Britney's Show About Nothing

Apparently Britney Spears was the most popular search entry on Yahoo this year. While many sports club GMs and owners scratch their heads, looking for ways to increase ticket sales and clear merchandise, Britney's figured out that Jerry and George were onto something. Nothing! Her's, is a show about nothing. What'd you do today - wake up trashed outside an L.A. nightclub? That's a show, there's a show. My advice to struggling sports teams, the current New York Knicks for example, is to do nothing. Disappear for while...keep 'em guessing...have a divorce...get caught with your pants down. Clearly, it's this sort of nothingness that really leads to something.

Dodge, Duck, Dip, Dive and...Dodge

Canada's Sportsnet News ran a weird story yesterday about NFL players launching the ball into the crowd after scoring a touchdown. The "hard-hitting" analysis implied that the practice of throwing the ball into the stands is something akin to dodgeball. If it's not dancing in the endzone it's something else. Let's be frank here; it's a puffed up leather ball - not a javelin. What's the big deal? By the time it reaches the fans most of the zip is lost in the lower atmosphere anyway. And besides, who wouldn't want to try catch an NFL ball? Sorry, I don't get it. It's okay for a rock hard baseball but not a softer, and easier to catch pigskin. Aren't there more importnat things to worry about, like the poor state of today's NFL's commentary? That's more likely to slap you in the face.

Philadelphia On My Mind

I had no idea Michael Bolton was playing quarterback for the Philadelphia Eagles. Last night I saw Bolton in the post-game press conference saying how excited he was by the Eagles win over the Carolina Panthers, 27-24. Bolton threw 21-39 and 312 yards, for 3 touchdowns. Inspirational stuff...I wonder if he wrote a song about it?

Kobe, We Love it

I must admit, I've never been a big Kobe Bryant fan. Growing up watching Magic Johnson and Big Game James Worthy, it was difficult to swallow when a one-man-band like Kobe took over the Lakers. Even Shaq wanted out. It just seemed to me that Kobe never understood there was more to the game than scoring and showboating. And he never really created his own style, but simply replicated Michael Jordan.

With that said, Kobe's certainly made himself heard of late. Even if you don't appreciate his strictly one-on-one approach to a five-man game, you can't deny his ability make shots. His 16 of 19 from the floor and 12 of 15 from the line against Utah last week was sizzling. Hey, Kobe's 52 points in less than 35 minutes had even me taking notice!

Unfortunately for Laker fans, he followed it up with 11 of 23 shooting against the Clippers next game. But as long as Jack Nicholson and Lindsay Lohan are happy, then I suppose we should be too, right?

It's getting pretty ugly Rex

Everybody's calling for Rex Grossman's head. The fans are booing, the experts are calling him names - and throwing sticks and stones for good measure - and fantasy owners are pulling their hair out. This guy's going to end up more despised than my all-time favourite Windy City playcaller, Jim McMahon. (I can't believe I considered a fantasy trade for Sexy Rexy a few weeks back!) Despite all this, the Chicago Bears are 10-2 and have clinched the NFC North division. So surely the Bears' embattled QB is doing something right? Well, no, according to fans who in an online poll run by the Chicago Tribune today voted for Rex to get the boot. 64% said Grossman should not start at QB anymore.

It's hard to argue. Grossman's numbers were horrible on Sunday (6 of 19 for 34 yards, and 3 interceptions). It doesn't get much worse statistically but perhaps more alarming is his icey demeanour. Grossman has always stuck me as a "grossly" over-confident individual who rates his skills much higher than anyone with his ability should. And he never seems willing to conceed that he makes poor decisions. He reminds me of the guy who shows up to your pick-up basketball game with the latest Jordan sneakers and Vince Carter jersey, talking-up his talent, but finishes the day 2-19 and with seven turnovers. And yet, maintains he'll be back to torch you next week. These "players" somehow find their way into the mix, fooling everyone for a while with their bravado until their lack of skill catches up. We all know the type. In Grossman's case it's even harder to take because he's not totally void of talent - he just forces everything he does.

If I were coach Lovie Smith, I'd yank the No.8 for Brian Griese and just run the ball with Thomas Jones and Cedric Benson. No more bravado - the super bowl title is on the line here.

Shooting at the wrong goal

Trying to get your head around hockey as a foreigner isn’t easy—believe me. I’m an Aussie in Toronto, and hockey to my eyes, is from another universe. Our land is dry and cracked you see, good for the bounce of a cricket ball but completely inadequate for the glide of a puck. And the only skating we’re going to do is on slippery city streets after a summer downpour.

So understand that I arrived here this year rather ill-equipped to master the rules of your wonderful national pastime. After all, the only real references I have to the game are from movies such as Wayne’s World and Happy Gilmore.

Rest assured this won’t deter me from becoming a fan. When in Rome, right? The only problem is that after several months of tuning into Hockey Night in Canada, reading the sports pages, and discussing scores with locals, I feel no closer to conquering the sport. Hockey’s spirit alludes me like Sydney Crosby at full kilt.

It probably doesn’t help that I’m a neutral fan—a guy in a new Roots sweater just cheering for a good contest. “In the face!” Logic says I should be onboard with Leafs Nation given my home address, but I landed in T.O. in March and only know the club’s desperate finale of last season and limp start this season. I don’t feel I’ve earned my membership. I like the Leafs because they have a rich history and passionate fans, but it’s also because of these reasons that I question whether I belong amongst the ranks. To be honest, it’s a daunting commitment.

Diehard hockey fans hopefully appreciate my dilemma. I really need all the facts before making a decision of this magnitude. I mean they stamped my passport when I passed customs but they didn’t assign me a team did they? So I’m doing the legwork myself. I’m checking the numbers, reading player profiles and familiarizing myself with club histories. By the end of my quest, the likes of Paul Maurice will need to look over his shoulder. Of course I didn’t undergo this process with every sports team I support—that’d be just too much effort. But as hockey’s a new game to me, I think it deserves greater attention.

It’s not like when you’re a kid is it? Affiliations to sports clubs just happen, almost the same way you start noticing the opposite sex. It’s a natural progression and you can’t trace the exact moment it occurs. It was sometime during my first grade year, whilst dragging a blue and yellow Parramatta Eels rugby bag to school, that I learned of my initial sports bond. It’s a tie that hasn’t broken in 25 years and I’m sure many Leafs fans can relate. But when you’re a foreigner, sports loyalties are acquired not inherited.

