The Bowdoin Orient

Seventy six. That's the number of articles I counted when I visited the Orient archives after clicking on the link that was my name.

The Thunder were tied at two games a piece with the Lakers going into Tuesday. Who saw that coming? Tim Tebow was drafted in the first round by the Broncos. Who saw that coming? The Yankees currently look like the best team in baseball. Well, I suppose we all saw that one coming.

The campaign in Spain may be far from over for spendthrifts Real Madrid, what with seven league matches remaining in the Primera Division, but there is already a familiar stench emanating from the Santiago Bernabéu Stadium.

Welcome back to campus. Did anyone see this one coming? The NCAA tournament, I mean. When 11th-seeded Old Dominion upset sixth-seeded Notre Dame back on March 18, we all got only a mere taste of the shocking defeats to come, which included, but were certainly not limited to 12th-seeded Cornell topping Temple (and 12th-seeded Cornell topping Wisconsin in the subsequent clash, for that matter), 13th-seeded Murray State squeaking one out against fourth-seeded Vanderbilt, and 14th-seeded Ohio embarrassing an ignominious third-seeded Georgetown side that looked like neutered Hoyas all night long.

For those of you who don't like sports, I'm sorry. Saturday night's nerve-wracking, gut-wrenching, endless fingernail-biting, edge-of-your-seat gripping, captivatingly epochal thriller that saw first year Jordan Lalor's overtime snipe against the much-abhorred Colby sent the men's ice hockey team to the NESCAC semifinals.

"There are those who thought this day would never come; what are they to say now?" Surely there is a more eloquent quotation floating around out there capable of summing up the sentiments of the men's ice hockey team better than this one voiced by the Prophet Truth from Halo 2, but truthfully—please pardon the pun—I happen to believe that this one is all too fitting.

If you thought the Cleveland Cavaliers were putting all of their eggs in one basket in relying on Shaquille O'Neal, and only Shaquille O'Neal, to act as LeBron James' Robin in their quest for an elusive NBA title, you thought wrong.

There was a time when football's elite made their living under the Tuscan sun. It was there, and near the Duomo di Milano, the Colosseum, or just beneath the ascending Alps where the beautiful game took flight like never before.

I'd like to begin this week's article by thanking Cardinals quarterback Kurt Warner for gracing football fans with an unforgettable NFL career these past 12 years. Battered and bruised throughout much of this season—most notably against the Saints in the divisional round—Warner admitted that football just hadn't been as much fun in 2009 as it had been in seasons past, and after Arizona bowed out to New Orleans a few weeks ago, the former Arena Football and NFL Europe superstar opted for retirement.

Welcome back. Was that not the longest five-week break any of you have ever experienced? I have to say that the final week before classes resumed was especially useless, though, not that eating ice cream by the carton and playing FIFA10 into the wee hours of the morning is any improvement from...well...eating ice cream by the carton and playing FIFA10 into the wee hours of the morning.

It's that time of the year again. We are bombarded incessantly with unforgiving assignments to be turned in at impossible deadlines; the sun proceeds to set earlier and earlier, ushering in a pervading and uninviting darkness that hangs in the air longer than we might ever hope for; and the mild weather that so flirtatiously coddled us last week has been usurped by its frigid, evil twin. I'm an optimist, I swear.

It's the worst thing tied to our nation's third state since Zach Braff's painfully abortive efforts to produce a unique romantic comedy with Natalie Portman, and now, it's official: the New Jersey Nets have started the 2009-10 season at 0-18.

There is no shame in losing to the Indianapolis Colts. After all, the undefeated boys in blue have had their way with nine different teams this year—four of which are over .500—and when Peyton Manning is calling the shots under center, the vast majority of the league doesn't stand a chance.

A wise man once said, "All's sure that's going sure." For no team did this statement hold truer than for the extravagantly lavish Real Madrid, who entered the 2009-10 La Liga campaign having splashed around some ?247 million (approximately $370 million) on six marquee players in the summer, ushering in the latest era of Galácticos.

Three-thousand, two-hundred and ninety-four. That's the number of days New Yorkers have had to wait for the Yankees to win another World Series.

