn't be able to handle the grueling hills of France the way he mastered them, unless he had some sort of illegal assistance pumping through his veins.
For years, I remained steadfast that Armstrong was a cheater, even to the point where it downright angered many people, because they all wanted to believe that Armstrong had beaten cancer the right way and his charitable work with his LIVESTRONG Foundation was the most philantrophic and charitable efforts of anyone in America.
And for the last seven years, all Armstrong has done has denied, denied, denied. Much like Pete Rose denied he bet on baseball after the evidence all said otherwise. Or the way this evil pedophile Jerry Sandusky still insists he did nothing wrong with those little boys, professing in a sick and disgusting way that it was just the media contriving a conspiracy to get him.
Well, the evidence againsty Lance is just too damning now. More and more people are coming out of the woodwork to say Lance did use performance-enhancing drugs, steroids, was involved in blood doping and the rest. The New York Times had an interview with Armstrong's personal masseuse with the U.S. Postal Service cycling team who said that she was basically used as a drug runner and smuggler for Lance.
Armstrong's response? Well, the woman has no credibility and that she's nothing more than a prostitute.
Sure, Lance, that's how we discredit someone. Call them prostitutes. And your 15 other teammates that testified against you? What are they? Pimps?
In the court of public opinion and for the sake of his organization that is in tatters, Armstrong would serve everyone better if he just came clean and admitted his shortcomings now. Just cut the lies and accusations and come clean as a cheater and a liar. If he said he did so to help in his fight against cancer, he might still maintain some of his dignity. But calling an accuser a prostitute? That's just insane.
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Finally, the last bit borders on the insane, but then again, considering the source, it really shouldn't shock anyone.
However, here goes.
There was a story that earned national attention last week, all the way to television shows like Inside Edition, that featured the owner of the Newark Bears, the ridiculously dilusional Danielle Dronet, actually posting on the Bears' website that pop sensation Justin Bieber was going to perform a concert at Bears and Eagles Riverfront Stadium later this month.
The website actually was selling tickets or auctioning tickets if a donation of a Halloween costume to the "Bears That Care Foundation." Or if you purchased Bears season tickets in 2013, you got into a raffle to get a chance to see "The BEEBS" at Bears and Eagles Riverfront Stadium.
Now, if anyone had common sense, they would realize that a recording act the size of Bieber would not perform at such a small venue like the Bears' stadium, much less an outdoor facility in late October, when the temperatures are _ how do you say? _ chilly at best.
When Bieber's publicist got wind of the so-called concert, they sent out all denials, saying that the claim of the concert was "pure fiction."
But here's Danielle, who had sent out messages on Facebook and Twitter that "The Beebs" was indeed coming to Newark, insisting that the concert was going to take place and that it was booked, that there was going to be a "meet and greet" with the teen sensation.
When Dronet was reached by reporters from NJ.com about the hoax and scam, she still insisted that it was going to happen.
"We shall see," she said. "I'm knocking on wood and doing the sign of the cross. We've been burned so many times. We did this through all the right channels."
Bieber is already performing with Carla Mae Jepsen in a sold-out concert at the IZOD Center in East Rutherford with 20,000 screaming teens expected in attendance.
So why would "The BEEBS" be performing at a 6,800-seat stadium when he has a cozy, warm indoor joint with 20,000 seats booked?
The answer: He's not performing in Newark. He never was.
"No such performance was ever confirmed," said Bieber's publicist Melissa Victor in a statement. "His legal team will take legal action against any firm or person holding themselves out as Justin's authorized agent who may have confirmed any such event. AEG (Anshutz Entertainment Group, which basically owns the entire sports and entertainment world these days, even bigger, believe it or not, than ESPN) is the exclusive promoter of Justin's tour in the United States."
When another reporter tried to reach Dronet about the situation, she did what most good, law-abiding former strippers would do. She hung up.
There's no truth to the rumor that Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey is bringing the elephants and clowns to perform at Bears & Eagles Riverfront Stadium, because the circus has already been headlining at the joint since Dronet and her boyfriend Dr. Doug Spiel took over the franchise.
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You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com and www.dailyrecord.com. Contrary to other reports, there's no truth that Justin Bieber will be performing with me anywhere soon.
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