So I continue to weigh up my place in hockey fandom. It’s not easy because I’m used to a much different fan environment. I’m from a country where most of the major sports teams are from only two of the major cities, Sydney and Melbourne. The only reason you wouldn’t support a team from these places is because you live as far away as Brisbane or Perth. Traditional rivalries back home are more about which side of the train tracks you’re from as opposed to which coast. My Eels team is based in the west of Sydney, for example, and their archrivals, the Manly Sea-Eagles, are from the north. This means that some of my best mates follow the team I despise most. Yet, somehow that’s acceptable. Somehow they can wear that cringe-inducing maroon jersey into my home and not be thrown out. I really need to address this.

I realize that big city rivalry is the norm in North America and that entire towns galvanize behind a single squad. It’s pretty simple; the disinterested dare not argue and the disloyal dare not speak. It’s a serious business supporting the home team. I’ve learned this more than ever during my time in Toronto. People here definitely bleed blue. I once visited a sports store on Yonge Street, for instance, and noticed a great selection of hockey jerseys. The only thing was that they were mostly variations of the Leaf uniform. Heaven help the businessman from Calgary, looking for a Flames jersey for his son. Then again, good luck to any Flames fan on the streets of Toronto.

I also once heard a mob of Sens fans in Union Station, happily singing for their side before a fixture at the ACC. They were promptly silenced, however, by the booming voice of a wisecracking Leafs supporter. Hey, they took a shot, I can respect that.

The other night though, I saw something I hadn’t previously seen in Hogtown. A big crowd at a downtown pub was raucously supporting—deep breath—the Vancouver Canucks. This seemed totally out of character. Had I stumbled into a Canuck bar I wondered? Impossible. Then it dawned on me; in a match-up like Vancouver versus St. Louis, it’s Canadian hockey that rules. Of course!

Satisfied by my discovery, I decided to explore Canadian hockey further and learn more about all six teams. The last thing I want to be is one of those Tom Cruise-like tourists who steps into town and is suddenly a lifetime Leafs fan. He did the same thing in Sydney you know? Yuh. During the Nicole years, the Cruiser was known to regularly attend South Sydney Rabbitohs footy games. Coincidently, the storied “Bunnies” are the favourite team of every star in town.

I’m choosing the educated approach over the bandwagon. I just feel better about it. Then, no matter which jersey I’m wearing, I can debate Don Cherry from my living room with all the conviction of a local. And that’s what hockey’s all about right?

Top 10 Best Sports Movies

Every sports site under the sun does Top 10 lists, so i'm jumping on the bandwagon. It's time for The Sports Slice's “Top 10 Best Sports Movies”.

10. Chariots of Fire – I can't overlook the great story, iconic music and the fact that it's about running. Who ever dreamed that long distance running could be entertaining onscreen? Genius.

9. Invincible - It's a new one but I believe a worthy one. The true story is almost unbelievable; a 30-year old bartender plays for the Philadelphia Eagles—you couldn't come up with a better premise if you locked Steven Spielberg, John Madden and a team of Disney writers in an NFL locker room.

8. Eight Men Out - One of the best baseball films around, complete with an all-star cast and a brilliant period backdrop. The White Sox cheating wasn’t good for the sport, but then again, it was fantastic for Hollywood.

7. All The Right Moves - This was Cruise before he was jumping on sofas and doing cheesy finger points. It's the typical small town story with a feel good finale, but is big on energy and low on hype—the opposite of today’s Cruise flicks.

6. Major League – “You may run like Mays but you hit like sh*t!” And with that, I give you the funniest baseball film of all time.

5. Caddyshack - Chevy, Bill and Rodney...need I say more? This is sports comedy at its finest. Nanananana...nannnananaa.

4. Rocky - The original and still one of the best. It's perhaps the only film in Sly's back-catalogue where mumbles and grunts were Oscar material.

3. When We Were Kings - A first-class documentary about the amazing Ali. It's spine-tingling stuff to see the great man dance like a butterfly and sting like a bee, in all walks of life.

2. Field of Dreams - Strange and moving, baseball and fantasy in one. Costner gives a nice performance and the film's simplicity does both the game and the story justice.

1. Hoosiers - I can't go past the scene in which Dennis Hopper's character coaches a game after Gene Hackman is ejected. It's one of those water works moments that even the hardest basketball afficianados can't withstand. Yes, even Knicks fans. Hackman shines as the big city coach in smallville Indiana and Hopper is superb in support. This is the ultimate underdog movie--even better than Revenge of the Nerds. Hard to believe, I know.

Runners-up: Days of Thunder, Happy Gilmore, The Natural, Kingpin, Hoop Dreams, White Men Can't Jump.

Dancing Machine

It occurred to me this week that Dancing With the Stars works on so many levels. You have beautiful women dancing in fancy dresses and handsome dudes in sharp suits—sewing up your female audience, ohhhh from about ages 11 to 83. Then you have your aforementioned beautiful women, mostly in skimpy dresses, sometimes less. That'll bring in the fellas. And lastly you have annoying judges who appeal to the TV geeks eager for yet more reality television drama.

But in a wider sense, this simple dance contest is a sports spectacle, filled with scintillating moves, amazing camera angles, outspoken personalities and importantly, a final score. And just in case you still weren't hooked to the premise, the producers threw in a genuine sports superstar in Emmitt Smith.

Hell, last week they even had a couple of Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders there for the twinkle-toeing big guy! What more could you ask for? Only hot dogs for the audience and some irritating play-by-play from Chris Berman would complete the picture.

The secret to NY success

If you're a Red Sox or Blue Jays fan, fuggettaboutit!

The NY Yankees clinched the American League East division title last week. So what's new, the New Yorkers have now won the division nine years straight. But while most experts believe the Yanks win because of their amazing talent and "genius" manager, I'm here to tell you it's the uniforms, haircuts and names that inspire their success.

Uniforms.
When i think of the intimidating and menacing Bronx Bombers, I picture the gray uniforms. That's G-R-A-Y. Yes the pinstripes are more famous, but you must realise the power of the grays. They're understated and underrated. It's inevitably the uniform movie makers use when re-creating the "scary" Yankees as well. Remember when Ricky Vaughn had to take 'em on in Major League? "C'mon Ricky, give 'em the heeeeeater!"

I digress.

Haircuts.
Then there's the Steinbrenner enforced haircuts. Jeter's is army sharp. So is A-Rod's--with a touch more styling--and even Johnny Damon looks tougher as a Yankee. Throw in Jason Giambi's five o'clock shadow and Randy Johnson's mo and you've got the makings of a regular Mean Streets posse.

