The tale of two Armstrongs

I know this is a little late coming, but I've been absolutely swallowed (yes, this whale had a very big mouth to swallow me) by doing high school football previews for the last 10 days or so. If you want to know what's going on in Hudson, Essex, Bergen and Morris County football in New Jersey, just ask me, because I've practically spoken to every coach imaginable and written about thousands of kids.

Anyway, last week brought about headlines involving two Armstrongs, both in the matter of days.

Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon, died. Lance Armstrong, the winner of seven Tour de France cycling races, saw his once-pristine and impeccable reputation die.

I was eight years old on July 20, 1969, when my father woke me up in the middle of the night to watch history. I mean, it had to be like 2 a.m. or so, when Armstrong made his first steps on the moon and uttered the historic phrase, "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

I probably was cranky when my Dad woke me up to watch, but I was glad he did, because I did witness history and remember it clearly.

It also led to an absolute obsession I had with NASA and the pursuit of going into space. I remember watching all of CBS coverage with Walter Cronkite and Wally Sciarra like I was watching the World Series. I was mesmorized by astronauts. I had all the little models of the lunar modules. I learned about torque and speed out of the Earth's atmosphere. The astronauts were heroes. True born and bred American heroes. I had posters on my wall of the astronauts, knew all their names and where they were from, just like my baseball heroes. I watched the Apollo 13 disaster in fifth grade and prayed for their safe return.

And yes, people like Frank Borman, Buzz Aldrin and Jim Lovell were heroes. Especially Neil Armstrong. He was a hero in the finest sense, going where no man ever had been.

A few years ago, I heard a story that I thought was true, but has now been debunked by the late Armstrong himself.

He apparently uttered "Good luck, Mr. Gorsky," when he was on the moon and no one knew what it meant. However, in the world of viral information and the Internet, it was passed around that Mr. Gorsky was a next door neighbor of the Armstrongs, who once yelled at his wife that he was not going to have sex with his wife until the "Armstrong kid next door goes to the moon."

Cute story. Not true.

The other Armstrong, the bicycle-riding one, was also a hero. A big-time hero. He was good, pure, a standout athlete, a good looking guy with a rock-star girlfriend (although he dumped his wife for Cheryl Crow and has since knocked up another woman). He was on the Wheaties box, on commercials, on talk shows. Hero in the truest sense.

In 1998, I worked at the cycling event of the Goodwill Games at Wagner College on Staten Island. I was there for a week with all the top cyclists who didn't compete in road races like the Tour de France, but in the velodrome form of track cycling.

For the entire week, Armstrong's victory at the Tour de France was discussed by the competitors. And they all said the same thing, that Armstrong was involved heavily in blood doping. That after a day's competition, he would go to a doctor who would take out his tired blood and give a transfusion of stronger blood, complete with nutrients and such. That would allow Armstrong to start fresh the next day, not feeling tired after riding the hills of France for hundreds of miles.

The cyclists at the Goodwill Games were all amazed how Armstrong had the strength and stamina to handle those hills day after day. It was even more remarkable that Armstrong was just 18 months removed from a battle with stage-four testicular cancer. Most people don't survive that strain of cancer, yet here was Armstrong, less than two years later, winning the Tour de France?

So I've been professing to everyone I know since 1998 that Armstrong was indeed a cheater.

But no one wanted to believe it, because of his work with LIVESTRONG and giving millions of people with cancer hope. Christ, everyone knows that people stricken with cancer should have the right to be called cancer survivors. We all hope and pray for that.

Armstrong's organization, complete with the yellow wristbands, gave people suffering with cancer major hope. I read the other day that LIVESTRONG has raised more than $400 million through Armstrong's efforts. That's astounding philantrophic work. It's almost as amazing as the work of Paul Newman and Jerry Lewis.

But Armstrong, the head of this organization, was an athletic cheater, like Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Roger Clemens, Michael Johnson, Marion Jones and on and on. Regardless of what he did outside of his athletic field, which was remarkable, he still cheated to win those races.

And Armstrong proved that it was true by backing off his appeal with the United States Anti-Doping Association last week, enabling USADA to strip Armstrong of his seven Tour titles.

I'm one of those who truly believes that if I'm not guilty of something, I'll fight it until the bitter end, at all cost, until the last option has been exhausted. Armstrong gave up his fight last week and in essence, he admitted his guilt.

With that, Armstrong's hero status went right out the window. LIVESTRONG is convinced it will survive this indescretion, but I don't see how it can't be hurt by this.

Two Armstrongs gained headlines last week. One dies a hero, the other loses his hero status in a heartbeat.

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Incredibly, this is the 30th year that I'm writing high school football previews. Three full decades of high school football. Amazing.

It reminded me of one of the first years I wrote them. I was working for the Daily Record of Morristown, the same paper I'm doing most of the work for now. What goes around, comes around.

Anyway, I was writing about one team that had three consecutive 1-8 seasons and if they didn't improve, "there would be wholesale changes in the coaching staff."

The copy editor, the late and great Bob Handler, who I learned more from than any journalism class anywhere, called me to his desk.

In his typically dry humor, Handler said, "Er, Hague, want to explain this drivel? Wholesale changes? They're teachers first, big guy, teachers."

What did I know? I was 22 years old. I've learned better now.

Here's to you, Bob, as I write this year's version of the previews, I think of you.
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You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, where there are football previews, www.theobserver.com, where there are football previews, and www.dailyrecord.com, where soon, in a special pullout section next week, there will be previews. At least I'm consistent.