"Can you smell it? There's a life force in here tonight. Do you feel it? Hmm? I look around this room, and I see potential."

So as not to jinx the $275 million man and his pinstriped teammates, I have opted against prematurely singing my praises for the Bronx Bombers in this week's article. A reevaluation of Rex Ryan and his impact on the Jets will also not be assessed at this time. No, at this juncture I feel a hiatus from the American sports scene is both prudent and necessary, especially with what came to transpire earlier this week in Europe's prestigious UEFA Champions League when defending champion Barcelona lost shockingly 2-1 at home to visitors Rubin Kazan.

19-14. To some, that score might mean very little, its low total and unusual point juxtaposition—though close in proximity—primed to be overlooked and lost in a mixed bag of fifteen other games with likely more attractive scores.

Boy, I sure am glad Rex Ryan made all those phone calls last week. The first-year Jets head coach's deliberate summoning of overly boisterous crowd support via season ticket holders' answering machines seemed to pay off Sunday when the Gang Green accomplished something they hadn't done since the start of the new millennium: beat the New England Patriots at the Meadowlands.

Amid holding auditions for the impending generation of Meddiebempsters Monday night, I received a text message from my mother that defied the natural order. The incredulous blurb that appeared on my enV2 (because I don't need an iPhone...yet) read something that sent a wave of instant gratification throughout my entire body: "Bills lead with 5 minutes left."

And...we're back. First thing's first: there is a zany rumor circulating around campus faster than the pig illness that there are 500 days of summer, which may or may not have to do with that new movie with Roger from "Angels in the Outfield." This rumor is, of course, ludicrous, because as some of us hopefully know, there are only 365 days of the year, rendering the rumor of 500 days of summer impossible.

This past Tuesday afternoon, Josep Guardiola paced back and forth in his office, contemplating the impending match that would take place later that evening. Only a few days prior, Guus Hiddink and his team stepped off of their plane and into Guardiola territory, the miracle worker himself contemplating Tuesday night's clash. On Wednesday, Sir Alex Ferguson popped a Chiclet or two into his mouth and naturally began to chew away violently at the hard-shelled gum, contemplating the impending match at his stadium that evening. And finally, in the opposing club's locker room, Arsene Wenger stood expectedly stoic in front of his team, a three-hour train ride from home, contemplating, too, a match that might define his squad's unusual season.

But just before I was vacuumed back in by his jaunty façade, I caught myself. This man was something that he was not; this man was a mirage. This was a man whose charm and intrigue were both complete affectations. This was a man whose duplicity and hollowness had once fooled me and thousands of others into trusting him. This was a man who had burned so much more than bridges, who had now made an unexpected and inconvenient return into my life. This man was Isiah Thomas.

You just had to go there didn't you? You saw the elephant in the room and just had to ask about it, huh? Well, fine then. If that's how we're going to play the game then I guess I'll have to fess up for your sake: my March Madness picks failed me once again. I think I knew it was destined to be an abortive shot at near-perfection when I watched my beloved 11-seeded Utah State Aggies (who I had picked to reach the Sweet Sixteen) drop a one-point heartbreaker to six-seed Marquette; or maybe it was when Wake Forest decided to graciously and inexcusably bow out to Cleveland St.—the 51st in our Union, apparently. Three of my Final Four picks—Syracuse, Pittsburgh, and Memphis—also headed home a little earlier than expected.

I have a lot to smile about these days: Ken Griffey Jr. became the anachronistic "Jr." of old last week when he re-inked a contract with the Mariners for one year, which has served as a temporary panacea for baseball that haplessly continues to mop up the A-Rod mess, the Knicks finally agreed to buy out the dormant and unhappy Stephon Marbury (I hope Celtics fans have as much fun rooting for him as I have these past six years!), and the plummeting Rangers fired stoic and ineffective boss Tom Renney, and replaced him with 2004 Stanley Cup-winning coach John Tortorella, in the hopes that the irascible stand-in will be able to light a fire under the struggling club's proverbial rump.