And so to the names...

Names.
Robinson Cano: sounds like Robinson Caruso but not. Exotic, mysterious, an unknown quantity. Spells bad news for the opposition.

Hideki Matsui: Face it, Japanese names always sound cool.

Johnny Damon: He could be the quarterback-jock in any teen movie. Or maybe the lead singer of a punk band. It's only rock 'n roll but I like it.

Derek Jeter: Rhymes with "heater" and "beater", and contains the word "jet" so basically he's fast, and if you're not on his team you're screwed.

Melky Cabrera: Didn't I have one of those at Starbucks this morning? Whatever, it's a smooth name man.

Yep, may as well give them the World Series trophy too.

Ultimate fantasy

I attended my first ever Fantasy Football draft the other night. Thankfully there was enough beer flowing to bury my mistakes!

There were only a few rounds, of beers that is, but I felt it enough to relax the troops through eighteen rounds of tense player picking. Turned out the guys were pretty lenient on me, considering I didn’t have much of a clue beyond the seventh round, or my third pint. Any dud picks I might have made, were lost amongst the sipping of frosty brew and hot-but-oddly-mild buffalo wings. Bless that sports bar.

With the second pick overall, monster Kansas City running back Larry Johnson, fell into my lap. Well not literally—that'd really leave a mark. But seriuously, it was nothing short of a Fantasy day miracle. No doubt this rubbed a few of my new pals the wrong way, but hey, the whole thing’s a lottery, so I figure a little beginner’s luck was on the cards. Johnson is an animal and was favored by every single Fantasy magazine I saw in newstands. If he wasn’t prominently on the cover, he was the second head poking around—like Han and Chewy in most Star Wars posters.

I was keen on last year’s league MVP, Seattle’s Shaun Alexander, myself. He just seemed more solid. Apparently so was the manager of the “Second Strings”, the team with the first pick on our draft board. So I happily took Johnson for McMahon’s Headbands (named in honor of the NFL’s biggest ever goon and my last post), the consensus Fantasy No.1 across all glossy $10 mags.

I’m just hoping the NFL’s “LJ” is not as big a let down as the NBA’s once greatly hyped version. The Charlotte Hornets’ Larry Johnson was a hoops superstar for about three years, so by that precedent, pro football’s equivalent should be alright for at least another season.

The thing about these drafts is, I wonder who actually knows what they’re talking about. I mean I’m sure there were a couple of seasoned veterans at my event, you know the kind; cellophane green visor, cheap cigar in the corner of the mouth, faded and unwashed Giants jersey hiding a beer gut. But mostly, I felt I was hitting my weight. Yeah, I struggled once the middle rounds shipped in, with "Who the heck is T.J. Houshmandzadeh and doesn't he sell souvlaki down the road", and similar comments peppering my conversation at that point. But with my trusty Fantasy guidebook tucked under my arm and the beer goggles on, my selections felt as sharp as anyone’s.

Perhaps that was just the buffalo wings talking.

Either way, it was a good night had by all, and something I highly recommend. In fact, I’m going to propose to a few friends that we adopt the “draft day” format for several of our weekly conversations; best bands, favorite celebrity women, top directors or actors, greatest burgers. The possibilities are endless, and the chance to invest money in mindless “Fantasy” pools seems far more enticing than dumping it into slot machines or on the ponies.

But before I get too excited, ask me how LJ’s going in a few weeks.

Mr Popular

If you’ve ever enjoyed a good teen flick, particularly one from the Eighties, you’ll know the quarterback-jock character all too well. He’s the guy with the perfect mane of hair, the Cruise-esque smile and the blonde-cheerleader girlfriend. Yes, life is delightful for the high school QB; he can wear painfully tight stone-washed jeans and still claim the respect of his friends. They were more innocent times my friends.

It’s not until the QB hits the pro ranks, however, that he comes into his own. He’s no longer dating the head cheerleader but rather, a supermodel; he’s paid in millions of dollars instead of free cafeteria hamburgers; and most importantly, he competes in a world that offers immortal status. (This is even higher than being the coolest kid in school!)

To help you with this picture, there are a couple of NFL characters that suitably fit the movie-QB persona. Jim McMahon of the 1985 Chicago Bears immediately comes to mind. McMahon, a wise-cracking, showboating goofball, who had a penchant for headbands and big sunglasses, was an incredibly skilled quarterback. Possessing a good arm and an uncanny knack for reading game, McMahon mostly took things into his own hands—much to the disgust of Head Bear, Mike Ditka. At Super Bowl XX, in fact, when asked by reporters about a buttock injury, McMahon dropped his pants and mooned them. Now that’s nifty play-calling!

While McMahon's the guy who has his popular-but-bullying-ways come back to bite him at the end of the movie, Brett Favre is the perfect-gentleman-popular-QB. Since his his turn in Something About Mary, I can’t help but think of Brett “Fav-re” as the ultimate popular high school jock. He’s got the build, the rugged looks, the stylish name—something just tells me he was prom king. I wouldn’t be surprised if made an appearance as an Alpha Beta jock in one of the Nerds movies actually. Anyway, Favre’s NFL heroics, which thankfully don’t including mooning, position him as one of the coolest QBs ever.

When you think popular quarterbacks throughout NFL history, you’re most often looking at Joe “Cool” Montana of the 49ers, Dan "Laces Out" Marino, John "Super 7" Elway of the Broncos, or maybe the Bills Jim “Machine-Gun” Kelly. You might even cast you’re mind back to New York’s Broadway Joe Namath, or the crew-cut Colts captain, Johnny Unitas. There aren’t many as loved as these guys anymore.

In the last few weeks though, two great QB names have come to the forefront of the pro football world; Warren Moon and Damon Allen. Moon, you may recall, was a star play-caller with the old Houston Oilers. Versatile, smart and with a great arm, he was always fun to watch.

But before Moon entered the NFL, he played for the Edmonton Eskimos in the Canadian competition, the CFL. Many pundits say Moon went undrafted in the NFL because he was black. This was probably true, though I still contest that I was never drafted because I’m only 5’8. Still waiting on the results of that one. Anyway, you can’t keep a good Moon—I mean man down. Moon went on to lead the Eskimos to an unprecedented five consecutive Grey Cup championships and threw for 21,288 yards and 144 touchdown passes. Trust me, that’s more than you and your brother are throwing down at the park, lifetime.