 

Remembering the 1972 Olympics

Everyone has watched and marveled about the events in these 2012 Olympic Games in London. There are cheers for American athletes like the wonderful Gabby Douglas, the sensational Michael Phelps and the heart-warming 15-year-old Katie Ladecky, with the tears rolling down her cheeks as the National Anthem played as she wore her gold medal with pride.

Despite NBC's horrific coverage of these games (I wish the late Jim McKay was still around to bring us to the events instead of Bob Costas), the Olympics have been quite uplifting. Nothing brings out our patriotic pride like the Olympics. We want to wave the flag and stand to sing the Star Spangled Banner right along with the American gold medal winners.

The adorable Ladecky tried to sing, but she was overcome with the emotion of being an Olympic champion before she begins her sophomore year of high school in Maryland. Can you fathom that idea? She's going to be a sophomore!! Imagine being in her geometry class. "Hey, Katie, what did you do this summer?" That idea is beyond mind boggling.

But as we watch the current Olympics, it was reason for me to pause and reflect on the first Olympics that I can fully remember.

I have faint memories of Mexico City in 1968. I remember a little about the controversial maneuver by American sprinters, Tommie Smith and John Carlos, raising fists in the air as a sign of Black Power on the gold medal stand. But that's about it.

I watched the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich, every ounce of it. I was glued to the television. I remember the Olympics were held a little later that year, wrapped around Labor Day and the start of a new school year. I was 11, heading into sixth grade.

I remember being excited about the United States basketball team, watching the games featuring Doug Collins of Illinois State, a player I admired because he was on the cover of Sports Illustrated earlier that year.

I remember being excited about the track and field events, because ABC's Wide World of Sports did a feature on Steve Prefontaine before the Olympics and I found him to be fascinating. Just what was he looking at while he ran?

The 1972 Olympics were a historic event. You have to encapsle everything that took place in Munich to realize just how historic those games were.

There was an American Jewish swimmer named Mark Spitz, who shattered every Olympic record by winning an astounding seven gold medals. Seven gold medals!!! Everyone has to remember the famous posters of the lean and handsome Spitz with the seven shiny gold medals around his neck on his bare chest. It made it very interesting politically that a Jewish man could be so successful in Germany, a country that still had its idiotic prejudices some three decades after World War II.

There was a Russian gymnast named Olga Korbut, who was not even considered to be a top contender for medals, but stole everyone's heart with her impish smile and impeccable style, winning her share of medals and instantly becoming a world superstar.

It was historic because the United States and the Soviet Union were smack in the middle of their Cold War. The two countries were intense enemies in practically every aspect imaginable. But this little pixie jumped and vaulted and danced on the balance beam right into American living rooms and no one even flinched about her wearing the colors of the old USSR.

There was the performance of Australian swimmer Shane Gould, who captured three medals at the age of 15 _ the same age as Katie Ladecky.

There were the embarrassing actions of American track sprinters Vincent Matthews and Wayne Collett, who clowned around, laughed and twirled their medals, Matthews the gold, Collett the silver, while on the medal stand. They didn't turn to stand at attention for the National Anthem. Some reported that it was the same sort of protest that Smith and Carlos did in Mexico City. In any case, the actions of Matthews and Collett enfuriated Americans all over and the two were banned from competing in any other Olympics in the future.

There was the performance of American Frank Shorter in the marathon, becoming the first American to capture gold in the event in some 70 years.

And what about Dave Wottle, the gold medal winner in the 800-meter run who wore a golf cap while he ran _ then forgot to take the cap off during his gold medal moment?

We watched Finland's Lasse Viren shock the world by beating Prefontaine in the 1,500-meter run. Prefontaine remained America's best distance runner, holding seven different national records at one point. He was a favorite to win gold in the 1976 Olympics in Montreal, but he was tragically killed in a car accident in 1975.

We were first introduced to wrestling superstar Dan Gable at the 1972 Olympics, as he won the gold medal and became an American hero.

As for the American basketball team, who can ever forget the ridiculous ending to their gold medal game against the Soviet Union? It was a closely contested game throughout and the aforementioned Collins calmly sank two free throws with three seconds left that seemed to give the U.S. a 50-49 win.

However, there was confusion at the scoring table and the final three seconds of the game was played twice. Yes, like two do-overs. The USSR scored a basket on the second do-over to escape with a 51-50 win. USA Basketball's website does not even recognize the silver medal in the 1972 Olympics and the entire team refused to show up for the ceremony to receive the silver medals. Forty years later, those silver medals remain in a vault somewhere in Switzerland.

Imagine all those events taking place in one Olympics?

But the biggest story to come out of Munich was the horrific tragedy now known and remembered as the Munich Massacre.

A group of Palestinian terrorists made their way into the Olympic Village and took a group of athletes from Israel as hostages. Two of the Israeli athletes were killed as they initially resisted. It led to a standoff between the heavily armed terrorists and police that lasted more than a day. The images of the armed terrorists outside the Village balcony were shown readily by the ABC cameras.

A day later, the terrorists demanded that they could leave Germany with the hostages. At the airport, there was a bad attempt to storm the helicopter and rescue the athletes. But it backfired and the terrorists killed all 11 Israeli athletes and coaches.

Late that night, sportcaster McKay, who was immediately transformed into a news anchor during the entire crisis ordeal, broke into regular coverage with his sad report of the deaths of the Israeli athletes and coaches.

"They're all gone," McKay said in his now legendary report.

Many thought that the Olympics should have ended immediately. But IOC chairman Avery Brundage stated that "the Games must go on." So they did. There was a memorial service a day later, but the Olympics continued.

It's almost too unbelievable for words that all that happened in a two-week span in Munich in 1972. Next month, it will be 40 years.