I remember it well because of its implausibility. I posed the question on my professional sports radio show in high school back in the spring of 2005 as a gambit to get a rise out of my co-host, an ardent Red Sox fan. He laughed after I read it over the airwaves, and I couldn't help but chuckle myself: what would be a more intriguing steroids story? A story of Jeter or a story of A-Rod? Again, it was the implausibility of the thing.

"So how 'bout Kurt Warner, huh?" my friend Robbie asked from the other end of the landline. I had not seen nor spoken to Robbie in nearly a year, as he and his family recently had moved to the next town over—what felt like light-years away at that age—and he had caught me off guard almost immediately into the first conversation to rekindle our friendship, a process that would continue to be held in abeyance after the perplexing question. "Who the heck is that?" I retorted, as if that name was supposed to mean something to me.

They've loitered in the league's basement for almost a decade, cycled through coaches like pairs of socks, and have left a pungent, decrepit smell wherever they've played. Littered with semi-high-profiled names with semi-tractor-trailer-sized waists, contracts and execrable attitudes, not only were the New York Knickerbockers going nowhere fast, but they were regressing. After finishing 23-59 last season for the second time in three years, few basketball fans had any doubts about where the team, led by the Voldemort of the NBA?then head coach and President of Basketball Operations Isiah Thomas and owner James Dolan?ranked in the field of 30.

If only we had a time machine. Then we could elope back to September to revise our predictions through Week 11: The Patriots would be undefeated, the Jaguars atop the AFC South, Chargers the AFC West, Matt Hasselbeck would be making mincemeat of the NFL's worst division, Tony Romo the NFL's best division, and the Lions, well, not to call them cowardly but...aw, shucks folks, I'm speechless.

While I do not claim to be an eminent predictor by any means (I'm pretty sure I picked the Mets to win the World Series this year), I do not consider myself to be an abomination to the field either (I'm pretty sure the title of one of my article's last year was "Why the Giants will win Super Bowl XLII"). However, when it comes to forecasting the NBA's regular/postseasons, for whatever reason, I struggle mercilessly. Just before I started writing this week's column, I went back in time?to the Orient archives, that is?to assess my two-year basketball-prediction portfolio.

Here's one for your next game of Kings: Never have I ever met a Rays fan. And no, the vast majority of the 41,000 that filed into Tropicana Field Sunday night for Game 7 against Boston don't count (especially when you consider most of them probably discovered just this year that there was a professional baseball team in town). No, I mean to say that I have truthfully never met a Rays fan.

Dear Hank, Thank you so much for all you've done in your first year in charge of the New York Yankees. Boy, are we proud of you. To think that you, the Boss's own biological and eldest son, were handed the reigns (along with Hal, of course) to sports' most prestigious franchise is as storybook as it gets (lucky Steve Swindal got that DUI and decided to divorce your sister, huh!). I would have addressed this letter to Hal, too, but I feel like you deserve the majority of our gratitude for a job well-done.

So here I am. Aqu¡ estoy. In Spain for an entire semester combating culture shock, the seven-hour waiting period between meals, and a severe dearth of American sports. I have discovered rather quickly, though, that there are few things more rewarding in life than my post-lunch siesta every day, serving as my chief panacea here in Granada, the beautiful, Islamic-influenced Andalusian city that was once inhabited by the Moors...or was it the Moops? All that aside, I have still managed to keep pace somewhat with baseball's pennant races and football's introductory couple of weeks, and I've got to be honest: I still think the Yankees will make the playoffs and the Jets go undefeated.

Dear readers, As I type these letters onto the screen of my laptop with each of my index fingers and nothing more hitting each key, my feelings towards the world of professional sports are mixed: while the Rangers struggle haplessly against the mighty Penguins and the Yankees continue to send their best and brightest to the disabled list, Isiah Thomas is no longer a part of my life (although Larry Brown is again...kind of. Have fun Bobcats), and this Gholston fellow the Jets drafted last weekend is supposedly a fantastic defender, who can also apparently throw the ball farther than 20 yards (10 more than veteran quarterback Chad Pennington, as it is).