Moon, surprise-surprise, was suddenly coveted by the NFL. He moved to Houston and the rest is history. Amongst his many achievements in the American game, Moon joined “Laces Out” and Dan “the Wolfman” Fouts as the only quarterbacks to post back-to-back 4,000-yard seasons. Hey, tough.

The reason I’m going “full Moon” on this post, is because the dynamic Oiler No.1 was recently inducted into the NFL Hall of Fame. In doing so, he became the only player ever to be inducted into both the CFL and NFL Halls of Fame.

Moon’s CFL and NFL yards thrown combined, are a staggering 70, 613 yards. That’s like driving through your neighborhood Burger King, like, 14,000 times. Think about it. I mention this feat because on Saturday night, at Toronto’s Skydome, I saw the Argonauts’ Damon Allen literally leap for the Moon. In accumulating 70,112, as of Saturday, Allen became only the second pro QB ever to pass for 70,000 yards.

The beer-chugging and cheerleader-hugging must be fun for a while, but surely becoming a legend leaves the rest a blur.

Montreal's Expos-ition

I picked up an official Expos t-shirt in Montreal over the weekend, and it’s a gem; red sleeve ends, the retro “elb” logo and an emblem marking the 1982 All-Star Game. And I thought my mate Jose’s Nintendo T-shirt was old-school. Throw on some Bon Jovi jeans and pair of Dunlop Volleys with this baby and watch the ladies swoon.

While the shirt instantly earned a spot in my weekly rotation, it joins the wardrobe with some sorrow in tow.

I never saw the Expos play, you see, or even watched a game on TV, but what I do know of them from highlight reels and baseball books is enough to feel some regret. I regret that I never caught even a glimpse of Canada’s first major league team at Olympic Stadium—maybe even bought up a few extra tickets to help them stay in town.

But would that have helped?

The Expos were apparently doomed for a long time, so my money probably wouldn’t have made a dent, I recently learned. As a new baseball fan, my trip to Montreal had me asking, “What happened to the Expos?”

How did a team with such a cool retro uniform and such a wonderfully random nickname loose its place on the sporting landscape?

Here you had a pioneering club—the first of its kind in Canada. If you’ve ever seen the photo of legendary Canadian PM, Lester B. Pearson, throwing out the Expos’ first pitch you’d say it was all smiles for French Canadian baseball.

Maybe that was just a façade but I like to think the Expos were hard done by. At least then my romantic ideal of the battling club from a non-traditional town and a retro era can live on. For me, the Montreal experience is not unlike that of the North Sydney Bears. The Bears were as retro-chic as it gets in the Aussie rugby league world; furry red jerseys, complete with awkwardly rectangular black stripes, and a squad that barely seemed capable of mustering a few wins per season. They had a rich history of losing, as did the Montrealers, and fan base that was small—cultish. Like the Expos, they had a few good years, a couple of decent players and an hard-not-to-love outdated logo. But thanks to money—or more specifically, a lack there of it—found themselves being run out of town.

As if perennial losing wasn’t a big enough kick in the teeth, the Bears were forced to merge with their biggest rivals, the Manly Sea Eagles in 1999. Five years later, the Expos were similarly shuffled off to Washington DC. The Expos' boot to the choppers? How about that when on the verge of a breakout season in 1994, one in which they appeared destined for incredible heights, they were cruelly cut down by a players strike and never recovered.

Almost tragically, the Expos were denied the possibility of winning 105 games that season. At 74 wins and 40 losses up until August 12th, Montreal amazingly had the best record in the Majors. The powerhouse New York Yankees were next at 70-44. Does it get any crueler than that? They were better than the Yankees!

To rub salt into the wound, the owners at the time hadn’t the cash flow to retain the team’s best players, so there was no push for the World Series the following season as you’d expect. The winning squad, the morale of the fans and the future prospects for the club were all flattened like a French crepe.

If that wasn’t enough, baseball’s commissioner, Bud Selig, decided sometime in 2001 that he’d like to kill off two teams; the Minnesota Twins being one—and you guessed it—Montreal, the other. How these types of drastic moves are placed in the hands of single-minded individuals I’ll never know. I liken this decision to Channel Nine’s screening of Seinfeld at 10.30pm in the early Nineties.

Anyway, it was simply another sports club at the mercy of money merchants. Sure, a sports organization has to make moola in order to survive and be a viable part of its larger network, but nothing was done to save the Expos. Nothing. They were essentially pillaged by other clubs and psychologically dismantled by men in suits. In 2002, they played 22 of their home games in Puerto Rico for crying out loud! Which braniac proposed that idea?

Following the mid-Nineties, it was like the whole thing was on a contingency plan. Instead of being properly invested in, built a new stadium, or more than adequately marketed, the Expos’ history and fans were nonchalantly dismissed. The team finally packed its bags for the US capital in 2005, where contract disputes for a new stadium and attendance numbers have hindered success.

It’s interesting how things turn out. The Washington Nationals have one of the worst records in baseball, and a superstar in Alfonso Soriano who doesn’t seem interested in even playing there. And most importantly, their logo is nowhere near as stylish as the Expos’.

At least Montreal will always have cool t-shirts to remember their team by.

Hoopless in Seattle

The floral emblem of Oklahoma, mistletoe, appropriately signals the Sonics’ kiss-off from Seattle. In a deal that has caused both puckering and pursing—depending in which state you hang your Sonics hat—the team’s selling maybe shouldn’t have surprised. But it’s definitely breaking hearts. At least mine.

Oklahoma Investment group, The Professional Basketball Club LLC, are the proud new owners of my basketball club and once again, it seems, I’m forced to pack up on my team and hit the highway in search of a new allegiance.

You see, I’ve experienced this kind of eviction before. It was after the Los Angeles Lakers abandoned The Forum for The Staples Center; Laker basketball died for me that day. With a new mega-sized arena, a less team-orientated playing style and superstars that would never replace Magic and Big Game, I stuffed my duffle full and headed north for the Emerald City—emotionally that is.

The Pacific Northwest—an uncharted land in my sports world—where potential appeared more vital than potency. The Sonics hadn’t won since ’79, but what did I care? This was a fresh start, and with a team I felt better suited to. I’d outgrown the big Laker market, and more poignantly, I believe the Lakers had outgrown me. How could someone from the “Hip to be Square”/ Who’s the Boss generation possibly support a team more akin to a Melrose Place episode? It just didn’t feel right. So I gave the “it’s not you—it’s me” line, and left my heart not far from San Francisco.