There's no question that the 1972 Olympic Games will be forever remembered for all the different events that took place, both the good and the bad, the storied and the tragic. As we watch these Olympics, we should pause and reflect to that time as well. It's a shame that the current IOC didn't do anything to remember those athletes and coaches who perished at an Olympics. Not a moment of silence, a lowering of the Israeli team flag to half mast, even a slight recognition.

But I remember and reflect. I was a very impressionable 11-year-old who soaked up those Olympic Games and experienced every emotion just like those athletes did competing.

And nothing can ever compare to that wide range of emotions experienced during those Olympics.

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You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com and www.dailyrecord.com. The Hudson Reporter this week has a fascinating feature on a man who helped 53 kids from Hudson County go to the University of Vermont on athletic scholarships. Check out the Scoreboard column on Nick "Whizzer" Mastorelli.

Stick a fork in the Mets

Most Mets fans probably knew that this day would eventually come sometime during the 2012 season. Some probably even thought that the day would arrive even before the season began. I was one of those. I thought it was a useless and hopeless situation from the day spring training opened in February, to idiot lying owner Freddie Coupon waving money around, saying that "I have fives," flashing green pictures of Lincoln around Port St. Lucie.

But then Mets fans were treated to their annual tease. The Mets won the first four games of the season, had a spectacular April, followed by a competitive May into a steady June.

We were treated to the incredible exploits of knuckleball sensation R.A. Dickey. We were amazed at the play of David Wright, who bounced back to the status of an elite player in MLB. Hey, we finally even got a no-hitter from Johan Santana after more than 8,000 games in the history of the franchise.

We had young players to get excited about, like Kirk Niewenhuis and Ruben Tejada, guys who gave us hope for the future. We saw the development of Jonathon Niese and believed that maybe he could be the next Jon Matlack.

For three months, while the Mets maintained their position over .500 and remained in contention for either the NL East title or a possible wild card berth, we all collectively drank the Mets' Kool-Aid. We believed that they were a decent club, a possible contender, even though deep down inside, we looked at the roster, looked out at the field, gazed out at the bullpen and said, "How in the world is this team winning?"

Then, the All-Star break came and the Mets finally looked in the mirror and realized that they were simply weren't good. They were staying above water miraculously and they finally fell into the water and sunk.

Because the Mets are now dead in the water. They've lost 13 of their last 15 games. They are 4-15 in July. The solid starting pitching they had in the first three months is now matching the horrendous work of the bullpen. The hitting, other than Wright and David Murphy, has disappeared. Malcontent Lucas Duda, who was expected to produce like Carlos Beltran (dream on) but became more like Mike Vail, was sent pouting off to Buffalo.

They've become what they were expected to be _ a less-than-average team with a bunch of holes throughout.

So the first few months were what the Mets are best at doing _ a big tease. A bigger tease than Darla Hood was on the "Little Rascals" when she would shake and shimmy for Spanky, Alfalfa and Butch, show them all a little shoulder and produce nothing.

They've teased us every year since 2006. They won the division that year and then lost in the NLCS. In 2007 and 2008, they were the biggest chokers known to man, worse than Greg Norman and Jan Vande Velde combined. Over the last three years, more of the same. They'd provide a little glimpse of hope, then collapse like a house of cards in a stiff wind.

Only this year, the collapse came earlier. We all were led to believe that they could stay in the race until September, especially with all their great starting pitching.

That's all gone. They're under .500 now and playing lousy baseball. Stick a fork in them. They're done, like the last hamburger left on the grill for five hours after the barbecue is long over. The only hope comes from young Matt Harvey. The rest of the team and the season is nothing more than a facade.

Incredibly, I've learned from a very good and respected baseball writer than the Mets' problems with the Bernie Madoff situation are not gone like what we've been led to believe. That Freddie Coupon has instructed stooge Sandy Alderson not to spend a dime in salary for improvements to the team, that they have to dance with the horrendous bullpen that brought them.

So in essence, Alderson has learned to lie as bad as Freddie Coupon, because he said all along that the Mets were buyers, when in fact, they did absolutely nothing to improve the worst bullpen in the game. Lie, lie, lie. It's the Mets' way now.

That's a shame. I'd give Coupon, Coupon, Jr. and the rest of the liars more credit if they just admitted they sucked and were doing nothing to improve the team, rather than try to pull off this charade that they've been doing all season.

They want people to come to CitiField to see REO Speedwagon, Daughtry and the Sugar Hill Express and the Trammps (just kidding about the last two), not to see a competitive baseball team.

They had a chance to do something when the season was still within reach, when the Mets were living out the facade and actually staying in the race. They did nothing. The Mets collapsed and now it's over.

So what do we have left? A chance to maybe see Zach Wheeler before the season is over? Or more starts from the immortal Jeremy Hefner or Hugh Hefner or Hugh Jackman or Baby Huey?

But the Coupons truly believe that Met fans will continue to come, even though it's a seriously inferior product? Dream on, Freddie the Liar. Your team stinks. We don't want no stinkin' team.

Unfortunately, we got one. We have no catchers. We have an underachieving first baseman. We have no outfielders whatsoever. I'm not drinking the Jordany Valdespin Kool-Aid just yet. We have the worst outfielder in the team's history making $16 million, when all Jason Bay does is strike out and ground out to shortstop. Enough already with Bay. Put him on EBay and see if we can get about nine bucks for him.

We have no other players in the outfield. Andres Torres is completely useless. Punky Brewster has a better arm than Torres.

It's a bad baseball team. Meanwhile, the team in the Bronx is running away with the division. They need a spare outfielder. They go get a Hall of Famer. We have Andres Torres. Need I say more?
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To those who continue to show incredible blind allegiance to Joe Paterno, who believe that the formerly iconic Penn State coach did nothing wrong in the Sandusky scandal, take a peek at either the Freeh report or the emails that Paterno received.