This week proved to be one of, if not the most challenging in my one-and-a-half year tenure as a columnist for the Orient; at least in terms of deliberating what to write about. The difficulty of my situation, however, lay not within the confines of a slow news week, but rather a week that brought with it too many storylines worth further exploration: The resurgence of exciting hockey, the Eastern Conference NBA Playoffs unfolding better than we ever might have imagined, the NFL Draft set to kickoff tomorrow afternoon, and how the D'Backs have become the best team in baseball, to name a few.

First, Chien-Ming Wang showed why he is still one of the most valuable pitchers in baseball. Then, after a sporadic rainfall blanketed the field a couple of times over, resulting in a two-hour and 11-minute long rain delay, Jonathan Papelbon entered and answered, blazing three straight past Alex Rodriguez, subsequently erupting into his usual extravagant celebration like a sugar-high kid at Chuck E. Cheese. Finally, Phil Hughes didn't have it, and the opposing bats did, while Joe Morgan?in a nutshell?told the world that the minor leagues was a place for young players to develop; the sky is also blue, in case you were wondering.

America's pastime is resurrected every year at the perfect moment. Spring is in the air, while splotches of snow gradually start to disappear, the sun's light pervading the campus well into the 7-7:30 p.m. range, giving us all a gratifying sense of renewal and hope, life and baseball are all back. So rather than struggle to express another sentence of just how overjoyed I am at the changing of seasons, let me give you the top 10 storylines for Major League Baseball 2008 or 1 A.B. (After Bonds) which has the potential to be one of the greatest seasons in history.

"Hello, everyone. My name is Roger Clemens and I am a cheater." "Hello, Roger." OK, so the Congressional hearing for the seven-time Cy Young Award winner a few weeks ago on Capitol Hill wasn't exactly your typical congregation at Cheaters Anonymous. But it might as well have been. Between the numerous "misheards" and "misremembereds" Clemens dropped as he was pelted with questioning by endless House Representatives over his alleged steroids-usage, there was an overwhelming sentiment by the day's end that the Rocket was lying through his teeth.

What I didn't know is that I was wrong, and had been for my entire life, about the most celebrated sport in nearly every other country in the world except for America. And thankfully, this past summer, I finally had that epiphany: Soccer?excuse me?football is the best sport in the world (and I haven't looked back).

The last seven days marked the first week in my life as a sports columnist that I truly struggled to find something to write about. Don't get me wrong? there were lots of interesting topics out there such as the two "blown" calls in college basketball, the Roger Clemens saga, and the greatest all-star game there is: the Pro Bowl. But honestly, none of those proved to be very intriguing for me. Instead, I decided to give myself a challenge, while simultaneously setting the record straight for every basketball fan out there.

I called my friend who goes to Duke on Monday afternoon roughly fourteen hours after his Patriots had lost Super Bowl XLII to the New York Giants 17-14. The first thing he said to me over the phone was, "I don't want to talk about the Super Bowl for the next three weeks." I chuckled quietly to myself, having gained a small victory in watching New England lose, but sensed a genuinely depressed individual on the other end of the line.

At this time a year ago, I wrote a column predicting that the Chicago Bears would beat the Indianapolis Colts in Super Bowl XLI. I assessed both teams' strengths and weaknesses, determined the X-factors, and attempted to spice it up with a couple of anecdotes from my youth that may or may not have gone over successfully.

Did anyone else happen to see that shadowy figure standing on the San Diego sidelines during Sunday's AFC title game? You know, the one that looked like Darth Vader's flamboyant cousin sporting a white helmet with yellow bolts atop a dark and mysterious skull-like frame?

Earlier this week, the Detroit Tigers and the Florida Marlins reached a preliminary agreement to complete the first blockbuster deal of the off-season, and quite possibly one of the biggest deals of all-time, which had all-star third baseman Miguel Cabrera and hard-throwing lefty Dontrelle Willis heading to Motown in exchange for six high-caliber prospects including 20-year old outfielder Cameron Maybin and pitcher Andrew Miller.

Screw A-Wall. From now on, I want to be addressed as A.J.?no, not like the Backstreet Boy or Mateen Cleaves' big man at Michigan State (A.J. "Hermione" Granger), but instead like Mr. A.J. Feeley: (now) backup quarterback for the Philadelphia Eagles.