I’ve bled green and gold for a few years now, leapt from my seat every time Kevin Calabro’s voice exploded through the radio, cheered whenever Ray Allen lobbed a perfect rainbow over three defenders, and pumped my fists when Rashard Lewis launched for a booming dunk. Yes, despite the many losses, it’s been a good time.

But as Seattle’s favorite sons, Pearl Jam, once cried, “They’re leaving here” or so most NBA experts are assuming. Too bad really—maybe Ray, Lew and Luke could have built something special at Key Arena; something to validate my decision to cheer for the Supes. Not to be, I suppose.

Of course, I’m not the first fan hurt by pro sports’ penchant for comings and goings. How about the old Brooklyn faithful, forced to watch their Dodgers as west coasters? Or Expos supporters, losing their club after 35 years to D.C.? Or worse, Oakland fans who dealt with their football team moonlighting in LA for more than a decade. These traumas aren’t covered in the fan’s manual. There’s no anonymous support group. There’s no prescription drug. As a fan, you just suck it up.

So now the search for my new team begins. Not that I have anything against Oklahoma City, you understand. Just that when you invest your soul into one town, that relationship can’t continue in a healthy manner elsewhere—can it? It’s kind of like the best friend you had as an eight year-old, the one who lived two doors down. You played with him after school, rode your bikes around the street on weekends. You were the first one to receive an invite to his birthday party; the first one to stick up for him against a bully. Then, without warning, his parents up and moved the family intestate. The relationship suddenly ended with a handshake and a hug—the kiss-off, if you will.

The worst part is looking for a new best friend. Will they like your style of play? Will they share your sense of fun? Will they be someone you can trust? Hard to hang onto such relationships these days, just ask the folks in Hartford.

Deep down, I’m sure Howard Schultz didn’t want to let go either. I’m sure he suffered a lengthy deliberation—over a couple of Colombia Nariño Supremos—and decided he was investing more than he was getting back. Sometimes you have to act on instinct, like Gary Payton’s famous behind-the-head alley-oop to the Rain Man. I understand. Just don’t expect me to sleep well.

The Sonics could be a better team in Oklahoma City but most Seattle fans will find it difficult to care. Like me, they’ll feign some interest for a while, maybe catch a few highlights, and even buy a jersey if the team ends up winning. But it won’t be the same. It’s a “long distance”, and everyone knows they never work out.

Nope, for us Sonics fans, it may be time to move on. Portland still has a squad, right? They’re players always seem to make headlines, even if not for amazing basketball feats. There are always the Bay area’s Warriors, farther south. Though I can’t say I like the latest club logo—it looks like a billboard for a tire store.

Maybe a break from basketball is best. Yep, that’s what I’ll tell myself. Plenty of other interests to pursue…fishing…hiking….tennis…

Is Frasier still taking calls?

Sports universe collides with Miss Universe

It's tough to focus on the big game when the Miss Universe pageant is on.

Worse yet, how can we absorb Monday's sports headlines when the Web is plastered with stories (and even more photos) of Zuleyka Rivera Mendoza, the new Miss Universe?

Did you realize Tiger won the British Open again? Of course you didn't. Too busy downloading pics of Puerto Rico's latest celebrity beauty weren’t you?

Ricky Williams broke his arm too. I know—you missed it. Poor Ricky was quietly admitted to hospital while the world was more concerned about Mendoza's recovery after fainting.

The Tour de France finished as well. America's Floyd Landis took the honors, and became the eighth straight US winner. What's that? You didn't have time to scroll down to the sports links? Those photos can take a while to open. I understand.

Did you catch any stats at least?

You did?

Age 18...height 5'9...hair color brown...eye color brow...riiiiiiight.

No, no problem here. Good info—solid stats. Let's talk more tomorrow though...sports might be back on your mind by then.

Made in Japan

Clocking long hours without complaint appears a virtue of Japanese employees. They are the ironmen of the office, but more importantly, on the sporting field. Especially when it's Safeco Field, home of the Seattle Mariners.

Take Mariners catcher, Kenji Johjima, for example, who has logged more hours behind home plate than any catcher in the majors. The team's website recently reported that as of July 16th, Johjima had caught for 681 innings this season, Johjima had caught for 681 innings this season—six more than the next catcher, Oakland's
Jason Kendall at 675. That's more time spent on the knees than in a Boyz II Men music video.

Seattle don't seem too concerned with the "overtime", nor does Johjima. The Mariners star has said he's used to a heavy workload, even though in Japan he played 22 games less than in the American season. He actually twice caught the full 140 games back home, surely exhibiting to Seattle's management an ability to cope with MLB's marathon campaign.

Perhaps an even stronger reassurance of Johjima's endurance, is that his countryman and teammate, Ichiro Suzuki, is one of the most consistent performers in baseball history. In case you've forgotten, the great Ichiro has had at least 200 hits, 100 runs scored and 30 stolen bases in all five of his MLB seasons. (He also holds the team record for consecutive games played).

To put these numbers in context, compare them to one of baseball's most consistent performers ever, Derek Jeter. In his last five seasons, Jeter has logged over 200 runs twice and stolen 30 bases once. He has scored more than 100 runs four of the last five seasons. Not too shabby, but not quite Ichiro's figures.

They certainly make 'em well in Japan; from Sony to Toyota, Suzuki to Johjima.

Bueller? Bueller?

Remember the scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off where Ed Rooney asks "What's the score?" as a Chicago Cubs game blares in the background?

That shabby cook in the diner responds, "Nothin nothin."

To which Rooney ignorantly inquires, "Who's winning?"

The guy's next line, delievered with a straight face, became a classic. "The Bears!"

Most people watch the scoreboard, but it occurred to me recently that there's a whole other side to sports; those who attend, participate in, cheer for and even gamble on them with no real interest. They're the ones who make up the numbers, or in some cases, take those 100-Level seats you were hoping for.

This isn’t necessarily bad, but it does say something interesting about sports; many enjoy elements outside of the game. I know, I know, there should be a written test before entering the stadium.

But think about it. We all know guys who love anything offering beautiful women dancing: clubs, bars, the American Pie movies, and big surprise, football. It'd be safe to assume that the NFL draws many of its crowd members, due to the sideline entertainment. I mean the Dallas Cowboys have lived by that promotional ploy for decades—heck, they invented it.

The NBA isn't far behind. Lakerland anyone? Oh sure, I go to watch Kobe as well.