The man was not a nice man. He turned his back on his pedophiliac assistant coach, allowed him to maim little boys simply because he didn't want to cause embarrassment to his revered football program.

As soon as Paterno had proof that Sandusky was doing those things to little boys, he should have called the police and had him removed from the campus, instead of welcoming him back like nothing happened.

Paterno wanted to sweep everything under the rug and pretend that nothing happened. He truly thought that it would all eventually just go away. Only problem was it didn't. He then had a chance to come clean before he died and he lied about it, then said "I wish I could have done more" to stop it.

If he truly believed it, he would have blown the whistle on Sandusky when he first received word of his horrific deeds in 1998. Guess what? If Paterno did that, he would have been considered a hero, instead of the villian he's portrayed as now, even in death.

And as for the NCAA's ruling, I'm all for it. The penalty was severe enough. The death penalty would have damaged the kids who are on the current roster. One current player said it best when he said, "We were all watching Barney and the Teletubbies when these things took place." He's right. The current team did nothing wrong. They don't deserve to have football taken away from them.

But the $60 million fine, the elimination of 10 scholarships per year and denying the team the right to play in bowl games for four years is sufficient enough of a penalty.

Now, let's see the NCAA take the $60 million and donate it to a child violence and abuse advocacy group, much like the Big Ten did with Penn State's $11 million revenue from the Big Ten Network. The fines should not go to the already rich NCAA. The fine has to do some good to society.

But to the Paterno allies. The statue had to come down. This is not a man who deserves to be revered and adored. He's a rotten man, even now that he's dead. Rotten to the core, because all he cared about was his own legacy, wins and losses, the image of his so-called pristine program and his place in the college football society. When Paterno turned his back and pretended it all didn't happen on his watch, he truly became an evil man and he's now getting his just rewards.
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You can read more of my work at www.hudsonreporter.com, www.theobserver.com and www.dailyrecord.com. The Daily Record has a feature on Boonton's Travis Tripucka trying to make the St. Louis Rams as a long snapper. Check it out.

Not so Happy Valley anymore

For almost six decades, he was a beacon of football excellence. He was the one coach you wanted your kid to play for. He was the father figure and eventually the grandfather figure of the sport.

Joe Paterno was Penn State football. With the Coke-bottle glasses, the windbreaker and tie and referee shoes, Paterno had an image that was larger than life. He represented everything that was good about college football. He wasn't a blowhard. He wasn't a braggart. He never had a single NCAA violation and never even a hint of impropriety in a sport that has been filled with cheaters, liars and basically bad guys.

Now, even in death, Paterno's image is forever tarnished, even ruined. The findings of an extensive report, compiled by former FBI Director Louis Freeh, brought down all the good, shot down all the victories and the all-time coaching victory record. The 267-page report, which is available online and is downright sickening, took Paterno's 61-year career and flushed it right down the toilet.

It was learned Thursday that Paterno did know about the horrific actions of his assistant coach Jerry Sandusky, knew that Sandusky was indeed a distgusting pedophile since 1998 and turned his back on the incidents, hoping it would all just simply go away.

The report finds that Paterno "followed Sandusky's actions closely and failed to take action." It continued to say that Paterno and three of his hierarcy at Penn State also failed to report Sandusky to the authorities.

It certainly gives some credence to the fact that Sandusky was actually forced into retirement as an assistant coach after they received news of his disgusting actions. But if that's the case, why wasn't he banished forever? How in the world could these people allow Sandusky to continue his predatory stance on the Penn State campus, bringing victims to practices and bowl games, holding his camp, which was basically a breeding ground for his newest prey, right there, right under their noses?

I understand that Paterno is now deceased and cannot answer for his actions. But the release of this report today is so totally damning _ not just to Paterno's lasting legacy, but to the other three school officials who are still around and will eventually have to face the music, either in criminal or civil court.

The liability that the school now has with these victims is unreal. The civil suits will eventually cost the school _ and the state of Pennsylvania, meaning the state's taxpayers _ hundreds of millions of dollars.

And for what? To protect a sick pedophile? Was it done so Paterno could keep his job and keep on winning, pretending that nothing ever happened? How could the remaining three look at themselves in the mirror, knowing they fully well knew something in 1998, allowed it to continue, and then heard horrific stories about Sandusky continuing to prey upon little boys?

It is clearly the sickest story I've ever heard in sports anywhere. I've heard of cases of sexual child abuse, where a coach was found to do something wrong or act in an inappropriate manner and the incident is addressed and handled right away.

But in this case, where it was totally ignored? And ignored by the winningest coach in the history of the sport?
There are some things that have to happen right now. Jay Paterno has to stay off television, defending his father, because he looks like a complete fool now, calling his father "Joe" and saying that his father clearly didn't intentionally do anything wrong. It doesn't work. JoePa's legacy is trash now. Nothing can save it.

Secondly, Matt Millen has completely embarrassed himself, defending JoePa all day on ESPN. Millen cannot continue to defend Paterno's legacy anymore. It's downright sickening. Millen has to read Freeh's report, word for word, and then realize that the approach he's taken is making him look like a clown. The less said, the better.

It's amazing how a legend and an icon can fall so quickly. It happened to Pete Rose. It happened, of course, to O.J. Simpson. Those two are still around to see, hear and feel their disgrace. Sure, we're not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but you can't ignore what Paterno did the way that Paterno ignored what Sandusky did. It's never going to go away. Never.
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So Dwight Howard isn't going to be a member of the Brooklyn Nets anytime soon. I've never been more disgusted with a story that never happened like this one. This selfish clown, who used to also have a pristine image, has held an entire league hostage _ and the people who make a living from the NBA for that matter _ worse than the Iranians held those Americans hostage in 1979-80.