The $67.5 million man, Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo lined up under center on first and 10 on New York's 25 yard-line with a receiver to both his left and right, his backs lined up in an I-formation. Carrie Underwood's fiancé-to-be then got the snap and dropped back, utilizing the play action (and subsequently Madden's vision cone, of course), then slung the ball deep down the right sideline, hitting Terrell Owens, who was torching Giants corner Sam Madison in the process, perfectly in stride for the touchdown and a 24-17 lead.

So I learned a couple of valuable tidbits from watching the Colts-Patriots throw-down on Sunday: 1) Tom Brady is indisputably the best quarterback in the land, 2) Indy running back Joseph "Live and Let" Addai is much better than I originally thought, and 3) Pass interference can now be called when a defender makes eye contact with the intended receiver.

He's gone. He's finally gone. For the first time in nearly four years, I can finally screw the cap onto my bottle of Advil without thinking twice, knowing I won't have to open it for a long, long time. Alex Rodriguez has finally left the New York Yankees.

Today just isn't my day. At eight o'clock on Wednesday, my much abhorred foes/newly crowned American League Champions Boston Red Sox will face off against the undefeated/underappreciated Colorado Rockies at Fenway Park in Game One of the World Series, the Bo-Sox's second trip to the Fall Classic in four years, while my beloved Yankees search for a new manager whose name hopefully doesn't begin with "Don" and end in "Mattingly".

When news broke two weeks ago that former Olympic track star and three-time gold medalist Marion Jones had pled guilty to lying to federal investigators when she denied using performance-enhancing steroids, I have to admit that I was pretty stunned.

To whom it may concern: I am very depressed. Okay, well, maybe depressed isn't the right word. Perhaps chagrined, disgruntled or disappointed would be more accurate. Actually, no?I think depressed functions best?at least from the perspective of an ardent Yankees fan.

In February of 2004, the most remarkable thing happened to me: Alex Rodriguez was traded to the New York Yankees.

You see, Samuel Eto'o, the 2003, 2004, and 2005 African Player of the Year was just that: African. Born in Nkon, Cameroon, on March 10, 1981, one of the globe's best footballers was now being targeted by fans purely for the color of his skin.

Smile, New England, you're on candid camera?caught red-handed Sunday for videotaping and stealing the Jets' defensive signals, not to mention perhaps intercepting radio frequencies of their rivals' coordinators corresponding with one another, propelling the Patriots to a 38-14 rout of New York.

I had a revelation this summer?football is the world's greatest sport. I'm not quite sure exactly when this illuminating discovering of mine ultimately culminated; however, I do have an idea as to when it began.

First and foremost, I hope that each and every one of you had a fantastic Ivies (Ivy for you readers that were lucky enough to peruse Steve Kolowich's most recent column) Weekend amongst the rain, Bud Light, and Kevin Lyttle lyrics?God knows I needed it the most. My beloved Yankees continued their downward spiral, falling to 9-14 after the Red Sox took two out of three in the Bronx (Kei Igawa is now my new best friend); the New England Patriots had yet another near-perfect NFL Draft, culminating with the acquisition of the exceptional Randy Moss; and the Knicks never ceased haunting my dreams. At least the Rangers are still alive in the NHL Playoffs, and who knows? Maybe Red Bull New York of the MLS could be fun to watch?they still have that Pele guy, right?

Seconds before starting this week's column, I surfed my way onto ESPN.com and clicked on the NFL home link. After the subsequent page had been loaded, I found a ticker with the appropriate time intervals: days, hours, minutes, and seconds before me. It was in this order that I next read: 02:13:03:39?the countdown to the NFL Draft was on; not that it hadn't been ever since Rex Grossman dejectedly exited stage right after an abysmal Super Bowl performance (yeah, I didn't predict that), but the NFL's most highly-anticipated offseason day was fast approaching, and, just like last year, the No. 1 pick was still anyone's guess.