I began thinking about this issue when a female friend remarked that she loved watching the Argentineans during the World Cup. Was it their splendid teamwork that took her fancy I wondered? Not quite. I similarly witnessed great female approval for the Italian team during the Cup final, as I sat quietly watching the game at my local bar. Apparently the actual game wasn't intriguing enough a contest for some.

Perhaps the strangest observation we can make about all this, is that the slowest game in sports, baseball, offers little extra-curricular activity for fans; no cheerleaders, no mascots leaping through flaming hoops and certainly less celebrity spotting.

I think this speaks volumes for baseball fans. They know the score, and that’s all that matters.

Zidane deserves better

Zinedine Zidane has apologised for headbutting Marco Matterazzi in the World Cup final—but did we need it?

I didn't. I'd rather an apology from all the players guilty of diving during the tournament. That was a bigger disgrace. Some remorse for several hairstyles wouldn't go a stray either. And while we’re at it, that weird dancing that some teams do when they win—could leave that at home as well.

But I digress. Amongst the "two cents" commentators and lynch mob media, everyone is forgetting how great an ambassador Zidane has been for the game. He's a soccer icon, above and beyond every player who ran that pitch Sunday. He plays the game with a control and vision rarely seen. His timing, touch and most importantly, his decision making, are almost flawless when it comes to football. It's easy to forget this when you're in the peanut gallery.


Don't we owe him the benefit of the doubt here?

Violence should never be condoned but surely the verbal abuse lobbed at France's No.10 was violent itself. Zidane made his decision, which OK, ranks up there with Iron Mike's "ear snack attack" and Ron Artest's "paper cup retaliation". But let's be reasonable. We don't have to agree with it, yet can we at least acknowledge that the man deserved better than Matterazzi's irreverance? I mean come on, everytime you Google the poor bloke now, you're going to find that headbutt shot. Is that really fair?

This is France's great captain after all, the three-time FIFA player of the year and the best we've seen in the last two decades. For those petty enough to recall Zidane's red card tally, or call him a "monster", how about considering his goal tally. Think about his splendid passing. Study his sublime balance. Replay all of his last minute heroics. Revel in his teamwork. He's a football genius and nothing will change that.

Zidane was fairly awarded the Golden Ball, the best player of the World Cup, and it’d be a travesty to strip him of it. Nobody's perfect and sometimes temperatures peak. But national heroes, like grandparents, surely deserve more respect than they're often shown.

Strange decisions

Too often in pro basketball, size matters. "Take the big man, he'll make us unbeatable." It's the stuff of a kids pick-up game. Other than Shaquille O'Neal, Tim Duncan and maybe Dirk Nowitzki, who else over seven feet currently matters in the NBA?

And even if they do matter, they ain't winning anything.

The Toronto Raptors made Andrea Bargnani their No.1 pick in this year's draft, and I'm still waiting for someone to explain this decision to me. A well-below .500 team and one light-years from reaching the playoffs, had a "community chest" card that could have boosted the guard spot—or at least helped out with a swingman.

So, they opted for a seven-footer instead.

Not only that, but the brains trust over at Raptors Central, just traded away one of their best players in Charlie Villanueva for TJ Ford. What?! Charlie V, one of the club's brightest spots in a mostly darkened 2005-06 season, traded for a flashy and overrated point guard with average numbers. Say it isn't so. Ford was in the top ten turnover makers last season, something the Raptors must be looking to compound even further.

Clearly Bryan Colangelo wants to revamp the Raps—change the face of a struggling organization. While he's certainly re-jigged personnel, he's messing with the foundations of the team. He's chosen an unproven big man, moved one his best young frontcourt talents for a questionable guard, and is likely to lose a lively backcourter in Mike James. Where is this all headed?

As a result of Toronto's decision, Gonzaga All-American Adam Morrison fell to the Charlotte Bobcats at No.3. To my mind, this wasn't right; he should have been one or two. But hey, the Bobcats are the big winners here.

Morrison was the best pick available. Six-foot eight and twenty-eight points a game, he has the necessary numbers to succeed. But more importantly, The Big Moustache has the intangibles. He's a winner, plays with heart and with a superb offensive repertoire, how could you overlook him? He's ready to go for Pete's sake. Plus there's more than a little Larry Legend about the guy. Surely pure skill out-values wishful thinking? Not in the current NBA, however.

I'll never understand the decisions made by some NBA execs. They are often strange and without any real insight.

Feeling blue, turning green…and gold

I just saw my beloved Socceroos lose a World Cup game to a referee. I also just witnessed my Italian Azzuri bravely win the same game with ten men. But I’m neither wallowing in my beer nor celebrating. I’m not reveling in the simple pleasure of an Aussie meat pie, or the zesty flavour of a penne marinara. No, I’m just thinking about how all at once the World Cup can ask you to dance, and leave you alone by the punch bowl in tears.

In a tournament which has united the world unlike any before it, I suddenly feel a little divided. You see, when I heard Australia would meet Italy in Monday’s Round of 16 blockbuster, my heart began splitting like Ricky Williams from Miami.

Like many people living in big metropolitan towns, I have allegiances to other lands, and to sports clubs other than the New York Jets or Toronto Maple Leafs. If you grew up in Australia or have even visited, you’ll understand that there’s no choice—you are part of the Aussie sports fabric. It’s a birth rite—they might as well stamp it on your passport; Australian and sports mad.

It’s not so much local clubs that have you tugging at dad’s sleeve to buy a jersey or a cap, however, but the national teams. Our boringly successful cricket side, forever popular rugby Wallabies and weirdly amphibious swim team are all national treasures. Missing one of their contests can be likened to skipping your nephew’s tenth birthday party. Don’t expect a piece of pavlova cake later on.

So when the Socceroos qualified for the Cup after beating past champions, Uruguay, the Roos stirred the Aussie psyche. They finally mattered. And for the first time, I was confused about my position, like a goalkeeper uncertain of whether to charge the striker or sit on his line.

Italy or Australia?

Top be honest, I never thought they’d meet in the World Cup. I mean, come on, what were the chances of the Aussies escaping their group? Brazil, Japan, Croatia—it never looked likely. Yet the soccer gods were ready with a cruel joke on this occasion. Testing the willpower of every Italian-Australian going round must rank as one of Soccer Heaven’s best. Nice work Offsideon.

So, there I was Monday, in a sports bar on an early lunch, watching my Aussies—I mean Azzuri, battle for a place in the quarter finals. It was tough. I could hardly watch, and certainly couldn’t eat.