Howard is certainly not a Superman any more, after he demanded the Orlando Magic to trade him to the Nets and only the Nets. This comes after playing this same charade for the past year, then pulling back the idea that he wanted to get traded in order to play out his contract, then renegging on that idea by demanding a trade again. This is the same guy who demanded that a good basketball man like Stan Van Gundy get fired, then has held five teams, countless team officials, hundreds of sportswriters and mankind in general hostage to meet his whims and demands.

Howard is still with the Magic. As Derrick Coleman once said, "Whoop-de-damn-doo." Who cares right now? But every day, we're totally saturated with the latest Howard rumor going here or there, reading about a five-team deal involving more players than the Octomom has kids, then it all goes away.

Enough of it already. It's beyond the point of annoyance.
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As for the ESPYs, if anyone thinks that Tim Tebow's touchdown pass was a better moment than the last day of the baseball regular season last year or that the Miami Heat had a better team effort than that of the New York Giants, please just get Dr. Kevorkian's IV drip ready for me, because I'm ready to cash in the chips.

The show used to be entertaining at least. But it's evident that ESPN is obsessed these days with Tebow and LeBron James to the point where you can't go 15 minutes without hearing one's name or the other.

The voters? No, it was the network.

However, the tributes to Pat Summitt and my man Eric LeGrand were downright heartwrenching and brought tears to my eye. If there's ever been a kid who will beat this paralysis, it's Eric, whose personality has not changed one iota despite his horrific injury. His body may have changed, but his mind, spirit and impeccable smile has not. It was fitting that he received an award that was named after another famous Rutgers alum, Jim Valvano.

God bless Eric and BELIEVE52 for making us all believe and feel better about ourselves and our lives. He's truly an inspiration to everyone on this planet.
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You can read more of my work at http://www.hudsonreporter.com/, http://www.theobserver.com/ and http://www.dailyrecord.com/.

A major blow to the "Livestrong" cause

Lance Armstrong was officially hit with charges by the United States Anti-Doping Agency, claiming that there was sufficient evidence proving the seven-time Tour de France champion was involved with blood doping and using performance-enhancing drugs during the majority of his cycling career.

If Armstrong is found guilty to be a cheater, then he will be stripped of his seven titles and will be clumped with the rest of the cheaters, like Floyd Landis, who have been disgraced for being proven cheaters.

The latest relevation about Armstrong states that there is proof of Armstrong possessing, using and even trafficking banned substances like EPO, which is a blood booster, as well as illegal blood stransfusions and steroids. The charges go all the way back to 1998.

Apparently, there are as many as 10 of Armstrong's former colleagues and racing teammates that will testify against him in this case.

Now, this news is not shocking whatsoever to me. There were strong rumors long ago that Armstrong was involved with blood doping _ the system where they take out your tired blood, circulate it with healthy, stronger blood, then put it back into your body to help strength and endurance. The rumors about Armstrong and blood doping go back to when he was trying to qualify for the 1994 Olympics in Atlanta.

I happened to work at the old Goodwill Games at the cycling event at Wagner College in 1998 and all the competitive cyclists there were insistent upon the fact that Armstrong was indeed doping. A year later, Armstrong wins his first Tour de France and becomes a national hero, largely in part because of his courageous battle recovering from testicular cancer.

Soon after, Armstrong's doing the circuit. He's on Oprah. He's the Sports Illustrated Sportsperson of the Year. He's the AP Athlete of the Year. He's seen on national television on practically every venue. He's a celebrity of the truest sense, even with that cloud of controversy hanging over him.

It's almost as if everyone overlooked the speculation about Armstrong because of his personal health issues, one that led to the formation of the Lance Armstrong Foundation and the Livestrong cause. It's an organization that millions of cancer survivors and their families wholeheartely support and raise money to endorse. You see the millions of yellow wristbands all across the country, engraved with the Livestrong message.

Other than the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer organization, has there been another fund-raising organization that drew more attention to cancer victims and survivors and their families than Livestrong? Probably not. The entire world has embraced Livestrong.

Armstrong has been the face of that organization. He's the main spokesperson, the shining light to the entire cause.

What in the world does news like this do to those who have adored Armstrong for so long? Does it diminish his work with Livestrong? What about those who he gave so much hope to?

Armstrong has always insisted from the outset that he was not guilty of all of the accusations and rumors. He's faced the charges in the past and vehemently denied them, even when people like fellow cyclists like Greg LeMond and the disgraced Landis said that Armstrong was as guilty as sin.

Now, these latest charges are the most damning, especially the ones that state that Armstrong was the drug supplier for the other cyclists. He's being charged as a drug dealer, just as common as the crack pusher you might find on an inner-city street corner.

There have been other cheaters in sports that have survived the public scrutiny. Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens have dodged jail time, even though it looks like they were certainly involved with illegal steroid use. Most people have almost totally forgotten that Alex Rodriguez and Andy Pettitte admitted to using illegal steroids.

But none of those baseball players had such a tremendous following outside of sports. None represented an entire cause, one with millions of people supporting and hundreds of millions in donations.

These latest charges don't take away from what the Lance Armstrong Livestrong cause has done for cancer victims and survivors. But it certainly throws a gigantic wet rag over the cause from here on out.

How can you be totally sympathetic and supportive of a man who broke the laws, who is now accused of being a drug dealer and who cheated to reach the heights that he achieved?