Most Valuable Player (MVP), noun?and that's as far as I got. Not even Daniel Webster himself, nor his successors at Merriam-Webster.com, could give me a clear-cut definition of one of the most prestigious honors in professional sports; "The word you've entered isn't in the dictionary," I read on my laptop's screen?"Nor should it be," I thought to myself.

Oakland A's General Manager Billy Beane once said in the critically acclaimed book "Moneyball," by Michael Lewis, that relief pitchers are relief pitchers because they aren't good enough to be starters. And seeing how Beane, arguably baseball's brightest mind, has managed to compile the fifth-best record in the majors since 1998 (when he took over his current position with the club) despite having one of the lowest payrolls, my gut says he's right.

As the final seconds expired away, the ball tossed up with ferocity in celebration, the active players were mobbed by a sea of white, blue, and orange in the Georgia Dome in Atlanta. The University of Florida Gators had just become the first team since the 1992 Duke University Blue Devils to repeat as NCAA Men's Basketball Champions, and they had done it convincingly, beating another one seed, the Ohio State University Buckeyes, 84-75.

Twenty-six. The same number of times that Al Pacino unleashes a particular expletive in "Scarface" plus 156; the same number of hours Jack Bauer has to save the United States from terrorists minus two; and the same number of times ex-pop star Britney Spears has checked into rehab this past week minus one. Yup, 26 is one ugly number. But more depressingly, it's also the same number of picks that I chose incorrectly in my Men's March Madness bracket this year; a record low.

For everything that is good in the world, there is something that is equally bad. For every grain of salt there is a speck of pepper. With sunshine there comes rain, with apples come oranges, and with J. Lo comes Chris Judd...and Ben Affleck...and Marc Anthony...and John Travolta? Stay tuned. Suffice it to say though that for most everything in our dear universe, there always appears to be some opposing counterpart that goes hand in hand in these reciprocated juxtapositions.

It's here. After flocking for hundreds upon hundreds of miles from the far north, wild west, and eventful east to the warm tropics of the south, Major League Baseball has finally made its much anticipated return, with all 30 teams now officially in full swing entering Spring Training with an infinite number of intriguing storylines: Who will be this year's Cardinals? Will A-Rod finally gel in the Big Apple? Will Barry Bonds surpass Hank Aaron? Will Tom Glavine win his 300th?

Let me first begin by informing all of you that the saying, "The Knicks are awful," or any nuance of this, has officially become a cliché, an annoying one, too. Being a fan of the club that went 23-59 last season (good for second-worst in the league), led by contemptuous Head Coach Larry Brown, conniving General Manager Isiah Thomas, and fickle owner Jim Dolan, I can see where this frequently-uttered phrase got its roots, and how it has managed to sustain itself into this season (Thomas and Dolan are both still there).

It must have been when Colts head coach Tony Dungy was being showered with Gatorade by his players in rampant celebration of their Super Bowl victory when it dawned on me: The NFL season had reached its abrupt conclusion, just like last year, and the years before it. And suddenly, it felt like someone had turned out the lights, leaving all of us in the dark. Or maybe that was the Bears' disappointing performance, or even Shawne Merriman perhaps? (Please do the dance now if you feel so inclined.) Nope, neither. It was looking ahead and searching for athletic entertainment/competition in the immediate future that did it...and it scared me. A lot.

"It's not worth playing if you can't win." Such was the famous line that was completed by pee-wee hockey superstar, Gordon Bombay, in "Mighty Ducks," merely seconds before missing his game-winning penalty shot by a quarter of an inch, ultimately costing his team the championship in overtime. I think most professional athletes, this side of Latrell Sprewell, would agree with Bombay's statement, none more so than those playing in their respective title games.