The game’s uneven tempo didn’t help. The ball bounced around Fritz-Walter Stadium in Kaiserslautern, like a plate of sauerkraut being passed down a row—slowly and unsteadily. It was a mess of a match, with loosely-timed tackles and more almost-sort-of hand balls than I can recall in one game. Shots were consistently wayward and passing was about as accurate as a game of pub darts. The whole disjointed spectacle, begged a draw and a fresh thirty minutes.

Plus, I needed the extra time to make my mind up on whom to follow?

Suddenly a changing moment. A red card to Italy’s Marco Materazzi sent a surge of Aussie pride up my spine. How dare that clumsy bastard take down one of our men! But twenty minutes later, as the Italians protected their turf so valiantly, the olive oil in my blood began to seep through my pores. I was sweating marinara sauce. Crikey! Plus my dark hair, and five o’clock shadow that sprung up before halftime would surely giving me away in this Anglo-centric establishment.

Time to yell some Aussie expletives at the screen. “You flamin’ mongrel! Keep your eye on he ball you bloody gallah!” (Generally slang words for a dog or the names of native Australian birds will do in this situation). “You f#@$ stupid cockatoo!”

The Italians made a surprising substitution with about fifteen minutes left, bringing on attacker, Francesco Totti. My nerves began unraveling. History told me that the Italians love to defend, so summoning an offensive maestro was either a special new tactic, or those damn soccer gods were pulling the prank strings just for kicks.

As we now know, Totti won the game for Italy with a penalty and I almost spat my meat pie all over the screen. Ok, so I didn’t have a meat pie, but I wished that I did because that last minute penalty to Italy was one of the worst World Cup decisions I’ve ever seen. More importantly, though, it left me (and I’m sure many others) feeling empty about the final result. The game’s struggle had earned a better finish and both teams deserved a more decisive victory.

I returned to the office with my heart still in tact; half green and gold, half blue. Happily divided. And so, I guess, it will always be. Plenty more games to watch—kangaroo steak pizza anyone?

Shortstop showstopper

I realized this week that New York Yankees shortstop, Derek Jeter, is truly a legend.

I'll admit I'm a pretty new baseball fan, and while I don't cheer for the Yanks or live in the Big Apple, I love watching Jeter.

Besides the numbers, he has that Michael Jordan quality—you just have to watch him. He's exciting because he can influence a game single-handedly, like Bird or Gretzky or The Babe. Something not many can claim.

These days, athletes are propped up and torn down in a blink, but some just continue at a steady, brilliant pace. Some—a few, really.

Then there are, of course, the numbers. Through his last 10 games, just for example, Jeter has 14 hits in 40 at-bats for a tidy .350 average. It was also his bat last night against the Atlanta Braves—as it is nearly every night—that sparked the Yankee offense to yet another win. All in a day's work.

How about in his career's work?


There are too many Jeter stats that wow but take a look at these Hall of Fame-type figures. Jeter is only the second player in Yankee history to have as many as four 200-hit seasons, joining Lou Gehrig (who had eight). He ranks fifth on the all-time Yankees list with a .314 batting average behind only Hall of Famers Babe Ruth (.349), Lou Gehrig (.340), Earle Combs (.325) and Joe DiMaggio (.325).

Just for good measure, he played 1,400 games with 1,775 career hits, the most by any player through that many games since Kirby Puckett had 1,830. Over 1,500 games he amassed 1,906 hits and 1,140 runs. The last player in the Major Leagues with as many hits and runs in his first 1,500 games was Joe DiMaggio.

The thing that impresses me most, however, is that numbers mean little to this guy. He just wants to win the game. He'll sprint, scoop, twist, contort, or throw an arm out just to collect a ground ball. He focuses every at-bat, running through the same routine like a photocopier. And he plays with a sense of joy. It's simply nice to watch.

Yesterday's game, on Jeter's 32nd birthday, was nothing out of the ordinary. But his career, as easy as it is to take for granted, continues to excel. Why pine for MJ, when we've still got DJ?

Summer Storm

It's all about crazy weather this week - Hurricanes and Heat.

I'm not sure whether to don a raincoat or Bermuda shorts in celebrating two of the more unlikely pro sports champions ever.

Monday night, the Carolina Hurricanes showed they had enough puff to outlast the Edmonton Oilers in a thrilling finale to the NHL season. The Canes earned the Stanley Cup with a 3-1 Game 7 victory, against a resilient and slippery Oilers side. It's been a long time coming for Hurricane fans, who endured limited success with the team in Hartford. Remember "The Whale"?

Then there's new NBA kings the Miami Heat, the sea-sawing expansion outfit from down south, with as star-studded a history as any NBA team going round. Glen Rice, Steve Smith, Billy Owens, Tim Hardaway, Alonzo Mourning, Harold Miner, Dan Marjerle—need I go on? Winning ain't easy folks but Sherriff Pat Riley and his boys finally outgunned the wiley Dallas Mavs in Game 7. Magnificent.

And now these two champs have proven everyone wrong, showing that teamwork and determination are not just overused sports cliches. Like their rollercoaster pasts, both clubs went down before roaring back up. They may not be Cinderella stories—on account of the fact nobody seemed to want their wins—but they are fairytale finishes nonetheless.

Perhaps like Rapunzel, they can now let their hair down.

Brazil-mania

It's interesting to see the love for Brazil's soccer team from fans who aren't even Brazilian. Everywhere you walk, people are wearing canary yellow jerseys and lime green track tops. They're painting they're faces like a lemon and lime ice-cream, and investing in those sparkly tinsel wigs—you know the ones.

Fanaticism for Brazil is this year's World Cup must-do. (You may recall that in 2002 it was mohawking your hair like David Beckham). Boy did that die quickly.

Certainly Brazil has the personnel to back-up the attention. Ronaldinho alone could steal a press gallery away from a bikini-clad Heidi Klum. Ok, not quite—but almost.

There's nothing wrong with jumping on the bandwagon of the most successful World Cup sides in history, or cheering for the clear-cut favourites, or dumping your only bet on the owners of the world's finest player; but I beg of you, where's the fun in it?

There are 31 other nations on the leaderboard folks, each with a chance of winning something—even if it isn't the Cup. So here are my top 5 "other teams" to support during the 2006 World Cup, should you feel all Braziled-out.