In all honesty, it's a huge blow to Livestrong. No matter what takes place and how many times he denies it from now on, Lance Armstrong is disgraced. Even before what the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency decides by its final hearing July 9 _ the deadline for whether Armstrong will appeal the charges _ he's guilty in the eyes of public opinion.

And what does that do to the millions who have adored him and admired him for so long? Bonds and Clemens were hated individuals before their day in court. Armstrong is revered by millions. Just take a look at the wrists of Americans all over. If they're wearing yellow rubber bands, it's a sign of support for Armstrong and other cancer victims and survivors.

I remember a cancer survivor telling me back in 1998 that there was no way Armstrong could have recovered as quickly as he did from the near-fatal battle he had with cancer to return to such a high competitive level if there wasn't something else going on. That man told me that either he wasn't as sick as he led on to be or he was receiving artificial assistance.

Well, now, maybe it was a case of both. We'll never know. We know now Armstrong can't be trusted.

One thing is for sure: Livestrong has to become distant of Armstrong in a hurry if it wants to continue to do the extraordinary work it has done to give cancer patients hope for survival.

Here's another sidelight to this whole mess: How can anyone take the Tour de France seriously anymore? With the rampant cheating and titles being stripped left and right, why bother? It's certainly not a mainstream sport anymore, not with so many cheaters.
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Now, to a brighter sports story. There has not been a better sports story in New York _ or perhaps the nation _ this year than the incredible rise of Mets knuckleball master R.A. Dickey.

Dickey threw eight more scoreless innings last night against the Dodgers. He struck out 10. He allowed three singles. Ho, hum. He seems to do that every time out. He's now 12-1 on the season, the best pitching numbers in all of baseball.

But consider where he came from. Dickey was once a top-pitching prospect in the Texas Rangers chain, but then had all the nerves in his elbow removed. In fact, doctors said that it was amazing he was able to throw at all. He floundered around, went back and forth to the minors, then discovered he could throw the knuckleball.

So he worked hard on mastering it. He was able to hook on with the Mets, only on a non-guaranteed minor league deal in 2009, more than likely kept as a stop-gap pitcher to churn out innings in the minors.

Now, at age 37, he's headed to the All-Star Game and if they can find someone to catch the knuckleball, he might be the National League starter. He's earned that right.

Twenty years ago, Robert Redford starred in "The Natural," about Roy Hobbs capturing a baseball career decades after it originally started. Well, R.A. Dickey right now is the pitching version of "The Natural." He's having a dream season, one almost too unbelievable to even dream.

Considering everything Dickey has been through in his life _ even surviving sexual abuse as a child _ he deserves all the accolades and attention he is receiving as, yes, the very best pitcher in baseball. The numbers certainly don't lie.
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You can read more of my work at http://www.hudsonreporter.com/, http://www.theobserver.com/, and http://www.dailyrecord.com/.

Sharing an old column about Dad on Fathers' Day

This column was first printed in the pages of the now-defunct Hudson Dispatch on June 29, 1989. It ended up winning several different awards from the New Jersey Press Association, the North Jersey Press Club and the Garden State Society of Journalists. It was also reprinted in Reader’s Digest later that year (although I never got credit, the paper did).

For several years, the clipping sat in an old Avon box in my basement. We had a major flood two years ago that ruined a lot of my old clippings, including several of the old Dispatch articles. But somehow, this one survived. It’s very weather beaten and faded, but it survived.

I’m re-typing it today and posting it, because after all, it’s Fathers’ Day.

I ventured to the movie theater the other day. No, not to see “Batman” or even “Ghostbusters II.” I’m not a trendy type of guy. In fact, I’m a little behind the times. I saw “Field of Dreams.”

OK, so the rest of the western world has already plunked down the cash to see “Field of Dreams.” We’re in the midst of a blockbuster movie season. “Field of Dreams” is old news to movie freaks. After all, it was only released nine weeks ago.

But “Field of Dreams” is about baseball _ sort of. And besides, “Batman” is not about Don Mattingly. I am a sportswriter _ at last check. And I’m a movie fan. Just a tardy movie fan, that’s all. I had to go see it. Who cares if I’m late?

I heard so many things about the movie. It was supposed to be the best thing ever to happen to baseball movies _ which wouldn’t be a hard feat, considering that most baseball flicks flounder.

I went with an open mind, waiting to be disappointed. I left feeling wonderful, feeling alive, feeling good. “Field of Dreams” touched me more than any other movie. It was clearly the best picture I’ve ever witnessed.

And my strong feelings about “Field of Dreams” had nothing to do with baseball. It had to do with life. Or, for that matter, afterlife.

For those who have not had the chance to see “Field of Dreams” _ like all seven of you _ you can stop reading here. Take my word for it, the movie is excellent. It’s the best thing you’ll see all year.

Now, for you other fortunate folk.

Let’s face it. “Field of Dreams” has its flaws. I mean, Shoeless Joe Jackson batted left-handed in real life and threw right. In this movie, the exact opposite. He batted right and threw left.

Brings up a good question. Do your extremities become mirror images after death? Only Elvis can answer that one. Remind me to ask him the next time the King is spotted at a 7-11 in Michigan. Elvis probably shoots at TVs with his left these days.

Gil Hodges is mentioned to be on the “Field of Dreams.” But there were no Brooklyn Dodgers uniforms to be found.

Still, this movie was absolute perfection to me, because it was able to touch me in a way that some people can relate to _ but hopefully not many.

Because of one movie, I got in touch with the huge vacancy that has been dominating my life for the last 18 years _ namely the absence of my father.

I was 10 when cancer snuffed Jack Hague away from me. He was sick, dead and gone within one month’s time in 1971. He was my everything. He was my inspiration, my motivation, my life. He was my Little League manager, my friend. He taught me so much about life in 10 short years _ and then he was gone.