First things first: Welcome back, and I hope that all of you had a better winter break than Michael Vick did, at least in terms of getting past airport security. And secondly, what a game we had Sunday night. A classic rematch that we had all anxiously been awaiting turned out to be better than we could have ever possibly imagined, with the home team earning a spot to play in Miami in the future. Of course I'm referring to the Mavs' clutch win over the defending, bending the Heat, 99-93. What were you watching? The AFC Championship? I ended last year with an article predicting the outcomes for several NFL teams that were on the bubble for playoff slots. I went one-for-four, picking the Rams, Panthers, Bengals, and Jets to clinch, all of whom failed to reach the postseason with the exception of New York, led by the Penguin, Head Coach Eric Mangini. So after my poor foretelling performance, I decided that this week I would give it another go, only this time for the upcoming year that is already upon us. Last year had it all, from the Bus's Super Bowl run to Motown to Zinedine Zidane's impression of Rosie O'Donnell cage-fighting Donald Trump. And if 2006 is any indication of how the next 365 days will unfold, then we're in for quite a year. So without further ado, I give you my chronological forecast for the year 2007:

My, how the time does fly. It seems like just yesterday the Texans were making arguably the most questionable decision in Draft Day history when they selected Mario Williams and not Reggie Bush with the first overall pick, effectively guaranteeing them another disappointing season. At least the defensive end out of N.C. State has shown good form on his post-sack jump-shots. Nevertheless, here we are rapidly approaching Week 14 with a mere four games remaining and Bears quarterback Rex Grossman has yet to be benched! I mean a 1.3 rating is solid if it's out of 1.4, but out of 158.3...good lord.

Call me Romo. Some years ago?four precisely?having little or no money in my wallet, and nothing but throwing to interest me on land, I thought I would sail about a little and see the southern part of the country. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly April (Draft Day) in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before defensive tackles, and bringing up the rear of every drive I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral coach to prevent me from deliberately stepping onto the field, and methodically knocking people's hats off?then, I account it high time to get to Texas as soon as I can. This is my substitute for grocery and bag. With a philosophical flourish Drew throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the huddle. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the football with me.

You can sing and you can dance. You can play and you can run. And you can strut and you can laugh. You can do each of these things in all types of weather; but if you do them in the rain, odds are you'll get wet. So when it in pours, most of us tend to remain indoors, lest we end up more soaked than Warren Sapp after a 10-yard sprint.

The NHL is like the Power Rangers: Awesome when we were younger, then disappeared for a while, resurfaced, and it's just not the same as it was before; in fact, it's much worse.

A wise man once said, "Timing is everything." Maybe it was announcer Thom Brennaman after Derek Jeter's miraculous shovel pass to Jorge Posada in the 2001 Division Series, or Tiki Barber a couple of weeks ago when referring to his retirement, or perhaps it was even Mrs. Doubtfire after she (he?) barely managed to save ex-Bond impressionist Pierce Brosnan's life following his choking on some shrimp with a pinch of HOT JAMBALAYA! Not even a run-by-fruiting could have prevented this critical line from being spoken. Whoever said it deserves some necessary recognition for there is no line more fitting for this past week, when my Cinderella New York Jets lost ungracefully to a 1-5 Cleveland Browns team courtesy of an oblivious officiating crew. But all was not totally abject, for the NBA finally made its much-anticipated return to action on Tuesday night, ultimately allowing my mind to focus elsewhere while Pennington and Co. headed into the bye week. Timing is everything and the basketball is now rolling, and has been for the last couple of days. So before you all forget about it, gearing up for the Colts-Patriots game this Sunday, here are my Top 10 Bold Predictions for the 2006-2007 NBA season.

I always seem to appreciate FOX (yes, the same network that has brought us "24," "Arrested Development," and "Family Guy"...twice) more than the person next to me with regards to baseball, but up until now I had never truly thought about why this was so. Obviously it had something to do with Joe Buck, the network's epicenter, the Ron Burgundy of his day, with an upbeat personality, a witty sense of humor, good looks, the quintessential color man in Tim McCarver, and a voice that could make both a lion and Zack from the Holiday Inn ads purr.

Why didn't anybody see this coming? For the second straight year an unexpected contender from the American League Central will face off against an unexpected contender from the National League Central in the 2006 World Series. So if we continue with this trend, I guess it's safe to say that the 2007 World Series will be the Cleveland Indians against the Milwaukee Brewers.

Ahhh, yes. It's officially the most wonderful time of the year: A time when a crispness serenades us wherever we step; a time when we are surrounded by its cool, brisk voice; a time when all of these seasonal wonders combine with football and baseball to produce the most soothing amalgamation known to man.