5. France - they have skill, style, intellect and great wine, but perhaps not the staying power anymore.

4. USA - can talk the talk, especially with Bruce Arena at the helm, but can they really walk the walk?

3. Trinidad and Tobago - they're the quintessential underdog and their captain, Dwight Yorke, is cool. He dated, um, er, a model…Jordan.

2. Portugal - they're always in the trophy mix and have some of the most passionate fans you'll ever meet. Trust me, crash this party.

1. Germany - c'mon, they're the host—they know where the best bars are, and where to find a decent schnitzel. Plus, I was wrong; Heidi Klum can steal a press gallery away from absolutely anyone.

The Cup is cool

After enduring boring NBA finals', several one-sided tennis slams, steroids in baseball and a cancelled hockey season in recent years, soccer fans now get their chance to celebrate. World Cup month has finally arrived!

While the Cup's enormity has no equal in European and South American sport particularly, it's pleasing that nations with less "football" experience also choose to party. Take the U.S., for example, who dominate the baseball and basketball universe traditionally, get no bigger audience than on Super Bowl Sunday, and who are now in the 2006 World Cup to compete. Yes, compete.

Perhaps more importantly to U.S. TV execs and advertisers, America has the chance to win over a whole new generation of fans. If soccer can grow its popularity further in the States, there's no telling where the game can go in this part of the world. For soccer’s sake, I'm rooting for a few red, white and blue wins.

Australia is in a similar position. Having missed Cup qualification the last 32 years, the Aussies are taking a giant Adidas boot forward in battling the likes of Brazil and Croatia. A single victory in the strong Group F, also featuring Japan, will only lift the Aussie's profile at home where rugby historically dominates.

Canada, without a qualifying team and still focused on the Stanley Cup Finals, has its World Cup interest buoyed by a potent multicultural base. In Toronto alone, national flags from every corner of the globe are waving atop cars, and local pubs have been preparing Cup events for weeks. World Cup fever knows no borders.

Everyone’s invited to the Cup party and predicting the finalists is part and parcel of the celebration—and you thought Idol was addictive. Everybody's an expert during these tournaments, everyone has a tip. I particularly love the media "experts" who pick winners based on international profile. England-with Captain Beckham-has a high profile, for instance, so is a popular bet. Italy, with its calendar models, has an inflated profile too, so we know that at least females are backing them. Brazil, based on a powerful soccer brand has a high profile as well, and is thus the most heavily backed competitor since Seabiscuit.

But where this prediction method fails, is in recognising teamwork. Many pundits are suggesting, for example, that teams such as Japan and the USA won't get past the first round. Surely, "team unity" will carry these sides in good stead?

Conversely, while squads like France and Spain have had great success in recent Cups, is this enough to make a semi-final prediction for either? I’d suggest no. Experience is one thing, but age, and ageing stars are another. It's every four years, after all, anything can happen. And usually anything and everything does. Bring it on!

Bonding with the record books

So Barry Bonds, forever on our sports pages chasing 714, will forever be on our minds at 715. We just can't escape his melodramatic existence or melon-shaped head, and this was never more apparent than Sunday afternoon after 2.14pm. The 41-year-old slugger surfaced in the fourth inning to smack a 445-foot homer at AT&T Park to not only bump The Babe down the home run list, but further smudge the record books.

If you're a Giants fan it doesn't get much better. Just when you couldn't get enough Barry at 714, he trumped Ruth’s record to create a new benchmark; 715-and-counting—a new "magic" number—a new answer to a Trivial Pursuit question. But it's also a number that leaves a sour taste in the mouth—one that doesn't elicit the joy or great respect it should. It’s a number with so much doubt it barely feels like a milestone.

After all, a record is more than a numerical figure; it's a significant moment in time, an affirmation of achievement and most importantly, the fulfillment of someone’s dream. On Sunday afternoon we should have all been celebrating a new number for these reasons. Instead we're left with emptiness. We’re left wondering about the future of the game and how it will deal with the predicament Bonds has helped build—“tainted numbers”.



Who really knows what these home runs mean to the combative Bonds? If he apologised would it make it easier? If he retired now, preserving at least Hank Aaron's record, would it make it alright?

The build up to today has been arduous. There have been so many questions around Bonds; it's hard to know what to think anymore. Perhaps if we just leave Barry be, miring in his own ugly circumstance, we can move on. Perhaps the asterisk next to 715-and-still-counting will be punishment enough. Perhaps by clinging to the numbers we hold dear, the real records won’t fade and the great memories will always prevail.

No need to go Jurassic

Scoring the No.1 draft pick this week saved the Toronto Raptors from NBA extinction. Let's face it, they were quickly going the way of the dodo, the Tasmanian tiger or more precisely, the dinosaur. Suddenly, as if Sam Neil’s Dr. Grant was sent to investigate the state of the Raptors on Basketball Island, the club made a vital discovery; luck.

The question is, will general manager, Bryan Colangelo, use his good fortune wisely or squander it on an Italian giant nobody's heard of?

Andrea Bargnani, a 7-foot centre with Benetton Treviso of the EuroLeague, is a name being thrown around Toronto with the indifference of a Raptors skip pass. The spaghetti-limbed Italian, who averages 11 points and six rebounds a game, has oddly been touted by Colangelo as the team's top prospect.

While the GM has big Converse sneakers in his eyes, maybe he should ponder the "playmaker" position first. By this I mean the guy who can change a game—something the raptors don’t have—be it with a pass, shot or just flat out hustle. The Raptors desperately lack the latter.

Mike James and Morris Peterson have speed and style, but not the composure to lead the team. James' sharp shooting together with Peterson's steal and dunk routine will draw fans in the interim, but another 27-55 season should promptly end that attraction. And though Toronto's forwards are tough and active they're not exactly crafty, so how can more physical presence help this squad?

What the Raps need is a Larry Legend, an Earvin Magic, a Short Shorts Stockton, a Big Game James, a Joe D--you get my point. That a No. 1 pick has physical potential is a given, but hustle and leadership are not. So when handed a rare opportunity to improve their entire ball club—not just make it taller—you assume Toronto’s management will take it. Instead, June 28th’s draft day has a Sam Bowie incident written all over it.

With all-rounders such as Gonzaga's Adam Morrison, Duke’s J.J. Reddick and Washington's Brandon Roy in the draft mix, surely the Raptors are tossing and turning at night more than they’re letting on. After all, here’s a chance for a nightmare team to make a dream selection. Ok, so there's no Larry or Earvin, but if you're Colangelo you have to at least try for the next best think right?