It left me with a brother who was 60 miles away with his own family, a sister who was maturing rapidly _ and a loving mother, who had to be both parents from that point on. It was not easy.

Especially because of my obsession with sports _ something I shared with my Dad. We would watch ball games together, talk baseball constantly, play catch in my backyard.

With no father, those times came to an abrupt halt. I longed for the days of playing catch in the yard. They were long gone.

“Stop throwing like a girl, James,” I could hear him saying. “Step and throw.”

There were so many times in 1972, the first year after my father’s death, that I would stand in the yard, hoping he would come back. I just kept standing there, smacking the ball into my empty glove.

Little League was no longer fun without my Dad. It was a struggle to play for some other manager.

That summer, my mother bought me a “Pitch-Back,” the net that snapped the ball back to you after you tossed it. However, the damn thing never offered advice. It never told me what I was doing wrong. It just stood there.

And the “Pitch-Back” could never tell me what I was doing wrong in life. Of course, my mother did _ and worked hard at it. But living with two women and no man’s view of life certainly was no breeze for a moody kid who found his only release through sports.

As time went on, I tended to forget about my Dad. Not entirely, but enough that he wasn’t a major part of my life anymore. I lost his set of values, his standards. I forgot what Jack Hague stood for. I wanted to be independent, my own person. I couldn’t fill the shoes of a memory.

Sure, sports remained my one constant _ and still is today. Without it, I would be lost. But mst of all the other values I thought I had disappeared.

People think I’ve lived a good life, an exciting life. But it’s been fairly shallow. I never realized that until recently _ and never more so until I saw “Field of Dreams.”

It was a total awakening for me. I knew how important my father was _ and still is. Sure, my father was gone, but I should never let him stop being my parent. I should have left his values live on in my life instead of being pigheaded and stubborn and wanting to be something and someone else.

“Field of Dreams” touched me so much that I wanted to build a field in my backyard, albeit a small patch of brown grass nestled in Jersey City. And all the greats of yesteryear who are now departed could come back. They wouldn’t even need an invitation.

Gil Hodges would wear a Met uniform and run the show. Thurman Munson would be behind the plate. Satchel Paige on the mound, Lou Gehrig at first _ and Jackie Robinson stealing bases all night.

And the players would leave a little spot where right field would be, just enough for a grey-haired man with a three-finger glove could throw some high hard ones to his son.

“Field of Dreams” did what it was supposed to do _ make us all dream. It made me dream _ of the days when my father taught me about baseball and life.

I almost took those days for granted. I look back now and cherish. I never realized how much I truly missed my father.

So this is somewhat of an open call to all our readers. Stop, take time out and realize how important your father is.

Sure, there may be some differences and there may be some strife, but the day may come when your father is suddenly not there _ and that vacant feeling of his loss almost gets a stranglehold of you.

I know what that feeling is like. I knew it 18 years ago _ and I rediscovered that huge gap 11 days ago. Yes, Fathers’ Day, the day I saw “Field of Dreams.” I had totally forgotten it was Fathers’ Day. It was so totally ironic I saw the movie on that day.

I’ll never forget Fathers’ Day again. That’s why I love the movies so much _ and why “Field of Dreams” is the best movie I’ve ever seen. I found my Dad. I’m grateful for Hollywood for that.

That’s why I’m asking all of you to find your fathers, too. While he’s still around.

NOTE: Forrest Gump now ranks up there with my favorites. It's now 41 years that Dad is gone. And he's still a major part of my life. I'm not even close to be the man he was, but he's still the motivation in my life as I approach the age he was when he left us. And now, since Dad's favorite Ted Williams is also gone, he would have definitely made sure that "Teddy Ballgame" was part of his "Field of Dreams." Happy Fathers' Day to all.

No bigger goat horns in sports than Bernier

I was very interested this morning to read the words of some of my colleagues who believe that New Jersey Devils forward Steve Bernier should not receive attack and anger from Devils fans for receiving the five-minute major boarding call that put the Stanley Cup on a platter and handed it to Jonathan Quick and the Los Angeles Kings.

They're saying that Bernier is paying the price enough, that sitting in the Devils' dressing room after his ejection and hearing the horns inside the Staples Center blare three times as soon as he sat down was his lifelong penalty. That there should be sympathy for Bernier, because he works right around the NHL veteran's minimum of $525,000 and he has a pregnant wife to worry about.

And that Bernier's gaffe was nothing worse than what Bill Buckner did when he let the ball roll through his legs in the 1986 World Series or when Ralph Branca gave up the homer to Bobby Thomson for the 1951 "Shot Heard 'Round the World."

Sorry, but I'm not buying it. Bernier can never be forgiven for his idiotic and moronic penalty that eliminated any chance of the Devils being even competitive in Game 6.

You can be rest assured that Devils president and general manager Lou Lamoriello isn't going to buy it either. Lamoriello has been known to send players packing because they didn't live up to team policies about facial hair and dress code. Do you think he's going to forgive Bernier for this?
As the Kings were beginning to gain momentum in the first period and getting the most of the scoring chances, Bernier took it upon himself to make perhaps the stupidest play I've ever witnessed in a hockey game. Considering the circumstances and the magnitude of the game, it is definitely the worst mistake a professional player has made in any sport.

Bernier skated a good 80, maybe 100 feet to bear down on a defenseless Kings defenseman Rob Scuderi, who made a move to get rid of the puck. Bernier then exploded into a check that fired Scuderi face first into the boards, then followed the check to turn Scuderi into a pressed Panini sandwich. The check caused a cut above Scuderi's nose and mouth and we all know the NHL's recent policy about drawing blood.

The referee handed Bernier the much-deserved five-minute major, the Kings scored three times during those five minutes and Game 6 and the Stanley Cup Final was over, just like that.

It's incomprehensible what Bernier did. Comparing it to Buckner, who made a physical error, or Branca, who threw a pitch that Thomson may or may not have known was coming (depending upon whether or not the story that the Giants' bullpen catcher Sal Yvars was stealing signs is true), is just wrong. Those were errors while playing the game.

Bernier's complete brain freeze makes no sense whatsoever, considering the way the game was going. The Kings were getting the better of the play. Would the Devils have won anyway with the way they were playing early on? Probably not. But Bernier eliminated any and all chance on his own.

So should Bernier be held responsible? Hell, yeah. There was no call for his actions. The play made no sense at all. Yes, he's the one who has to look in the mirror for his idiotic actions. I don't know how he got on the plane to come home with his soon-to-be former teammates.

People like coach Peter DeBoer and Martin Brodeur didn't publicly hold Bernier responsible for the loss. But would they? Would anyone publicly blame him for what he did?

But Bernier's play was so ridiculous that the Kings should actually consider having his name engraved in the Cup, because his play was more beneficial to the Kings than the contribution of some of their players. He definitely gave them the win in Game 6 and in that matter, gave them the Cup.

Live with that forever? He has to, because it could very well be the last game he ever plays in the NHL.
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I'm a big fan of boxing and horse racing. Maybe I come from a different era, when both sports were considered among the sports of kings, but I've always liked both.

Last Saturday, both sports received yet another black eye. Boxing got slammed once again for the ridiculous decision rendered in the Manny Pacquiao-Timothy Bradley fight and horse racing raised another cloud of controversy when I'll Have Another was scratched from the Belmont Stakes.

First, let's address the boxing matter. Where are these judges coming from? What are their qualifications and backgrounds, because it's safe to say that both Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles would have seen that Pacquiao clearly won the fight.

How one-sided was it? So bad that right after the fight was over, Bradley went to promoter Bob Arum and apologized for not giving a better effort. He was overheard as saying that he didn't think he won. But here come the judges' cards and Bradley somehow wins by a split decision. It wasn't that close. I had it Pacquiao nine rounds to one. It was a blowout.

When you then hear that the decision came to set up a rematch, then that's just wrong for every single fool who plopped down $60 to watch the fight on pay-per-view. It's all about the moola and that's not how a legitimate sport should choose to operate.

Now, the I'll Have Another fiasco. Let's not lose sight that the horse's trainer, Doug O'Neill, has been a three-time proven cheater in the sport, pumping a bunch of different things into his horses to make them run faster from Alka Seltzer to carbon dioxide. His horse has a chance to make history and then all of a sudden, the horse has tendinitis and has to retire?

We will never know what really happened. Maybe O'Neill was worried that his cheating would come to light with this horse and that the horse's place in history would be tarnished forever, that winning the Kentucky Derby and Preakness States were done by cheating as well.

Because horses don't retire from tendinitis. They take weeks off to heal and then come back when ready. There are some major stakes races ahead, like the Travers, like the Breeders' Cup. If the horse had a broken leg, that's understandable. But tendinitis?

The whole thing sure sounds and looks iffy, especially if O'Neill is now talking that perhaps his horse will indeed come back later this season. Sure, he'll be back, because his breeding stock is not as high as it would be if he was Horse of the Year. Let the controversy die down and perhaps I'll Have Another will come back. Who knows?

It certainly raises questions and controversy for a sport that doesn't need more. Boxing and horse racing needs to establish some national guidelines to follow to prevent the travesties that took place last weekend from happening again.
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Warner Fusselle, my good friend and baseball buddy, died yesterday at the age of 68 from a heart attack. For many years, the good-hearted and gently natured Warner was the voice of the Brooklyn Cyclones. He was also the play-by-play voice of Seton Hall basketball, before getting replaced by Mets announcer Gary Cohen a few years ago.

But Warner came into prominence as being the voice of Phoenix Communications, a New Jersey-based organization that produced the popular "This Week in Baseball," before Fox took over production a few years ago.

Warner worked with the legendary Mel Allen on the show for years, then replaced Allen as the primary announcer after Allen passed away. Fusselle was also the narrator for several different highlight videos that Phoenix made for all of Major League Baseball.

A Southern gentleman of the truest sense, Fusselle loved baseball more than any other sport, but he gave his true professionalism in everything he did.

Incredibly, he was an avid follower of my writing long before I ever met him. I can remember the day going to Phoenix's home base in Moonachie to do a story about "This Week in Baseball," because a lot of the production staff lived in Hoboken. When I was introduced to Warner, he instantly knew who I was and rolled off about eight or nine articles I had written in the past. He was as excited to meet me as I was to meet him and we remained friends ever since.

I looked forward to seeing him at Seton Hall games. I was his halftime guest about 15 times over the years and it would always end up talking about baseball instead of the Pirates. He also came to visit me at Newark Bears games over the years.

I saw him last at CitiField last year, just walking outside the ballpark. We met with a huge hug and embrace. It was so good to see him. I didn't realize it would be the last time I would see him.

Warner was beloved by everyone who knew him. I don't know if there was a single person in the world who didn't totally adore him. We've lost so many good people in the media circles over the last few years that it's too many to count, but Warner was a big loss to everyone.

I can still hear him saying, "BOTTOM" when a Seton Hall player made a shot. He was a wonderful man and he will be sorely missed.
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You can read more of my work at http://www.hudsonreporter.com/, http://www.theobserver.com/ and http://www.dailyrecord.com/.